A young man lay with his eyes closed, mumbling softly.
"Mhmm." Though his eyes were shut, tears still streamed down his face.
No—he wasn't crying.
He was simply exhausted, the kind of tiredness that seeps deep into one's bones.
He sighed before cursing at the sun for waking him up.
"Can't even sleep properly, and now the sunlight's in my eyes! Damn it!" His voice was both angry and trembling—frustration mixed with weariness.
He groaned, rubbed his eyes, and muttered, "Damn it, I was sleeping so well. When did the sun even rise?"
When his vision finally cleared, he realized he was lying beneath a tree on a hilltop.
He blinked in confusion before stammering, "W-Where am I? What is this place? I'm sure I was in my room last night!"
Panic filled his voice as he clenched his fists.
He swallowed to ease the dryness in his throat, but no amount of swallowing could wash away the confusion.
Even as he tried to calm himself, he couldn't stop muttering curses into the air.
"Did I… reincarnate? Or something else? I don't feel like I've taken someone's body—this crappy body's definitely mine!"
He was right. The boy had no name, no family, and no one who truly cared for him.
People always seemed uneasy around him—as if his very existence disturbed them.
Even his parents, whoever they were, must have abandoned him for that reason.
He'd grown up in an orphanage, constantly shunned and bullied. Life had forced him to harden himself early.
Eventually, he decided to leave everything behind and study foreign languages—hoping to find a place where people wouldn't be disgusted by him.
Strangely, he was gifted in that field. He learned languages faster than most.
But he hadn't done it out of passion—it was out of necessity.
Despite his talent, every host family that took him in eventually found him unsettling.
He was forced to move again and again, drifting between countries and homes.
Over time, he gained a deep understanding of languages—but not of people.
He would often stare at his reflection, trying to understand why people reacted the way they did.
He wasn't ugly—in fact, his face could have belonged to a celebrity.
But no matter where he went, people would flinch, avoid him, or worse—look at him with disgust.
He tried harder and harder to understand them, only for their revulsion to grow.
That was when his madness began to surface.
He started suppressing his empathy, dulling his mind in hopes of silencing whatever it was that made him see too much.
But the more he hid his understanding, the more people despised him.
He eventually gave up, retreating into his "cave"—his lonely room.
He cursed the world, cursed life itself, and even cursed his own existence.
Yet, no matter how much he wished for death, he couldn't bring himself to do it.
Despite his despair, some faint instinct kept him alive.
One night, he looked into the mirror.
For the first time, he clearly saw his reflection in the pitch-black room.
One of his eyes shone with faint hope, while the other looked like it was waiting for death.
He gave the reflection a final glance before lying down.
The reflection, however, didn't fade.
Its hair turned white. Its facial features blurred. And then—
Crack.
The mirror split in half.
That was the night he never woke up again.
The night he left behind a painful world… and entered another.
...
When he opened his eyes, the young man pinched himself. It didn't feel like a dream.
He was still in his own body, but his surroundings were completely different.
He tried to think, but his mind was blank.
Finally, he exhaled deeply, letting the fresh air fill his lungs.
"Hahh… so my wish to go to another world came true earlier than expected.
At least I wish I'd deleted my browser history first!
A little warning would've been nice!" he shouted before hurling a few curses into the empty sky.
After venting, he finally calmed down.
"I don't know what world this is, so I'll need a nickname instead of a name," he muttered.
After a moment of thinking, he said aloud, "The Wandering Devil! Yes, that'll be my name!"
He grinned maniacally, pleased with himself—only to freeze a second later.
"No… that name's too embarrassing! Just imagining people calling me that gives me chills!"
He spun around on the hill, losing his mind for a while, before laughing bitterly.
"Who am I kidding? No one's going to talk to me anyway. They'll just avoid me again."
He smiled—not out of sadness, but relief.
With nothing else to do, he sat down quietly.
Then, his stomach growled so loudly it echoed through the hills.
"Ugh! Damn it, I'm starving!" he cried, clutching his belly and rolling on the ground.
Still half-blind from sleep, he started crawling aimlessly until he found himself rolling downhill.
"Agh! Ugh! Ahhh—stop!"
When he finally stopped, he groaned, "Damn it, I should've paid attention! My back's killing me…"
Rubbing his sore muscles, he finally looked around.
Behind him was the hill he'd fallen from, and before him stretched a wide, circular plain.
Beyond it—an endless forest.
His stomach growled again, and with no other option, he walked toward the forest.
After about half an hour, he reached its edge and took a deep breath before entering.
It was eerily quiet.
He searched for food, finding only mushrooms, moss, and animal droppings.
Just when he was about to give up, he spotted a fruit tree bathed in sunlight.
Without hesitation, he stuffed his pockets with fruit and began eating greedily.
He wasn't completely stupid—he'd waited long enough to see birds eating from the same tree. That was proof it wasn't poisonous.
After eating his fill, he leaned against the trunk, feeling strangely alert.
A chill ran down his spine.
Something was wrong.
He turned and ran back to the hill, instincts screaming.
By the time he reached the top, the sun was setting.
His body, though rested, felt strangely heavy—unnaturally so.
He decided to train, to shake off the stiffness.
He began practicing the martial methods he had once developed in his old world—simple breathing and movement exercises that focused intent into the body.
He breathed in deeply, held it, and struck.
The moment before his fist reached full extension, he released the breath, channeling all force forward.
When he added killing intent to the technique, his power multiplied.
He chuckled. "Not that I actually want to kill anyone… it's just the intent that matters."
But when night fell, and the moon rose, something stirred in the darkness below.
He woke from a brief nap, eyes alert.
Figures were moving in the shadows—stiff, staggering shapes climbing toward him.
"Jiangshi," he muttered coldly. "And a lot of them."
He recognized them instantly—corpse puppets.
But these were different. They weren't bound by magic; they had naturally turned into Jiangshi.
They were like zombies—but faster, stronger, and much more terrifying.
As one lunged toward him, he inhaled deeply, infused his strikes with killing intent, and smashed its head.
The skull crumbled like soft clay, yet the creature didn't stop moving.
Dodging its clawed hand, he countered with another flurry of blows—each one more focused than the last.
Piece by piece, the creature was torn apart.
But more were coming.
Holding his breath, he dashed forward, his body moving faster than it ever had before. His lungs burned, his muscles screamed—but he didn't stop.
He controlled his breathing rhythmically, letting his endurance drain slowly rather than all at once.
By the end, his body trembled.
But with every deep, controlled breath, his lungs expanded, strengthened.
He was evolving, right there—amidst death and moonlight.
And as the last Jiangshi fell, the young man exhaled slowly, muttering to himself—
"Finally… I feel alive."
...
To be continued..