Chapter 1: 8 Years of Suffering (1)
"Hey, Munsen! Someone's here to see you—it's your attorney. Says she's got good news."
The guard's gruff voice echoed through the concrete hallway, slicing through the hum of flickering fluorescent lights. The air stank of rust, bleach, and sweat, a heavy mix that clung to everything in the prison, like despair had soaked into the walls.
Edgar Munsen lifted his head slowly from the cold, hard bench in his cell. His gray eyes, dull and empty, blinked once, like he was waking from a bad dream. His voice, rough from years of silence, scratched out, "Yeah. Tell her to wait ten minutes. I still need to shower."
The guard grunted, not caring much, and walked off. His boots clomped down the hall, the sound fading as steel doors slammed shut behind him.
Edgar sat still for a long moment, staring at the cracked floor. His mind felt foggy, like thoughts were slipping through his fingers. The buzzing lights above grated on his nerves, a constant reminder of where he was. He stood, his body stiff and aching, and shuffled to the small, scratched-up mirror above the sink. The face staring back wasn't his—not the man he used to be. His skin was stretched tight over sharp cheekbones, scars crisscrossing his arms and neck like a roadmap of pain. His dark hair was flecked with gray, though he was only thirty. The naive office worker from eight years ago was gone, replaced by this hollow stranger.
He turned on the faucet, letting cold water run over his hands. The chill snapped him back to the present, but it also dragged him into the past—to the moment his life fell apart.
Eight years ago, Edgar Munsen was just a regular guy. He showed up to work early, stayed late, and always had a smile for his coworkers. He lived in a small apartment, had a few friends, and kept his head down. At the office, he quietly admired his boss, Evelyn Valentine. She was smart, kind, and carried herself with a grace that made the boring corporate job feel less suffocating. Her smile could brighten a room, and her warmth made people feel seen. Edgar never crossed any lines. She was married, and he respected that. He was a good guy—maybe too good.
Then came that night.
He'd stayed late, working on reports under the dim glow of computer screens. The office was quiet, just the hum of machines and the occasional creak of the building. Then he heard laughter—low, secretive—coming from Evelyn's office. Curious, he walked over and peeked through the half-open door. His heart stopped. Evelyn's husband, Richard, and her secretary, Clara, were tangled together on the couch, their whispers sharp and cruel. Richard said Evelyn's name, mocking her, like her trust was a joke.
Edgar's stomach twisted. He backed away, his mind racing. He had to tell Evelyn. She deserved the truth. But as he hurried out, he didn't notice Richard's cold eyes or Clara's sly smile. They'd seen him. And they weren't going to let him ruin their game.
By morning, everything changed. Accusations hit him like a freight train—embezzlement, fraud, lies backed by fake documents and bought-off witnesses. Richard's money and power twisted the truth, making Edgar the villain. The media tore him apart, splashing his name across headlines. His coworkers stopped talking to him. His friends vanished. Even his family—his mom, his dad, his sister—turned away, too ashamed or too scared to stand by him. In weeks, Edgar Munsen was erased from the world he'd known.
Prison was worse than death.
The guards didn't care about him; he was just a number. The inmates saw a soft target, someone to break. The first beating came hours after he arrived—fists, boots, and laughter as his ribs cracked. They mocked his cries, his pleas. Days turned into weeks, weeks into years, all blending into pain, shame, and silence. He learned to stay quiet, to take the hits, to survive.
He used to pray for justice, whispering to the cold cell walls at night. Then he prayed for death, for anything to end the suffering. But death didn't come. Instead, something inside him shattered.
It happened six years into his sentence, on a night when the pain was too much. He lay on the cell floor, blood pooling under him from another beating by a group of inmates who called themselves the Kings of Block 9. His vision blurred, his heartbeat weak. Then—something broke open inside him.
Memories flooded in, sharp and real, but they weren't his. A glittering ballroom full of nobles in fancy masks. Swords clashing under a blood-red sky. A young man kneeling before a guillotine, his eyes burning with anger as his so-called friends turned their backs.
The name roared in his head: Kaizer Von Heldmort.
Kaizer's life played out like a movie in Edgar's mind. Kaizer was an aristocrat in a world called The Crimson Flower, a romantic story twisted into a cruel game. Kaizer was the villain, meant to lose, meant to die. But Kaizer wasn't just a character. He had remembered a first transmigration or second life, just like Edgar was remembering now. Kaizer had known the game's rules and tried to change his fate.
Kaizer had saved the heroine, Liora, from an assassin's knife, pulling her out of danger. He'd protected the prince, Daniel, from a rebellion that would've destroyed the kingdom. He'd exposed corrupt nobles, stopping their schemes. He did everything right, fighting the game's design, believing he could win.
But the game didn't care. The heroine he saved cried as she betrayed him, calling him a monster. The prince he protected ordered his death, his face cold and uncaring. The nobles who once praised him laughed as he was dragged to the guillotine. As the blade fell, Kaizer's last thought wasn't fear—it was rage.
'If there is a Second transmigration or third life… I will not forgive. I will not serve. I will not save.'
Those words burned into Edgar's mind, wiping out the last pieces of who he used to be. When he opened his eyes, the world felt different. The cold air stung sharper. His heartbeat was strong, steady. Kaizer's anger flowed through him, dark and powerful, like a fire that kept him warm.
That night, when the Crips of Block 9 came for him again, Edgar didn't beg or scream. He moved.
His hands found flesh. Bones broke. The air filled with choking, wet sounds—screams cut off, bodies falling. By morning, the floor was red, and the cellblock was silent. The Crips were gone.
From then on, the prisoners whispered his name: The Beast of Block 9. The guards stopped meeting his eyes, their hands hovering near their batons but never moving closer. Edgar didn't care. He didn't speak. He waited.
Six years passed in silence. Kaizer's memories stayed with him, not like a dream but like a map. A warning. A promise. Edgar wasn't sure if he was still Edgar Munsen or if Kaizer's soul had taken over. Maybe it didn't matter. All he knew was the fire in his chest, the vow that he'd never be a victim again.
And now, today—the call. The message.
"Someone's here to see you. Your attorney. She's got good news."
He almost laughed, a bitter sound that died before it left his throat. Good news? After eight years in hell? The idea was a joke, a trick from a world that had chewed him up and spit him out. But something stirred inside him—not hope, but something colder, sharper.
He wiped the water from his face, a faint smile tugging at his lips, cold and dangerous. 'Eight years of suffering,' he thought. 'Let's see what kind of world still remembers me.'
He turned toward the door, his eyes glinting—not with hope, but with something far more dangerous.
Freedom or fate. Redemption or ruin.
Whatever waited beyond those iron gates, it would face not the broken man called Edgar Munsen…
…but the man who had once been Kaizer Von Heldmort—and had vowed never to die as a victim again.