He suddenly opened his eyes and realized he was lying directly under a scorching sun.
The light burned so harshly that he could barely squint; tears stung and ran down his face, and at first, he could not even move.
His chest heaved, his breath was shallow, and every muscle was stiff as if he had been lying there for centuries.
Confusion wrapped around him like chains.
He tried to understand what was happening; his body felt different, and the world felt different.
Slowly his eyes adjusted to the brightness, and he lifted his hands to block the sun.
His hands… they felt strange.
The shape of his fingers and the hardness of his nails didn't belong to him.
His arms tensed with a strength that was not familiar.
His skin caught the sunlight, bare and vulnerable, but its tone was lighter than he remembered.
For a moment, he didn't recognize his own face in his mind.
He pushed himself onto his stomach with effort; his head spun, his mouth was dry, and his knees trembled.
He felt exhausted, thirsty, and starving.
Turning his head to the side, he saw a barren, endless plain, stony ground stretching far, with small caves on the horizon, naked earth, and dry grass.
A sob escaped him, because the last thing he remembered was that alley, the fight, the knife… the cold grip of death.
And now he was here.
Was this a hospital?
A dream?
Heaven?
Hell?
His thoughts scattered in every direction, and he fought to bring them back.
When he tried to stand, his legs betrayed him, buckling at first.
He fell back to his knees, dirt clinging to his skin.
His throat tightened with panic, and for a moment he thought he might cry out loud like a child.
He didn't belong here. He shouldn't be here.
The memory of dying was too fresh, the pain of the knife too sharp.
He expected to wake in a bed, to see white hospital walls, but the only thing surrounding him was emptiness.
Still, he forced himself up again, trembling.
Each step was unsteady, but with every movement he noticed something unsettling: his muscles responded with precision, with raw power.
They felt too steady for a body so dehydrated and weak.
His feet dug into the ground like roots, broad and sure.
His palms carried hardened calluses, hands built for survival.
A chill ran through him, not of weakness, but of realization: this was not his body.
The greatest shock came when he dared to look lower.
After inspecting his legs and chest, his gaze dropped.
His penis, it was larger and veined, a proud sign of virility he had never had before.
His heart skipped.
This was not him.
It could not be.
And yet the weight, the pulse, and the sheer presence of it convinced him it was real.
The shame of staring at himself mixed with a dark pride.
Whoever this body had belonged to, it was made for dominance, for survival, for desire.
He staggered forward, searching desperately for water.
His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth; his throat burned.
In the distance, he saw a cactus-like plant and dragged himself toward it.
Every step was clumsy, driven more by instinct than control.
His new muscles felt powerful, but his mind hadn't caught up.
He didn't stride like a warrior; he stumbled like a lost man.
Reaching the plant, he remembered faint echoes of documentaries and scraps of knowledge.
With a stick, he struck the cactus again and again.
At first, nothing happened.
He growled in frustration, almost gave up, and then finally the skin split.
Bitter water trickled out. He drank greedily, choking, spilling it down his chin, but he didn't care.
Each drop revived him, steadying his breath and slowing his frantic heartbeat.
He collapsed onto the ground, gasping.
His mind swirled.
He didn't understand.
Was he dreaming?
Punished?
Or gifted a chance he had never earned?
The questions whirled like storms, and he had no answers.
The more he thought, the heavier his head grew.
His hands trembled, not from weakness but from disbelief.
Time passed before he rose again.
His steps were less clumsy now, but the fear lingered.
He was cautious, every sound making him flinch.
When he heard voices in the distance, his breath caught.
At first, he thought they were animals, but no, they were human.
The sound was rough, guttural, unfamiliar, yet undeniably human.
He crept closer to the caves, hiding behind rocks.
And then he saw them.
Figures moving in the firelight.
Primitive clothes, skins draped across rough frames, hair tangled, bodies hardened by survival.
His heart raced, and a shiver of fear ran through him.
They were people, yet not like any he had known.
He could not approach.
Not yet.
He stayed hidden, crouched in the shadows, trembling not only from fear but from the enormity of it all.
His mind reeled.
How had he come here?
How would he survive this place?
They were strangers, dangerous, and he was alone.
Yet even in his fear, he could not ignore what his eyes noticed.
Women.
There were many, each different, each radiating a raw, primal allure.
Their movements were unrefined but hypnotic.
Desire stirred in him, sharp and heavy.
But he did not let it fix on one, he could not.
Instead, a darker thought formed: what if they could all be his?
The idea was too vast, too impossible, and yet it clung to him, burning into his chest.
The night deepened.
He watched them from afar, unmoving.
His body urged him to act, to approach, but his mind restrained him.
He needed to understand their order, their patterns, and their weaknesses.
For hours he stayed awake, his eyes fixed on them, his body aching from stillness but his mind burning with thought.
At last, as smoke drifted from their fire into the night sky, a truth took shape inside him.
Either he was lost in an endless dream, or he had been reborn with a second chance.
His senses carried fragments of both lives: knowledge from the modern world and instincts from this primitive one.
And somewhere deep inside, he felt another presence, memories that were not his, whispers of a man called Karo.
The fusion of them both was not yet clear, but he sensed its danger, its promise.
He was not ready to accept it.
Not yet.
Confusion still weighed on him, and fear still pressed against his ribs.
But even through that haze, one certainty formed like a flame: this world could belong to him.
All of it.
All of them.