Cold. That was the first thing he felt.
Not the clean chill of mountain air, but the rotting cold that crawled from damp stone and spoiled rainwater.
Jade opened his eyes to darkness split by faint, silvery light. He was lying in an alley between walls that leaned like drunks, wrapped in a torn sheet that smelled of mold and smoke. His breath hitched on the stench.
He tried to sit up and failed. The motion sent knives through his ribs. His hands trembled as he pushed himself upright. They were thin, bruised, dirt under the nails—hands that hadn't seen food or safety in weeks. Not his hands.
He blinked, memory struggling to form. The world he remembered wasn't this one. There were no twin moons hanging above cracked roofs, no strange crystals burning along the street corners. No taste of metal in the air.
This wasn't a dream. The pain made sure of that.
Jade dragged himself to a puddle and stared at the reflection that stared back. A boy's face—seventeen, maybe eighteen. Dark hair matted with dirt, pale skin stretched too thin. Grey eyes dulled by exhaustion. The body looked close to death.
Something in his chest twisted. He died here, Jade realized. And now I'm wearing what's left.
The thought should've scared him. Instead, it calmed him. The previous owner was gone; the body was his now. That meant responsibility—and opportunity.
He tested his limbs again, moving slowly. No broken bones, just weakness. He needed food, warmth, and information. Panic would waste all three.
The alley opened into a street filled with smoke and flickering lamplight. People shuffled past—thin, hollow-eyed, wearing rags that barely clung to their shoulders. They weren't looking for danger; they were avoiding it.
So was he.
Jade watched quietly as an old woman waved a glowing shard over a pot. The shard's faint light heated the water inside, steam rising as if by magic—because it was magic, though the word didn't feel quite right. He could sense something moving inside the shard, like trapped current.
Energy. Power. Essence.
The word rose unbidden in his mind, carrying a weight that made his skin prickle. He reached out with his senses, trying to feel it. Nothing answered. The air stayed silent.
He frowned. Either this body had no connection to Essence… or it was too damaged to respond.
A group of children darted past, one bumping into him and muttering an apology before disappearing into the crowd. When Jade checked his pockets—nothing. Even in a world of magic, hunger ruled first.
He found a wall to lean against and forced himself to think.
Step one: survival.
Step two: understanding.
Everything else came later.
The city wasn't quiet for long. Shouts cut through the noise, two men dragging a third by the arms. A thief, from the look of him. They threw him down in the street and accused him of stealing Essence dust. The older of the two drew a small, humming knife.
The thief pleaded once before the blade flared red and silence swallowed his voice. The body hit the ground, twitching once before going still. The crowd didn't even flinch.
Jade didn't move either. His eyes stayed fixed on the knife. The red glow along its edge was faint, rhythmic. It pulsed in the same pattern as the shard that had boiled the water earlier.
Essence again.
If the poor could kill with it, and the rich built cities from it, then everything in this world revolved around control. Control of that pulse, that rhythm. Power wasn't divine it was mechanical. Measurable.
That realization steadied him. He wasn't gifted, but he understood systems. And anything built on laws could be learned.
He pushed off the wall, his body shaking from exhaustion, and started walking. Each step scraped against stone. Around him, the night deepened, thick with the sound of rain hitting rooftops.
He didn't know the city's name, its rulers, or even what counted as safe here. But he understood one truth already power decided worth, and weakness invited death.
Lightning flashed somewhere above the clouds, and for an instant, the twin moons burned bright in the reflection of puddles. Jade stared at them, lips pressing into a thin line.
He was alive again, in a world that didn't know him, in a body that barely held together. No blessings. No systems. No fate written in stars.
Good.
He turned down another street, searching for shelter. His body protested, but his mind stayed cold. Each breath hurt, but pain was proof of life and life was enough to start with.
A sign swayed above a ruined doorway ahead, its letters half-faded: Sanctum of Aetherion. The name meant nothing, but the faint blue glow inside drew him in. The air within was quiet, almost reverent. At the far wall, a cracked statue stood its surface etched with runes too old to read.
He sat in front of it, the damp floor biting through cloth, and let the silence settle.
In another world, he'd once believed talent was everything. Now, with nothing left to lose, he found a strange sense of freedom in starting from zero.
He looked at his hands again scarred, shaking, alive.
If this world ran on Essence, he would learn its rhythm from the ground up.
If power dictated worth, then he would find its laws and rewrite them in his own blood.
Because the body might have belonged to a beggar
but the will inside it didn't.
And as the rain outside turned the streets to silver, Jade closed his eyes and whispered to himself,
a promise quiet enough to vanish in the storm:
"This time, I refuse to die waiting."