Days had passed. He wasn't sure how many. Time had become a slippery thing, measured only by the small discomforts of hunger, stiff joints, and the relentless quiet of the apartment.
The first memory arrived like a whisper, unbidden: the smell of rain on concrete streets, the distant clatter of a city waking. He felt it in his chest before he could name it, a pulse of familiarity that made him flinch. Then another, sharper: a small, cramped apartment where every corner held a scrap of something useful—a bent spoon, a frayed curtain, a stack of newspapers flattened into makeshift insulation.
He remembered now. He was Rin Hale, once. Or, rather, he had been.
The grandfather who raised him wasn't a hero or a sage. He was ordinary. Stubborn, sharp-tongued, endlessly practical. He taught Rin to survive—not with magic or lofty ideals, but with wits and patience. How to spot the weak link in a neighborhood scuffle. How to read a stranger's expression for lies. How to make the most of scraps, turning almost nothing into something useful.
Rin had been clever in his own small way, a boy who learned fast but often wasted it on mischief. He remembered a day trying to fix a broken bicycle for a neighbor, using nothing but a scrap of metal and a hammer. It had nearly fallen apart the first time he tried, and the neighbor had scolded him. Rin had smiled anyway, proud of his small victory.
He remembered the quiet evenings when his grandfather sat by the window, smoking a thin pipe, watching the rain tap on the glass. They didn't speak much. They didn't need to. Rin would lie on the floor, listening, watching his grandfather's hands move, counting the lines of his palms, learning the rhythm of a life lived carefully, without illusions.
The memories weren't warm. They were sharp, precise, like a wind cutting across an empty street. He saw himself, smaller than the city, learning to survive without anyone to protect him. He hadn't been extraordinary. He hadn't been strong. But he had been careful. Observant. Determined in his own stubborn way.
And then the moment that changed everything.
Rin's grandfather had died quietly in his sleep. No warning. No dramatic farewell. Just an empty chair, a half-burned pipe, and a boy who suddenly had to be larger than the life he had known.
For months, Rin had drifted, trying to keep the apartment from falling apart, trying to make sense of the world without guidance. Then came the awakening. He had registered, filled in the forms, submitted the documents, and the crystal had flared white in his hands, branding him as something he didn't understand: a Necromancer.
It had seemed useless at first. But it had value. He had survived by exploiting it, collecting monster corpses, selling their remnants to survive. Not for glory, not for ambition—just to eat, just to keep breathing.
And then, the Devil Deal appeared.
At the time, it had seemed like a curiosity. A little thrill. A promise of something more than survival, something easier. Rin had read the words and shrugged, thinking little of their weight. A click. A signature. Acceptance.
The memory of that moment was clear now. Not the physical sensation—he had no way to remember that—but the implication. The shift. Something cold had waited for him, a shadow stretching across worlds, and it had taken notice.
He sat on the floor, hands gripping the edges of the table, and let the anger rise. Not the angry shaking of body and fists from the other day, but a slow, tight burn that pressed at his chest. He understood now why he was here. It wasn't random. It wasn't chance. He had been chosen, or taken. And the price was already being collected.
He remembered Rin's cleverness, his stubbornness, his desire to survive. Those qualities were his now. And so was the rage that had built quietly under fear, under grief, under months of small failures.
He thought of the warehouse, of the masked men, of the old man who had been rescued, of the wife and daughter whose lives had been ripped away. The Devil had set the board. He had moved the pieces. And now he, in Rin's body, was left to respond.
His hands curled into fists. He slammed them against the floor—not to break anything, not to hurt himself, but to channel the rising storm inside him. Pain, confusion, and rage rolled together, coiling tight. The city hummed outside, indifferent. The apartment was silent. He had nothing but himself and the promise he carried, burning brighter with each heartbeat.
"I'll find you," he whispered, voice low, carrying across the empty room. "I'll find you and I'll make you pay. The devil, the old man… everyone. You took everything, and I will make you feel it."
A long silence followed. No response, no shimmer of power, no warning. Just the quiet hum of the city and the memory of a life lost.
He rose slowly, every movement deliberate. The apartment, the scattered furniture, the little scraps of Rin's former life—they were tools now, a reminder that even in this borrowed body, he had strength. Not the strength of magic or power, but the strength of determination.
The first day of his real journey had not yet begun. He had only memories, anger, and a faint, flickering sense of what he could do. But it was enough.
He picked up a small, broken shard from the table. Not a weapon, not yet, just a piece of something. He turned it over in his hands, feeling the weight. It would have to do. It would have to be the first step.
And somewhere, unseen and patient, the Devil watched.