Alex pushed the soft blanket aside. His bare feet met the cold, rough-hewn wooden floor.
The immediate sensation was one of balance and lightness.
The aches and stiffness that had been constant companions in his taxi-driving life—the strained back, the perpetually tense shoulders—were gone. This body was eighteen, resilient, and already attuned to physical strain, evidenced by the calloused palms and the faint white line of a scar that ran across his left knuckle.
Alex's training, the inherited memories supplied instantly. They provided context without emotion, like reading a detailed operational manual for a device he was only now using.
He stood, testing the new center of gravity.
He was taller than his former self, lean and slightly muscled —not bulky —but with the wiry strength necessary for sustained exertion.
The room was very simple. Four walls of dark, rough cedar wood. A single, small cot (where he had woken up), a not strongly made nightstand holding a glass of half-drunk water, and a wooden dresser pushed against the far wall. The window, covered by a thin, dust-colored curtain, allowed thin streaks of afternoon light to penetrate the gloom.
He walked to the window first, his step
soundless on the floor. He parted the curtains just enough to peer outside.
He saw the sprawling, low-rise architecture of a worn-down district, narrow streets, and the occasional, heavily armored civilian transport van rolling by. The sky was an unnerving, perpetual haze—Verona's atmosphere seemed perpetually dimmed by the lingering aftermath of the rifts.
But beyond the buildings, piercing the smoky sky like black lightning rods, were the structures the memory confirmed:Dimension Gate".
Massive, green portal that anchored the rifts, acting as both defense and a source of Spiritual Energy extraction.
This is real, he thought, the truth settling in with bone-deep conviction. This is not a dream. That scream I heard—it's the ambient noise of this new reality.
The Spark Within
Turning away from the window, Alex focused inward.
The concept of Spiritual Energy—Ki, Mana, Prana—was no longer fantasy; it was physics here. The new memories detailed complex breathing techniques and focused intent.
He took a slow, deep breath, concentrating on the faint warmth he felt beneath his sternum. It was barely perceptible, like a pilot light struggling against a harsh wind.
He tried to draw it out, pushing his mental focus into the spark.
A flicker. A tiny, almost insignificant pulse of warmth radiated into his arm, making the hairs prickle. He held it for a second, feeling the potential of enormous power locked behind an incredibly small, weak valve.
"F-Rank," he murmured, his voice slightly rasping. The memories were mercilessly clear on the hierarchy.
An F-Rank Awakener had potential but no fighting power. They were barely stronger than a well-trained ordinary person. In the city, they were often dismissed. On the battlefield, they were cannon fodder.
I have the lowest possible starting point.
Yet, the sense of failure wasn't there. The tired, defeated resignation of the old Alex was replaced by the fierce resolve of the new.
He had a starting line. He had a direction.
The New Face
He walked across the room to the dresser.
On top, nestled between an empty glass and a folded, clean shirt, was a small, cracked, hand-held mirror.
He picked it up, holding his breath.
The face staring back was his own—yet profoundly different. The eyes, usually clouded with the exhaustion of long hours, were now an intense, clear gray.
The jawline was sharper, the cheekbones more defined.
The young Alex Gray had a quiet, intense look, a face unaccustomed to smiling, marked by a deep-seated loneliness that the old Alex immediately recognized and felt pity for.
He raised a hand and touched the mirrored image.
"Alex Gray," he whispered, testing the name. "Eighteen. F-Rank. Orphan."
He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, the reflection wasn't just him—it was the amalgamation. The weariness of the taxi driver, the intense focus of the Awakener, forged into a single expression of deadly resolve.
He wasn't an ordinary driver anymore. He was an Awakener in training, with the knowledge of two lives and the fire of a second chance.
He was ready to leave this room.
He walked to the only exit—a heavy wooden door, secured by a thick, old-fashioned latch. He grabbed the handle, taking one last deep breath of the medicinal, stale air.
The moment his hand touched the cold brass, he heard something on the other side. Not footsteps, but the heavy, rhythmic clang of steel being sharpened, followed by a low, gravelly voice humming a deeply off-key tune.
He stood still, hand frozen on the latch.
He was about to step out of his safe haven and meet his first connection to Verona.
Who is on the other side of the door?