Chapter 1 – Death Was the Easy Part.
The streets of New York were quieter than usual.
It was late—past midnight—and most of the city had settled into a dull, exhausted silence broken only by distant sirens and the low hum of traffic far away. Streetlights flickered overhead, casting uneven pools of yellow light onto the cracked pavement.
A boy walked alone down the sidewalk, shoulders slightly hunched, eyes glued to the glowing screen of his phone.
His thumbs moved quickly, instinctively, responding to flashing colors and familiar prompts. The game demanded just enough attention to drown out everything else—the world, his thoughts, the emptiness he didn't like acknowledging.
He didn't notice the sound of an engine revving too fast.
He didn't notice the headlights veering out of alignment.
He didn't notice the truck until it was already too late.
The impact came like the world itself had slammed into him.
For a brief, impossible moment, he felt weightless.
Pain exploded through his body midair—sharp, overwhelming, incomprehensible. His phone slipped from his hand, spinning uselessly as his body was thrown across the street. Time stretched and shattered all at once.
Then he hit the ground.
There was a sickening crack, deep and final, that echoed far too clearly in his ears. Something inside him broke—spine, ribs, something vital. Pain followed in violent waves, drowning out sound and thought alike.
He tried to breathe.
He couldn't.
The world blurred into meaningless shapes and noise. Streetlights smeared into streaks of gold. Voices shouted somewhere far away, distorted and distant.
He didn't understand what was happening.
And then—
Nothing.
---
He was standing.
That was the first thing he noticed.
No pain. No ground beneath him. No air moving against his skin.
Just white.
An endless, empty white space stretched in all directions, smooth and featureless like the inside of a blank page. There was no floor, no ceiling, yet he stood upright as if gravity still applied.
In front of him floated something that didn't belong.
A mass of black.
It wasn't solid, nor was it smoke. It twisted slowly, folding in on itself like darkness given form. Looking at it made his eyes ache, as if his mind struggled to process something that shouldn't exist.
The boy stared at it for several seconds, oddly calm.
"…Let me guess," he said finally.
His voice echoed faintly, thin in the empty space.
"This is the part where you tell me you're a god. You accidentally killed me. And now you're going to reincarnate me into another world with overpowered abilities as compensation."
The black mass stopped moving.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then it began to change.
The darkness stretched upward, reshaping itself into a humanoid outline. Arms formed. A torso. A head. The figure resembled a human—but only in shape. It was entirely black, deeper than shadow, as if light itself refused to touch it.
Staring at it felt like staring into an endless abyss.
When it spoke, its voice was cold and emotionless.
"No."
The single word carried weight.
"I did not make a mistake. Your death was meant to occur at that time and place."
The boy frowned.
"…Then why am I here?"
The black figure regarded him silently, head tilted slightly, as if examining an insignificant object.
"I am willing to grant you another chance at life," it said at last. "However, there are conditions."
That word—conditions—sent a ripple of unease through the boy.
Before he could respond, the being continued, its voice unwavering.
"First. You will be reborn as female."
The boy blinked.
"…What?"
"Second. You will be reborn into a body whose original owner died only minutes prior."
His mouth opened, then closed again.
"Third. You will inherit the abilities and talents of that body. These include Cellular Adaptation and Shadow God Domain."
"Fourth. You have no choice in this matter. Gratitude is expected. Your previous life held no notable value."
The boy's hands clenched into fists.
"And fifth," the being added almost absently, "you will be given basic knowledge of the world you are entering… I think."
"…You think?"
But the black figure did not answer.
The white space fractured without warning, shattering like glass.
The boy felt himself being pulled away, his consciousness stretching thin—
Then darkness swallowed him whole.
---
Nation:- great void nation(ranked second in the whole world).
Time:- 10/5/670 of the void calendar.
Location:- city number 87(low-tear), in the slums.
Apartment building - 5, room number - 67.
Pain greeted him once more.
Not sharp like before, but heavy and suffocating.
A dull ache pulsed behind his eyes as he groaned softly, rolling onto his side. The smell hit him instantly—stale alcohol, rotting food, mold, and something sour he couldn't identify.
His stomach twisted.
Slowly, he opened his eyes.
The room was small and cramped, barely lit by weak light filtering through a grimy window. Trash bags filled with takeout containers and empty beer bottles were piled against the walls. The air felt thick, stale, like it hadn't been cleaned—or aired out—in months.
He pushed himself up—
And froze.
His arms were thin.
Too thin.
Small hands trembled in front of his face, fingers bony and unfamiliar.
"…No," he whispered hoarsely.
Panic surged through him as he stumbled to his feet, legs shaking beneath his weight. Each step felt wrong—unbalanced, weak, like his body might collapse at any moment.
A cracked mirror leaned against the wall nearby.
He staggered toward it.
The reflection staring back at him wasn't his.
A girl stood there.
She looked young—no more than twelve or thirteen at first glance—but her hollow cheeks and frail frame told a different story. Her shoulder-length black hair was uneven and dull, framing a pale face devoid of expression.
Her eyes were wrong.
Her right eye was pitch black, like a bottomless abyss. Her left eye was blood red, vivid and unsettling, like a pool of blood staring back at him.
Scars covered her skin.
Not just a few—dozens. Scratches, cuts, old wounds healed poorly, new ones still visible. They marked her arms, her neck, her exposed shoulders.
Slowly, hesitantly, she raised a hand and touched her face.
The reflection mirrored the movement perfectly.
Her breathing grew shallow.
She stripped off the torn clothes clinging to her body with shaking hands, her heart sinking further as more scars revealed themselves across her torso, her back, her legs.
This body had been abused.
Neglected.
Broken.
Memories surged forward—fragmented, disjointed—but unmistakable. The street. The truck. The black void. The entity.
She had died.
This wasn't a dream.
But when she tried to remember the girl's life—this body's life—there was nothing. No childhood. No family. No experiences. Just emptiness.
"…Of course," she muttered weakly.
As if on cue, a translucent red screen appeared before her vision.
Text formed in a language she didn't recognize—yet somehow understood instantly.
"Good morning, host."
She stared at it blankly.
"Don't tell me," she said tiredly. "You're not a system."
"Correct," the screen replied. "I am Cellular Adaptation, one of the talents belonging to this body."
The display shifted, showing a model of her body alongside scrolling information.
Host Age: 16 years, 5 months, 8 days
Adaptations:
Muscle Decay Resistance – Rank 4
Bleeding Resistance – Rank 5
Slashing Resistance – Rank 3
Blunt Impact Resistance – Rank 4
Starvation Resistance – Rank 7
Dehydration Resistance – Rank 8
Disease Resistance – Rank 7
Cold Resistance – Rank 4
Drug Resistance – Rank 3
Burn Resistance – Rank 3
Iron Stomach – Rank 5
Poison Resistance – Rank 2
Self-Healing – Rank 12
The girl's throat tightened as she read.
"…What kind of life did she live," she whispered, "to need all this?"
Her stomach growled loudly in response, sharp and painful.
That answered at least one question.
She forced herself to explore the apartment.
The kitchen was a disaster—dirty dishes piled high in the sink, mold creeping along their edges, insects crawling freely. She gagged and turned away immediately.
The bedroom was worse.
One glance at the floor—a used condom lying carelessly in plain sight—was enough for her to leave without another step inside.
She returned to the cleanest corner of the apartment, the only spot untouched by filth, and sat down heavily.
"Answer my questions," she said quietly.
The red screen appeared again.
"The body's memories are currently inaccessible," Cellular Adaptation explained. "Neural shutdown occurred at death. I possess backup data, but the body requires time to adapt to your soul."
"The adaptations were formed due to prolonged neglect by the original family."
"Cause of death: malnutrition. Adaptations delayed death but could not prevent it."
Her chest tightened.
"And the other ability?"
"Shadow God Domain is unavailable. The body is too weak. Proper nutrition and recovery are required."
A brief pause.
"Also, host—please put on clothing. You are still naked."
Her face burned.
She hurried to dress herself, wincing at the torn, threadbare clothes she found. They barely qualified as clothing, but they would have to do.
Once dressed, she leaned against the wall and exhaled slowly.
"So," she said, voice flat, "do I have a name?"
"You cannot use your previous name or the original host's name at this time," the ability replied. "Soul and body have not fully merged. Either name may cause rejection. Use a temporary name."
"And her family?"
The screen's response was immediate.
"Father, mother, and sister departed on separate dates. None are expected to return."
She closed her eyes.
Abandoned.
Starved.
Left to die alone.
When she opened them again, her gaze settled on the old television in the corner of the room.
"…Fine," she murmured. "Let's see what kind of world this is."
She turned it on.
.
.
.
.
.
END OF CHAPTER.