Rain fell in relentless sheets over the slums of Tondo, drumming a funeral rhythm on the rusted tin roof of a one-room apartment that smelled of mildew, stale rice, and exhaustion. Inside, a young man—twenty years old, wiry, with dark circles under eyes that had seen too many screens and too little sleep—sat cross-legged on a stained foam mat. His laptop glowed with paused footage: a grainy 17th-century etching of a ninja slipping a hair-thin needle into a sleeping warlord's ear. Beside him lay dog-eared paperbacks: *The Art of the Hidden Blade*, *On Poisons Ancient and Obscure*, Sun Tzu's *Art of War* annotated in the margins with notes on carotid pressure points and urban evasion patterns.
He wasn't a warrior in this world. He was Kaelen Reyes—food courier for *GrabFood*, owner of a motorbike that coughed more than it ran, witness to a system where the powerful never paid the price. He'd watched his lola sell her last gold earring to afford insulin. He'd seen politicians on TV deny corruption while their children posted Dubai vacations on Instagram. Justice wasn't blind in Manila—it was *bribed*.
But in his mind?
In his mind, he was **Silent Death**—a scalpel in a world of blunt instruments. He knew how a garrote wire could sever a carotid artery in 4.2 seconds. How monkshood mimicked natural heart failure. How to vanish in a crowd by altering his gait, his posture, his very breath. He dreamed not of grand battles, but of **precision**—the whisper in the dark that cuts the throat of tyranny.
*"Real assassins don't need magic,"* he muttered, rewinding the clip for the fifth time. *"They need patience. And the will to do what's necessary when no one else will."*
Outside, a jeepney horn blared—a sharp, impatient *bweep-bweep!* cutting through the downpour.
Then—a different sound. Tires screeching on wet asphalt. Metal shrieking in protest.
Impact.
Darkness.
Then—**cold stone. The reek of sewage, rotting cabbage, and human despair. Hunger gnawing his gut like a live wire.**
He gasped, rolling onto his side in a narrow alley slick with rain and worse. His body was frail, skeletal—ribs pressing against skin like broken latticework. He wore rags that reeked of urine and mildew. He tried to stand. Collapsed. Tried again. Made it to his knees, trembling.
*Where…?*
Then, a voice—not in the air, but *inside his skull*, resonant and metallic, like gears grinding in a cathedral clock:
> **[SYSTEM INITIALIZED.]**
> **[USER: KAEL REYES]**
> **[ORIGIN: EARTH (PHILIPPINES, 2026)]**
> **[REALITY: AETHELGARD — WESTERN MEDIEVAL KINGDOM. MAGIC: PRESENT (CHURCH-CONTROLLED).]**
> **[STATUS: REINCARNATED. HOST: "NO NAME" — STARVED STREET ORPHAN, AGE 17.]**
>
> **[ATTRIBUTES]**
> **STRENGTH (STR): 4** *(Malnourished, near skeletal)*
> **AGILITY (AGI): 6** *(Street instincts, low-body tension)*
> **VITALITY (VIT): 3** *(Critical condition — starvation, exposure)*
> **INTELLIGENCE (INT): 12** *(Tactical analysis, pattern recognition)*
> **WISDOM (WIS): 10** *(Observant, reads micro-expressions)*
> **CHARISMA (CHA): 5** *(Unkempt, feral appearance)*
> **VOID AFFINITY (VOD): 8** *(Latent — unlocked via trauma)*
>
> **[PRIMARY DIRECTIVE: SURVIVE.]**
> **[SECONDARY DIRECTIVE: THRIVE.]**
> **[TERTIARY DIRECTIVE: ESTABLISH THE CRIMSON LOTUS GUILD.]**
> **[QUEST: SURVIVE THE NIGHT.]**
> **[REWARD: VOID STEP I, +1 AGI, +1 VIT.]**
He blinked rain from his eyes. *Reincarnation? A System?* He didn't have time for philosophy. His stomach clenched like a fist, a deep, hollow ache that threatened to swallow him whole. Across the alley, an old baker swept his step, tossing moldy crusts into the gutter. A hulking man in stained leather armor—**Enforcer for House Varn**, the System helpfully tagged—shoved the baker down and snatched a fresh loaf.
"Tithes are late, old man," the enforcer sneered, kicking the baker in the ribs. A sickening *crack* echoed off the wet stone walls. The baker curled into a ball, silent—*he'd learned that crying only made it worse.*
The young man's vision narrowed. Not rage. **Clarity.**
This was the world he'd raged against on Earth. And now he was *in* it.
> **[QUEST UPDATED: ELIMINATE ENFORCER. OBJECTIVE: PREVENT FURTHER CIVILIAN HARM.]**
> **[WARNING: HOST BODY IS MALNOURISHED. COMBAT ODDS: 3% SURVIVAL.]**
He didn't charge. He *planned*.
He scanned the alley: damp cobblestones, overflowing refuse, the distant clang of a blacksmith's hammer. He found a shard of broken pottery—jagged, sharp, glinting near a drain. He noted the puddle reflecting the streetlamp—*distraction*. He saw the enforcer's heavy belt, low on his hips—*momentum*.
As the enforcer turned, smirking over his stolen bread, the young man threw the pottery shard into the puddle. It clattered with a sharp *tink*.
The enforcer spun, hand flying to his cudgel. "Rat?" he growled, peering into the shadows.
The young man lunged from behind a rain barrel, not at the enforcer, but *past* him—slamming his shoulder into the man's back just as he stepped into the puddle. The enforcer's boot slipped on the wet stone. He fell backward with a surprised grunt. His head cracked on the cobblestones—*dazed, not dead*.
He didn't hesitate. He straddled the enforcer's chest, pinning the man's arms with his knees. One hand clamped the enforcer's jaw shut, muffling any cry. The other gripped the pottery shard like a surgeon's scalpel. He drove it **upward through the soft tissue beneath the jaw, piercing the brainstem**—just like in the forensic video he'd watched a hundred times.
The enforcer's eyes widened in shock. A wet gurgle escaped his nose. His body spasmed once, violently, then went still. The light vanished from his eyes.
The young man stood, trembling, covered in rain and blood. Not triumph. *Necessity.*
> **[QUEST COMPLETE: FIRST BLOOD.]**
> **[REWARDS: AGILITY +1, VITALITY +1, VOID POISON CRAFTING I (MONKSHOOD INFUSION), VOID STEP I.]**
> **[NEW STATUS]**
> **STR: 4 | AGI: 7 | VIT: 4 | INT: 12 | WIS: 10 | CHA: 5 | VOD: 8**
> **[VOID STEP I — 5 SECONDS OF PHASED MOVEMENT IN DARKNESS. COOLDOWN: 10 MINUTES.]**
He took the stolen loaf. Walked to the baker, who stared at him with wide, tear-filled eyes.
"Why?" the old man whispered, clutching his bruised ribs.
"Because someone has to," the young man said, his voice rough but calm. He broke the loaf in half, pressing one piece into the baker's calloused hand. "Eat."
He turned and vanished into the mist before the baker could ask his name, before the distant shouts of guards could reach the alley. He moved not with speed, but with silence—each step calculated, each breath controlled. He was no longer Kaelen Reyes, food courier. He was something new. Something necessary.
And in the damp darkness of Veridia's gutters, the first root of the Crimson Lotus took hold.
> **[SYSTEM NOTE: PUBLIC OPINION — NEUTRAL. TRUST: 0%.]**
> **[NEXT OBJECTIVE: ESTABLISH PRESENCE. EXPOSE CORRUPTION.]**