The taste of copper was the last thing Vilky D. Grey knew of Earth.
It was a metallic, cloying heat that pooled in the back of her throat.
She lay on the cold linoleum of the dormitory floor. Her lungs felt like they were filled with wet sand.
Above her, Tina stood with a plastic bottle of industrial drain cleaner. The "golden girl" of Goldwood High looked radiant even while committing murder.
Stephanie stood in the corner. She was crying, but she didn't move to help. She was the one who had unlocked the door.
"You're a freak, Vilky," Tina whispered. Her voice was melodic. "No hair, no blood, no future. I'm just tidying up the world."
Vilky tried to speak. She wanted to tell them that she had already memorized the chemical composition of the fluid burning its way through her esophagus.
She wanted to tell them she had calculated eighteen different ways to kill them if her body wasn't failing her.
But the Aplastic Anemia had won. Her heart gave a final, sluggish thump and stopped.
Darkness didn't come. Instead, there was a void.
It was a place of absolute stillness. In the center of the nothingness sat a woman.
She was beautiful in a way that defied nature. Her hair was like spun shadow. Her eyes held the weight of a dying sun.
"You were betrayed," the woman said.
Her voice didn't travel through air. It vibrated in Vilky's non-existent bones.
"I was," Vilky thought. Even in death, her mind was a cold machine.
She processed the woman's appearance. The way her dress seemed to bleed into the floor. The faint scent of ozone and lilies.
"I am Demolia," the woman stated. "I was a queen of magic. I was poisoned by the man who swore to protect me. My heart is a husk, and my soul is a prisoner."
Vilky watched her. She didn't feel fear. Fear was a chemical reaction she no longer had the organs to produce.
"I offer you a trade, little genius," Demolia said. "I will give you a world where your mind is your only limit. I will give you a core that can rewrite reality itself."
The witch leaned forward. Her gaze pinned Vilky to the void.
"In exchange, you will spend ten years becoming the god of that world. You will gather the power to pull me from this grave.
If you fail, I will feast on your soul for eternity."
Vilky didn't hesitate. She didn't ask about the morality of the world. She didn't ask for mercy.
"Acceptable," Vilky said.
The void shattered.
Pain was the first sensation.
It wasn't the dull, systemic ache of her old body. This was sharp. Localized.
A heavy hand slammed into her jaw. Her head snapped to the side.
Her vision blurred. She tasted blood. Real, hot, iron-rich blood.
"Get up, you useless bitch," a male voice roared.
Vilky opened her eyes. She was lying on a dirt floor inside a cramped, dim cottage.
The air smelled of stale ale, unwashed wool, and rot.
She looked down at her hands. They were small, but they weren't pale and bruised like before.
They were calloused. Soft but sturdy. She felt hair against her neck. Long, tangled, chestnut hair.
She wasn't Vilky anymore. She was Elara.
The memories hit her like a flood. She didn't drown in them. She filed them.
Elara. Twenty-two years old. Wife to Thorne, a failed blacksmith turned village drunk.
Oakhaven. A borderland village in the Kingdom of Exilic.
The memories of three years of beatings, starvation, and humiliation played back in her mind at high speed.
Thorne stood over her. He was a mountain of a man with yellowed teeth and a beard matted with grease.
"I told you to have the stew ready by sundown," he growled.
He kicked her in the ribs. The air left her lungs.
Vilky felt a pulse in the center of her chest. It was cold. It was the Ventum Core.
A mental HUD flickered in her mind.
Ventum Charge: 15/100.
Status: Identity Cannibalism Available.
She looked up at Thorne. He saw a broken woman. He didn't see the genius who had just finished cataloging every weakness in his stance.
He reached down and grabbed her hair. He yanked her upward until she was inches from his face.
His breath was a toxic cloud of fermented grain.
"Maybe I haven't been firm enough with you lately," he sneered. His eyes wandered to the bed in the corner.
Vilky didn't struggle. She reached up and cupped his face with her hands.
Her touch was light. Almost tender.
Thorne paused. A confused, cruel smile touched his lips. "Finally learning your place, are you?"
"I am," Vilky whispered.
She pulled his head down. She pressed her lips against his.
Thorne's eyes widened. He expected a kiss of submission.
He didn't expect the vacuum.
The Ventum Core ignited. A searing, violet light flared behind Vilky's eyelids.
She felt a tether snap into place. Thorne tried to pull away, but his body was frozen.
He wasn't just losing his breath. He was losing his essence.
Vilky watched through her closed eyes as his memories poured into her.
She saw him as a child, stealing bread. She saw him as a soldier, running from a battle.
She saw the exact moment he decided Elara was a target he could finally win against.
His muscles began to atrophy under her touch. His skin grew grey and translucent.
The soul is a heavy thing. Consuming it felt like swallowing molten lead.
Thorne's scream was silent. It died in the back of his throat as his vocal cords dissolved.
His physical form began to flake away into ash. The ash didn't fall to the floor. It was drawn into Elara's skin.
The process took less than a minute.
When it was over, Vilky stood alone in the center of the hut.
Thorne was gone. Not dead. Erased.
Ventum Charge: 45/100.
New Identity Acquired: Thorne the Blacksmith.
Vilky wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She felt the surge of energy from the Core.
It was a predatory hum. It demanded more.
She closed her eyes and focused. She willed her body to change.
Her bones cracked and elongated. Her muscles swelled. Her skin coarsened.
Within seconds, she stood six feet tall. She looked down at her hands. They were Thorne's hands. Heavy, scarred, and powerful.
She walked to a cracked mirror on the wall. The face looking back was the man who had just beaten her.
She tested his voice. "I told you to have the stew ready."
It was perfect. The same gravelly timbre. The same slight slur from years of drinking.
She had his strength. She had his knowledge of the forge. She had his social standing in the village.
Vilky sat on the edge of the bed. She didn't feel sick anymore.
She felt like a wolf that had finally found its teeth.
She began to scan the room. She used her photographic memory to note every detail of the cottage.
She needed to know where the money was hidden. She needed to know who Thorne owed debts to.
She found a small pouch of copper coins under a floorboard. Twenty pieces.
It was nothing. A pittance.
She needed to move higher. Oakhaven was a gutter.
A memory from Thorne's mind surfaced.
The tax collector was coming tomorrow. He was a minor official from the capital.
He traveled with two guards and a chest of silver.
He was also known for his "appreciation" of the village women.
Vilky looked at her hands. Then she looked at the reflection in the mirror.
She shifted her form back into Elara. The transition was agonizing, but she didn't make a sound.
She was the battered housewife again. But her eyes were different.
They were the eyes of a girl who had died in ash and been reborn in fire.
She had ten years to resurrect a goddess.
The tax collector would be the first step on the ladder.
She walked to the hearth and began to stir the cold stew.
She needed to be ready for the morning. She needed to be the perfect victim.
The door to the hut creaked in the wind.
Vilky smiled. It was a cold, sharp expression that Elara's face had never worn.
"Welcome to the journey," she whispered to the empty room.