"Ugh... where the hell did everything go so wrong?"
Logan.
Born March 28, 1991.
An orphanage kid who didn't even know his parents' names, clawing his way through this brutal world just to survive.
For someone from that kind of background to land a job in HR at one of the Fortune 500 companies? That was basically the ultimate underdog story.
But getting into a major corporation when you've got nothing to your name doesn't exactly turn your life into some dramatic success story.
Actually, no. Maybe if I'd just lived a normal, quiet life, I could've been happy.
But if I'd been that kind of person to begin with, I never would've made it this far anyway. No point in what-ifs.
Once I entered the workforce, I became an absolute demon about work.
Did everything HR was supposed to do, studied for certifications after hours, showed up earlier than anyone else.
Overtime and late nights at the office were just part of life. Took on all the dirty work nobody else wanted and never forgot to kiss ass to the higher-ups.
'We're a family here.'
Under that nice-sounding slogan, I drew up termination lists and systematically weeded out anyone the company didn't need anymore.
Couldn't be helped.
It was just a job the company told me to do. Nothing personal, obviously. I was just trying to make a living too.
So I lived my life as the company's loyal dog, representing only corporate interests.
And at thirty-five, I collapsed at work and got diagnosed with terminal pancreatic cancer.
I'd been feeling off for a while, but I'd just brushed it off as overwork catching up with me. Guess that was the price I paid.
Got handed a death sentence—less than a year to live. Obviously couldn't stay at the company after that.
'We wish you a speedy recovery.'
The payoff for grinding away my body and health? A cheap consolation plaque with some cookie-cutter message and a hospital bed to die in.
"...Fuck. You'd think at least one person would visit more than once."
Even the few who did show up were clearly just going through the motions, all saying the same damn thing.
'I hope you get better soon.'
Yeah, right.
I'm not exaggerating—I could feel my body getting worse every single day.
If souls are real, I could feel mine getting ready to leave this body any day now.
Long story short, my life was a complete disaster, a total trainwreck from start to finish.
They say people facing death go through five stages of grief or whatever, but I didn't even have time for that.
Painkillers stopped working ages ago. Just lying in bed with endless agony eating away at my body, eyes closed.
And whenever that happened, what I thought wasn't 'I don't want to die,' but 'I want to live differently.'
Thinking about it, I'd never once actually lived my own life.
To survive in society, to survive the competition.
Just surviving, thrashing around desperately—was that really my life?
Wasn't I basically a slave who couldn't exist without being subordinate to something?
If I could live life over again, I'd never live like this.
So even on the last night of my life, I writhed in pain and regret with my eyes closed.
And in my dream, I heard a voice.
[Do you regret it?]
"...Yeah, of course I do."
Maybe because it was a dream, I couldn't feel the pain tearing through my body.
And the voice kept asking questions in that flat, matter-of-fact tone.
[Do you want to start over?]
"Yeah. My life was no different from a slave's."
I'm not just talking about social status.
Not trying to make some trite statement about being enslaved to corporations.
Something I finally realized right at the very end of my life.
What I'd been enslaved to wasn't society or corporations—it was my own obsession.
The inferiority complex from being born with less than others.
The compulsion to overcome that complex became a kind of shackle, and that shackle ended up controlling my entire life.
If I'd been more composed, if I'd found something that could give my life meaning beyond just status or honor, would my life have turned out different?
But it's all over now. What's the point of regrets?
[You can start anew.]
"Is that even possi... wait, what is this anyway? Come to think of it, who am I even talking to right now?"
Is this one of those near-death experiences people talk about?
[Do you want to start over?]
"Yeah, sure. It'd be great if I could start over."
Whether this is just a hallucination my dying brain cooked up or an actual god, who cares?
I'm dying anyway. Might as well close my eyes hoping there's a next life.
[What kind of life do you want to live?]
"Well... instead of being treated like someone's slave, I'd like a life where I'm the one in control."
I want to live a life where I'm not bound by anything, where I can forge my own path with free will.
[Understood.]
That was the signal.
Whoooosh.
Everything around me seemed to be swallowed up by pitch-black space.
[However...]
Then I couldn't hear anything anymore, couldn't feel anything.
******
How long was I out?
Thought I was a goner for sure, but looks like I had a few more days left after all.
Given I just had something like a near-death experience though, probably not many days left.
All my bodily sensations must've gone haywire—even the hospital blanket I was always covered with felt oddly different.
But something was off.
Not just the blanket's texture, but even the smell seemed different. And more than anything...
"Why doesn't it hurt?"
The pain that always greeted me when I opened my eyes, the kind that made you think death would be better, had completely disappeared.
"This is so ridicul... huh?"
I froze in place as I reached for the call button to get a nurse.
The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes—the room looked completely different from a hospital room.
"What the hell..."
Did they move me to a different room while I was asleep because my condition improved?
No. I could tell at a glance this space was just wrong.
The room was enormous—at least 40 square meters.
A crystal chandelier hung from the center of the high ceiling, the headboard of the bed I was lying in had intricate carvings, and thin brass rods for mosquito netting were folded against the canopy posts.
"What's with this wallpaper? Is this a movie set?"
The walls were covered with wallpaper showing repeating hunting scenes, and French doors on the windows led straight out to a balcony.
Definitely not a hospital room, no matter how you looked at it.
I had no idea why I'd been moved to a place like this, but one thing was certain—my body didn't hurt anymore.
Starting the day in healthy condition was such an incredible blessing.
Maybe that weird experience yesterday actually did something? I thought as I unconsciously glanced at the mirror hanging on the wall.
And then.
"AAAGH! What the fuck! What is this?!"
A truly horrified scream burst out.
The person in the mirror wasn't the face of Logan I'd been looking at my whole life.
A young white guy who looked about six feet tall, with strong, masculine features.
A face I'd never seen before in my life, yet felt paradoxically familiar, staring back at me from the mirror with shocked eyes.
At the same time, a hypothesis naturally formed in my mind.
"...So that wasn't just some random dream?"
Did some god-like being really use some miracle beyond comprehension to give me a second life?
Then where am I right now...
BAM!
"Master! Are you alright? I thought I heard a scream."
Just as I tried to gather my thoughts, the door suddenly burst open and a young man in a sleeveless jacket rushed into the room.
One notable detail—he wasn't white like me. He was Black.
And.
"Master, did you have a nightmare? Or is something wrong with your body?"
He was extremely deferential, carefully checking my complexion while calling me "master."
Furniture that looked Rococo but was kept as clean as new, and this old-fashioned mansion.
A Black youth dressed like a butler, calling me master.
He looked about my age, but in his eyes wasn't just concern—there was also a kind of fear.
Piecing together these fragments of truth, I got a rough picture of the situation.
At the same time, the conversation I'd had with that weird voice yesterday flashed through my mind.
[Well... instead of being treated like someone's slave, I'd like a life where I'm the one in control.]
[Understood.]
God-like being my ass.
What do you mean "understood," you fucking idiot?
I said I wanted to be in control of my own life... who the hell asked to live a life literally controlling slaves?!
Are you kidding me?
What am I supposed to do now?
I let out a hollow laugh and turned my gaze to see a calendar on the desk showing the date: May 21, 1856.
"Master... are you alright? Should I fetch a doctor?"
Looks like...
My second life just turned into a different kind of disaster.