Oscar's thumb scrolled through his phone as he walked, the glow of the screen painting his face blue in the dimming evening light.
"Lloyd Ashford stood at the edge of the Corrupted North, his companions gathered behind him. The wind howled across the barren wasteland, carrying with it the stench of decay and something worse—corruption itself, like rot given physical form."
Oscar wrinkled his nose. The author really loved their dramatic descriptions.
"Behind him, Aria stepped closer, her white healer's robes rippling in the wind. 'Lloyd,' she said softly. 'You don't have to do this. We could wait for reinforcements from—'"
"'No.' Lloyd's voice was firm. Commanding. 'We've waited long enough. Every day we delay, more people die. More villages fall. I won't let that happen. Not again.'"
"Oh, here we go," Oscar muttered.
"Princess Seraphina moved to his other side, ice already crystallizing around her fingertips. 'Then we go together. The Blessed Generation doesn't abandon each other.'"
"Lloyd glanced at her, then at the others. Dorian, checking his shield straps. Kerra, testing the edge of her blade. Cassian, eyes crackling with lightning. Lyria, her spirit companion shimmering beside her."
"His harem. His friends. His responsibility."
Oscar snorted. "Yeah, his responsibility. Everything's always about you, isn't it Lloyd?"
"'For Aria,' Lloyd thought, his hand tightening on his sword hilt. 'For everyone who's counting on me. For the people who died in that village. I'll end this corruption, no matter what it takes.'"
"The sun began to rise over the Corrupted North, painting the dead landscape in shades of blood and gold. Lloyd took his first step forward into the wasteland."
"'Let's go,' he said."
"Whatever waited in those cursed lands, he would face it head-on. He had to. For Aria. For everyone."
"He was Lloyd Ashford. The commoner who became a legend. The one with four elemental affinities. The hero this generation needed."
"And he wouldn't fail."
[End of Chapter 347]
Oscar stopped at the crosswalk, staring at the screen. "That's it? That's the cliffhanger?"
He scrolled down, hoping for more. Just a few more lines. Something. But no—just the author's note.
[A/N: Sorry for the short chapter! Next update will be longer, I promise! Things are about to get crazy in the North ;) Don't forget to vote with power stones!]
"'Sorry for the short chapter,'" Oscar read aloud mockingly. "It's been three days, man. Three days for eight hundred words and Lloyd stroking his own ego."
He shoved his phone in his pocket, more annoyed than he should be about a web novel update. The crosswalk light was still red. Around him, the city hummed with its usual evening rhythm—cars passing, distant conversations, the buzz of streetlights flickering on.
The thing was, Chronicles of the Corrupted Age used to be good. Really good. Oscar had started reading it almost a year ago and blasted through the first two hundred chapters in a week. Back then, Lloyd was actually likeable. Humble kid with a tragic past, working his ass off to get stronger. Yeah, he had insane talent, but he didn't act like it. He helped people. Stood up for the weak. Actually seemed to care.
Somewhere around chapter two hundred though, things shifted.
Lloyd started winning every fight too easily. Started making speeches about his own greatness. The "I need to protect people" guy turned into someone who couldn't go five minutes without reminding everyone how special he was.
And the worst part? The story knew. Other characters mentioned Lloyd getting arrogant. Called him out on it sometimes. But it was always framed as "the weight of leadership" or "the burden of being so powerful" or some other excuse.
It was just bad character writing. Plain and simple.
But Oscar kept reading anyway.
Not for Lloyd—he'd stopped caring about Lloyd somewhere around chapter two-fifty. He kept reading for the side characters. Dorian's dry humor. Kerra calling out Lloyd's bullshit. Even Aria, though the author kept reducing her to cheerleader status despite her having way more interesting backstory potential.
And the world itself was still fascinating. The five nations, the corruption mystery, Hero Anastasia's disappearance two thousand years ago. There was a good story buried under Lloyd's inflated ego. Oscar just had to dig for it.
The crosswalk light turned green.
Oscar stepped off the curb, pulling out his phone again. Maybe he'd reread an earlier chapter. Back when the story was actually—
A horn blared.
Oscar's head snapped up.
Headlights. Bright, blinding, way too close.
His brain screamed at his body to move but everything had frozen. The truck's grill filled his vision. He could see every detail—the chrome, the bugs splattered across it, the driver's horrified face through the windshield.
Oh.
I'm going to die.
The thought was weirdly calm.
I'm going to die and I'll never know if Lloyd stops being an asshole.
What a stupid last thought.
The impact came like lightning and thunder compressed into a single instant. White-hot pain, then pressure, then nothing.
Cold.
That was the first thing. Not sharp cold like ice. Soft cold. Damp. The kind that seeped into bones and settled there.
Oscar's eyes didn't want to open. His eyelids felt like lead. Everything hurt in a distant, muted way—like the pain was happening to someone else and he was just overhearing it.
Hospital?
But hospitals didn't smell like this. Didn't smell like earth and moss and something faintly rotten underneath.
His eyes cracked open.
Trees.
A canopy of branches stretched overhead, so thick it blocked out most of the sky. Moonlight filtered through in silver threads, painting the forest floor in patches of light and shadow. Somewhere close by, an owl hooted. Leaves rustled in a breeze he couldn't feel yet.
Oscar's breath misted in the cold air.
What the hell?
He tried to sit up. His body obeyed, but everything felt wrong. His arms were too long. His torso too solid. His entire center of gravity was off, like someone had rearranged his skeleton while he wasn't looking.
He looked down at his hands.
Callused. Rough. Small white scars across the knuckles. The hands of someone who'd spent years gripping a sword, not a high school student who spent more time on his phone than in a gym.
"What..." His voice came out wrong. Deeper. Rougher. Not his voice at all.
Panic started crawling up his throat.
He pushed himself to his feet, legs wobbling under unfamiliar weight. Too tall. He was way too tall. At least six feet, maybe more. His clothes—not his clothes, they couldn't be his clothes—hung in shredded tatters. Something with claws had torn through the fabric in long, vicious strips.
But underneath, his skin was unmarked. No cuts. No blood. No wounds at all.
Just smooth, unblemished skin.
Oscar's hands trembled as he touched his chest, his arms, his face. Everything was wrong. The shape of his jaw. The breadth of his shoulders. The calluses on his palms.
This isn't my body.
The thought crystallized like ice.
He stumbled backward, his heel catching on a gnarled root. His arms windmilled as he fought for balance, and he barely caught himself against a tree trunk. The bark was rough under his palm. Real. Solid.
This wasn't a dream.
Oscar—no, whoever he was now—looked around, trying to make sense of his surroundings. Forest. Dense forest. The kind where the trees grew so thick you couldn't see more than twenty feet in any direction. Moonlight struggled through the canopy, creating pockets of silver light surrounded by deep shadow.
Where the hell was he?
He'd been crossing a street. Reading his phone. Then the truck, the impact, the pain—
He should be dead.
He was dead. He had to be. There was no way someone survived getting hit by a truck going that fast.
So why was he here? In a forest? In someone else's body?
Oscar took a shaky breath, trying to calm his racing heart. Think. He needed to think. Panic wouldn't help. Freaking out wouldn't help.
He looked down at his torn clothes again. Some kind of tunic and pants, medieval style. Well-made once, probably, but now shredded beyond repair. No phone. No wallet. No identification.
Nothing that would tell him who he was or where he was.
But he had to be somewhere. Forests had edges. If he picked a direction and walked, eventually he'd find something. A road. A town. People who could tell him what the hell was going on.
Oscar scanned his surroundings, looking for any hint of which way to go. The moonlight was brighter to his left—maybe the trees were thinner there? That seemed as good a direction as any.
He started walking, his legs unsteady. This body moved differently than his own. Heavier. More solid. Like there was muscle he wasn't used to having. His balance was off too, compensating for the extra height.
The forest floor was covered in dead leaves and exposed roots. Each step crunched too loud in the oppressive silence. No birds. No insects. Just wind rustling through branches and his own ragged breathing.
Something about that silence felt wrong.
Oscar pushed the thought aside and kept walking. One foot in front of the other. Just find the edge of the forest. Find people. Figure out what happened.
A branch snapped somewhere to his right.
He froze.
Silence.
Oscar waited, barely breathing. Probably just an animal. A deer or something. Nothing to worry about.
He kept walking, faster now. The trees did seem to be thinning ahead. More moonlight penetrated the canopy, creating larger pools of silver light. Good. He was going the right way.
Another sound. Closer this time. A rustling in the underbrush.
Oscar's hand went instinctively to his hip, reaching for something that wasn't there. His body knew the motion—grabbing for a weapon. A sword maybe?
But there was nothing. Just torn fabric and his empty hand.
He walked faster, his eyes darting between the trees. The silence pressed down on him like a physical weight. Every shadow looked like it was moving. Every rustling leaf sounded like footsteps.
Just paranoia. You're fine. Keep walking.
The stench hit him then. Faint but unmistakable. Like rotten meat left out in the sun. Mixed with something chemical. Sulfurous.
Oscar's stomach churned. He knew that smell from somewhere, but couldn't place it. Couldn't remember why it made every instinct in this borrowed body scream at him to run.
He walked faster, almost jogging now. The trees were definitely thinning. He could see more sky through the gaps. Just a little further and—
Pain exploded in his skull.
White-hot. Blinding. Like someone had shoved a red-hot spike through his temples.
Oscar's hands flew to his head. His knees buckled. The world tilted sideways as he collapsed, his shoulder hitting the ground hard.
The pain intensified. Not just in his head now—everywhere. His chest. His arms. His spine. Like his entire body was being torn apart and stitched back together wrong.
He tried to scream but nothing came out. Just a choked gasp as the agony overwhelmed every sense.
Images flashed behind his eyes. Faces he didn't recognize. Places he'd never been. A girl with light brown hair laughing. A man's hand on his shoulder. A sword in his grip.
Not his memories.
Someone else's.
The pain reached a crescendo. Oscar's vision went white, then black, then white again.
And then—
Nothing.