Volume 1: The Poor Charming's Tower Gamble
Prologue Arc: Poor Charming's Last Shot
Chapter 1: Bullied for a Fake Prince Name in a Dirt-Poor Backwater City
Elodas Charming woke to the familiar creak of the leaky roof and the smell of damp mold that had become his lifelong perfume. The shack he called home was little more than four walls of warped wood and a dirt floor covered by threadbare mats. Sunlight barely squeezed through the single cracked window, painting thin stripes across his face. Seventeen years in this body, and every single morning started the same way: aching back from yesterday's labor, empty stomach growling like an angry street dog, and the heavy weight of a name that refused to let him forget he was supposed to be something he wasn't.
He sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Another day in paradise," he muttered under his breath, the sarcasm so thick it could have been spread on bread—if they had any bread left. His mother's voice drifted in from the other room, soft and tired. "Elodas? You awake, son? The water bucket needs filling before the line at the well gets too long."
Elodas sighed, swinging his legs off the thin straw mat that served as his bed. At seventeen he was already taller than most boys in the slums, with sharp features that the local thugs loved to mock. Straight nose, clear blue eyes, and hair that somehow stayed annoyingly golden no matter how much dirt and sweat he rolled in. "Yeah, Ma. On it." He pulled on his patched tunic and trousers, the same ones he'd worn for the last two seasons because new clothes were a luxury they couldn't afford. The fabric was so thin in places it was almost transparent, but it was better than nothing.
Outside, the backwater city of Lowspire sprawled like a wound that refused to heal. Cobbled streets gave way to mud paths in the poorer districts. Chimneys belched black smoke from the few workshops that still operated. The air tasted of coal dust and rotting vegetables from the market stalls that never quite sold out. In the distance, rising above the crooked rooftops like a middle finger to the poor, stood the Reincarnation Tower. Its black spire pierced the clouds, glowing faintly with runes that even the illiterate knew meant power, wealth, and a second chance. Everyone in the city grew up staring at it the way starving men stared at a feast they could never reach.
Elodas grabbed the wooden bucket and stepped into the narrow alley. Puddles from last night's rain reflected the gray sky. He kept his head down, hoping today would be quiet. It never was.
"Hey, Prince Charming! Out for your morning beauty walk?"
The voice hit him like a slap. Three boys blocked the alley mouth—local toughs who called themselves the Mud Rats. The leader, a stocky sixteen-year-old named Garrick with a scar across his cheek from some tavern brawl, grinned wide enough to show missing teeth. His two lackeys, skinny twins with identical sneers, flanked him like loyal dogs.
Elodas kept walking, bucket swinging lightly in his grip. "Morning, Garrick. Nice scar. Adds character."
Garrick stepped forward, shoving Elodas hard in the chest. The bucket clattered to the ground, water splashing across his boots. "Character? Look at you, pretty boy. Hair like spun gold, face like one of those fancy noble portraits. Your parents must've been drunk when they named you Elodas Charming. What, they think you'd marry a princess someday? Ha! You're just a gutter rat with delusions."
The twins laughed, one of them kicking the bucket farther down the alley. "Prince Charming! More like Prince of the Trash Heap. Bet the girls swoon when they see you hauling garbage for coppers."
Elodas straightened, wiping mud from his tunic without flinching. Inside, his thoughts churned with the dry humor he'd carried from his previous life. Back on Earth I was just some overworked office drone who binge-watched cartoons on weekends. Now I'm reborn into a world with literal magic towers and reincarnation trials, and the biggest obstacle is my own damn name. No Disney movies here, no anime tropes leaking into daily life—just pure, unfiltered irony. Heaven-Defying Comprehension? Instant Full Mastery? Yeah, right. Seventeen years and the only thing I've mastered is dodging these idiots without breaking a sweat.
He didn't say any of that out loud. Never did. The reborn part was his secret. The cheats—if they even existed—were still sleeping like lazy cats. He forced a lazy smile instead. "Jealousy doesn't suit you, Garrick. Makes your scar look bigger. Now if you'll excuse me, the well line waits for no man. Even fake princes gotta eat."
Garrick's face twisted. He swung a fist, but Elodas had seen it coming a mile away. Seventeen years of this exact routine had sharpened his reflexes the hard way. He sidestepped, letting the punch whistle past his ear, then calmly picked up the bucket. "Missed. Try again when you're sober."
The twins moved in, but a sharp voice cut through the alley. "Enough! You three got nothing better to do than harass honest folk?"
Old Widow Mara hobbled into view, leaning on her cane. She was the closest thing Lowspire's slums had to a guardian angel—seventy years old, half-blind, but her tongue was sharper than any sword. The Mud Rats scattered like roaches, muttering curses under their breath. Garrick shot Elodas one last glare. "This ain't over, Charming. When you turn eighteen and crawl out of that Tower on your knees, I'll be there laughing."
Elodas waved lazily as they disappeared around the corner. "Can't wait. Bring popcorn if they sell it in the noble districts."
Widow Mara clicked her tongue, eyeing him up and down. "You're too calm for your own good, boy. That name of yours is a curse and a blessing wrapped in one. Your parents meant well—Charming was your great-grandfather's trade name, back when they still had a forge. But in these streets? It paints a target on your back bigger than the Tower itself."
Elodas bent to retrieve the bucket, now half-empty. "I know, Widow. But what can I do? Change it? The registry office charges more than we make in a month." He offered her a small smile, the kind that actually reached his eyes. "Besides, it keeps life interesting. Beats dying of boredom."
She cackled, patting his arm with a wrinkled hand. "Interesting? You'll see interesting when that Tower spits you out. Every soul gets one shot at eighteen. Succeed and you become an Extraordinary Reincarnator—revered, protected, rich beyond dreams. Fail… well, you've seen the ones who failed. Kneeling in the streets, begging the successful ones for scraps of protection. Lifetime of groveling. Your birthday's in three days, lad. Three days."
The reminder hit like cold water down his spine. Elodas nodded, throat tight. "Three days. I'll make it count."
He continued to the well, the line already snaking halfway down the muddy lane. Housewives, laborers, and street kids chatted in low voices while the communal pump creaked. Elodas took his place at the end, bucket in hand. Whispers followed him like always.
"There he is. The Charming boy."
"Looks too pretty to be from the slums. Bet his mother was a noble's cast-off."
"Shh, he'll hear. But yeah… Prince Charming in rags. Pathetic."
He ignored them, focusing on the rhythmic squeak of the pump. This world has no fairy tales like the ones I remember. No glass slippers, no genies, no talking mice. Just the Tower and its trial worlds—temporary reincarnations where you defy fate or kneel forever. I've waited seventeen years for whatever cheats I supposedly brought with me. Heaven-Defying Comprehension. Instant Full Mastery. Sounds like the ultimate cheat code from those novels I used to read on Earth. Yet here I am, still ordinary. No sudden sword mastery from watching a street brawl. No magic from seeing a hedge wizard. Maybe the system's glitched. Or maybe I'm just unlucky.
The line moved slowly. When his turn came, he filled the bucket to the brim, muscles straining under the weight. Water sloshed over the rim as he balanced it on his shoulder and started the long walk home. The slums never slept; vendors hawked stale bread and wilted greens, blacksmiths hammered bent nails into tools, and somewhere a baby cried while its mother sang a lullaby about the Tower's promised glory.
By the time he reached the shack, his mother was stirring a thin porridge over the hearth. Lira Charming was a small woman, worn thin by years of laundry work for richer households. Her hands were red and cracked, but her eyes still held the same gentle light they'd had since he was a toddler in this second life. "Thank you, Elodas. Set it by the fire. Your father's out scavenging scrap metal again. Says the Tower guilds pay extra for good iron these days—something about reinforcing the lower floors."
Elodas set the bucket down and crouched beside her, stirring the pot so she could rest her hands. "Pa's been talking about the Tower non-stop lately. Thinks if I clear the first trial, we'll move out of the slums. Get a real roof."
Lira smiled faintly, brushing a strand of graying hair from her face. "He dreams big for us. Always has. When you were born, he chose that name because he wanted you to have a chance at something better. Charming… it means grace, you know. Not just looks. But the streets don't care about meanings. They only see a boy who doesn't belong in the dirt."
He tasted the porridge—mostly water with a few grains and a pinch of salt. It was hot, at least. "I don't mind the dirt, Ma. I mind the waiting. Seventeen years of nothing special. No sudden talents, no hidden powers. Just… me."
She reached over and squeezed his shoulder. "You're special enough to me. And in three days you'll step into that Tower like every other eighteen-year-old. One temporary reincarnation. One chance to defy whatever fate the trial world throws at you. The stories say some come back gods. Others come back broken. But you… you've always had a spark. Even when the other children teased you mercilessly."
Elodas chuckled, the sound low and self-deprecating. Spark? Try a full bonfire of past-life memories with zero fuel to light it. I remember Earth—cars, movies, internet, all that jazz. Fairy tales where princes named Charming actually got the girl and the kingdom. Here? My name just gets me punched. And the trial worlds? I have no clue what they'll be. The Tower keeps them secret until you step through the portal. But if they're anything like the stories adults whisper around campfires, I might finally get to use whatever cheats I was promised at rebirth.
Breakfast was quiet after that. His father, Tomas Charming, trudged in later with a sack of twisted metal over one shoulder. The man was broad-shouldered from years of manual labor, face lined with soot and worry. "Morning, son. Heard the Mud Rats gave you trouble again on the way to the well."
"Same old song," Elodas replied, helping unload the scrap. "Garrick's still mad I dodged his punch last week. Nothing new."
Tomas grunted, wiping sweat from his brow. "Boys like him will kneel one day if you succeed. Extraordinary Reincarnators walk the streets like kings. Guilds offer them protection, gold, even marriages into noble houses. Fail, though…" He trailed off, eyes flicking toward the distant Tower. "I've seen the failed ones. Eyes dead, backs bent permanent. Begging the successful for shielding spells against everyday monsters. I won't let that happen to you."
Elodas helped sort the metal into piles—nails here, bent rods there. The work was mindless, but it gave his hands something to do while his mind raced. Seventeen years of hoping the cheats would kick in. I've watched street duels, tavern mages casting sparks, even a minor Extraordinary Reincarnator once demonstrating a simple wind spell in the market square. Nothing. No comprehension flooding my brain, no instant mastery making me a prodigy. Maybe the Tower itself is the trigger. Maybe stepping through that first portal wakes everything up. Or maybe I'm just a normal guy with a fancy name and a second chance at life that's about to expire.
The morning dragged into afternoon. Elodas spent it hauling laundry baskets for his mother's clients in the slightly-less-poor district. The houses there had actual doors and windows without cracks. Women in patched aprons eyed him sideways as he worked.
"Oh, it's the Charming lad again," one matron whispered loudly enough for him to hear. "Such a waste of a handsome face on a pauper. If only his family had coin, he could charm his way into a merchant's daughter's heart."
Another laughed. "Charm? With that name? He'd be better off changing it to Mud or Rat. At least then no one expects miracles."
He kept his expression neutral, stacking baskets higher. Expectations. That's the real curse. Everyone thinks 'Charming' means I should be witty, dashing, heroic. Reality? I'm the guy who trips over his own feet carrying wet sheets and still has to smile because tips pay for dinner.
By the time the sun dipped low, painting the Tower in bloody orange light, Elodas was bone-tired. He returned home to find the family gathered around the hearth. His younger sister, little Mira—only ten and already helping with chores—sat cross-legged, braiding a scrap of ribbon into a bracelet.
"For you, brother," she said shyly, holding it up. "So the Tower knows you're charming on the inside too. Not just the name."
Elodas knelt and let her tie it around his wrist. The ribbon was faded pink, salvaged from some noble's trash. "Thanks, Mira. This'll be my good-luck charm. Better than the name, huh?"
She giggled. "Prince Elodas! When you come back a hero, you'll buy me a real dress, right? With lace and everything."
"Deal," he promised, ruffling her hair. Inside, his chest tightened. Three days. If I fail, she'll grow up watching her big brother kneel in the streets. No hero. No dress. Just another broken soul begging for scraps from the Extraordinary.
Dinner was the same thin porridge, stretched with wild herbs his father had foraged. They ate in silence broken only by the crackle of the fire and the distant clang of the city bells marking the hour. Tomas cleared his throat eventually. "The Tower opens its gates at dawn on your birthday, son. No prep needed—they say the trial world provides what you need. But the stories… some worlds are kind. Others cruel. Defy the fate written there and you return changed. Stronger. Protected."
Lira nodded, eyes shining with unshed tears. "We've scraped every copper for the entry tithe. It's paid. All we can give you now is our hope."
Elodas looked at each of them—the tired faces, the love worn thin by poverty—and felt the weight settle heavier. "I won't let you down. Whatever the trial throws at me, I'll face it. And if those cheats I've been waiting for finally wake up…" He stopped himself, realizing he'd almost spoken the secret aloud. No one knows I'm reborn. No one knows about the two talents supposedly baked into my soul. Heaven-Defying Comprehension: watch once, understand everything. Instant Full Mastery: learn once, become untouchable. If they activate inside the Tower, I'll keep it hidden. No one needs to know how I really climbed.
He changed the subject smoothly. "Remember when I was five and tried to climb the outer wall of the Tower just to peek inside? Guards dragged me down and laughed at the 'little prince' with muddy knees."
Mira burst out laughing. Tomas chuckled. "Aye, and you told them you'd be back as an Extraordinary one day. Look at you now—still muddy, still dreaming."
The evening wore on with stories. Elodas listened more than he spoke, letting the familiar tales wash over him. Tales of past Reincarnators who returned wielding fire that never burned them, swords that cut mountains, or charms that bent fate itself. He stored every detail, even the smallest rumor. Knowledge is the only weapon I have until the cheats kick in. If the trial worlds are anything like the fairy tales I vaguely recall from Earth—castles, magic, heroes and villains—then maybe my name won't be a curse there. Or maybe it'll be the ultimate joke.
Later, when the fire died to embers and Mira was asleep curled under a shared blanket, Elodas stepped outside alone. The night air was cool, stars faint above the smog. The Tower loomed, its runes pulsing like a heartbeat. He stared at it, fists clenched at his sides.
"Three days," he whispered to the darkness. "Seventeen years of being ordinary Elodas Charming—the poor kid with the prince's name. Bullied, laughed at, scraping by. If those cheats are real, Tower… wake them up inside whatever world you send me to. Because I'm done kneeling before I even start."
A soft wind stirred the alley trash, carrying the faint echo of laughter from a distant tavern. Somewhere, a drunkard sang off-key about a charming hero who saved the kingdom. Elodas shook his head, a wry smile tugging at his lips despite everything.
Fake prince in a real world of magic and trials. What could possibly go wrong?
He turned back toward the shack, the ribbon on his wrist fluttering like a tiny flag of defiance. Tomorrow would bring more buckets, more bullies, more scraping. But in three days the portal would open, and everything—name, poverty, secrets—would either shatter or transform.
For the first time in years, Elodas Charming allowed himself a single, quiet spark of real hope. Not the desperate kind born from hunger, but the sharp, focused kind that came from knowing you carried hidden weapons no one else could see.
The Tower waited. The bullies waited. Fate waited.
And somewhere deep inside him, two talents that had slumbered for seventeen years stirred ever so slightly, as if sensing the door about to crack open.
But for now, in the dirt-poor backwater city, Elodas was still just the boy with the ridiculous name, hauling water and dodging fists.
And that was exactly how he planned to keep it—until the moment the cheats finally roared to life.