Chapter 1—Run
On an empty street with a concrete road and modest two-story buildings on both sides—
Silence. Not even the sound of the wind existed.
But it was suddenly broken by—
Thud! Thud!
A young teenager, around seventeen years old, ran down the street as if his life depended on it.
His breath came out rough and uneven, and sweat poured down his forehead. His heart hammered violently in his chest.
Thump! Thump!
"My legs…" he winced. They were beginning to lose sensation, but he didn't dare stop. Not even for a second.
"I should have gone to the gym," he muttered bitterly, biting his lower lip.
He'd told himself that every week for two years. Funny how it took running for his life to make it feel urgent.
His legs trembled, his throat burned, yet he still ran.
A few minutes ago—it had all begun.
---
Inside a neat, quiet room, the teenager sat at his desk, studying while taking notes from the PC in front of him.
Squeak!
The door opened. A middle-aged woman stepped inside, wearing a black wrap dress and carrying a cup of hot coffee. She glanced toward the empty bed before turning her head.
The teenager heard the sound and rotated his chair halfway. The woman smiled slightly.
"Ryle," she said. "Here's a quick boost."
"Mom… call me next time," Ryle said, distracted.
He adjusted his chair back toward the PC and picked up his notes again.
The woman walked closer and placed the coffee on the desk. Then she said coldly, "Drink it."
He paused, his brows slowly rising. He stared at the cup.
A thin layer of white ash coated the rim. His eyes narrowed as he lifted his gaze.
His mother stood there, grinning. Her head tilted.
'No…'
Ryle felt something twist inside his chest. 'No… no. She doesn't smile like that.'
He stood up suddenly, his elbow striking the cup.
The cup shattered on the carpet.
Crack!
Hot crimson liquid splashed across the floor.
The carpet dissolved instantly—the liquid burned through the fibers, then through the wood. A gaping hole appeared in the floor.
Large enough to fit an arm through.
Ryle's throat tightened. He slowly stepped backward, "Who… are you?"
The woman tilted her head. Her neck rotated left and right. Then all the way around.
Crackle!
Her chin pointed upward. Her face hung upside down.
"Tch." She clicked her tongue in irritation.
Ryle didn't wait. He rushed out of the room, sprinting through the living room, then the front door, then the garden. He grabbed the gate and tried to open it, but his hands shook violently, barely obeying him.
"Stop shaking!" he hissed, slamming his right hand against his left.
On the next attempt, the gate finally opened.
Ryle bolted into the street. "Help! Anyone! Help!"
"Uncle Sam! Aunt Maria!"
He ran down the street, shouting his neighbours' names, his voice echoing through the quiet road. But no response came. No doors opened.
Only silence.
His throat went dry. He kept running.
"Brook!"
"..."
Nothing. Silence swallowed his voice.
Ryle felt a cold chill run down his spine, his heart pounding wildly. Slowly, he turned his head.
The woman was walking behind him. Relaxed. Unhurried.
But only five meters away.
Ryle's eyes widened — he was running at full speed, yet the distance between them wasn't increasing. Sweat drenched his arms, his legs screamed in pain, and his right knee buckled slightly. He almost tripped.
'I should have crossed this street already…'
But he hadn't. He was just a few houses away from his home. His mouth opened wide as the hair on his skin stood up.
He glanced at the sky.
The purple waxing crescent moon was glowing brightly in the dark. A huge purple spider, almost as big as the moon, crawled on the celestial body.
Despite the moon rising high and the night sky, the land below looked like day.
"A spider… why is the moon purple?!" he screamed, his voice shaking, "And how the hell is it still morning?"
He wanted to pat his chest, but he couldn't lift his arms. They were numb.
"This isn't reality," he muttered, clenching his jaw. "If it catches me… I'll die."
'Wait… how in the world do I know that?'
Thud!
He fell, tripped by a rock. He didn't waste a second—he could already hear the footsteps. He pushed himself back up.
His breathing became ragged.
"My legs…" They were losing power.
He was getting slower.
He glanced back. The woman was smiling, her face still upside down, taking slow, casual steps.
"Who are you?!" Ryle shouted.
The woman laughed. "Hahaha."
Purple light flashed across her body. Her shape distorted, her body twisted—and then she changed. Into him.
Another Ryle stood behind him. Same clothes, same face, but with glowing purple eyes.
Ryle stumbled.
Thud!
He tripped on a rock again and fell.
The second Ryle looked down at him with disdain.
"A reincarnator," he scoffed.
Ryle groaned, chest heaving. "What? How do you know?" A cold chill spread from his chest.
"A reincarnator…" the other 'him' said slowly. "But a disgrace."
Ryle frowned weakly.
"Seventeen years old," the other 'him' sneered, "yet living under your mother's roof. You live off her—pathetic. You shame every reincarnator before you."
The worst part was that he wasn't entirely wrong. Ryle clenched his jaw.
When he'd been reborn, he'd wanted to achieve many great things, like in the novels he'd read. But reality was different.
He grunted, "This world is ordinary. I don't have any cheats."
The other 'him' chuckled, "Cheats?"
And stepped closer.
"Not every reincarnator receives a cheat," The second Ryle said, then his voice dropped. "You reincarnated and did the exact same thing. School… job hunting in the future… The same life."
He didn't give Ryle time to speak. "You had a second chance, and you wasted it—and deep down you knew you were unworthy of it."
Ryle fell silent. He did feel unworthy. Even trash reincarnators turn OP—but him?
Just living an ordinary life. Dependent on his mom.
However, he couldn't ponder much as suddenly some kind of energy surged through his body.
'I'm starting to feel my body.' He pushed off the ground and jumped to his feet. The other 'him' was only three meters away.
Ryle ran. His body felt strangely lighter. Faster.
Behind him, the other 'him' raised his palm. Crimson flames condensed.
Whoosh! He threw it.
Ryle's pupils shrank. He turned his head slightly.
Boom!
The fireball rushed past his face, an inch away.
Ryle gasped, "My face…!" Heat almost scorched his cheek. 'How did I dodge that?'
Another attack came.
Whoosh! Ryle bent down instinctively, the attack passing over his head. 'How… I'm dodging without looking?' He straightened.
The other 'him' stopped and folded his arms.
"Not bad," he smiled faintly. "Not bad, Ryle."
He raised his palm again, "How about this?"
Snap!
Crack!
The ground split open. A massive wall of burning lava erupted upward—four meters tall.
Ryle skidded to a stop, his legs barely responding.
Behind him, the other 'him' approached, only two meters away.
Ryle swallowed, his throat painfully dry.
'The wall is uneven… strong black edges everywhere.' He inhaled deeply—and jumped.
His right hand grabbed a protruding rocky edge in the lava wall.
"AHHH!"
Smoke rose from his palm, his skin burning instantly.
But he pushed upward, using the burned hand as leverage to grab another edge.
Zzz! His left palm burned as well. Grinding his teeth, he forced his body upward and threw himself over the wall.
Thud!
He crashed onto the ground on the other side. For a moment, he didn't move, then he looked at his hands.
The flesh was gone. Bones exposed. Burned black.
"Fourth-degree burns," he muttered hoarsely. "I'm not feeling them yet—but I will."
A cold voice came from directly behind him. "Where do you think you are going?"
Ryle froze.
The other him stood there—only inches away. Smiling.
"Checkmate, Ryle."
He raised his hand. Crimson flames gathered in his palm, burning bright.