The awakening was brutal. Davin jerked upright, his skull violently striking the rotten planks of the broken cart beneath which he lay. The impact tore a hoarse groan from him, but this pain was merely a trivial insect bite compared to the internal combustion that had ravaged his organs shortly before. He sucked in great gulps of air, over and over, his lungs saturated with a pestilential stench of mud and urine.
"I... I'm not dead?" he croaked, surprised by the raspy timbre of his own voice.
His hands, trembling and covered in a sticky grime, frantically palpated his chest. No burns. His ribs jutted out beneath sickly, rough skin, but the flesh was intact. He noticed the absence of white walls, the absence of the steady hum of resuscitation equipment. Around him, there was only packed dirt, dampness, and the sticky misery of a makeshift camp.
Where am I? This is neither the hospital, nor my home.
Confused, he crawled out of his shelter. His gaze caught the murky reflection of a stagnant puddle a few inches away. He leaned over it. And froze.
"This is a joke... It's impossible," he muttered, pupils dilated.
The face staring back at him was not his own. The features were emaciated, hollowed out by years of deprivation, framed by dull, stringy hair. It was the reflection of a young vagabond, literally consumed by hunger.
Denial tried to assert itself, but was instantly swept away by the shreds of his final memories. The unreal coolness of that damned jade apple. The explosion of taste. Then the fire in his veins. The absolute agony that had killed him on Earth.
He plunged his filthy fingers into the muck, feeling the mud seep beneath his nails.
"That fruit killed me," he let out in an erratic breath.
His analytical mind assimilated this reality with frightening lucidity. He had transmigrated. The probabilities defied all scientific logic, but the facts were indisputable.
A dull, helpless rage rose within him. Twenty-eight years. An adult life and a career as a data analyst that were just beginning to offer him true stability, mowed down by a trivial anomaly. If gods were watching this farce from the heavens, they must be weeping with laughter. A pang of sorrow, sharp and unexpected, pierced his numb mind. His mother. The thought of her discovering his corpse, twisted in agony on their living room floor, tightened his chest.
"Mom... I'm sorry. I hope you'll recover," he let slip in a broken voice.
He continued to think of his mother with sadness, but this brief moment of vulnerability was obliterated with unprecedented violence.
A searing cramp twisted his guts. It wasn't just an empty stomach. It was an atrocious, animalistic hunger, an acidic void that felt as if it were dissolving his own organs from the inside out. The physical pain instantly crushed the emotional distress. Melancholy was a luxury for the privileged; he was no longer that.
A few yards away, figures dressed in rags squatted in the dust. Other beggars, whose lifeless gazes masked a scavenger-like hostility. Driven by the absolute necessity to evaluate his environment, Davin swallowed his thick saliva and erased all traces of emotion from his new face.
I need to know where I am, but my body is failing me, he thought, clenching his teeth.
He leaned against the broken wheel of the cart, hoisted himself up on trembling legs, and stepped toward the group.
"Please... Food..." he croaked, feigning the pitiful misery of his condition. "Just... some scraps."
The beggar he had just grabbed by the shoulder turned around, his face twisted in fierce disgust.
"Get off me, you little bastard!" spat the man, his voice ravaged by filth and bootleg liquor. "You dare show your face here after what you stole from us?"
"What are you..."
The blow came without warning. A calloused backhand slammed into Davin's jaw with a sharp crack. The impact made him see stars. He stumbled, his cheek burning, the coppery taste of blood flooding his mouth.
For a fraction of a second, surprise paralyzed him. Then, primal instinct took over. A raw rage short-circuited his reason. Without thinking, Davin clenched his fist and brought it down with all his meager strength onto the bridge of his attacker's nose.
The man recoiled with a howl, his hands clamped over his bloody face. But this pathetic victory was fleeting.
"He hit Carle!" bellowed a voice behind him.
Four other beggars rushed at him. Adrenaline electrified Davin's atrophied muscles. He turned on his heel and bolted as fast as his emaciated new body would allow. But hunger had already doomed him. His legs gave out after about thirty feet, sending him crashing heavily into the dust of the path.
"No, wait..." He tried to speak, but his dry throat refused to produce the slightest sound.
They were on him the next instant. The kicks began to rain down with a dull violence.
"Die, you dirty thief!" barked one of them, grinding his heel into his ribs.
Pain radiated through every fiber of his being. Rage was still boiling in his veins, but an icy, familiar lucidity took over. He was too weak. If he tried to struggle or fight back, the probability of them killing him was borderline one hundred percent. Analyzing the situation with absolute cynicism, he stifled a cry, curled up into a fetal position, and locked his arms around his skull to protect his vital organs.
He took the beating in silence. Every blow became additional data, a lesson engraved in his flesh.
When they were out of breath and bored by his apathy, the beggars spat on him and walked away, snickering.
Davin remained motionless in the dust for long minutes. He spat out a sticky clot of saliva and blood, then probed his body. Burning bruises, deep hematomas, but no broken ribs. He sat up, wincing, the pain pulsing to the rhythm of his heart.
I will remember every single one of your fucking faces, he thought, his eyes locked on the distant silhouettes of the camp. But not today. Vengeance is a luxury for the living.
[BEEP]
Davin's pupils contracted. Was this a hallucination born of hunger or a concussion? Before his eyes, floating in the air superimposed over reality, a glowing window had just appeared.
[BEEP. System Message / Analysis in progress...] > HOST STATUS:
Name: Davin (Unknown Vessel)
Biological Age: 19 years
Strength: 0.3 (Standard Average: 1.0)
Agility: 0.4
Vitality: 0.2
Unknown Energy: 1.2
[Alert / Recommendation: Critical Status. Severe malnutrition, bodily atrophy. Survival probability (24h): 12.4%. Emergency nutritional intake required.]
An interface?! The AI merged with me in this world?!
Dozens of variables collided in his mind. He inspected the interface, and one data point froze the blood in his veins: he only had a 12.4% chance of surviving the next twenty-four hours. It was no longer the time for existential questions.
He swiped his hand through the air to touch the translucent screen, but his fingers passed right through it. Annoyed by this floating panel in his field of vision, he tried to ignore it, hoping to make it disappear so he could deal with it later. The interface persisted, blocking his view.
What is this technology? A retinal projection?
He tried repeatedly to clear it, in vain. The irritation grew.
Close, you're obstructing my vision! he thought with annoyance.
Suddenly, the window vanished. His vision returned to perfectly normal. He exhaled for a moment, assimilating the mechanics of this new parameter, then stood back up with difficulty. His analyst's mind took over, methodically testing the commands.
"AI, open," he commanded mentally. The interface reappeared. "AI, close." It disappeared. He had just figured out how his new "system" worked.
Davin turned his back and stared at the squalid village visible in the distance. The terrain before him was clear. No asphalt, no streetlights. Just a rough path of packed dirt and stones.
"AI, how far is that village, and how long will it take me to reach it in my current condition?" he formulated, to evaluate the assistant's analytical capabilities.
[BEEP. System Message / Analysis in progress...] > HOST STATUS:
[Alert / Recommendation: Topographical analysis complete. Estimated distance: 2.5 km. Given the host's critical vitality and agility (0.4): Estimated travel time is 1 hour and 40 minutes.]
He let out a breath, gathering the last shreds of his willpower, and set off.
The journey was sheer agony. Every step required a titanic effort, hunger sawing at his stomach like a rusty blade. But he kept moving, driven by a visceral refusal to die so pathetically in a muddy gutter.
At the village entrance, two guards in worn leather armor blocked the way.
"Halt, trash!" ordered one of them, crossing his spear. "We need to sear—"
The guard stopped dead, his features suddenly twisted in revulsion. He took a step back.
"By the Gods, he reeks!" swore his colleague, pinching his nose in disgust. "Get away from us, you wretch!"
Davin blinked, dazed. He knew he smelled bad—the stench of ingrained grime, rancid sweat, and dried blood clung to his skin—but the guards' reaction went beyond mere discomfort. He literally reeked of muck and imminent death.
With an exasperated wave of his hand, the first guard motioned for him to clear out as quickly as possible, flatly refusing to touch him or let him get any closer. Davin passed through the heavy wooden gates of the village, his body broken and his stomach screaming, but alive. His awful odor had paradoxically just spared him a humiliating search and potential trouble.
The village buzzed with an activity that felt almost aggressive to his numbed senses. A packed-dirt main artery, punctuated by uneven cobblestones, cut through the dwellings, lined with buildings of wood and roughly hewn stone. The air smelled of acrid dust, warm bread, and sweat. Guards in chainmail patrolled, their heavy swords clinking against their belts, while merchants hollered to hawk their goods, haggling bitterly with hurried passersby.
But Davin had neither the time nor the luxury to dawdle. Another cramp twisted his stomach. A brutal reminder of his sole priority: to feed himself, by any means necessary.