Chapter 1: Not Dead Yet
Heat pressed against his skin, unbearable, all-consuming. Embers floated lazily through the air, flickering like dying stars. The sky, twisted and unnatural, burned in impossible hues—red, orange, violet, black. The scent of scorched stone and charred flesh hung thick in the air, clinging to him, suffocating him.
And he was burning.
His flesh sizzled, blackening, splitting apart as waves of unbearable agony surged through his body. He could not move. He could not scream. The pain wasn't just on his skin—it was inside him, wrapping around his bones, boiling his blood.
He gasped, his breath ragged, but his chest wasn't working right. Something was missing—his lungs, his heart, his very core.
Then, golden motes of light flickered across his vision.
The agony peaked—and then it was gone. Not eased. Not dulled. Just… erased. As if the pain had never existed. But Reich had felt it.
His chest still burned with a phantom ache, his breath came ragged, lungs remembering wounds that no longer existed. His hands trembled against the charred ground, but his body wasn't weak—it was wrong. Too light, too steady, not his.
But he had felt it.
The pain was real.
The pain was maddening.
For the first few moments of his new life, he screamed.
A raw, desperate sound—more than pain, more than fear. It was the sound of something that should not exist, existing.
And then, just as suddenly, the pain was gone.
The flames still roared around him, but he no longer burned.
His body, now whole, shook uncontrollably. The cold crept in, cutting through the remnants of heat like a cruel whisper. His breath turned ragged, but not from pain—from hunger.
A gnawing, bottomless hunger unlike anything he had ever known.
He tried to move, but his limbs felt weak, foreign.
And then—the memories hit.
Not his. Not his.
The agony had barely left him, yet now, something worse took its place.
A childhood spent hiding in alleys, sleeping under broken roofs, begging for scraps.
A boy standing outside a grand Academy, watching the students walk through its gates, dreaming of a future he would never reach.
A boy who had lost everything but still clung to a single hope.
A beggar.
His breath hitched. Too much. The cold. The hunger. The fear.
He wasn't supposed to be here. He wasn't supposed to be anywhere.
The memories slammed into him. The beggar's life—days of nothing, nights of cold, hunger gnawing like a beast. He staggered, clutching his head, the weight of a stolen existence pressing down on him.
He gripped the charred ground beneath him, trying to anchor himself, to remind himself of who he was.
No. Not me. Not my life.
But the emotions clawed at him, the weight of a life filled with suffering, disappointment, and relentless survival. He wasn't reliving the past—he was absorbing it.
And somewhere in the middle of it, he realized—
The beggar was lucky.
His breath steadied as the memories settled into place.
The beggar's life had been cruel, unfair, a never-ending spiral of loss and failure.
But now, looking at it from a distance—he saw it.
The beggar had survived things no one should have.
Starvation? He had always found just enough food to keep going.
Fights? The knife had always missed something vital.
Winter? He had never quite frozen to death.
The beggar had thought himself cursed. But in reality, he had been the luckiest man alive.
And now, even in death, his luck had not abandoned him.
Because Reich was here.
He stared at his newly healed hands, flexing his fingers, feeling the phantom pain of another's life.
You weren't cursed, were you? he thought, staring at his fingers, at the body that was now his. You were the luckiest bastard alive.
And as if to prove it—
A flicker.
A glow.
A ripple of golden light passed across his vision.
A floating notification appeared before his eyes—text, clear as day, hovering in the air like it belonged there.
[Blessing Activated: Invulnerability: Can not die, your body is always restored to full health after taking damage. Lasts for 30 days 23h 58m and 42s]
The words were unmistakable, the meaning undeniable.
He stared, his breath caught in his throat.
A system?
No. Not a game. Not really.
Magic worked in structured patterns, rules, logic.
This was not a system—it was just the best way his modern mind could process something so unnatural.
And he understood, with complete clarity—
For the next 31 days, nothing in this world could kill him.
And then?
Then, the real game would begin.
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Reich rose to his feet, the embers and ash cascading off his new body like a dark waterfall. The beggar's memories still swirled within his mind, but they were fading now, settling into the depths of his consciousness like sediment drifting to the bottom of a still lake.
He took a step forward.
The world around him shifted subtly. The heat faded—just slightly. The sky, still painted in nightmarish hues, seemed less violent. And ahead, past the blackened ruins of the town, something else emerged.
At first, he thought it was a mirage—
Green.
Verdant, untouched, impossibly lush. A forest, standing against the backdrop of ruin, its towering silver trees stretching skyward, defying the carnage around them. The air here was different, charged, alive.
The beggar's memories stirred once more, whispering warnings.
A place of ancient magic.
A place where the unwary wandered in and never returned.
Reich hesitated. For the first time since awakening, uncertainty crept in.
But in a world of fire and pain, the forest was the only thing that looked untouched.
The only thing that looked alive.
And what choice did he have?
He stepped forward.
He was expecting the air to remain thick with smoke. But it didn't.
The moment he crossed an invisible threshold, the air became crisp, fresh, untouched. It was as if the apocalyptic ruin behind him had never existed.
No heat. No burning sky. No destruction.
He turned his head slightly—the devastation was still there, only meters away, yet it felt like a dream, an illusion painted in fire and death.
He stepped further into the forest, the silver trees towering above him, their iridescent leaves pulsing faintly. It was eerily quiet, except for the occasional rustle in the undergrowth.
Then—
A blur of movement.
A small shape launched at him from the shadows.
Reich barely had time to react before pain exploded in his leg.
He stumbled backward, eyes darting down. A horned rabbit, its sharp, bony protrusions still dripping red, had gored into his thigh.
For the second time since awakening, pain lanced through him—sharp, real, undeniable.
And then—it was gone.
The wound healed before his eyes, golden motes flickering away as if it had never happened. But his body still remembered.
The pain vanished, but the ghost of it lingered, like a memory his body refused to forget.
His breathing was ragged, not from exhaustion, but from pure, primal instinct—he had been attacked.
I can't die. But I can feel everything.
The thought sent a shiver down his spine.
The rabbit lunged again. Reich tried to move, but his legs refused to cooperate. His body felt slow, heavy, uncoordinated—his mind knew what to do, but his limbs didn't obey.
The creature's horn sliced through his side. A flash of agony. His vision blurred, a white-hot pulse of pain exploding through his ribs—
And then, it was gone.
The wound sealed, golden motes flickering in the air like fireflies.
Reich stumbled back, panting, his heart pounding as if it still believed he could die. His instincts screamed at him to run, but where?
The rabbit was fast, unnaturally so. It darted around him in unpredictable patterns, a blur of muscle and bone, eyes gleaming with primal hunger.
Reich raised his arms in a pitiful defense as it lunged again—
His foot caught on a root. He tumbled, the world twisting sideways as he crashed into the dirt.
He barely rolled in time to avoid another strike, but the creature's claws raked his arm. Another spike of pure pain—
Gone again.
His breath was ragged. His mind screamed at him to move better, fight better, but how? He had never trained for this.
The beggar had never needed to fight—luck had always saved him. But luck wasn't going to swing his fists for him.
The horned rabbit was already moving for the next strike.
And Reich had no idea how to stop it.
The horned rabbit lunged for his throat.
He flinched. His arms moved before he could think—a wild, panicked grab.
His fingers slammed into fur, coiling around its throat. Too tight, too desperate. The rabbit thrashed, its body twisting like fire in his hands.
It bit. White-hot pain lanced through his wrist. He gasped, nearly let go—but something in him refused. The creature thrashed violently, its claws raking against his arms, its fangs sinking into his wrist.
Pain. Burning, ripping, searing pain.
It bit down harder, gnawing at his flesh, its claws gouging deep wounds into his skin.
Reich refused to let go.
Blood—his blood—dripped onto the forest floor, but he held on, knuckles white, jaw clenched. His arms screamed in protest, his mind reeled from the agony, but his grip remained unyielding.
The rabbit kicked wildly, its hind legs battering his ribs. Another sharp sting of pain. His body shuddered—but he still did not release it.
Seconds stretched into eternity. The rabbit's struggles weakened.
Then—a final twitch.
It stilled.
Reich's breath came in ragged gasps. His arms trembled. His vision swam.
The rabbit went still. Just like that.
Its body hung limp in his shaking hands, its eyes frozen in glassy defiance.
Reich's breath came in harsh gasps. His arms ached—or maybe they remembered the pain of claws, fangs, panic.
He let go. The rabbit slumped into the dirt. Dead.
A second passed. Then another. He was still alive. Still here.
The pain had faded.
Golden motes flickered around his wounds, sealing them shut as if they had never existed. But his body remembered.
Reich swallowed hard. His first kill.
And all he could do was stare at the dead creature in his hands.