He died nameless, ribs splintered, his blood seeping into a city that never cared. Forgotten. Unmourned. But the grave rejected him.
He wakes beneath Tokyo, deep in the rotting veins of District 24—a warren of predators and starving ghosts. Here, hunger is law, and mercy is a wasted breath. And he is no longer human.
No gods gave him this second life. No purpose, no salvation. Only the gnawing void in his gut and a truth etched into marrow:
He will never be weak again.
To live is to kill. To hesitate is to be devoured. He will carve his name into the bones of this world, one corpse at a time.
Because death tried to take him once.
It won’t get a second chance.
To live is to consume. To tear, to take, to silence the gnawing void before it swallows you whole. To live is to conquer hunger. Not to starve it, but to wield it— A blade honed against its own edge, never dull, never sated. To live is to chain the storm inside. Not to calm it, but to ride it— A beast broken into a weapon, a weapon raised to a throne.