Chapter 1: Re-birth?

Michael gasped, his lungs burning as if he had been drowning moments ago. His eyes snapped open, but the overwhelming brightness forced him to squint. Everything was white—blinding, sterile, endless.

Then, a voice rang out, smooth and mechanical.

"Good morning, Michael. Please remain calm. You are experiencing temporary disorientation due to the printing process. Your data was corrupted, but we successfully reconstructed 98% of it."

Michael's mind reeled. Printing process?

The voice continued, unfazed.

"Records indicate you had 1,728 gold coins in Acacia Tales. At a conversion rate of 1:10,550, this amounts to 18,230,400 credits. After deducting printing costs, you retain 3,230,400 credits. A physical card with your available balance is to your right. Additionally, a one-month amenities package has been provided to assist with your orientation."

Michael sat up sharply, his body trembling from the sudden motion. His head spun, but he barely noticed. He was too busy processing the words he had just heard.

Where am I?

Is this the afterlife?

Where is Maydee?

Heart pounding, he ran his hands over his body—solid, intact, unscarred. His fingers traced his chest, where a sword had once been buried deep. Nothing. No wounds, no pain. It was as if his last battle had never happened.

But something was wrong.

He clenched his fist. Or at least, he tried to. His muscles tensed but lacked their usual explosive power. His body felt… unfamiliar. It was toned, healthy even, but the raw strength he had once honed through countless battles was gone.

He was alive.

But he was not the same.

—

Michael tried to stand, but his legs betrayed him. The moment he pushed himself off the bed, his knees buckled, and he nearly collapsed. His hand shot out instinctively, grasping at the nearest object—a sleek, cold table beside his bed. His breath came in short, uneven bursts, his body trembling from the exertion of simply trying to stand.

For a moment, he stood there, gripping the table like a lifeline, his mind struggling to process what was happening. He felt weak—far weaker than he had ever been. His body was intact, unscarred, but something was missing. The strength he had cultivated through years of training, through war, through battle after battle—it was gone. His limbs felt light, unfamiliar, as though they belonged to someone else.

His gaze drifted to the table, where a neatly folded set of clothing had been placed. They were unlike anything he had ever seen. The fabric looked too fine, too smooth. He reached out, running his fingers over the material, feeling its softness against his skin. It lacked the rough, heavy texture of the tunics he had worn in his world. Even before touching them, he could tell these clothes were designed for comfort, not for war.

He already suspected the truth—this was another world. Everything about it was foreign. He had no sword, no armor, and, most unsettling of all, no presence of magic in the air. He tried to reach for it, to feel the ambient energy that had always surrounded him in Acacia Tales, but there was nothing. A hollow emptiness.

Michael clenched his fist.

Back in his world, he had been the Captain of the Royal Guards. A warrior forged in discipline, loyalty, and an unyielding resolve to defend his kingdom. His life had been simple, filled with duty and purpose. But then the demons came.

They had taken everything from him. They took his wife, his future, his reason for living. Something inside him had snapped that day. His loyalty, his sense of duty—none of it mattered anymore. All that remained was his hatred, a burning obsession to wipe those creatures from existence.

But he failed.

In the end, he was the one who died.

Death was a promise to be reunited with his Maydee but that was taken away from him too.

Now, he was here, thrust into an unknown world without a single shred of knowledge about its rules, its people, or its dangers.

Michael exhaled slowly, forcing himself to focus on the present. He reached for the clothing again and unfolded the shirt. It was pure white, light, and cool to the touch. He slipped it over his head, surprised at how effortlessly it fit. It hugged his form, comfortable yet alien.

Next, he picked up an undergarment. It was strange, unlike the simple loincloths he had been accustomed to wearing. He turned it over in his hands, studying the stitching, the way it was shaped. With a shrug, he put it on, adjusting the snug fit around his waist. It was odd, but not uncomfortable.

The pants came next. They were made of an unfamiliar material, softer than leather but sturdier than linen. He slid them on with ease, fastening them around his waist with an adjustable band that lacked any ties or buckles.

Finally, he turned his attention to the footwear. They were unlike any boots or sandals he had ever worn. The material was firm yet flexible, with a cushioned sole that conformed to his feet the moment he slipped them on. He took a tentative step forward, testing them.

They were comfortable.

Michael straightened, taking in a slow breath. He was clothed now, but the unease in his chest had not faded. His surroundings were still too unfamiliar, too surreal. The room he was in was pristine, illuminated by a soft white glow emanating from the ceiling. There were no torches, no lanterns, no visible source of fire—just an ambient light that seemed to be embedded in the very walls.

He turned his attention to the only other thing of note in the room: a small rectangular card resting beside where his clothes had been. He picked it up, examining its smooth, metallic surface. It was lightweight, cool to the touch, and had strange markings engraved along its edges.

Then, he remembered the voice.

"Good morning, Michael. Please remain calm. You are experiencing temporary disorientation due to the printing process."

He swallowed, recalling the mechanical voice that had spoken to him the moment he awoke. It had explained—coldly, without emotion—that he had been reconstructed. Printed. That alone was enough to shake him. He had never heard of such a thing. Magic had its limits. Resurrection was impossible. And yet, here he was.

The voice had also mentioned something else—his wealth from Acacia Tales. His gold had been converted into credits. He didn't fully understand what that meant, but the numbers had been staggering. 18,230,400 credits. More money than he had ever seen in his entire life. But the printing process had taken most of it, leaving him with 3,230,400 credits. That was still an absurd amount.

Michael sat back down on the bed, staring at the card in his hands. It contained his remaining wealth. And, according to the voice, he would be provided one month to re-orient himself. To gather his bearing and thrust back into society.

A month.

What was he supposed to do in that time? Where was he? And more importantly… why was he here?

He exhaled slowly. One step at a time. He needed to get out of this room. He needed answers.

With renewed determination, Michael stood again—this time, without stumbling.