Chapter 1

The man's last memory of Earth was a blur of neon lights, cheap liquor, and a woman's scream cut short by the screech of tires. He'd lived a life soaked in vice—lust, greed, and a reckless disregard for anything beyond his next thrill. Death came fast, a fitting end to a man who'd burned every bridge he'd ever crossed.

But then, there was light. Not the blinding white of some heavenly judgment, but a soft, golden glow filtering through the cracks of a wooden ceiling.

He blinked, his head pounding as if he'd been dragged through a hangover and spat out the other side. The air smelled of straw and damp earth, a far cry from the stale cigarette smoke he was used to.

His body felt… different. Lighter. Stronger. He raised a hand to his face, expecting the calloused, scarred knuckles of a brawler, but instead found smooth, unblemished skin.

His fingers brushed against sharp cheekbones and a jawline that felt carved from stone. A mirror wasn't needed to know he was no longer the grizzled wreck he'd been. He was young again—impossibly, breathtakingly handsome.

Panic clawed at him briefly, but it was drowned out by a strange, giddy thrill. Was this a dream? A second chance? He staggered to his feet, taking in his surroundings.

He was in a small, crude shack—barely more than a lean-to with a straw pallet and a rickety table. A tattered cloak hung on a peg by the door. Beyond the warped wooden frame, he heard the faint cluck of chickens and the distant murmur of voices.

Stepping outside, he squinted against the morning sun. A dirt path wound through a cluster of modest homes, their thatched roofs sagging under the weight of time.

Fields stretched out in the distance, dotted with figures bent over crops. It was a rural village, quiet and unassuming, the kind of place he'd have sneered at in his old life. But now, it was all he had.

A woman approached, her arms laden with a basket of vegetables. She was plain, her face weathered by years of labor, but her eyes widened as they landed on him.

"Oh! You're awake," she said, her voice tinged with surprise.

"We weren't sure you'd pull through after we found you in the ditch."

"Ditch?" His voice came out smooth, almost melodic, a stark contrast to the gravelly rasp he remembered. He cleared his throat, testing it again. "What happened?"

"You were half-dead when the miller's boy spotted you," she said, shifting the basket to her hip. "No one knows where you came from.

No clothes, no name. We figured you'd been robbed and left to rot. I'm Marta, by the way. Welcome to Buena Village."

Buena Village. The name meant nothing to him, but he nodded, flashing a smile that made Marta flush despite herself.

"Thanks for the rescue. I'm… uh…" He faltered, realizing he had no idea what to call himself. His old name—Jake—felt like a relic of a life that no longer fit. "Call me Leon," he said, plucking the name from thin air. It sounded noble, charming. It suited the face he now wore.

Marta gestured toward a small house down the path. "You can stay in the shack for now. We don't have much, but we won't let you starve. Rest up, Leon. You'll need your strength."

He watched her go, his mind racing. This wasn't Earth. The clothes, the language—hell, even the air felt different. But where was he? And why did he feel so… alive?

Days bled into weeks as Leon settled into Buena Village. The villagers were simple folk, wary but kind, and his looks didn't hurt in winning them over.

He helped where he could—hauling water, chopping wood—his new body tireless in a way his old one never was. The work kept his hands busy, but his mind churned with darker thoughts.

The women here were plain compared to the ones he'd chased back home, but there was a raw, earthy appeal to them. He caught their glances, their shy smiles.

One afternoon, as he carried a sack of grain to the mill, he overheard a conversation that stopped him cold. Two men lounged by the well, their voices low but clear.

"Greyrat's boy was born last week," one said, spitting into the dirt. "Rudeus, they're calling him. Poor Zenith's still weak, but Paul's strutting around like he's king of the continent."

"Human Continent's got enough trouble without another Greyrat spawn," the other grumbled. "Heard Paul's already talking about training the kid to swing a sword."

Leon's grip tightened on the sack. Greyrat. Rudeus. Human Continent. The names hit him like a punch to the gut. He'd heard them before—not in life, but in the pages of a manga he'd skimmed while drunk one night. Mushoku Tensei. Jobless Reincarnation. A story about a loser reborn in a fantasy world, making something of himself. Was that where he was? Had he… transmigrated?

The realization crashed over him, dizzying and absurd. He wasn't just in some random backwater—he was in a world of magic, swords, and gods.

And Rudeus Greyrat, the protagonist, was a newborn just a few houses away. Leon laughed under his breath, a sharp, bitter sound. Of all the places to end up, he'd landed in a story he barely remembered.

That night, alone in the shack, Leon paced restlessly. If this was Mushoku Tensei, then he wasn't just a man anymore—he was a player in a bigger game. But what was his role? He had no memories of a past life here, no skills beyond the charm he'd always wielded like a weapon. Or did he?

He paused, staring at his hands. They looked normal—elegant, even—but something felt off. A faint tingle, like static, danced across his palms.

Frowning, he reached for a chipped clay mug on the table. The moment his fingers brushed it, the mug trembled, then cracked apart as if struck by an invisible force. He yanked his hand back, heart pounding. The pieces lay scattered, their edges jagged and lifeless.

"What the hell…" he muttered, flexing his fingers. The tingle was gone, but the memory of it lingered. Was this magic? A power? He didn't know how to test it.

Months turned into years, and Leon adapted to life in Buena Village. He grew lean and strong, his beauty sharpening with time. The villagers accepted him as one of their own, though whispers followed him—rumors of his strange arrival, his effortless charisma.

He kept his distance from the Greyrat household, watching from afar as Rudeus grew from a squalling infant into a precocious toddler. The kid was odd, too smart for his age, but Leon had bigger things to worry about.

His power—whatever it was—remained elusive. The mug incident wasn't a fluke; he'd shattered a wooden spoon a month later, and once, during a drunken scuffle with a villager, the man had collapsed at his touch, weak and dazed. Leon dubbed it "Nullifying Grasp" in his head, a name that felt fitting. It wasn't consistent, though—he couldn't control it yet. But he would. He had to.