The awakening was brutal.
Davin shot upright, and his skull slammed into the rotting boards of the cart he was lying under. The impact tore a raw groan from his throat, but the pain was nothing — a mosquito bite compared to the inferno that had ripped through his organs minutes earlier. He sucked in great gulps of air, again and again. His lungs filled with the foul stench of mud and piss.
"I… I'm not dead?"
His voice came out raw, unrecognizable. He almost flinched hearing it.
His trembling hands, caked in sticky filth, frantically patted his chest. No burns. No charred flesh. Just sharp ribs jutting out under rough, sickly skin.
He looked around. No white walls. No hum of medical equipment. Just packed earth, damp air, and the clinging misery of a makeshift camp.
Where am I? This is neither the hospital, nor home.
Confused, he crawled out from his shelter. His eyes caught the murky reflection in a pool of stagnant water a few inches away. He leaned over it. And froze.
"This is a joke… This is impossible."
His voice was barely a whisper. His pupils dilated.
The face staring back at him from the water wasn't his. Hollow features, gaunt, scarred by years of starvation. Dull, stringy hair. The reflection of a young vagrant eaten away by hunger.
Denial tried to rise, but it was instantly swept away by fragments of his last memories. The unreal coolness of that fucking apple. The explosion of flavor. The fire in his veins. The agony that had killed him on Earth.
He drove his filthy fingers into the muck, felt the mud seep under his nails.
"That fruit killed me."
His voice came out in a ragged breath.
His analytical mind absorbed the reality with chilling clarity. He had transmigrated. The probabilities defied all scientific logic, but the facts were there. Undeniable.
A dull rage rose inside him. Twenty-eight years old. An adult life, a career that had finally started giving him real stability — cut down by some pathetic anomaly. If gods were watching this farce from the heavens, they had to be crying with laughter.
Then a sharp, unexpected pang of grief cut through his numbed mind.
His mother.
He saw her clearly. Coming home from her night shift, exhausted, setting her bag down on the entry table. Calling his name into the silent house. Finding him twisted on the living room floor, eyes open, mouth frozen in his last scream.
She would scream. She would collapse beside him. She would stay there, maybe for hours, until a worried neighbor called for help.
And after? The silence of an apartment that would never be filled again. A retirement ahead, empty. An only son buried.
His chest tightened, painfully.
"Mom… I'm sorry. I hope you'll get over it."
His voice broke.
You won't get over it. I know.
He kept thinking about her for a few more seconds. Then that brief moment of vulnerability was annihilated with savage violence.
A cramp ripped through his guts. Not just an empty stomach. A vicious, animal hunger, an acidic void that seemed to dissolve his own organs from the inside. The physical pain instantly crushed the emotional distress.
Melancholy is a luxury for the comfortable. I'm not anymore.
A few feet away, figures in rags were slumped in the dust. Other beggars. Their dead eyes barely hid the hostility of carrion-feeders.
Davin swallowed his sticky saliva and wiped every trace of emotion from his new face. His body was failing him, but he had to size up his environment. Right now.
He braced himself against the broken cart wheel, hauled himself up on shaky legs, and stepped toward the group.
"Please… food…" he croaked, faking the pitiful misery of his condition. "Just… some scraps."
The beggar he had grabbed by the shoulder turned around. His face twisted with disgust.
"Get off me, you little shit!" the man spat, his voice wrecked 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 smashed into Davin's jaw with a sharp crack. The shock made him see stars. He staggered, his cheek burning, the coppery taste of blood flooding his mouth.
For a fraction of a second, surprise paralyzed him. Then instinct took over. Raw rage short-circuited his reason. Without thinking, Davin clenched his fist and slammed it with all his meager strength into the bridge of his attacker's nose.
The man stumbled back howling, hands clamped over his bloody face. But this pathetic victory was short-lived.
"He hit Carle!" a voice bellowed behind him.
Four other beggars charged at him.
Adrenaline lit up his atrophied muscles. He spun around and ran as fast as his gaunt new body would allow. But hunger had already condemned him. After a dozen yards, his legs gave out. He crashed heavily into the dust of the path.
No, wait…
He tried to speak. His dry throat refused to produce a sound.
They were on him the next instant. The kicks started raining down.
"Die, you little thief!" one of them barked, grinding his heel into Davin's ribs.
The pain radiated through every fiber of his being. The rage was still boiling in his veins, but a cold, familiar lucidity took over. He was too weak. If he tried to fight back or return the blows, the probability they would kill him was nearly a hundred percent.
He analyzed the situation with absolute cynicism, choked back a cry, curled into a fetal position, and locked his arms around his skull to protect his vital organs.
He took it in silence. Each blow became a data point. A lesson carved into flesh.
When they were out of breath and bored with his apathy, the beggars spat on him and walked away laughing.
Davin lay still in the dust for long minutes. He spat out a thick clot of saliva and blood, then patted his body. Burning bruises. Deep contusions. No broken ribs. He sat up grimacing, the pain pulsing in time with his heartbeat.
I'll remember every one of your fucking faces. But not today. Revenge is a luxury for the living.
[BEEP]
Davin's pupils contracted.
Hallucination? Head trauma?
In front of his eyes, floating in the air, overlaid on reality, a luminous window had just appeared.
[BEEP. System Message / Analysis in progress…]> HOST STATUS:
Name: Davin (Unknown vessel)
Biological age: 19
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 nutrient intake required.]
An interface?! The AI fused with me in this world?!
Dozens of variables collided in his mind. He scanned the interface — and one data point froze his blood: twelve point four percent chance of surviving the next twenty-four hours. This was no time for existential questions.
He swiped his hand through the air to touch the translucent screen. His fingers passed right through. Annoyed by the panel hovering in his field of view, he tried to ignore it, hoping it would disappear so he could deal with it later. The interface persisted, blocking his sight.
What is this technology? A retinal projection?
He tried several times to make it go away. Nothing worked. His irritation grew.
Close. You're blocking my vision!
The window vanished instantly. His sight returned to normal. He let out a breath, processed the mechanics of this new feature, then climbed back to his feet with difficulty. His analyst's mind took over, methodically testing the commands.
AI, open.
The interface reappeared.
AI, close.
It vanished.
He had just figured out how his new "system" worked.
Davin turned his back on the camp and stared at the wretched village visible in the distance. The ground in front of him was wide open. No asphalt, no streetlights. Just a rough path of packed earth and stones.
AI, how far is that village, and how long will it take me to reach it in my current state?
[BEEP. System Message / Analysis in progress…][Alert / Recommendation: Topographic analysis complete.
Estimated distance: 2.5 km. Given host's critical vitality and agility (0.4): Estimated travel time: 1h40.]
He breathed out, gathered the last shreds of his willpower, and set out.
The journey was a nightmare. Every step demanded a Herculean effort. Hunger sawed at his stomach like a rusted blade. But he kept moving, driven by a visceral refusal to die so pathetically in some muddy ditch.
At the village entrance, two guards in worn leather armor blocked the way.
"Halt, scum!" one of them ordered, crossing his spear. "We have to search y—"
The guard cut himself off. His features twisted with revulsion. He took a step back.
"By the Gods, he reeks!" his colleague swore, pinching his nose. "Get away from us, you filthy wretch!"
Davin blinked, dazed. He knew he stank — the smell of caked-in filth, rancid sweat, and dried blood clung to his skin — but the guards' reaction went beyond mere discomfort. He literally reeked of mud and approaching death.
With an exasperated wave of his hand, the first guard motioned for him to clear off as fast as possible. No desire to touch him, even less to get any closer.
Davin walked through the heavy wooden gates of the village. Body broken, stomach screaming, but alive. His foul smell had paradoxically saved him from a humiliating search and potential trouble.
The village hummed with activity, almost aggressive to his numbed senses. A main artery of packed earth, dotted with uneven cobblestones, ran between the buildings. Wooden and roughly cut stone houses lined the street. The air smelled of acrid dust, hot bread, and sweat. Guards in chainmail patrolled, their heavy swords clinking against their belts. Merchants shouted to sell their goods, haggling fiercely with hurried passersby.
But Davin had neither the time nor the luxury to wander. Another cramp twisted his stomach. A brutal reminder of his only priority.
Eat. By any means necessary.