Life is a strange place. Not beautiful... Not fair... Just strange. You can rise, fall, beg, scream, or build empires but in the end, death waits.Quiet... Patient... Indifferent.
It does not care how rich you were. It does not care how strong you are. It does not even care whether you lived with aning or just passed ti until the light faded.
And what cos after death?
So say nothing. So say heaven. So say hell.
Let tell you the story of a man who received sothing far worse.A man not punished by demons... but by repetition. A man who was not abandoned by God, but recycled by Fate. And now, as the ashes of his second life cool in silence, he awakens again.
Yes... once again, Veythor is reincarnated.It wasn’t a blessing,He wasn’t chosen but Cursed.
The rain was still falling but this wasn’t Earth. There were no streetlights, no cars, no distant hum of the living. Just an empty road swallowed by night.
And on that cracked roadside, a small boy lay motionless no more than five or six years old.His skin was pale, soaked.His chest barely moved.From a distance, he looked dead.
But fate.Fate was not finished with him. Slowly, the boy’s eyes fluttered open. Crimson red... Dull... Quiet. Not the eyes of a child, but of sothing older.Much older.
He raised his small hands in front of his face. It was Frail... Pink... New. But the muscle mory of pain still pulsed in his bones. He stared for a long ti. Then... he gritted his teeth. Not in fear but in recognition.
"Again..." The word was barely audible. A breath of a ghost.
"Again I’m reincarnated..."
The boy sat up slowly, knees trembling beneath him. His gaze was empty but not hollow. Inside that tiny fra, sothing was cracking. Not sanity. Sothing deeper.
"Why...?" His voice shook. "Why can’t I just die...?"
There was no answer.Only the rain, falling like a curse that refused to end. Each drop landing like a whisper from a god who wasn’t listening.
The body had been dead for hours.His body was freezing from cold but a little sense of warmth was returning. Just a pale husk lying beneath the rain, forgotten by the world before it had even begun to live.
No one had stopped to help. No one had bothered to ask if a child lying in the gutter was breathing or not. Because in this place, children died every day. And the world had learned to look away.
This wasn’t rely a revival, this wasn’t a miracle, This was invasion.
Veythor didn’t rember how he got here. One mont, there was silence. Cold, absolute. The next—
Pain the kind of pain that didn’t co from flesh, but from being dragged back into existence. Dragged into this ssed-up World again.
He looked at his reflection in a puddle. A cute small face.Unfamiliar,skin too clean. A mouth too soft to speak truths.
But within those eyes, sothing stirred.Sothing ancient, Sothing wrong.The soul inside this body wasn’t ant to be here.The child was gone souls were changed This wasn’t rebirth,it was a replacent.
"I took his body," Veythor whispered, voice shaking.but unexpectedly he didn’t feel any guilt instead there was a deep exhaustion in his eyes.
"I wasn’t even supposed to co back..."
He clenched his small hands again.Tiny bones... Weak muscles. But inside... the abyss had returned.
He stood slowly his small body was shaking from this cold weather The rain didn’t stop.Nothing ever stopped. No one knew he was here,no one cared.
The sky hung hollow.... a barren stretch of darkness with no moon to haunt it.Veythor stared upward.Everything felt wrong. The jagged skyline of crooked rooftops, the stone buildings weathered by centuries... This wasn’t his world. This wasn’t his ti. A dieval city swallowed in frost and shadow.
Then.... a tremor. A shiver knifed down his tiny spine.The cold wasn’t just sharp; it was rciless. His new body... weak, malnourished... couldn’t hold against this creeping death. It didn’t take a genius to understand.
This child had frozen to death.
I’ll die again... if I don’t move.
The thought struck like iron to the heart. He clenched his small fists, forcing blood into stiff fingers. And in that mont... his eyes burned. Not with fear.But with sothing far more dangerous.
This ti... if suffering must continue... it won’t be . Let the world suffer.
He stumbled forward. The ice clawed at his skin, but he refused to stop. Every step was a curse thrown at the world that refused to let him rest.
But fate— Fate had always been fond of cruel timing. A sharp clatter echoed down the empty street most likely hoofbeats. Fast... Heavy and drawing closer.
Veythor froze his instincts sharpened, a cold rationality pressing against his nerves.
Horses? Am I really... in so dieval hellhole?
The answer ca on wooden wheels— screeching to a halt before him.
A carriage it was old, made of wood and iron-bound.The kind that belonged to a ti of kings and bandits.
Veythor’s eyes narrowed He wasn’t just ignorant of this world he was a stranger in every sense and strangers... they get eaten first.
He stayed motionless Watching.... Waiting and deeply calculating inside.
The carriage door creaked open slowly two young n jumped down, their faces wrapped in dark scarves.They moved like shadows, quick and sharp, their hands resting near their waists as if ready for violence. Bandits Or sothing worse.
Veythor felt a cold ripple beneath his skin. Danger wasn’t unfamiliar. But this... this was a kind he hadn’t tasted before.
This wasn’t Earth. That much he knew and here... he knew nothing completely powerless.Then another man stepped out. He waddled out of the carriage.
A middle-aged blob of a man, bloated with fat and arrogance. Gold rings swallowed his thick fingers. Chains of cheap jewels clinked over his bloated gut. A crooked hat sat on his head like a crown for clowns and in his hand... A whip.
The man’s eyes locked onto Veythor.
There was no malice only sothing worse— entertainnt Veythor stared back but stayed silent. He’d seen real fear before.He’d swallowed it, choked on it, and spit it back into the faces of n far worse than this bloated scum.
Fear wouldn’t win here suddenly the fat man chuckled. A low, rattling sound that oozed between cracked teeth.
"Hahaha... I honestly thought you’d be dead by now, little brat."
He spread his arms wide, almost in mock applause.
"But very good... congratulations to ... to you... congratulations to us."
His words dripped with twisted joy.
Veythor’s eyes narrowed as he murmured inside his mind.
Congratulations... to us?What ga is this?
Then the man smacked his own forehead like a drunken fool.
"Oh, silly !" he laughed. "Where are my manners?"
He bent forward with a grotesque grin.
"I am Diharan Bulz. A professional slave trader. Pleased to et you... little brat."
Bulz’s smile stretched too wide. It wasn’t just a smile it was a warning in disguise.
Veythor kept his expression blank wide-eyed, innocent. But inside, his mind ticked like a cold machine.
A slave trader? Introducing himself... to ? Why? No... Could it be... owner of this body... was sold to him?
As he thought this he felt a deep anger in his heart
So this is really an another world,but what should i do now if what I calculated is true this Motherfucker is gonna take away and the rest of my life i would live as a slave?
He thought in his mind
No.... no, no, no i refuse to accept this I won’t live as slave I’ll destroy this world that’s my purpose I can’t be a slave.
"So... interesting little brat. Do you know why I’m here?"
Before Veythor could even part his lips, Diharan Bulz’s voice, thick and cloying like stale honey, filled the air. He grinned a twisted, oily thing that seed to stretch his jowls unnaturally wide. Watching that grotesque display, Veythor felt a cold, bitter disgust curdle in his gut.
"Was I... sold to you?" The words, sharp and brittle, escaped his throat, cutting through the oppressive silence. He hadn’t ant to voice the thought, but the truth, raw and undeniable, had clawed its way out.
Bulz’s eyebrows arched, a flicker of genuine surprise in his piggish eyes. "Excellent, brat! I like you. The heavens must’ve handed a fine deal!" His laughter erupted then, a thick, barking sound that stank not just of greed, but of stale cigars and unwashed linen. It grated on Veythor’s ears, a sound of absolute, unfeeling triumph.
Veythor didn’t need any more signs. This was it, Do or die. The rain, a relentless, icy curtain, hamred down, plastering his thin clothes to his skin and blurring the edges of the world. Each drop felt like a tiny hamr blow, mirroring the frantic beat of his own heart.
Bulz flicked a hand, a dismissive gesture. "Catch that brat. Quickly."
The two hulking figures, slling of damp wool and stale sweat, lunged. Veythor scrambled backward, inch by agonizing inch, his eyes darting, desperate, searching for any sliver of escape. His gaze snagged on it a narrow, shadowed alleyway, a gaping maw in the side of the building. It was the only road out.
He spun on his heels, a desperate, childish dash. His small legs pumped, churning through the slick mud, the sound of his own ragged breathing loud in his ears.
But fate, it seed, was a cruel mistress.
One of the n, surprisingly swift despite his bulk, snagged Veythor’s tiny ankle mid-stride. The world tilted violently, and Veythor slamd face-first into the cold, unforgiving dirt. The impact sent a dizzying kaleidoscope of stars bursting behind his eyes. A warm, tallic taste blood in his mouth as blood, hot and sticky, stread from his nose, mingling with the cold rain.
"You stupid little bastard," the man hissed, his voice a low snarl, pressing a heavy boot onto Veythor’s back. "Where do you think you’re going? You belong to our master now."
Veythor’s mind roared, a maelstrom of fear and fury. A hundred thoughts, a thousand ways to die, flashed through his
consciousness. He was trapped, helpless, a toy in their cruel ga.
And then—
A glint.... A splintered stick, half-buried in the mud, its jagged edge catching the faint, grey light. A desperate, primal instinct surged through him.
His hand shot out, a blur of motion, seizing the rough wood. It was small, flimsy, but in that mont, it was everything.
"Slow down!" Bulz’s voice, sharp with sudden alarm, cut through the rain. "That brat’s a fine piece quick and sharp. If he gets hurt, I’ll carve your fucking head off and kick it down the street!"
The man above him froze, the pressure of his boot easing, a mont of hesitation born of fear. It was all Veythor needed.
He twisted, a sudden, desperate surge of strength, and with a guttural cry, shoved the wooden splinter, not into flesh, but straight into the man’s eye. The soft, yielding pop was sickeningly distinct.
"AAAGH!" The scream that tore through the air was raw, animalistic, a sound of pure agony that echoed off the grimy brick walls.
Bulz, watching from the alley’s mouth, rely whistled, a low, amused sound that sent shivers down Veythor’s spine.
Veythor didn’t wait. He scrambled to his feet, ignoring the throbbing pain in his head, the burning in his lungs. He bolted, sprinting full-speed down the alley, his heart a frantic cannon in his chest, each beat a desperate plea for freedom. He didn’t know where he was going.... only forward, away from the horror, away from Bulz.
The light at the alley’s end grew closer, a beacon of false hope almost there. Almost—
THUMMPP.
A crushing blow, impossibly swift, smashed into the side of his skull. The world exploded into a blinding white light, then dissolved into a swirling vortex of black and crimson stars. He felt himself falling, a puppet with severed strings.
As his vision blurred, fading to a tunnel, a colossal shadow stepped into view, eclipsing the last vestiges of light it was Bulz. His face, distorted by the rain and Veythor’s failing sight, was a mask of triumphant malice. The fat man’s hand, surprisingly strong, clamped around Veythor’s neck, lifting him effortlessly, like a discarded rag doll.
"Cunning little brat," Bulz hissed, his voice a low, satisfied rumble that vibrated through Veythor’s collapsing body. "You thought you could escape that easily?"
He started laughed the sound was a deafening roar in Veythor’s ears, a final, mocking crescendo as the world spun, then faded, not into oblivion, but into a suffocating, inky blackness. Yet, even as the darkness claid him, a single, defiant thought, cold and sharp as the splintered stick, echoed in the void: Not yet.... Not truly.
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