My name is Victor Hollow. Back in my old life, they called me a "useless kid." No matter what I did, it was never enough. I wasn't fast enough, strong enough, or smart enough. But here? Here, none of that matters.
This world doesn't care who you used to be. It only cares if you can survive.
The sky here is a burnt shade of orange, and the sun barely peeks through the haze. It smells like rust and rain that never falls. The ground beneath me is cracked like old bones, and in the distance, I see them. The Zhorul.
They don't look the same. Some crawl. Some walk. Some hover like shadows that forgot they needed bodies. But they all have one thing in common: they kill anything that moves.
I watch a Wraithborn—a shadow-thin Zhorul with needle-sharp limbs—stalk a man too slow to notice. It moves like mist, silent and smooth, until it strikes. One jab to the back, and the man drops like a broken marionette. No scream. No fight. Just gone.
This is my reality now. There are 28 lands in this world, and every single one of them has its own set of laws. Most of them are strict. Some lands will kill you for picking fruit without permission. Others will break your legs just for walking in the wrong direction.
But there's one land—the great land—that's different. No rules, at least not the small ones. Here, it's only the important rules that matter.
1. Don't be weak.
2. Don't be slow.
3. Don't trust anyone.
I learned that on day one.
I stand now on the edge of that land, my hands trembling around a crude iron blade I found in the remains of a wagon. It's chipped, dull, and rusted, but it's the only thing between me and the Zhorul. Back in my old life, I'd have run. I'd have hid.
Not anymore.
I see it now—a Gravemaw—its hulking form lumbering toward me. Its eyes glow like dying embers, and each step it takes makes the ground quake beneath my feet. My breath is shallow. My pulse is like thunder in my ears.
I tighten my grip on the blade. This time, I won't run.
I'm not useless anymore.
This time, I fight.