The air here was dark, damp, and stifling. This place couldn't be called a home barely even a shelter.
In the cramped, suffocating space, there wasn't a single piece of furniture aside from a battered, makeshift bed. Built from uneven stones and warped wooden planks, it offered no comfort to its occupant.
On that pitiful excuse for a bed lay a frail figure curled tightly into a ball, motionless. If not for the faint rise and fall of his chest, any outsider might mistake him for a lifeless corpse.
But he was alive.
Though his current state barely differed from death, his heart still beat steadily, and his lungs still drew air. Those were proof enough that he existed.
A slight flicker crossed his eyelids before he slowly opened his eyes, which gleamed in the darkness with an intensity that replaced the emptiness and confusion that once filled them.
He moved. His stiff, emaciated body shifted with great effort. Propping himself up on the wooden planks with trembling hands, he finally managed to sit upright.
Stretching out his bony hands, he stared at them in astonishment, his gaunt face revealing a mix of disbelief and shock.
"Data transfer complete. Welcome back, Master."
A voice a peculiar blend of familiarity and strangeness sounded in his mind. It was mechanical yet melodic, possessing a certain allure that made it pleasant to the ears. Perhaps any voice, if feminine enough, would be tolerable to a man.
He didn't flinch or react with surprise. Instead, the frail young man's expression remained calm, as though he had long since accepted its presence.
What's going on?
Limon furrowed his brows.
Two conflicting streams of memories surged through his mind. One belonged to Limon in another world a world where he had a good life, a loving family, and everything anyone could dream of.
The other set of memories, however, was far more tragic. It painted a grim reality this world, where misery and despair reigned.
Here, an unknown virus had invaded the human realm. Its origins were a mystery, but its ferocity was undeniable. Those infected turned into bloodthirsty, zombie-like creatures within moments. Anyone bitten, scratched, or exposed to their blood would succumb to the same fate in mere breaths.
The virus spread with terrifying speed, overwhelming humanity's attempts to contain it. Governments around the world tried to resist, deploying every resource available, but failure was inevitable.
Cities fell. Homes were lost. Humanity fled to remote mountains and uninhabited wildernesses, seeking refuge from the chaos.
Unwilling to accept defeat, humanity unleashed its final, desperate gambit: the Gate of Hell.
A nuclear war erupted. It was a war between humanity and the virus, fought with every weapon mankind could muster. Yet, victory remained elusive.
While the nuclear onslaught decimated the infected, it left the world irreparably scarred. The radiation unleashed by countless detonations blanketed the earth, and after enduring countless dark winters, humanity realized the planet's recovery wasn't as swift as they had hoped.
Radiation persisted, growing stronger instead of fading. The very air became tainted with pollutants, and humanity's mistake became all too clear.
Twenty years ago, another version of Limon had descended into this world. His arrival was marked by misfortune, and in this dog-eat-dog era of survival of the fittest, he was cursed from the start.
Born with a frail body, his parents, powerless and ordinary, abandoned him when he was too young to remember.
Left to die in a shadowy corner, he was on the brink of starvation when fate offered him a glimmer of hope.
An old man took him in. He had no name; those who knew him simply called him Old Li. Under the elder's protection, young Limon managed to survive. Life was harsh, marked by hunger and cold, but at least he was alive.
That fragile stability ended ten years ago when Old Li passed away in his sleep, leaving ten-year-old Limon utterly alone.
Even then, Limon's resilience saw him through. Despite the relentless hardship, he managed to eke out an existence. But when an illness struck, he lost his job as a porter a grueling yet vital role that at least kept him fed by scavenging with hunting teams.
Now, lying on this broken bed after weeks of starvation and illness, his body had been utterly drained of energy. The skeletal figure that remained was little more than a husk.
Yet, somehow, he was still alive. A miracle.
But everything was about to change.
Feeling the emptiness of his body the utter lack of strength was unbearable.
"Master! You must replenish your nutrition immediately. Your bodily functions are critically deteriorated. For your safety, I recommend initiating the physical restoration protocol."
Limon wasn't surprised by the concern in the voice. He knew it well from another life.
In that other world, he had long been acquainted with "it." Since his earliest memories, it had always been there. Limon had questioned its presence and wondered about its purpose, but no clear answers ever came.
All he knew was that it was a central intelligence a self-contained system tied to something called the Red Alert Empire Forward Base. It was a manager, a guide, and possibly much more.
He recalled its promise: when the time came, it would help him. In exchange, he would bear certain responsibilities.
Now, the time had come.
"Master! Do not dwell on the past. Though you possess memories of two lives, your current self the one in this world is the only reality. Those other memories hold no value here. Please, let them go."
Though its words laid bare his innermost thoughts, Limon wasn't angered. He had grown used to it.
In that other world, it had been all-knowing aware of his thoughts, world secrets, and even global events as they unfolded. It could predict disasters and seemed omniscient. Nothing escaped its grasp.
"I understand," Limon rasped, his voice hoarse and weak.
Dragging himself from the bed, he shuffled toward the corner of the room, guided by the memories in his mind. There, in a cracked section of the wall, he reached in with his skeletal hand and retrieved a small cloth pouch.
The pouch, though tattered, was full and heavy. Limon knew its contents: not gold, nor jewels, but over a hundred spent bullet casings.
In this world, resources were scarce, and currency came in many forms. While spent bullet casings were worth far less than live ammunition, they were still valuable enough to buy him a decent meal.
But food wasn't his goal. Not today.