The dim light from the overhead bulb flickered as Eren—or rather, Ashen, now inhabiting Eren's frail, battered body—reached for the ant-infested sandwich on the table. His trembling hands grabbed it, his fingers brushing against the crust as a line of ants trailed up his wrist.
It wasn't hunger that drove him to take a bite; it was a reflex, a desperate attempt to anchor himself to the reality he was now thrust into.
The taste was vile. The staleness of the bread mingled with the tangy, earthy bitterness of the ants. Ashen, ever the unyielding survivor, didn't flinch.
Instead, he chewed methodically, his expression darkening as he processed the onslaught of memories crashing into his mind like waves against jagged rocks.
---
The memories of Eren's current life painted a picture more pathetic than even Ashen could have imagined. He saw a boy covered in bruises, yellowed bandages sloppily wrapped around his skinny arms, and wounds that spoke of years of torment. This wasn't the body of someone who lived—it was the body of someone who endured, who merely existed.
Ashen delved deeper, sifting through fragments of Eren's miserable existence. The primary source of his suffering was a brute named Maxon Blake, a towering, muscle-bound tormentor who had made Eren his personal punching bag.
The beatings weren't out of personal hatred; no, Maxon was just a tool, a puppet for someone else's vendetta. Ashen discovered that Maxon was hired—or rather, encouraged—by Julian Rothschild, the scion of a rival conglomerate. Julian harbored a deep-seated grudge against the Vance family and chose to vent his frustrations on Eren, the weakest link.
Maxon would beat Eren senseless, steal what little money he had, and laugh as Eren's classmates jeered. The daily torment had turned Eren into a reclusive shadow of himself, hiding away in his dingy apartment, losing himself in the virtual worlds of video games and manga.
His obsession with these escapist hobbies wasn't born out of joy but out of necessity—a desperate bid to flee from the cruelty of reality.
---
Ashen's gaze swept across the room, his expression unreadable. Empty cans and instant noodle cups cluttered the floor, and the faint stench of unwashed dishes wafted from the kitchen. This was Eren's sanctuary, his prison, and his tomb.
Yet, as Ashen unraveled more of Eren's memories, his own past began to align in eerie parallels. Ashen, too, had been born as an illegitimate child, a mistake in the eyes of the Demon Sect.
He had been treated as nothing more than fodder, a waste of resources. The strong ruled, and the weak were devoured—literally, in some cases. His rise to power had been bloody, brutal, and relentless, every step paved with the corpses of siblings and rivals.
But Eren… Eren hadn't even been allowed to fight. He had been crushed before he could even stand. "A waste of flesh," Ashen muttered under his breath, his voice low and bitter. Yet, there was no pity in his tone—only disdain.
---
The memories of Eren's family emerged next. The Vance family, a sprawling conglomerate that practically owned the country, had sired Eren out of wedlock.
His mother, once a bright and loving presence in his life, had clung to the promise of protection offered by the patriarch. But the Vance family valued power above all else.
Ashen saw flashes of a cold, calculating man—the patriarch—who had treated his bastard son as nothing more than a stain on the family's legacy.
Eren's mother had been his only source of warmth, a flicker of light in his otherwise dark world. But even that light had been snuffed out. Though Eren had clung to the hope that she was alive somewhere, Ashen knew better.
The power struggles within the Vance family were as ruthless as those in the Demon Sect. Ashen had seen enough schemes to recognize that the chances of her survival were slim to none.
---
Then there was Isabelle Thorne, Eren's betrothed. A name that appeared with a sickening frequency in his memories. In the present, she was a classmate, a vision of beauty who treated him with disdain.
Her flirtations with Maxon were no secret, and in the future, her betrayal would cut even deeper. Ashen saw flashes of a future where Eren was beaten half to death while Isabelle watched, her lips locked with Maxon's in cruel mockery.
She would have s*x with Maxon as a show of defiance to the arranged marriage between their families and as a show of disgust on Eren, while Maxon's underlings would continue to plummet him up right in front of their love making. The bile rose in Ashen's throat just at the memory of this.
"She's no different from them," he muttered. The faces of those who had betrayed him in the Demon Sect—trusted allies, cherished friends—flashed before his eyes.
---
Ashen's focus shifted to the larger picture. Among the fragmented memories of Eren's life were glimpses of the future—an earth ravaged by cataclysm, dungeons spewing forth monsters, constellations waging wars through their chosen champions.
But Ashen pushed these fragments aside. The future could wait. He had to deal with the present first.
As he pieced everything together, a grim realization settled in his mind. This boy, Eren Vance, wasn't just unlucky.
No, he was cursed. If luck was a force of nature, Eren had somehow managed to offend it in every conceivable way.
Ashen leaned back, his lips curling into a bitter smile. "I thought I had seen the worst of what fate had to offer," he thought.
"Born a bastard, treated as less than dirt, betrayed by those closest to me. And yet… this boy…" He paused, shaking his head. "This boy takes the crown. If misfortune were an art, he'd be its master."
The bitter humor faded as his expression hardened. "But it doesn't matter. Misfortune doesn't determine one's fate. Power does. And now, this body is mine."
Ashen's mind wandered back to the Demon Sect. He remembered the years of clawing his way to the top, the blood on his hands, the scars on his body.
He remembered the taste of victory as he claimed the title of Demon Lord, standing atop a mountain of corpses. And he remembered the final betrayal—the blade in his back, the mocking smiles of those he had trusted.
"That's the difference between us, boy," Ashen murmured, his tone cold and resolute. "I fought back. I took what was mine, no matter the cost. You… you let them break you."
But now, things were different. Ashen had inherited Eren's body, his memories, and his will. He would take this shattered life and forge it into something unbreakable.
As the dim light flickered once more, Ashen's eyes glinted with a dangerous resolve. "Lady Luck may despise you, Eren. But now, you have something far more powerful than luck. You have me."
The silence of the room seemed to press in, heavy and suffocating. Ashen closed his eyes, letting out a slow, measured breath. "Rest easy, boy. From here on out, your suffering is mine to bear—and theirs to repay."