Chapter 2: Awakening in a Broken World
Darkness.
It stretched endlessly, vast and unbroken, a void that swallowed all thought, all sensation. Elias Graves floated within it, weightless, formless, yet aware.
He had died.
He remembered the singularity, the way the lab had folded in on itself, the moment he had seen all possibilities, all versions of himself flickering in and out of existence. He remembered the whisper in the void, the voice that had spoken not with anger, nor with emotion, but with absolute certainty.
"You should not have done this."
Then came the pain. Sharp, sudden, unbearable.
Elias gasped.
His lungs burned as air rushed in, filling them with desperate need. His chest ached, his muscles cramped, and his heartbeat pounded against his ribs like a war drum. A shudder ran through his body as sensation returned in waves—cold, damp air pressing against his skin, the rough bite of splintered wood beneath his fingers, the faint scent of earth and decay filling his nostrils.
He was lying on something hard, uneven. His body ached, every muscle stiff and weak, as though he had been starved for weeks. His limbs felt foreign, his fingers too thin, his bones too fragile.
Panic surged through him.
His eyes snapped open.
A ceiling of aged wooden beams loomed above him, warped from years of exposure. Gaps between the planks allowed thin slivers of light to seep through, illuminating motes of dust that drifted lazily in the air. The walls were rough, cobbled together from wood and patched with strips of cloth where cracks had formed.
A shack.
No, something worse. A haphazard shelter, barely holding together.
Elias turned his head, biting back a groan as his body protested the movement. His vision swam before settling on a rusted mirror leaning against the far wall. The glass was cracked, its surface marred by age, but what it reflected sent a chill through him.
A child.
Gaunt, hollow-eyed, with sunken cheeks and skin stretched taut over sharp bones. His dark hair was a tangled mess of sweat and filth, and his limbs were thin, almost frail. His hands bore the marks of hard labor—calloused fingertips, small scars along his knuckles, dirt embedded deep into his nails. His ribs pressed against his skin, visible beneath the tattered shirt that hung loosely over his malnourished frame.
This was not his body.
Elias inhaled shakily. The child in the mirror mirrored his movements, dark eyes staring back at him with an intensity that did not belong to someone so young.
He had not just survived.
He had been reborn.
The door creaked.
Elias tensed, his weakened muscles instinctively coiling as heavy, uneven footsteps approached.
A figure stepped inside.
The man was old, his back slightly hunched from years of labor. His face bore deep lines, his skin weathered and marked with the passage of time. His gray hair was coarse, unkempt, and his beard, though trimmed, did little to soften the hardened set of his jaw. His nose was crooked, likely broken in a long-forgotten fight, and his brow was heavy, casting a shadow over his sharp, piercing eyes.
Those eyes locked onto Elias.
"Awake, are you?"
His voice was rough, worn from years of use, but not unkind. He carried a small bundle in one hand, moving with the slow precision of someone accustomed to hardship. His boots scuffed against the dirt floor as he approached, setting the bundle down beside Elias with little ceremony.
"You were out for two days. Thought you were dead." He unraveled the cloth, revealing a small loaf of hardened bread and a wooden cup filled with murky water.
Elias did not move. His mind was still reeling, trying to grasp his new reality.
The old man grunted, arms crossing over his chest. "You just gonna sit there staring, boy? Eat. You'll need your strength if you don't want to drop dead before the week's out."
Elias hesitated before reaching for the bread. His fingers trembled, his stomach twisting with hunger that felt both foreign and familiar. He took a bite. It was stale, hard, but his body welcomed it. The water was warm, tasting of earth and metal, but he drank it all the same.
The old man watched in silence.
After a moment, he spoke again. "Do you remember anything?"
Elias swallowed, his mind working rapidly. He could not reveal the truth—not yet.
He shook his head.
The old man grunted. "Not surprising. Took a nasty fall. Found you by the river, half-dead." His gaze was sharp, assessing. "Looked like you crawled out of the depths of hell."
Elias remained silent, but his thoughts raced.
If he had been found by the river, then there was a water source nearby—potentially a vital resource for the settlement. The structure of the shack suggested extreme poverty, likely a rural village or slum. The old man's hardened demeanor, the scars on his hands, and the way he carried himself hinted at years of labor, possibly in dangerous conditions.
The old man leaned against the table, watching him carefully. "You had nothing on you. No name, no coin, no mark of a family. Just a half-dead body and a fever that nearly killed you."
Elias met his gaze. "And you took me in?"
The old man snorted. "No. I dragged you in. There's a difference." He scratched at his beard before sighing. "Didn't sit right, leaving a kid to rot by the river. Figured you'd wake up or die, and either way, it'd settle itself."
Elias nodded slowly. He could see the logic in that.
"What's your name?" the old man asked.
Elias hesitated. His real name would raise questions. If this was truly another world, then it was unlikely that someone named Elias Graves existed here. He needed something that would not stand out.
"Elias."
The old man raised an eyebrow. "Just Elias?"
He nodded.
"Hmph." The old man studied him for a moment before shrugging. "Not the strangest thing I've heard. Name's Garrik." He turned toward the door. "You can stay here till you get your bearings. But don't expect charity. If you want to eat, you work."
Elias watched him go, the door creaking shut behind him.
He exhaled slowly, staring at his frail hands.
Memories flickered—not his own, but the boy's. Fractured images, disjointed thoughts. The sensation of cold, of hunger, of pain. The boy had lived in this place, had known suffering, had endured beatings and scorn.
And then—death.
A fever. His body had been weak, malnourished. His immune system had failed him. By the time he was found by the river, he had already been slipping away.
And in the void where that boy's soul should have been, Elias had taken his place.
He was an intruder in this body, a borrowed existence in a world he did not know.
But he was alive.
For now, he would remain cautious. He would observe, learn, and adapt.
And then, he would find out why he was here.
End of Chapter 2