Chapter 1
"What am I doing with my life?"
A young boy, barely a teenager, lies on his bed in a dimly lit room. The oppressive silence of the night presses against him as he stares at the ceiling, consumed by thoughts that seem to pull him deeper into despair. He lives alone in Pakistan, having lost both parents at a young age. The weight of his situation is palpable—he has just graduated from college, yet the prospect of continuing his education remains a distant dream, one that is out of reach due to his financial instability.
The air in his small apartment is heavy with humidity, the faint hum of distant traffic seeping through the thin walls. The dim glow of a flickering bulb above casts elongated shadows, making the tiny space feel even more suffocating. Books, old and tattered, are stacked haphazardly on a rickety desk, remnants of a boy who once dared to dream.
He turns to the side, curling up slightly, his fingers gripping the thin blanket draped over him. His mind is clouded with anxiety, and as the thoughts swirl around him like a storm, he closes his eyes in an attempt to find solace. He had always believed that hard work could change his fate, that perseverance could carve a path out of his misery. But now, as he lays there, the cold fingers of hopelessness clutch at his throat.
"What now?" he wonders. "What happens to someone like me?"
Minutes later, sleep finally claims him.
The darkness is vast, endless. He finds himself standing in a void so empty that even his own breath seems to disappear into nothingness. A shiver runs down his spine as he takes a hesitant step forward, but the ground beneath him does not exist. He is floating, yet rooted in place.
Then, suddenly, the void stirs. Cracks of golden light streak through the darkness, splitting open like wounds in reality. From the fractures, ruins begin to emerge—towering pillars, ancient carvings, crumbling structures that seem to belong to a world far older than time itself. The oppressive silence is shattered by the distant echo of whispers, voices too faint to understand but thick with an unshakable sense of foreboding.
And then he sees her.
At the heart of the desolation stands an old woman. Her hair is long and wild, strands of silver flowing like rivers of moonlight. Her face is lined with age, but her eyes gleam with something ancient, something powerful. She lifts a gnarled finger and points toward the heavens.
"The Empire will crumble," she declares, her voice reverberating through the ruins, sinking into his very bones. "The Transcendent shall rise again. You are destined to suffer."
Her words crash against his mind like a tidal wave, and the world around him convulses. The very air thickens with something unseen, something suffocating. He tries to move, to speak, but his body betrays him.
Then, the void collapses.
Hali wakes with a gasp, his body drenched in cold sweat. His chest heaves as he struggles to calm his racing heart. The weight of his dream lingers, thick and suffocating. But then—
His eyes widen.The room around him is unfamiliar.
Ornate chandeliers hang from a ceiling carved with intricate golden patterns. A vast bed, far too grand for someone like him, cradles his trembling form. The air smells of fresh linen and something faintly floral, so unlike the stale dampness of his apartment.
Panic sets in. He throws off the silk covers and stumbles to his feet. The polished marble floor is shockingly cold against his bare skin. He moves toward a mirror—large, gilded, and elegant. The face staring back at him is his own, yet… different.
His skin is unblemished, his hair neatly combed. There is an air of refinement about him, a presence that does not belong to the destitute boy who fell asleep in his run-down apartment.
A sharp pain stabs through his skull, and suddenly—Memories. Foreign, yet vivid.
A sprawling empire divided by power and war. Three great dominions:
The Xenon Empire to the west, where warriors wield the forbidden art of Shadow Magic.
The Feldan Empire to the south, a land of assassins and scholars, devoted to the mastery of Light Magic.
The Aestion Empire to the north, a realm ruled by necromancers, where even death bends to the will of its rulers.
And within the Xenon Empire, a noble family—the House of Damas. A name echoes in his mind, over and over.
Ilis Damas.
He has transmigrated into the body of Ilis, the son of a powerful nobleman.
Hali grips the edge of the table to steady himself, his mind spinning. The weight of this realization crashes down on him like a mountain. He is no longer in his world.
A knock at the door.
"Are you awake, young master?" A voice, deep and formal.
Hali swallows hard. He does not know how to respond, but he forces himself to speak.
"Yes, I am awake."
The words sound foreign on his tongue.
"It is time to get ready. The carriage awaits, and we must not be late for the Emperor's celebration."
Celebration? His mind races, grasping at fragments of memories.
Yes. The Emperor of Xenon is hosting a grand event to mark the end of a ten-year war with the Feldan Empire. It is a gathering of the most powerful figures in the land—a political spectacle of unmatched grandeur.
Hali takes a slow breath. His hands tremble, but he clenches them into fists.He cannot afford to show weakness.With a heavy sigh, he takes a step toward the mirror. He gazes at his reflection, his fingers lightly tracing the contours of his face. Though his appearance is unchanged, he feels different. The world around him, this new life, feels like a second chance—a chance to reshape his destiny in ways he never thought possible.
He moves toward the wardrobe, opening it to reveal rows of lavish garments. His fingers brush over the fine fabrics before settling on a simple, elegant suit. He dresses with quiet determination, his mind a whirlwind of questions.
As he steps out of his chambers, the grandeur of his surroundings fully sinks in. The hallway is lined with towering windows, allowing soft morning light to bathe the marble floors in a golden hue. Servants bow as he passes, their gazes filled with reverence.
As he makes his way down the stairs, Afrel awaits him at the bottom, his face flushed with nervousness. He approaches Hali, clearly trying to hide his anxiety, and looks up at him with an air of embarrassment.
It is overwhelming. But if there is one thing Hali knows, it is that survival demands adaptation. He is no longer the boy from Pakistan. He is Ilis Damas now. And in this world, he will carve a new path. No matter what it takes.