The city was an iron colossus, its streets veiled in soot and fog, its skyline a jagged mess of chimneys and spires.
Rain slicked the cobblestones, pooling in the cracks, reflecting the dim glow of gas lamps like fractured constellations.
The air reeked of coal smoke, damp wool, and the unmistakable tang of cheap spirits.
Nestled between a tailor's shop and a tobacconist who had long since ceased to care for his wares stood The Rusted Stag.
A bar of no particular repute, save for being the last refuge of men who had abandoned their dreams somewhere between their second drink and their third.
Inside, I moved with practised ease, wiping down the counter before stepping to the door. With a flick of the wrist, I turned the sign to Closed.
The day was over.
And yet, to me, it had only just begun.
I exhaled, rolling my shoulders as my gaze caught the reflection in the glass.
That face again.
Tall. Black and white hair. A faint scar across the bridge of the nose.
Not mine. Not really.
"Why me?"
The words slipped out unbidden, barely more than a murmur.
The longer I stared, the more foreign it felt.
No matter how many times I looked, I
could never quite reconcile this reflection with myself.
My name is Cain Lennon. Or at least, it was.
A few weeks ago, I had been a university graduate, fresh-faced and jobless, endlessly scrolling through applications in the hope that someone, somewhere, might see some potential in me.
I had aspirations—modest ones, to be sure—a stable career, a decent flat, perhaps the occasional pint with friends. A simple, reasonable future.
And yet, here I was.
Not in my world. Not even close.
At first, I had assumed it was a dream. I had pinched myself.
Slapped my own face. Headbutted a wooden post for good measure.
But the pain was real. The cold was real. The sheer weight of existence in this world was real.
No matter how much I wished to deny it, I had to face the truth.
I am somewhere else.
At first, I searched for clues—familiar landmarks, hints that this might be a world I recognised. A story, a setting from some book or film.
Nothing.
Until I saw the newspaper.
One article changed everything:
"Local Cultivator Apprehends Notorious Super power Smuggler With The Help Of A Mage."
I froze.
Cultivator? Super power ? Mage?
Not words one stumbled upon in a history book.
It took a moment for realisation to set in. When it did, it landed like a hammer to the ribs.
This world… was familiar. Horribly familiar.
This was the setting of a novel.
Not just any novel.
"I, The Heavenly King, Shall Rule the Universe with My Star Sword."
God help me.
A ridiculous title. A ridiculous story.
It had been a sensation when it was first released. A protagonist with overwhelming power, a grand adventure across realms, a bizarre but intriguing mixture of power systems with a harem—all thrown together with reckless abandon.
For a time, it worked.
Then, the author lost his mind.
The martial arts battles? They become beyond ridiculous.
The tale of growth and conquest?
Replaced with an unrelenting descent into horror and dark genre.
The protagonist, once an indomitable warrior, suddenly found himself battling eldritch monstrosities that devoured civilisations as an afterthought.
And the harem? Slaughtered.
One by one, painstakingly developed love interests—characters readers had grown attached to—met gruesome, irreversible ends.
The fans? They rioted.
Review scores plummeted. Forums burned with rage. Readers abandoned the series in droves.
Only one fool endured to the bitter end.
Me.
I read every single word.
The final chapter was released on my graduation day. With nothing better to do, I sat down and read it, praying for some kind of redemption.
There was none.
The protagonist—once hailed as the Heavenly King—perished in obscurity, his final words a feeble, pathetic "I am sorry."
I saw red.
In my fury, I wrote 5,300 words—a full-blown dissertation—detailing, in exhaustive clarity, every flaw, every betrayal, every idiotic narrative decision that had led to such an abysmal conclusion.
I had forgotten the golden rule.
Never send a 5,300-word tirade to an author.
And yet, here I was.
Not even on the same planet as the protagonist.
No grand sects. No divine inheritance. No glorious destiny written in the stars not even some cool superpowers.
Just a grim, smoke-choked city, resembling Victorian Britain at its absolute worst.
And the worst part?
This place was, by all appearances, British.
I very nearly wept.
And then, as if the universe had not yet exhausted its capacity for mockery—
A blue screen flickered into existence before my eyes.
[SYSTEM INITIALISING…]
[HOST DETECTED: CAIN LENNON]
[SYSTEM TYPE: SIN EVOLUTION SYSTEM]
[HOST NAME UPDATED: CROMWELL]
I inhaled sharply.
" Fucking finally "
The golden finger I had prayed for finally arrived. It appears that my life was not truly over.
[ABILITIES:]
• [Divine Grade: Divine Insight] – ???
• [Bronze Grade: Snake Hand] – ???
[BLOODLINE:]
• [Old Man Thief]
I stared at the screen.
Then at my reflection.
Then back at the screen.
I had no words. No thoughts.
Only a slow, creeping horror.
A Sin Evolution System?
And what in God's name was Old Man Thief?
I exhaled through my nose, rubbing my temples as a dull headache began to form.
No divine fate. No celestial inheritance. No legendary bloodline.
Just some godforsaken Victorian hellscape and an ability set that sounded like a bad joke.
I needed a drink.
But first, I needed to figure out how to use this system.
I took a slow, measured breath.
"Right… let's try and make sense of this."
Clearing my throat, I addressed the glowing screen before me.
"System… explain yourself. How exactly do you work?"
A moment passed. Then, with an artificial
crispness, the system responded.
[Sin Evolution System ]
• The Host will be granted one of the Seven Deadly Sin Fragments.
• Upon selection, the Sin Fragment will evolve both the Host's innate skill and bloodline.
• However, as a consequence, the Host will suffer a permanent debuff tied to the chosen sin.
My lips thinned.
Wonderful.
This was less a blessing and more akin to signing a contract in blood with the devil.
The screen flickered, shifting to a new panel.
[Available Sins:]
[Wrath] – The Host will be unable to control their emotions, frequently succumbing to uncontrollable rage.
[Pride] – The Host's arrogance will rise to godlike proportions, leading to an inability to acknowledge others as equals.
[Envy] – The Host will forever covet what others have, often rushing to conclusions.
[Gluttony] – The Host's hunger will escalate to insatiable levels, driving an endless desire to consume.
[Sloth] – The Host will struggle to move, gradually losing all motivation and emotion.
[Greed] – The Host will never be satisfied, always craving more, no matter what they obtain.
I exhaled, long and weary, pressing a hand to my forehead.
"So this is what I'm working with?"
Wrath? A walking time bomb. I'd be dead before the week was out.
Pride? I'd probably alienate every single person I met.
Envy? The idea of blindly coveting others' abilities and belongings sounded like a recipe for self-destruction.
Gluttony? Starving for eternity? No, thank you.
Sloth? Might as well throw myself into the Thames.
That left… Greed.
Out of all the curses before me, this was the only one I could realistically manage.
Wanting more? Being dissatisfied? That wasn't so bad. It was a small price to pay. After all, in a world like this, ambition was a necessity.
With a resigned sigh, I reached out and tapped [Greed].
The moment my finger brushed the screen, the system hummed with mechanical efficiency.
[Sin Fragment Acquired: Greed]
A sharp chime rang in my ears.
[Congratulations! Your Talent has evolved.]
You have acquired the Divine Skill: [Hand of Avarice].
[Congratulations! Your Bloodline has evolved.]
You have acquired: [Ouroboros – Thieves of the Elder Fang].
Then, as if that weren't enough, a new notification appeared.
[WARNING: Your Status Has Changed.]
You are no longer a [Mob]. You are now an
[Extra].
I froze.
Not a Mob anymore?
That was… not good.
I wasn't stupid. I had read far too many novels to not understand what this meant.
Mob characters? They were safe. Background filler. Unimportant. Forgotten.
Extras?
A different story altogether.
An Extra was noticed. An Extra could die.
I ran a hand down my face.
" Brilliant. Absolutely bloody brilliant."
But I wasn't done reading yet.
I turned my attention back to my newly acquired abilities.
[Hand of Avarice] – A Divine Skill that allows the theft of anything from others. However, the less physical the target, the lower the accuracy and guarantee of success.]
My brow twitched.
" Is that it? No way there has to be more ."
And then the bloodline—
[Ouroboros – Thieves of the Elder Fang] – Increases the user's critical chances and grants automatic proficiency in all forms of theft.]
I slowly sat down, pinching the bridge of my nose.
"So… let me get this straight."
My talent gave me the power to steal… but with annoying restrictions.
And my bloodline improved my chances at stealing… but only in a world where being a thief was a death sentence.
Fantastic.
Even FromSoft had more leniency than this.
I let my head fall back, staring at the ceiling of the bar.
This was not the kind of system one received when they were destined for greatness.
No, this was the kind of system one received when the universe decided to have a laugh at their expense.
I pushed myself up with a groan, rubbing the back of my neck.
"Right. Nothing to be done about it now."
I might as well get some sleep.
With sluggish steps, I made my way towards the small room the bar's owner had given me.
It was nothing special—just a bed, a desk, and a small attached shower.
Still, it was more than I had in my last life.
Not that I had much time to appreciate it.
I barely made it to the bed before exhaustion dragged me down like an anchor.
As my eyes drifted shut, the system flickered once more.
[OBJECTIVE: SURVIVE.]
A bitter chuckle escaped my lips.
"Brilliant."
Then, darkness took me.