The taste of blood filled Ethan Cross's mouth.
He lay sprawled on the rain-slick pavement, his body broken, the neon city lights flickering in and out of focus. Pain pulsed through him—sharp, raw, absolute. He had been shot. Stabbed. Left to die like an animal.
Above him, the towering skyline of New York stretched into infinity, cold and indifferent to his suffering. The distant wail of sirens barely registered.
Betrayal.
The thought cut deeper than the wounds tearing him apart.
He had built everything from nothing—ruthlessly, meticulously. The criminal underworld had whispered his name in reverence. Ethan Cross, the king in the shadows. And yet, a single miscalculation had cost him everything.
The faces of his former partners flashed through his mind—Victor Leone, Samuel Graves, men he had trusted, men he had made**. And then there was Isabelle.
His breath hitched. Pain lanced through his ribs, sharp and unrelenting. But it wasn't just his body that ached—it was the knowledge that he had let his guard down for her. Isabelle had played him better than anyone ever had, whispering devotion while sliding a dagger into his back.
He coughed, the metallic tang of blood thick on his tongue. "Damn you," he rasped, voice barely more than a breath.
The world around him blurred. The rain felt heavier. The neon glow bled into shadows.
Then—
A voice.
Smooth, cold, unmistakably inhuman.
*"Do you wish to live?"*
Ethan's fingers twitched. The sound wasn't coming from anywhere—it was everywhere. Inside his head, curling through the edges of his fading consciousness.
A hollow laugh rattled from his throat. "I think… I missed my chance."
*"No,"* the voice murmured, amused. *"Not yet. Not if you choose differently."*
The pain dulled. The darkness thickened. A slow, creeping pressure wrapped around him, strangely comforting.
*"You were meant for more, Ethan Cross. Let me show you."*
Something **ripped** him from the pavement, from the agony, from the ruined shell of a man who had lost everything.
The void swallowed him whole.
---
### **Rebirth**
He gasped, jerking upright.
The scent of damp stone and aged parchment filled his lungs. The air was thick—heavy with something ancient. His body felt different, stronger, but when he tried to move, iron bit into his wrists.
Chains.
Adrenaline surged through him as his vision adjusted to the dim light. The walls around him weren't concrete and steel. They were **stone**, towering and cold, lined with flickering torches. Massive banners hung above a dais where a **throne of black obsidian** loomed, empty.
Recognition hit like a hammer to the chest.
This place. He **knew** this place.
Because he had seen it before.
Because he had **played this game**.
His breath came fast and shallow as the pieces clicked into place. *Eclipsed Destiny*.
The best-selling dark fantasy game that had taken the world by storm. He had spent hours inside it, mastering its mechanics, strategizing every possible ending.
And the man who had once sat on that throne—
A sinking feeling twisted in his gut.
Damien Voss.
The villain. The **final boss**. The warlord king destined to be slaughtered at the hands of the game's hero.
His pulse pounded. He looked down at himself—dark armor, long-fingered hands adorned with obsidian rings, a muscular frame that wasn't his own.
Then—
A flood of memories.
Blood. War. The weight of a cursed throne, a kingdom in chaos, a fate already sealed.
No.
Not his memories. **Damien's.**
The realization set in like ice in his veins.
He wasn't Ethan Cross anymore.
He was **Damien Voss**.
And in the game's story, Damien was executed within the first hour.
The throne room doors slammed open.
"Bring him before the council," a voice commanded.
A guard seized him, yanking him to his feet. The chains rattled, biting into his skin.
Ethan—no, Damien—stumbled forward, but his mind was already racing. He knew exactly what was coming. This was the game's opening sequence. In the next ten minutes, the court would find him guilty of war crimes and treason. The hero, Leon, would arrive, sword in hand, ready to **deliver the killing blow**.
Except—
He wasn't Damien Voss. Not really.
And if this world thought he was going to roll over and die?
It was about to learn just how wrong it was.
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Hello guys this is my first novel i hope you like it.