A harsh gasp ripped through his lungs.
Asher's body convulsed upright, his fingers digging into the earth below him. His breathing was harsh, his thoughts reeling in confusion. The last he had known was casting his final spell, sacrificing himself to let Ronan and the girl get away.
He should have died.
Rather, he was. weak. Too weak. His mana core, which had once been filled to the brim with arcane energy, now lay empty, as if it had been cut free from his very self.
Where am I?
His eyes snapped open, silver-slit, their eyes learning to conform to the darkness. He wished to behold the devastation of the Abyssal Sanctum, or the destruction of the Voidborn Tyrant—but what he beheld was light-years from his existence.
Gray concrete walls. Rusty pipes. A darkly lit neon sign through a shattered window.
A city.
Not any city—it was too ordered, too built. He had never seen materials like these before. No castles, no magical towers, no buildings with magic.
This was not Eldoria.
This was somewhere else.
He attempted to change, but his body felt. tiny. Fragile. Starving.
That's when he saw his hands.
They were smaller. Rough, but not from casting spells. His sorcerer's noble hands of yesterday had given way to the scrawny, weathered hands of a fighter survivor.
He was in a state of panic. He reached out with his senses, trying to find mana—but sensed nothing. The magical energy once so alive, which had coursed through him like a second heartbeat, was absent.
He was as if he never was a sorcerer in the first place.
He gasped. Reincarnation? Was this actually occurring?
As he attempted to clear his head, there was a deafening crash outside.
"Hey, wake up, you little rat! It's rent day!"
The door to his grimy room creaked open, and massive, balding man in dirty tank top stands before him, having a smell of booze around him.
Asher's instincts howled danger. He instinctively wanted to cast a spell, to protect himself—but nothing came.
"I told you get up! You deaf, kid?!" The man advanced, his beady eyes reeking with contempt.
Asher clenched his teeth. He did not know this man, but his body responded on automatic, memories surging into his mind.
This was not reincarnation.
This was another life.
Flickers of memory—stealing bread from market stalls, fleeing guards, getting beaten for something he didn't do.
This body had been damaged. This body had been discarded.
And now, it was his.
"Rent's due, you little shit!" The man yanked Asher's shirt, pulling him up from the bed. His famished body was too frail to resist.
In his previous life, a single burst of mana would have sent this idiot flying across the room. Now, however? Now he could hardly stand.
Asher's head spun wildly. He had to know. Had to know where he was and what sort of world this place was.
The man swung back his fist, ready to strike—
Instinct took over.
Asher's hand flashed out, slapping the big man wrist. His body might be changed, but his fighting training was still the same.
The man stepped back, eyes wide. "What the—?"
Asher didn't hesitate. He turned and sprinted, dashing through the open doorway.
The hallway beyond was dirty, strewn with trash and smashed furniture. A decaying apartment building. Someplace in the ghetto.
As he made his way to the stairs on the place, he sees himself in a shattered mirror.disheveled boy with black, matted hair and silver, staring eyes glared back.
This was his new face. This was what he was now.
And he was in a world he didn't know.
A world that somehow… had dungeons.