Ashen's first breath in the new world was a jagged, desperate gasp. The cold, gritty air filled his lungs, harsh and unfamiliar, sending a shock through his chest. He tried to sit up but his muscles screamed in protest, stiff and uncoordinated. His hands pressed against the cobblestones, the rough stone biting into his skin. The ground beneath him felt solid, but there was something off about it. It wasn't just the physical sensation—it was deeper, more unsettling, as if the very earth itself was aware of his presence.

Panic started to rise in his chest. Where was he? What had happened? His heart hammered in his chest, a drumbeat of fear, but his thoughts were slow to catch up. He didn't know how he had gotten here—no memory, no identity, no purpose. He glanced around, his vision hazy at first, then sharpening. The city around him was unlike any place he had known. High stone walls rose up on all sides, buildings leaning precariously, their ancient structures sagging under the weight of time. The air was thick with the scent of decay, both in the physical environment and in the lives of its inhabitants. It was a city ruled by poverty, filth, and fear.

"Where… am I?" His voice rasped, hoarse and unfamiliar in his own ears. He reached up to touch his throat, but his skin felt wrong—hollow, almost like he didn't belong in this body. His reflection—what little he could see in a puddle—showed a gaunt, unfamiliar face, with sharp, hollow cheeks and dark eyes that seemed too wide. Who was he? And why couldn't he remember?

He pushed the questions away for the moment. Right now, survival was the only thing that mattered.

The distant sounds of shouting caught his attention. He turned to find a small group of men gathered around a woman, their voices rising in anger. His body stiffened. They were intimidating—rough, dangerous-looking men, armed with crude weapons. One had a long, jagged knife, the other a club. The woman was backed into a corner, her hands raised in a futile attempt to ward off the assault. She looked frightened, but there was defiance in her eyes, as though she knew her fate but refused to go down quietly.

The air in the alley felt charged, oppressive. Ashen's chest tightened again, the same gut instinct urging him to act. But what could he do? He had no weapons, no training, no idea of who he even was. He was nothing more than a stranger in a strange world.

His gaze locked onto the men. They were laughing now, taunting the woman. One of them stepped forward, the knife gleaming in the torchlight. "Think you're better than us, bitch?" he sneered, swiping the blade through the air. "You're gonna regret that."

The woman cried out as the man raised his weapon to strike. It was instinct—pure and simple—that made Ashen's hand shoot out. He reached for a rusty cart nearby, one that looked like it hadn't been used in years. His fingers brushed against the metal, the cool surface of it. But the moment his skin touched it, something strange happened.

A sickening crunch reverberated in his ears.

He pulled his hand back, but the cart was no longer there. Where it had been was nothing but a fine, powdery dust, scattered across the cobblestones like it had never existed. His breath hitched, confusion flooding his mind.

The men hadn't noticed. They were too busy with their cruel game.

Ashen's pulse raced. His hands trembled as he stared at the remnants of the cart. That… wasn't normal. His thoughts raced—what had just happened? His gaze flickered between the dust and the woman, who was still cowering, though the men had yet to take action. He didn't want to do this—he didn't even understand what was happening to him—but the urge to stop the violence, to protect, surged within him again.

Without thinking, his hand shot out once more, brushing against the closest man. His fingers made contact with the man's sleeve, and the decay spread like wildfire.

The fabric of the man's tunic seemed to wither instantly, turning black and rotting away in seconds. But it didn't stop there. The decay continued, crawling up his arm as if it were alive, seeping into his skin. The man's face contorted with agony, but before he could even scream, his flesh began to disintegrate, crumbling into ash.

The world seemed to slow around Ashen. The man fell to the ground, reduced to dust in mere moments. A sharp, acrid smell filled the air as his body turned to nothing but the residue of what had once been flesh and bone. Ashen staggered back, his heart hammering in his chest, his mind reeling.

The remaining men stared in stunned silence, their weapons forgotten in their hands. The silence hung heavy in the air for what felt like an eternity. They turned their wide eyes to Ashen, their faces twisting with disbelief. No one said anything at first. Then, one of them spoke, his voice barely above a whisper.

"What the hell…?"

Ashen's stomach twisted. He had never intended this. He hadn't wanted to kill anyone. He didn't even know how it had happened. His touch—it had just… decayed him. He felt sick. His eyes flickered toward the woman, still trembling in the corner. She was staring at him, her eyes wide with shock.

He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. The words caught in his throat. Before he could say anything, a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. He spun around, startled, and found himself face-to-face with a man much taller than the rest, his dark eyes narrowing in an unreadable expression.

The man wore leather armor, his hands resting easily on the hilts of twin daggers. A scar ran across his face, from the edge of his cheek to the top of his jaw, a mark of experience and violence. He grinned, showing a row of sharp teeth.

"That was impressive," the man said with a slow drawl, his voice cold and dangerous. "But you better have a damn good reason for doing that."

Ashen's body stiffened, fear creeping up his spine. He wanted to run, to flee, but something held him in place. The man's gaze pierced him, analyzing him as though Ashen were nothing more than a curiosity.

"What's your name?" the man asked, his eyes flicking to the dead body behind Ashen.

"I… I don't remember," Ashen muttered, his voice trembling. It was the truth—he didn't know who he was, or why he was here. Everything was a blur.

The man's grin widened. "Well, that's convenient. You can be whoever you want now," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "You've got some talent, kid. The Crimson Fangs could use someone like you."

Ashen blinked, the words sinking in slowly. Crimson Fangs? He had no idea what that meant, but the man's tone made it clear it wasn't a mere suggestion.

Before Ashen could protest, the man's hand tightened on his shoulder, dragging him toward the alleyway. The world around him spun, and for a moment, it felt like everything was unraveling—his mind, his identity, his understanding of reality.

The woman was forgotten. The men behind him stood silent, watching him leave, but it didn't matter. He was caught now. In this city of vermilion and decay, Ashen's life was no longer his own.

The touch of death had marked him, and there was no going back.

⸻

End of Chapter 1