Prologue: The Transgressor

  Ezren had always been alone.

  Not in the tragic, poetic sense—no, he had family, coworkers, even a few online friends he messaged once in a while. But connecting with people? Talking to them? That was something he never quite figured out.

  Conversations drained him. Crowds made him anxious. Small talk was a nightmare.

  So, he spent most of his time consumed by stories.

  Movies, TV series, books—fantasy worlds far more interesting than his own. He worked a minimum-wage job, just enough to keep himself afloat, spending his free time escaping into fictional worlds.

  And then, one day, as if the universe had finally decided to make his life a little more interesting—

  Truck.

  Impact.

  Darkness.

  When he opened his eyes, he was somewhere else.

  A vast, endless expanse of white.

  And standing before him, with an almost bored expression, was an angel.

  Not the glowing, awe-inspiring figure Ezren had expected—just a regular-looking guy in flowing robes, holding a clipboard, chewing gum.

  "Oh, hey. You’re dead."

  Ezren blinked. “…What?”

  The angel sighed, flipping through his clipboard. "Dead. Deceased. Expired. Flattened by a truck. Doornail status confirmed. Need me to spell it out?"

  Ezren’s brain tried to process that.

  “im I dead?”

  The angel raised an eyebrow. "Huh, you caught on quick. Makes this easier." He clapped his hands together. "Alright, here’s the deal. You get two choices—one, move on to the afterlife. Boring, predictable, eternal peace, blah blah blah.”**

  He gestured dramatically.

  “Or! You can get reincarnated into a random world!”

  Ezren narrowed his eyes. “Random?”

  "Yep. Think of it as a lottery. First, we roll what kind of world you end up in—might be medieval fantasy, futuristic sci-fi, apocalyptic wasteland, or a world where everything is made of cheese. Who knows?"

  Ezren frowned. "That last one sounds awful."

  The angel ignored him. "Then, we roll what kind of being you’ll be—human, elf, orc, slime, sentient tree, cursed sword, you name it. And finally, your role—hero, villain, farmer, dungeon boss. Could be anything!"

  Ezren rubbed his temples. “Wait, why are you even offering this?”

  The angel waved a hand lazily. "God got bored. Earth is like an anthill He forgot about—checks in once in a while, but mostly leaves it alone. So now, He’s throwing people into new worlds just to see what happens. Keeps things entertaining."

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  Ezren sighed. "Of course He does."

  The angel leaned forward. “Sooo? What’s it gonna be? Afterlife? Or a whole new world of suffering and adventure?”

  Ezren didn’t even have to think about it. "I’ll take the reincarnation."

  "Nice. Let's roll your new world first!"

  The angel snapped his fingers, and a massive, glowing roulette wheel appeared in the air, symbols flashing across it—swords, spaceships, monsters, castles, barren wastelands, glowing cities.

  It spun rapidly, clicking with each turn.

  Ezren held his breath. Please not the cheese world. Please not the cheese world.

  The wheel slowed—and landed on…

  [MAGIC WORLD]

  The angel whistled. "Oof. Tough luck, buddy. You’re going somewhere rough."

  Ezren felt a pit in his stomach. " rough?"

  "Oh, you know. Monsters, war, probably some gods messing around with mortals. Fun stuff."

  Before he could protest, another wheel appeared.

  The ‘What Are You Now?’ Wheel.

  Ezren watched as **races and creatures flashed across the board—**human, elf, beastkin, demon, dragon, slime, even weirder things.

  It spun again.

  Slowed.

  Stopped on—

  [HUMAN: MAGE]

  The angel nodded approvingly. "Hey, not bad. Could’ve been a goblin." He snapped his fingers, and a thick, leather-bound book materialized in his hands.

  "Alright, here’s your magic guide. All the basics are in there—runes, circles, mana theory, yada yada. You’ll figure it out."

  Ezren reached for it—but the angel yanked it back.

  "Oh, almost forgot! Special skill!"

  Ezren perked up. "I get a cheat skill?"

  The angel grinned. "Yep! Let's see what you got—"

  Another spin. Another wheel.

  Ezren’s pulse quickened. This was it. His game-breaking, overpowered ability. His golden ticket to surviving this nightmare world.

  The wheel slowed.

  [???]

  Ezren squinted. “…What does that mean?”

  The angel scratched his head. "Uh. Huh. That’s weird. Maybe it’s something good?"

  Ezren glared. "What do you mean ‘maybe’?! This is my life!"

  "Too late, time’s up! Off you go!"

  Before he could react, the angel’s foot slammed into his chest.

  Like a scene straight out of 300, Ezren was Sparta-kicked into the abyss, the last thing he saw was the angel waving at him.

  "Good luck, sucker!"

  And then—

  Darkness.

  Falling.

  And then—

  Pain.

  And then—

  His new life began.

  Chapter 1: Buried, But Not Dead

  The first thing he felt was warmth. A deep, unnatural heat spreading through his body, flowing into every limb. Then came the pulse. A slow, steady rhythm—a heartbeat that was not his own.

  And then—pain.

  Ezren’s eyes shot open, but all he saw was darkness. Tight pressure crushed his body, dirt packed against his skin. Panic surged through him. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move. He was buried.

  His mind reeled. The last thing he remembered was… dying.

  Not here. Not in this world.

  The memories crashed into him like a tidal wave—two lives intertwining. One was his own, distant and fading. The other was sharper, stronger.

  Orin. A fifteen-year-old apprentice warlock. Executed. Buried. Left to rot beneath the earth. But the body was no longer Orin’s. His soul was gone. Ezren’s had taken its place.

  And somehow, this broken body had healed itself.

  He touched his chest. No wounds. No scars. The inquisitor’s blade had cut him down, yet he was whole again. It wasn’t natural—it was something else. Something dark.

  A slow, heavy presence coiled within him—liquid dark mana, pooling inside his core. It was the only explanation. This wasn’t resurrection. This was possession.

  But none of it would matter if he didn’t get out of this grave.

  Ezren gritted his teeth, pushing against the earth. His fingers clawed at the dirt, shoving it aside. His muscles strained, his lungs burned, but he refused to be buried again.

  Then, after what felt like an eternity, his hand broke through.

  Cold night air kissed his skin. He gasped, dragging himself free, rolling onto the damp ground. The graveyard was silent, the inquisitors long gone. They thought they had ended a warlock.

  Instead, they had left behind something far worse.

  He wiped the dirt from his face, looking at his only possession—a knife, still clutched in his shaking grip.

  He had no home. No allies.

  But he was alive.

  And that was enough.