The rain was one of those things that just seemed to make everything worse. It did not merely soak into your clothes or trickle down your face; it seeped into your bones, making every breath feel cold and heavy. I stood at the edge of the curb, staring at the blurred headlights of passing cars, and wondered—and as I did every other day—if this was it.

Not in a morbid way. I wasn't going to fling myself into traffic or anything. I wasn't even sad, not really. Just hollow. Like a husk of a human being, plodding through life in a zombie-like state, not having the energy to actually care where I was walking.

Every day, again. Wake up, commute, and deal with people who forgot your name came night, home, dinner whatever was quicker and less costly, and then collapsed in front of a screen, and rinse. End.

They called me "reliable" at work, which I suppose was their way of saying I never made waves. Just the kind of guy who did what he was told, hit his deadlines, and quietly endured the nonsense. The guy who stayed late when no one else wanted to. The guy who never said no to a project, even when I should have.

Funny thing was nobody really cared. Not my boss, nor my colleagues, not even I. "Reliable" meant invisible, replaceable.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, but I ignored it. Another email about something that didn't matter. Another reminder that my life was a string of meaningless notifications. I used to dream about doing something different-writing, maybe, or traveling-but reality had a way of beating that out of you.

I hadn't been myself for so long by now, and I wasn't even sure who that was. My landlord probably knew me better than any of my friends, and my friends.

well, let's just say we weren't the friends we used to be. Life happens. People drift apart. I didn't blame them.

I let out a sigh, the noise whipped away by the rain as I fastened the strap of my really cheapskate umbrella. The gust of wind snapped it inside out, and I tossed up my hands, letting it get me wet through to the layer of the hoodie underneath; not that it mattered now, anyway. It was late enough, and cold enough to boot, all that stood between me and that dingy, frozen meal I was going to be eating week in and out.

The crosswalk light was blinking green, so I stepped off the curb, sloshing water over the top of my sneakers. Headlights blurred in glowing streaks as I stared down at the sidewalk, counting with each step to distract myself from the chill creeping into the socks.

Twelve steps. Thirteen. Fourteen—

First was the sound. Squealing tires against wet pavement. I looked up just in time to see the headlights coming straight for me, too close, too fast.

It came to me a split second before the car did: This is it.

A bad smell entered my nostrils the first time I opened my eyes.

Not antiseptic or the coppery tang of blood - though that lingered faintly. No, this was older, heavier. A combination of burnt wood and stale air, like the smell of an ancient church left to rot.

The second thing I noticed was pain.

It wasn't sharp, as I had expected it to be, but dull and throbbing, like something inside of me had broken. My chest screamed with every shallow breath, and with every attempt to sit up, the pain flared enough to force me back onto my back.

That is when I saw it.

Blood.

It trickled through a thick black-and-gold coat that I didn't know I owned, puddling on the cold stone floor around my feet. I sat there, immobile, staring at it all, trying to connect the dots of where I was and how I had gotten here.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

A ripple of movement caught my attention. I looked up, and my stomach dropped.

I was in a big room. The torches lit it dimly: they were flickering and spitting. Intricately embroidered tapestries covered the walls, now faded into colors that in their bright hues could again tell stories of battle and of glory. The floor beneath my feet was a mosaic of polished stone, slick with blood. It was my blood.

Figures surrounded me—men and women dressed in ornate robes and armor, their faces pale with fear. Some whispered to one another, their voices hushed and urgent. Others simply stared, their wide eyes fixed on me as though I'd grown a second head.

"Impossible," one of them whispered back.

"He is dead," another breathed. "We all watched him die."

I tried to say something, but my words could not pass. The pain in the chest once more ignited, and my hand touched my chest instinctively again and pressed against the gaping wound. That is how I realized something was seriously wrong.

These weren't my hands.

They were pale, almost translucent, with veins threading beneath the surface like cracks in marble. Rings adorned each finger, heavy and cold, set with stones that gleamed like fire. My breath quickened as I looked down at the rest of myself—at the coat, the boots, the sword strapped to my side. This wasn't my body.

A scream pierced the stillness.

"He's breathing!"

Pandemonium broke out in the room. The figures there scattered back, overturning chairs, grabbing one another and crying. Others snatched for arms; eyes moved between me and the open doors at the end of the room.

And then, they came.

Assassins. They were like ghosts; their dark cloaks swirled as they ran through the doors with knives drawn. I scrambled backward, putting as much space between them and me as my body would allow. But its limbs felt as if wading through mire.

He went into the lunges, and I froze.

But just before the knife could strike, something changed.

There, inside me, a low and chill voice-not my voice-was whispering.

"Skill Activated: Gluttony."

My body started moving on its own.

I twisted out of the way, my hand snapping up to catch the assassin's wrist. With a strength I didn't know I had, I wrenched it to the side, and the sharp crack of bone filled the room. The assassin screamed, but the sound barely registered. My arm shot forward, plunging the blade I didn't remember drawing into his chest.

I did not feel the next few moments. My body moved like a marionette, dodging strikes, disarming opponents, killing. Each death sent a jolt through me—a rush of heat and power, followed by something darker.

It ended, I stood up in the centre of that room, with the air gasping between my lungs, my all blood-slippery palms. Everywhere around me were those killers, scattered across the floor, with eyes that would never gaze at anything.

A faint chime was echoing in my ears.

> "Level Up. Attributes Absorbed. Skills Acquired."

My vision blurred as a glowing window appeared before me, words etched in shimmering gold:

> Name: Alaric Varelius

> Title: King of Varestia

> Status: Wounded (Recovering)

> Skills: Gluttony (Active), Blade Proficiency (Acquired), Stealth (Acquired)

> Level: 7 (+3)

I stumbled backward, clutching at my head. The window faded, but its meaning lingered, undeniable and cruel.

This wasn’t a dream. This wasn’t my body. And this sure as hell wasn’t my world.

I wasn’t Harley anymore.

I was a king. A dead king.

And the only thing more terrifying than that... was the hunger clawing at my chest, whispering for more.