There are two kinds of people in this world, the gifted and the talentless. Those with talent were easy to differentiate, they were born to succeed, no matter their status. For there was one simple thing that separated them from all the rest, one thing that no amount of hard work could ever overcome. That very thing even sounded special. They were called gifts.

Gifts were powers granted at birth, an ability deeply ingrained in one's soul. It has been said that your gift decides your destiny. Looking at it that way, you were always destined to achieve something. The rest of us without it? We would never amount to anything. Nothing meaningful, nothing equivalent.

Most in high society had affinities, a derivative of a gift. It was considered the next best thing, if you weren’t talented enough to bear the fate of a gift. They were genetically reproduced after all, changing slightly by the combined DNA of the family tree, altering the strength of the elemental affinity, or the ability of a potential born gift.

This simple truth would keep all that had power, in power. All of noble blood, would have an edge to any commoner. However, there were few irregular occurrences of commoners born with the privilege to compete with the others. With their own gifts, or affinities, they could pave their own way. There was still a place for them, they just had to work with an adamant amount of grit and determination to reach it.

But had a noble been born without any affinity? Then they had failed themselves, their future, their blood. They were a taint to the status quo. They were treated less than commoners, less than dogs, since even peasants had some worth.

Had he been born a commoner, perhaps he could have enjoyed a simple life, free from responsibilities, free to be loved and to make friends. But his fate was only to suffer, and to drag those around, down with him.

Stab!

Dip.

“Whatever, I’ve done enough”, a voice was heard, as a boy dipped his fingers into his freshly opened wound.

He wrote on a paper with his bloody finger, sat center in the middle of a desk, beside an empty vial. When he was done, he turned his back to it, sliding down.

“With this, perhaps I will be forgiven. Perhaps, all will be resolved”, he closed his eyes, giving into his fate.

…

“Cough, Cough”

Silas opened his eyes for the second time, jolted awake, finding himself in a completely different area. The place was easy to identify however, as a simple glance around the room provided him with all the information he needed. There was a bed, a few cabinets, two closed wooden doors, and a sofa. The first furnishing had already given away his location. He was in a bedroom. One he had hoped he owned, lest the owners find themself in for a surprise.

“Cough Cough, Arghh”, suddenly he coughed out blood.

It landed staining the carpet floor of which he sat, or it would have, had it not mixed with the red pool that had already formed. His back pressed against something hard, wooden, with the occasional knobs sticking into his back. A desk he had guessed, and a desk it was! But the pain from his gut compelled him to look down.

There his eyes widened, witnessing a dagger sticking into his stomach.

“Well fuck”, he spoke, coughing out some blood as he did so.

He tried to move his arm in an attempt to remove the weapon. Not that it was a good idea to do so, but his attempt didn’t work regardless. His limbs didn’t move, as if his body were defying him. The only thing he could wobble around was his head.

In a desperate attempt to do anything for the situation, he swayed his head around instantly causing himself to feel lightheaded and lethargic.

“Blurgh”

He vomited blood and fell to the side. He still couldn’t do much of anything in this position, his head only looking at the blade in his stomach, causing him to bleed out irrationally. His gaze only moved away upon noticing the blood pooling and staining the carpet. The amount there signaled that he had already been bleeding out for a while now, perhaps even hours.

‘Guess the Goddess found me a suitable fate’, closing his eyes, the idea crossed his mind, should he just quietly accept the situation? He knew he deserved it.

“Cough, Cough, Cough, Cough”, only to be interrupted by another uncontrollable outburst of blood being evicted from his body, a crippling pain engulfing him.

“Urgh”, he groaned again.

‘But then I’d have betrayed you again’, he thought of a specific person, then turned his head to contemplate his options, ‘am I really so weak as to call for help? No one helped before…. Fuck. Fuck!’.

“H-Help!”, he croaked, “Help!”, he tried to shout, but only a rasping voice emerged.

“Cough, Cough, Cough”, talking only served to tickle his throat, causing him to cough more.

“I-I need H-”, he continued, only to stop abruptly.

‘No one will come’, and he coughed some more.

‘That power I used before’, he put his thinking cap on, but as blood left his body, even thinking hurt.

‘The blood’

He eyeballed the blood once more, then drew his eyes to the door, realizing that even his head refused to move. His head tingled in response to the pain, feeling increasingly light headed as he tried to form an idea of generating noise by shooting at the door.

He tried to remember the sensation where he summoned his blade last time. He had felt agitated and hopeless. He closed his eyes and concentrated, feeling strongly, feeling something, with his hand. But no, that feeling was blood stained carpet.

He decided to try another way.

‘Blade of Judgment’, he thought to himself, but nothing occurred.

“B-Blade of Judg- Cough, Cough, Cough”

“Blade of Judgment!”, he cried, yet even still nothing happened.

“Urgh”, he closed his eyes, groaning once again.

‘So it’s not voice activated. Well, it wasn’t before’, he mocked himself, but he was running out of options. He couldn’t manifest that power, he didn’t know how.

His head felt dizzy. His eyes trailed downward, staring at the blade piercing his chest. All he did was stare, as a sense of tiredness overwhelmed him.

‘Who even did this’, he thought.

‘And why’, he tried thinking of various reasons.

Then he contemplated why he even bothered, ‘to drown out the silence?’, he questioned himself. The blood continued to seep out from his wound, diminishing the functions from his brain.

As he lay there, dizzy and numb, he realized he felt bored. The hype and adrenaline he felt chasing his problems, to the surreal experience of confronting a God. It all paled in comparison to his dreadfully slow, final death.

‘Perhaps I made a mistake’, his eyes started to close, had he let it, it would never open again. But he didn’t have the strength to resist it.

‘Should I have moved on like she said?’

He chucked in contempt at himself.

‘Guess it doesn’t matter now. It never will’

As his eyes were in the middle of closing, he saw a ripple in the blood as it pooled together. Merging, forming something, albeit slowly. But what? He would never know.

He chuckled for the last time.

‘Too fucking late, isn’t it’

His eyes shut, his breathing stopped.

…

The Goddess sighed while frantically pacing back and forth, her long white hair fluttering about, each time she turned around. In her hand held the knife left behind from earlier, all while gnawing at her other hand's fingernails, clearly agitated.

She murmured under her breath, confiding in herself, “he’s gone… He’s dead…”.

But after a sigh, she couldn’t help but go on a rant.

“I was more than reasonable. Above limits tolerated by any God. Must I really conform to the petty whims of the mortals I shelter”

She gave another long exasperated sigh.

“Fucking, mutts. Stop growing. From pups”, she clasped at the knife, a holy power enveloping it as it eroded into dust in an instant.

She flicked her wrist upwards, a panel appearing with the description of ‘Transportation Agency’, she swiftly swiped across the screen, nimbly selecting various amounts of different buttons, each leading her to new screens, with different questions, and different advertisements.

Eventually an assortment of options befell her, her eyes inquiring over one with a certain icon. ‘Newly Acquired', it read. She proceeded to click it, where she filled out a form, gnawing off a fingernail, and wincing at the pain, only for it to regenerate in an instant.

“I only have enough for the cheapest option. Fucking Mongrel”

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Nevertheless she filled out the form, and a loading screen appeared showing an agency policy. One of these rules was highlighted, spelling out ‘transmigration protection policy’, which prohibited the killing of newly summoned individuals. Upon the contract being breached, a fee was to be induced and the services of the agency prohibited.

A short while later, as she continued to monitor certain things, all while muttering obscenities. A newly constructed summon circle manifested. Eventually a boy materialized, immediately screaming as high as his vocal cords allowed.

“Fuuuuck”, he held his neck tightly. Though afterwards he dozily looked around, spending a minute taking everything in.

His eyes befell the Goddesses' big balloons, then loftily swaying to glance at his pants, only to realize he sat there naked and exposed. His gaze got distracted however, as he glanced over his leg, promptly hugging it.

The Goddess sighed, “no more mongrels. This time has to work”.

…

A naked boy stood in the middle of a room. He stood there gazing at an empty space on the ceiling. For a little while, his blue eyes remained hollow as if the lights weren’t quite switched on.

“Leoghan. I’m… Leoghan? Ack!”, he muttered, wincing as a flurry of varied memories flooded into his brain.

His head ached, more than any pain he had experienced before. He fell to his knees, back arched, clutching ahold of his head, screaming in agony.

“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh”

Numerous experiences foreign to him flooded his mind. The cries of a baby, the gentle touch of a mother, he had long since forgotten. The praise and hopes of people close to him, his people cheering for him as he was carried by his father on horseback, roaming the lands they owned.

Of a noble of high status arriving at their doors, holding an orb that they pronounced as a globe. The results shown on a screen, and the disappointment that ensued. The pity and disdain shown by all that he had called friends, the words giftless being thrown at him by his very own parents like an insult. His family never looked at him the same.

His sister, being born, the hopes of his parents reignited, stealing the attention he had once received. It was always about her, the gifted one. He was forsaken, the troubled child. He was better off dead, but. He was given a second chance, far away from home. He knew the true nature was an excuse to be sent away, the eyesore that he was.

Many more memories came at him all at once in a quick motioned blur, as he caught glimpses at the flurry of fragments that befell him. Excruciating amounts of pain clung onto his mind distracting him from some memories as he felt his brain peeling away piece by piece.

There was something about friends, something about foes. Something about reliving a fate worse than death, fucking up his second chance. Something about losing it all, about being treated no less than a dog, sucking it up and enduring. Something about wanting others to suffer the same fate.

Of a man, or a snake. Of a slave and a sister. Fragments of memories befell him, which served only to remind him of one thing.

He was only ever, truly always. Alone. Isolated, left in a solitary confinement of a neverending repeatable cycle of hell. Everyday was suffering. And there was only one way out. Only one way that befit a giftless coward such as himself.

It only took a minute before he let go of his head, his arms dropping to the ground, supporting his body so it didn’t collapse. Beads of sweat dribbled down his neck, splitting off at his collarbone, separating down his back and the other his armpits.

A lifetime of experience shimmered in his eyes.

“I’m Leogan… Loughan Windsor”, he stammered, cocking his head to the side.

There he saw a desk, one with a blank letter atop it. But his attention lay in front of the desk, in a suit of skin with a blond wig atop it. A strange odor was emitting from it. It was a familiar smell.

‘That’s rank’, he thought, taking a closer inspection of it.

This seemed to be a human body, but all dried out and withered.

‘Wait, is this my body?’, he lamented, ‘no, it’s his’, he contradicted.

‘It’s Leoghan’s. Not Mine, I’m… Silas?’

He opened up the skin by the empty hole exposed by the belly, finding a pile of bones, organs and dried out muscles. Looking at the head of the body, and underneath the skin flaps, were a column of whitish teeth, attached to dried gums, and a pair of lackluster eyeballs.

The entire thing was merely a husk, without an ounce of blood to it. The spectacle should have been disgusting, but the boy felt an odd sense of serenity while staring at it inquisitively.

“Wait”, he stammered, clutching his head which throbbed a bit; this time in confusion.

“Wait, let me think”, he asked, pinching both of his caruncles. As if talking to someone else.

“I’m… Both”, he blinked.

He proceeded to stare at the bodily remains, while touching himself instinctively, wondering if all the organs that he witnessed were still there inside of his body at the moment?

“Fuck, no time for this”, he realized suddenly alarmed, staggering up while grabbing the bundle of flesh and remains.

‘I’ve made too much noise, people may check in on me, to see this’, he thought.

“Wait”, he called out to himself, settling down as he opened one of the doors, to reveal a small bathroom.

One with a mirror, cabinet, a sink above it engineered via a blue floating crystal to disperse water upon touch, and a wooden seat with a pot hidden under it, left in a corner to shit in. The duality of science.

There was also a shower he hadn’t noticed at first, in the corner closest to him, engineered seemingly via the same way as the sink, but protected by a case of glass.

“Each of the rooms are soundproofed”, he tilted his head to the side again, as he recalled the more recent information useful to him.

He stood at the entrance to the door a bit absentmindedly, before walking in and chucking all of his remains in the excrement pot. He turned to the mirror pinching his cheeks, and checked himself out.

“It really is me… Him. Loghan”

He stared at the tall boy looking back at him. At his ocean blue irises. His narrow chin. And as he caressed his paleish fair skin that knew not of sunlight, he couldn’t help but compare the differences between his past and present bodies. The differences being everything, except perhaps his build and height.

“It’s like I’m a completely different person. Neither, yet… This is weird”, he ran his hand across his smooth blond hair.

‘Oh wait, do I still have a…’, he let his thoughts trail onwards, as his gaze trailed downwards, to receive his answer, ‘oh, it’s got extra skin’.

‘Fuck’, he proclaimed, reaching down to double check how much he was packing.

‘Well, actually… It's girthier. Just a little smaller. A substitute’, he reasoned. Or tried to, but the loss remained in his head.

Silas was a tall 6 ft 4 handsome stud of a guy, with soulless black eyes, and a luscious mane of medium length black hair. He had fair skin, but nowhere near as light as Leoghans. Leoghan himself looked quite plain, the facial features of a typical pushover.

He was as tall as Silas, but his similarities ended there, as his only defining qualities were of his unblemished light skin, and light bluish eyes. His hair was short and blond, fine in its own right, but for a noble bloodline, one had a duty to stand out from the typical peasant with their uniquely god given defining features. So it would help if it stood out more, like his sister's golden mane, or the Corosent family's fiery crimson red, or the Vespertines pastel green…

‘Oh, that’s right’

The surname this body held. The Windsor family, a lineage of noble blood. Had he remembered correctly, his family had only been newly anointed a few generations ago. His great, great, great grandfather had been a knight, the strongest in the realm, of whom protected the king's lands all those years ago. He had earned his title from his swift blade, easily subjugating the endless commanders amongst the constant swarm of invasions by demons…

Demons…

Freija. The Goddess that rules that kingdom, summoned me to deal with demons…

‘Fuck. That bitch’, he remembered, but sighed shortly after.

‘No, I’m the idiot who decided to confront her… So I’m a noble in her domain, huh?’.

‘Hmm.. that doesn’t bode well. I’m sure she sent me in this body. Probably watched me die too… I don’t know what happened, but if she knows this body is still alive, she’d probably have it out for me. I know I would’

“Godamn it”, he complained, going over his memories of gods.

People knew of Gods, their names and had accurate depictions of their statues, both of their masks and their figures. Or at least of Freija, he couldn’t be sure about the other Gods. But there were other Gods, all depicted in their strange and otherworldly masks, all with humanoid…ish appearances. There was often at least one God being worshiped in each kingdom, there being 3 kingdoms nearby of significance.

He walked out of the room, walking over the carpet as he inspected a second time for any blood remains, but found none. He noticed the only 2 items on his desk, an empty vial, and a blank piece of paper.

‘No’, he thought, picking up the paper.

While it was blank, his keen eyes picked up the traces of the marks pressing into it, as if writing something without a liquid substitute. But as is, it was indecipherable.

‘Perhaps they used blood to write it’, he thought idly in passing.

It was the only explanation he could think of, considering there was no amount of blood around despite there being so earlier. But the issue was beyond him, and he had an array of disordered thoughts to quell, so he discarded it back to his desk, and equally to the back of his mind.

He promptly plopped onto his bed, laying there as he continued his train of thoughts.

The 3 kingdoms, starting with the one his family belonged to were the Grismere kingdom, the Aksumite, and the Serafin. Each kingdom was positioned in a circle of thirds, the pivot point being a designated neutral area where an academy was built in hopes to raise the future's finest. Only those from high society could attend, or those that proved their worth with special admittance… Which was actually quite a lot.

He knew this because he attended that very academy. In fact, he was there right now, in one of their rooms. Rooms that had silencing magic to help ensure everyone had a peaceful time studying. Rooms that because of such, hadn’t allowed him to alert for help. A room that got him killed. But he held no grudge against the room, what would he do, blow it up?

He peered at the bathroom door, another train of thought commenced.

‘Yet I am still alive. How?’, he could only assume it had something to do with his gift, Blade of Judgment, which peculiarly enough from its name, allowed him to control blood.

Unless maybe it was something else allowing him to do that. Either way, it had to be that ability, how else would he justify the blood gathering before his death, or when he confronted Freija.

‘I’m going to need to experiment more with this’, he deduced.

‘Just… Not to the point of death. That may have been a fluke. I think Freija mentioned stuff with souls, and new bodies, and if I’ve… If my soul has taken over this body then I can only guess that maybe it has reconstructed itself to be similar to my ol- No, but then this body has always been like this from my memories. Fuck, I don’t know. Since I’ve played with powers beyond my understanding, I can’t really apply common sense to this’

‘I’ll just equate it to beginner's luck and all, though I hope not. Because if memory serves, only Gods can revive the dead, and at a significant price, only with the right conditions. Unless I get in the good graces of another, I’d think Freija would rather pay to see me dead instead’

‘Anyhow, what do I do now? My identity… My name’

“...”

‘Leoghan’, “What a weird name. Actually when was the last time someone pronounced my name properly? Or attempted it at all? Is it pronounced Logan, Lougan, Le-g-han, Lew-ghan, Leogahh- Leo… Hm… Ah… Stupid name, I’m sticking with Silas. His memories are more distinct anyhow… His, huh. Am I really that different of a person?”

“...”

‘Existential crisis later. Current problems, I’m in my second semester, in the fourth year. There are 6 years total. I’m.. 16 right now, and the entry age to this school is 12, the legal age of consent. Or… Uck.. Not from where Silas was from’

‘Even if raised amongst the elite, we would still be too immature at that age… Fuck it, I sound like an old geezer’, he sighed, deciding to instead revise from his freshman years.

‘It appears I had the best life for the first month here, hell for the next four and a half years. Both seemed to have received a similar experience, but with different end results. How unfortunate. Two times the memories that I’ve delved into hell, that’s not happening a third time’

He turned his head one way, stuffing his head onto his bed.

‘I did seem to… Redeem myself though. Would my problems be solved if I just kill those here as well?’

Then he twisted it to the other side, contradicting himself.

‘No, I guess that didn’t go so well the first time’

He then turned over and suffocated himself in his sheets.

‘Or maybe it could work, but. The security here is greater since so many nobles attend, it’s unlike Earth. And I don’t know to what extent that magic will detect traces of murder… And while I’m not so eager to throw my life away… Though. Actually. Silas wanted to live but was content with death, and…’

“Fucker, I killed myself… Part of me to be self destructive, I guess”

He remembered the empty vial on the desk, and how his body refused to move as he died. He first thought it was due to blood loss, but now it seemed like he may have drunk some sort of paralyzing poison purposefully.

“How weak… And I can’t remember explicitly why? Though the reason he did is obvious…”

He didn’t know for certain, he couldn’t seem to recall much from the past month of his newest memories. But he could make some easy assumptions.

“Do unto others, done to thyself”, he whispered, his face tilting from out of the sheets. A copious amount of ideas spanned unsorted throughout his head, but only one stood out to him.

“Guess I’ve got work to do”