Indra’s life had been simple—a nine-to-five white-collar job, stacks of paperwork, and a predictable routine. That was until the accident. One moment, he was walking down the street, his mind preoccupied with deadlines and office politics, and the next, there was nothing but pain, followed by a cold, all-encompassing darkness. He had expected to wake up in a hospital room or perhaps in the afterlife, but instead, his consciousness was hurled into a new world. And into a new body.

When he regained awareness, the first thing he noticed was the sharp sting of pain radiating from his chest. Blinking through the haze of discomfort, his surroundings came into focus. He was lying on the ground in a dense forest, the trees towering above him, their leaves thick and green. The ground beneath him was soft, covered in dirt and dried leaves. But what struck him most was the weight pressing on his body—the faint, metallic scent of blood.

His body felt different. Slimmer. Lighter. As his vision sharpened, he realized something terrifying: the hands that reached up to touch his face were not his own. These were smaller, smoother, with pointed ears at the sides of his head. His heart began to race as his new body’s memories rushed to him—memories not his own.

His name was Axel. A half-elf. A slave. And he had been traveling with his cruel master, Count Makinzie Alrest, and the Count's entourage. The realization hit him with a nauseating jolt. His previous life as a salaryman was gone, and now he was in the body of a half-elf who had been a mere servant to the Count, the scion of a prestigious family allied with the Empire.

The sound of rustling leaves broke him from his spiraling thoughts. A loud growl echoed through the trees—a deep, primal sound that made Axel’s heart pound harder. He tried to push himself up but collapsed back down, his body too weak from the wounds he had sustained earlier.

Before him stood a monstrous feline beast, its fur a matted mass of dark stripes, eyes gleaming like molten gold. It was enormous—easily twice the size of a lion—its claws glistening in the faint light filtering through the forest canopy. Axel—no, Indra—recognized it instantly as a Feralclaw, a ferocious apex predator feared throughout the region. The creature had been stalking their hunting party for hours.

Around him, chaos reigned.

Count Makinzie Alrest, a middle-aged noble with graying hair and a hard, calculating face, was shouting orders, trying to organize his knights. But it was already too late. The knights, clad in shining armor, engaged the Feralclaw in a desperate battle, their swords striking the beast’s thick hide with little effect. The knights fought valiantly, but one by one, they were ripped apart, their armor shattered as the Feralclaw’s claws tore through them like paper.

Indra could only watch in horror, unable to move. His body, still weakened by the earlier battle, was no match for the ferocity of the creature. With each swipe, another knight fell, their screams echoing through the forest.

Finally, Count Makinzie himself drew his sword, shouting for his men to hold the line. But even his efforts proved futile. The Feralclaw lunged, and the Count was torn apart before Indra’s very eyes, his body shredded like a ragdoll.

This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

And then, everything went silent.

The Feralclaw, bloodied and triumphant, turned toward Indra with a low growl. But before it could strike, a new presence made itself known.

Five figures appeared from the shadows, emerging from the trees with a quiet but undeniable authority. They were beastfolk—humanoid beings with animal traits—each more intimidating than the last.

The first was a grizzled veteran, a massive man with a scarred face, a battle-worn greatsword slung across his back. His eyes were sharp, and his presence commanded respect. Beside him stood a burly figure wielding a massive mace, his muscles rippling under his clothes. The third figure was a thin, agile man with a rapier-like sword, his movements precise and quick, as if he'd been trained for this very moment. Two women rounded out the group, their features sharp but beautiful, and each wore a magical aura about them, the unmistakable signs of powerful spellcasters.

The battle that followed was unlike anything Indra had ever seen. The hunters, as they revealed themselves to be, worked with perfect synchronization. The grizzled leader led the charge, his greatsword flashing as he engaged the Feralclaw head-on. The burly man, wielding his mace, took on the creature’s side, smashing through its defenses with crushing blows. The two women cast spells, one hurling fireballs, the other weaving protective shields, while the thin swordsman danced through the fray, darting in and out with deadly precision.

The Feralclaw was a beast of overwhelming power, but the hunters were not to be outdone. Slowly but surely, the Feralclaw’s movements grew sluggish, its energy fading, until finally, with a roar of defiance, it fell to the ground, dead.

Indra lay there, exhausted, his body battered by the monster’s assault. Blood oozed from his wounds, and his vision blurred, but through the haze, he could hear the hunters speaking.

"That thing could have been worth a fortune," the thin swordsman said, a greedy glint in his eyes as he gazed over the battlefield.

The grizzled leader glanced at the fallen body of Count Makinzie, then at the dead knights. “We strip the armor and valuables. Leave nothing behind.”

One of the women approached the Count’s body, cutting his clothes and belongings with practiced hands. The others did the same, looting the fallen knights without a second thought.

“Six thousand gold, at least,” the thin swordsman said, looking at the Count’s ornate armor and jewelry. “This is a good haul.”

The grizzled leader, however, was more cautious. He stepped closer, his keen senses alert. “Wait,” he muttered, scanning the surroundings. Then his sharp eyes caught something—a faint movement among the fallen bodies.

He approached Indra’s position, his eyes narrowing. “There’s someone alive,” he said, his voice grim.

The other hunters froze. The thin swordsman immediately tensed. “It’s a half-elf,” he said, his eyes narrowing at the sight of Indra’s pointed ears. “He must have seen us looting the Count. Should we kill him?”

“No,” the leader said, his voice firm. He crouched beside Indra, inspecting him closely. The slave’s body was covered in scars, evidence of years of abuse. “This one’s been through enough,” he muttered.

After a moment of hesitation, the leader reached into his belt and pulled out a small vial of liquid. “Here,” he said, pressing the potion to Indra’s lips. “Drink this. It’ll help.”

Indra’s mind swirled, but he managed to swallow the potion. A warmth spread through him, dulling the pain and giving him some semblance of clarity.

“Take him to the village,” the leader ordered, looking at the burly demi-human. “We’ll decide what to do with him there.”

The burly man grunted, lifting Indra with ease, his strong arms cradling the half-elf’s limp form.

The group moved out of the clearing, leaving the battlefield behind as the sun began to set, casting long shadows over the fallen. Indra, barely conscious, wondered what fate awaited him among these strange, mysterious demi-humans—and whether he would find a way to survive in this brutal new world.

And somewhere in the distance, the fires of rebellion were beginning to stir.