His head spun, the world a blur. The waif stared vacantly at the ghastly sight of the prison.
Was this a dream?
Raising his hand to pinch his cheek, he felt a strange discomfort. His hand was smaller than he remembered, and the once smooth skin was calloused. Black ash flaked from his palm, and his nails were darkened with grime.
A deeper dread settled when his gaze fell upon the bloodstained sleeve of his left arm. Pulling it back, he revealed a vicious bite wound, as if from a wild beast. The sting bloomed sharply only now.
Startled, he examined the body he now inhabited. His frame was small, clad in coarse, dust-covered rags. His hair was no longer black but a dull ash-brown, the color of bark.
This body was not his own.
A bitter realization struck him—it was the kind of cliché he had read so often. A fantasy game possession. But what game?
His mind searched, the bite wound and the prison offering the answer. This was
A game he had been obsessed with. Should he be glad? Had he not once wished to leave his stifling life behind, dreaming of becoming a hero in a fantasy world?
Yet there was one problem—this was no ordinary fantasy. This was a zombie apocalypse.
Damn it. Why hadn’t he obsessed over a traditional heroic RPG instead?
His spiraling thoughts were abruptly cut short by the loud crash of a door slamming open. Soldiers, their faces obscured by cloth masks, stormed in with spears at the ready.
“GRAAHH!!”
A figure writhed on the floor, skin pale and marred with black veins. The infected creature lunged toward the soldiers, snarling, only to be impaled through the chest. Dark-red blood sprayed across the stone floor.
A second spear pierced its skull with a sickening crack. The body fell limp.
Hic... The waif sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes wide with horror.
“N-No... Please…”
“Grrrrk…”
A woman knelt nearby, trembling as she pleaded for mercy. Yet the infection gnawed at her mind. Her body convulsed, her voice breaking into a guttural rasp. An elderly man, long resigned to his fate, scraped his fingers across the stone floor as he dragged himself forward, his voice a horrible croak.
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A spear flashed once more. His head split open, his body slumping lifelessly. Two corpses now lay in heaps.
“Stay where you are! One step, and you'll be cut down!” barked the guard.
Yes. This was it. The opening of *Plagueborn Saga.* The grim, unforgiving introduction to this nightmare world.
And he remembered what was coming next.
BOOM!
The cell door exploded inward, flames blossoming from behind it. Soldiers screamed as they were consumed by the blast, their bodies hurled aside. Firelight danced along the damp stone, painting the prison in flickering orange hues.
Through the smoke, three figures emerged, clad in black robes with deep hoods. The leader, holding a torch aloft, raised their voice.
“Fear not! We are here to offer you salvation!”
Would you truly sit here awaiting death? The world has cast you aside, labeling you as dangerous infected to be disposed of like vermin. But we... we offer you a chance to survive. Follow us, and you shall be spared!
The torch's flames made their shadows twist and writhe ominously. Of course. The Frayed Lifeline.
But for those imprisoned here, there were only two fates: death or transformation. Who could blame them for seeking escape, no matter the price?
The room stirred. Murmurs of hope rippled through the terrified prisoners. Even the dying woman on the ground, eyes filled with desperate longing, reached toward the dark mages.
“Dark mages…”
Yet there was defiance.
A young man, his body weak, staggered to his feet and blocked their path. Though trembling, his voice rang out, clear and determined.
“Do you think I would believe such lies…?! I'd rather die as a human than take the hand of a dark mage!”
The leader of the dark mages tilted thier head and raised a hand.
“Then, I shall grant your wish.”
A pulse of black magic surged forth.
The young man’s head was severed cleanly from his shoulders.
Thud. Thump. The head hit the stone first, followed by the body. Blood splattered across the prison floor.
“AAAHHH!!”
The screams echoed violently against the stone walls. The waif’s head pounded, vision spinning.
Is this real? The relentless cruelty numbed his senses, making everything feel like a distant nightmare.
The prisoners, paralyzed with terror, began to follow the dark mages in silence. The waif remained frozen, watching blankly.
Until one of the dark mages noticed him.
“You there. Come with us.”
A masked figure seized his left arm, yanking him roughly toward the door.
It was only an attempt.
CRASH!
Instinct kicked in. The waif twisted his arm free and lashed out. The dark mage’s body was flung back violently, slamming into the far wall with a dull crack. They slumped, unmoving.
What... was that?
He felt it—power, raw and surging. The strength of transformation.
Seeing this, the dark mage leader's eyes widened in shock.
“Impossible... A Pureborne Mutant! Capture him—intact!”
At their command, the remaining dark mages lunged.
The waif reacted. Grabbing one by the arm, he spun them like a rag doll, hurling them against the stone. BOOM! The wall fractured from the impact, dust billowing.
A flicker of satisfaction shot through his mind—a primal surge of power. But it was a trap.
The spell had already begun.
“The Slumbering Ancient!”
A massive shadow twisted into reality, the dark mage's silhouette stretching into a monstrous form. Across the hall, black tendrils surged forward, consuming the fleeing prisoners.
A blood circle ignited at the center of the room, glowing crimson. Sacrificial magic. The spell fueled by life itself.
Red chains shot from the circle, coiling around the waif's left arm. Then his right. Then his legs.
Finally, the chain wound around his throat. Choke. Gasp. No air.
Tears welled in his eyes. Is this how I die? In a world I barely understand?
His limbs went limp. Darkness crept at the edges of his vision.
Despair.
No. I can't die here!
Like a spark igniting a powder keg, something erupted inside him.
He held his breath—power surged from his heart, a storm of pure mana awakening within.