The glow of the monitor was the only source of light in the darkened office. Shadows stretched long across the floor, cast by empty chairs and desks covered in discarded energy drink cans. The air was thick with exhaustion, the kind that seeps into bones and settles like a parasite.
A young guy in his 20s, sat hunched over his keyboard, fingers moving mechanically, the soft clack of keystrokes the only sound in the room. His team—his friends—were all sprawled out on whatever surface they could find, drained of energy, unconscious.
One slumped against their desk, while the other curled up in their chair. But he remained. He had to.
3 AM.
Again.
His vision blurred, his body screamed for rest, but his mind—his stubborn, cursed mind—kept churning. A dozen browser tabs were open, displaying documentation, error logs, and half-finished lines of code. This had to work. It wasn’t just another late-night grind session; it was the final stretch.
Tomorrow’s demo would decide everything. or— Today more accurately
His pulse pounded like a war drum.
Why am I doing this to myself?
He forced the thought away. No time for that. No time for doubt.
Two hours of sleep yesterday. The same the night before. If he let fatigue win now, the past weeks—no, months—of struggle would mean nothing.
Three tasks left on the kanban board.
Two.
One.
With a final keystroke, he pushed the last commit. A message popped up.
All tests passed.
Relief crashed over him like a tidal wave. His hands trembled as he leaned back in his chair, exhaling shakily. He did it. He actually did it.
He looked at the clock, it was 5 AM now.
Cold.
Why was it so cold?
His fingers felt numb. His breathing slowed. His eyelids drooped. He was too tired to stand, too tired to find a blanket. The exhaustion was finally winning.
His head lolled to the side. His vision darkened.
Then—
A flash.
A glint of silver.
A scythe.
The air itself seemed to split, rending open a void of infinite black. Cold unlike anything he'd ever known seeped into his bones, crawling up his spine. He wanted to move, to fight—to do something—but his body wouldn’t obey.
The scythe hovered in the air before him, its blade curving wickedly, wreathed in shadows. He could see frost forming on its surface. A presence loomed behind it, unseen but vast.
His breath caught in his throat.
Then—
Nothing.
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
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Light.
Bright, blinding, all-encompassing.
A cacophony of sound. Voices. Warmth.
Pain.
Every inch of his body ached, like he’d been torn apart and stitched back together. His lungs seized as he gasped desperately for air.
"Uwaaassdh!"
A laugh—deep, booming. Familiar, yet completely foreign.
"HAHAHA! Isn’t he a lively one!"
A softer voice followed, filled with warmth.
"He’s cute! His name shall be Bo Lin."
What is this? He didn't understand the muffled sounds. He could make out two shapes but his vision was too blurry.
A weight settled over him. Small. Weak. Helpless.
His body wasn’t his own.
He was a baby.
The realization hit like a hammer.
He tried to move, to speak—to protest—but his tiny limbs flailed uselessly. His body betrayed him, incapable of anything but an exhausted, wailing cry.
And as that exhaustion claimed him once more, only one thought remained.
What just happened?
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The first week, The world was a haze.
Bo Lin floated between wakefulness and sleep, caught in a fog of fractured memories and strange emotions. He knew things he shouldn't. Names, concepts, words that held meaning yet felt distant—like echoes of a past life. But whenever he tried to grasp them, to piece together the fragments of his mind, the fog remained, not allowing him to pass.
Yet, amidst the haze, one thing remained clear: he was a baby. A helpless, swaddled, mewling infant.
The days passed in a monotonous cycle of sleep, warmth, hunger, and muffled voices. The only thing that anchored him was the presence of his parents.
As more time went on his vision started improving and the sounds were less muffled now.
His father, Bo Chen, was a towering presence in his world. Whenever he returned from his duties—whatever they were—he would stride into the small home with purpose, remove his outer robe, and immediately scoop Bo Lin from his crib with a tenderness that belied his rough hands.
"How is my little warrior today?" Bo Chen would say, his deep voice vibrating through Bo Lin’s tiny frame.
Of course Bo Lin didn't understand the language and whenever people spoke he tried his hardest to listen and understand what they're saying.
His Father would lift Bo Lin high into the air, his calloused hands supporting his fragile body, making exaggerated faces and spinning him in circles. Bo Lin, against his better judgment, couldn’t help but squeal in delight.
Laughter.
A father’s warmth.
Something deep inside him ached. A feeling he couldn’t explain.
As the days went on this continued and his vision began to become better.
But not everyone was pleased.
Bo Lin began to notice that the other children—siblings? Cousins? He wasn’t sure—looked on with jealousy. Their small faces twisted in frustration as their father ignored them, choosing instead to dote on the newborn. He could hear their whispers, their complaints? (probably), even if he couldn’t understand.
"Why does Father only play with him?"
"He’s just a baby! He can’t even talk!"
"Hmph. Maybe he’ll stop caring when Bo Lin is bigger."
But his mother, Yu Fen, was the one who truly unsettled him.
She was quiet, observant. Where Bo Chen was all warmth and strength, she was keen-eyed and thoughtful. She noticed things others didn’t. And Bo Lin could feel her gaze lingering on him too often.
It started subtly.
A tilt of her head when he turned towards voices faster than he should have. A lingering stare when he reacted to sounds far too precisely for a newborn.
Then, one day, she said his name aloud while folding clothes.
"Bo Lin."
He turned his head. Instinctively.
Her hands stopped.
Silence.
Then she said it again.
"Bo Lin."
Again, he reacted.
Her breath hitched.
That night, as Bo Lin drifted between sleep and wakefulness, his mother was whispering to Bo Chen.
"He recognizes his name," she said, her voice hushed yet urgent.
Bo Chen chuckled. "Of course he does. He’s my son. A sharp one, no doubt!"
"You don’t understand," Yu Fen pressed. "He’s weeks old, Bo Chen. Even noble bloodline infants don’t show this level of awareness. And we…" She hesitated. "We are not noble blood."
A pause.
Bo Chen exhaled slowly. "You’re reading too much into it."
Yu Fen didn’t argue further.
She was watching him.
At one month old, the fog in Bo Lin’s mind had begun to lift, if only slightly.
His eyes were sharper now, taking in details he had been blind to before. He could track movements better. He recognized faces. And with recognition came a creeping, inescapable realization:
He was someone before this.
He just didn’t know who.
And that terrified him.