10:35 PM — Somewhere in the United States
The office was cloaked in the hush of a late hour, the only sound the rhythmic tapping of keys against plastic.
Click. Clack. Click.
Dim fluorescent light spilled from a desk lamp, casting long shadows across the mountain of energy drink cans and ramen-stained paper. The blue glow of the monitor lit up the hunched figure of Alaric Thorne, a 28-year-old software engineer with a résumé that could impress any recruiter—and eye bags deep enough to make a raccoon blush.
"One last push," he whispered, fingers dancing with mechanical precision.
With a final keystroke, the build compiled. No errors. He clicked 'Send'.
A pop-up confirmed deployment.
Done.
Alaric slumped back in his chair, groaning as his spine protested years of desk slavery.
"Project Horizon, finished," he muttered. "And yet, no parade. No confetti. Just glorious silence."
He ran a hand through his messy black hair, then reached for his phone. 68 unread messages. Most were group chats he hadn't opened in weeks. A few were emails about his GitHub contributions. Zero from real friends.
He sighed, powering down the workstation. The screen faded to black.
Outside — 11:01 PM
The city pulsed with life even at night. Neon signs flickered with artificial cheer, and the streets buzzed with conversations, engines, and the quiet hum of drones delivering midnight snacks.
Alaric stepped out of the building, greeted by the bite of winter wind and the smell of concrete.
He paused to breathe it all in.
"Still beautiful," he murmured, eyes lifting to the skyline.
Glass towers reached toward the stars like frozen titans. The moon was high, pale and watching.
He walked, each step heavy. The air, the street, the weight of years on his back—all familiar. But tonight felt different.
A chime drew his attention.
Convenience Store — 11:17 PM
The fluorescent lights inside buzzed overhead as he made his selection: two cans of his favorite IPA. The cashier—a sleepy teenager with earbuds in—barely glanced at him.
"Keep the change," Alaric said, sliding a bill over the counter.
Back outside, he cracked a can open and took a long swig. The bitterness grounded him. His phone buzzed again.
Mom - Incoming Call
His face softened.
"Hey, Mom."
Her voice was the warmth he hadn't felt all day. "It's late. Are you just getting off work?"
"Just now," he said. "Sent the build through. It's done."
"Alaric… you need to take care of yourself."
"I know. But I sent a little extra with the usual. You and Dad should try that Korean place you like."
"You always think of us first. But what about you?"
He smiled, though it didn't reach his eyes. "My idea of self-care is finishing on time."
"Promise me you'll rest. Even if it's just for a weekend."
"I promise, Mom. I love you."
"Love you too, my boy."
The call ended. For a moment, he just stared at the photo on his lock screen—his graduation day, arms around his proud parents. That smile felt like a different life.
He checked Instagram out of habit. A beach selfie from a former classmate in Bali. Another sipping wine in Florence. Alaric swiped through their curated lives, the smiles, the success.
He shut the app.
"Good for them," he said flatly.
He popped the second can open, crossing the street toward the subway entrance.
Crosswalk — 11:35 PM
The light turned green. Alaric stepped forward.
HOOOOOOOONK!!!
A wall of blinding headlights tore through the night. Screams erupted around him. Tires shrieked.
He turned just in time to see the truck barreling toward him.
Time slowed.
A thousand images flashed—his childhood, his first computer, the moment he told his parents he'd gotten the job. Nights alone. Dreams postponed. Sacrifices stacked like bricks.
And then—impact.
His body crumpled. The world spun. His beer can flew from his grip, rolling across the asphalt.
Pain. Cold. Then nothing.
Elsewhere…
Wind whispered through broken glass. The musty scent of old stone and wood filled the air.
Moonlight streamed through tall windows, revealing rows of steel-frame beds lined with sleeping children. Blankets rose and fell with soft breathing.
Suddenly—
A sharp gasp.
A boy jolted upright in one of the beds, eyes wild, chest heaving.
"Haa… Haa…!"
Sweat soaked through his thin tunic. He clutched his chest, heart pounding.
Where… am I…?
He looked around—dusty rafters, a creaking floor, beds lined like an orphanage from a forgotten time.
He glanced down at his hands.
Small. Fragile. A child's.
"What the hell…?" he whispered.
A sharp knock of pain pierced his skull. Memories clashed. A thousand voices screamed within.
"Alaric?"
A soft voice. A girl, maybe his age—or rather, this body's age—sat on the bed beside his.
"You fainted again… during tag," she said. Her green eyes were wide with worry. "I was so scared. I thought you weren't waking up."
She wiped at her face, tears smudged across her cheeks.
Alaric opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came.
She leaned forward and touched his forehead gently.
"No fever," she murmured. "That's good. Do you remember anything?"
He stared at her. Her face was unfamiliar, but… kind.
Then it hit him.
He wasn't in the U.S. anymore. Not even close.
New memories surged—of an orphanage called Ebonreach, of caretakers with strict eyes and cold hands. Of a strange land named Verdaal, where Lords wielded powers granted by a godlike entity known only as Nytherion.
His vision blurred. The clash of memories—old life and new—overwhelmed him.
He clutched his head, groaning. The pain returned, fierce.
The world spun. His eyes rolled back.
Darkness claimed him again.
And so began the second life of Alaric Thorne—reborn into a world shaped by power, shattered by cataclysm, and ruled by those chosen in a rite he had never heard of… but would soon face.