Azure Sky Empire, Stormvale Mountains – A Small, Shabby Hut
Ethan's head hurt so much, it felt like something sharp was drilling into his brain. He winced and his fingers twitched against the rough fabric around him. His whole body hurt, like he had been thrown from a great height. The air smelled damp, like old wood, paper, and a bit like metal.
Slowly, he opened his eyes.
Above him, the ceiling was made of wood, cracked, and stained in some places where water had leaked through. His vision was blurry at first, then it started to clear up. The room was small, only a few feet wide. There was an old, wobbly table in the corner, covered with scrolls and a little oil lamp. On a shelf, there were some neatly folded robes. The floor was uneven, with woven mats scattered around. The place smelled like damp earth and had the feel of an old, forgotten building.
Something didn't feel right. This wasn't his room. He gasped in surprise, his head hurting even more.
"Ethan! You're awake!" a voice said, making Ethan turn to look. A boy… probably in his late teens, his face was pale from exhaustion. He had dark, messy hair and wide, bloodshot eyes. His clothes were plain and slightly tattered, but his posture seemed familiar.
Ethan's throat felt like sandpaper as he rasped, "Where…?"
The boy let out a breath—half relief, half frustrated. "Damn it, Ethan. You scared the hell out of me! You've been out for three days!" He sat back, gripping his knees tightly. "I thought you were dead!"
Ethan frowned. Three days?
A cold sense of unease curled in his stomach, and his fingers dug into the rough blanket beneath him. And then slowly, the memories hit.
His name was Ethan Cross—an ordinary guy, an office worker stuck in a corporate rut. He was in his mid-twenties, a marketing consultant always drowning in reports, emails, and deadlines that never seemed to end. His life had been a predictable loop—wake up, grab coffee, battle through traffic, get yelled at by clients, then return home to a microwave dinner and mindless scrolling on his phone. No adventure. No excitement. Just work, work, and more work.
And yet—he had died.
He could still feel the last moments of his past life—the sudden swerve of the car, the hard crash, the taste of blood in his mouth. The airbag that hadn't gone off in time. Pain shot through his chest as his ribs broke. His vision blurred as he faded into darkness, with only the sound of chaos in his ears.
That was supposed to be the end. But here he was. Alive.
His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, with his mind spinning. His fingers flexed—stronger than they had ever been. The soreness in his muscles felt different, like remnants of training rather than mere fatigue.
The boy watching him leaned closer with concern on his face. "Hey… are you okay?"
Ethan swallowed hard. His voice, though hoarse, came out steadier this time. "I… I just need a second."
The boy sighed, rubbing his face. "Shit, man… I don't know how much you remember, but you really messed up this time. Those outer disciples nearly beat you to death."
Ethan blinked, his mind processing. Outer disciples?
His gaze dropped to his hands. His arms were lean, his skin rougher than before. His chest was tightly bandaged, the fabric pressing against sore ribs. Slowly, he pulled at the blanket covering him, only to see bruises marking his body—bruises that shouldn't be there.
This wasn't a hospital bed. This wasn't his world.
The boy's voice lowered in a wary tone. "Ethan…?"
Ethan hesitated. How was he supposed to explain this? That he was from another world? That he was supposed to be dead? He ran a hand through his hair, finding it longer than he remembered. A chill crawled up his spine. Whoever this body belonged to… it wasn't his. And yet, it was. He was Ethan Cross. But he also wasn't.
Memories began to came to him, memories that were not his own—a harsh master, grueling training, rained insults from fellow disciples. A boy, beaten and left in the dirt. A struggle for survival.
He looked up at the boy beside him, "Who… who am I?"
The boy's eyes widened slightly before his lips pressed into a thin line. "You're Ethan. Ethan Cross. An outer disciple of the Azure Sky Sect. We grew up together in the servant quarters before we got a chance to enter the sect. Don't tell me you've forgotten everything?"
Ethan exhaled sharply. So, his name hadn't changed. That was something. But the rest? A disciple? A sect?
The boy studied him for a moment before sighing. "Look, I get it. You took a bad beating. Maybe your head's messed up. But listen… You can't afford to be weak here. Those bastards who jumped you? They'll come again. You have to get stronger."
Stronger.
Ethan's breath came out slowly, but inside, his mind was a storm. This wasn't just some elaborate dream. The pain, the sensations, the memories in his mind—they were too vivid. Too real.
A sect. Outer disciples. A life he didn't recognize. What the heck was going on?
His stomach twisted with unease. "I… I need a moment," he muttered, gripping the blanket tighter.
The boy—his supposed friend—watched him with concern on his face. "Fine," he said before he stood up and stretched. "I'll grab some food. You need to eat if you're going to recover. Just… stay put, alright?"
Ethan barely registered him leaving. His gaze was fixed on his hands—on the strange strength in his fingers, the scars he didn't remember earning.
He inhaled shakily. This wasn't just waking up in a new place.
This was reincarnation.
And here he was, reincarnated as Ethan Cross—outer disciple of the Azure Sky Sect.
But what did that mean for him? What kind of world had he been thrown into?