The last thing Kael remembered was the taste of blood in his mouth.
His own blood.
The coppery tang filled his throat as he stumbled across the penthouse floor, one hand clutching his gut where the knife had found its mark. His brother's voice echoed in his ears.
"You should've seen this coming, Kael. You made too many enemies."
The skyline of New York shimmered beyond the tall glass windows, indifferent to the scene of betrayal unfolding at its feet. Kael Blackthorn, the man hailed as the youngest trillionaire CEO, collapsed in a pool of red with eyes still burning with vengeance. The world faded.
Only to reignite.
He awoke gasping.
But it wasn't the sterile white ceiling of a hospital room that greeted him. Instead, it was a sky the color of burning emeralds. Twin suns hovered above. The air smelled of earth and magic, thick with the cries of unseen beasts.
He was lying on a dirt road.
Naked. Bleeding. Weak.
But alive.
"Where... the hell?"
A voice responded before he could process the question.
"He's awake! The bastard's alive!"
Kael sat up instantly, only to be greeted by the sharp pain of cracked ribs and the rough laughter of teenage boys in armor that barely fit them. One of them approached and kicked him in the side.
"The bastard son of Lord Vareon just won't die, huh? Maybe we should fix that."
Kael looked up at the boy, something ancient stirring behind his reincarnated eyes.
So this is the game. A second life. From nothing again.
"Touch me again," Kael said, his voice a broken rasp, "and you'll never use that leg again."
The boy laughed—until Kael moved.
He didn't know how. Instinct or memory or something more. But before anyone could react, he had grabbed a broken branch and drove it into the boy's foot. A scream tore through the air.
"I said don't touch me."
The others fled in panic, dragging their friend with them. Kael stood, his body trembling but his mind clearer than it had ever been.
A new world.
A new chance.
---
He stumbled for hours, driven by the twin fires of vengeance and ambition. His destination meant nothing yet. But he knew what he wanted: power. He needed shelter, food, and knowledge of this world. He would rebuild, stronger than ever.
As twilight approached, he found a hut on the edge of a field, surrounded by strange violet grain. An old man stood outside, leaning on a hoe.
"You from the city?"
Kael shook his head. "No. I'm... I think I hit my head. I don't remember much."
The man studied him, then beckoned. "Come. You look like death warmed over. You can earn your meal."
Kael followed. Survival first. Conquest would come later.
---
Days passed. Kael learned quickly.
The world was called Ravedor. Magic was real. So were dragons.
Empires waged endless wars for territory, mana wells, and ancient artifacts. Nobility ruled like gods. Commoners lived short, brutal lives. And he was the bastard son of a disgraced prince who died rebelling against the crown. His name was Kael Vareon.
Perfect.
He had a name. A legacy of shame. And nothing to lose.
One night, he stood under the moonlight, staring at the stars. The old man—Garon—approached.
"You learn fast. Work hard. Got the look of a killer. Who were you before you lost your memory?"
Kael didn't smile. He looked up.
"A king. I just didn't have my crown yet."
---
One week later, Garon was dead. Killed by soldiers searching for rebel sympathizers.
Kael watched his only shelter burn.
He didn't weep.
He took the old man's dagger, stole a soldier's sword, and slipped away into the night.
He would not live quietly.
He would rise.
And one day, this entire world would burn or kneel.