Hours after waking in this broken husk of a world, Soren had already stopped expecting rescue.
The sun never moved. The clouds above glowed an unnatural red, like the sky had been bled dry.
He sat alone on a shattered concrete, overlooking the remnants of a once-bustling industrial zone. Machines rusted in place. Towers had collapsed into skeletal frames. There were no birds. No wind. Just the steady creak of metal buckling in the heat.
Every few minutes, a distant moan echoed from the plains beyond.
He hadn't seen the infected up close yet. But he'd heard them, scraping, limping, murmuring to no one. The sound reminded him of dying servers in overheating gaming rigs, only organic. Twisted.
This young body he now occupied ached with every movement. His joints cracked. His skin itched with something that felt like decay. When he caught his reflection in a pool of black water, he had to look away.
Not a glitch. Not a model bug.
That was him now.
From what he could piece together—fragments of memory stitched to instincts that weren't his, this wasn't a movie set. This wasn't some far-off world. This was Earth.
This world felt real. Or real enough.
An Earth scorched by nuclear fire, tainted by radiation. A world where the dead walked and mutation reigned. At the doorway of a crumbling hut, Soren stared up at the grey sky, his face locked in silent conflict.
Yes, this was Earth. But he was no longer himself.
Just one day ago, he had been gaming online. Now, he inhabited a stranger's body—living again, under a new name.
Behind him, in the husk of a shelter, a small cough broke the stillness. Weak. Ragged.
"Brother…"
From the hut emerged a frail young girl. Her movements were sluggish, her skin darkened and patchy, her hair brittle and yellowed, her face creased with leathery skin hardened into horn-like calluses. She looked grotesque.
Ugly.
Soren felt a bitter twist of irony. Her appearance might be awful, but his own was no better. Wrinkled gray skin, a small withered frame, sparse hair—he was the enhanced version of her deformity. He raised a hand to his cheek. The skin cracked beneath his fingers. A sticky fluid oozed from the split callus. Disgusting. Putrid.
"…What is it, little sis?"
He reached out, gently brushing her head. The thinness of her hair made his chest ache. With this body, he had inherited its memories too—and with them, a brother's instinctive care.
"Hungry…"
Her lips barely moved. The word came out as a whisper. Her voice was nearly swallowed by the hot stillness, but Soren heard it clearly.
"Hold on a little longer. I'll go work soon. Then we'll have something to eat." He lowered his hand, sadness flickering in his eyes.
He stood, picked up the rusted pickaxe from beside the doorway, and walked toward the rear of the hut. Calling it a hut was generous—two half-standing walls, a tattered sheet, and a handful of straw. Still, it was all they had.
He trudged northward. This was Extraction Zone T1193. The only job available: coal mining.
On his way, he passed by other darkened humanoid figures crawling across the dirt. Some were missing arms. Others, entire halves of their bodies. He recognized a few—he had spoken to them before. Now they were infected, mutated, dying.
"Hel—help…"
One of them reached toward him. Half its face was missing. Mucus oozed from its body, staining the dirt. Just days ago, that person had worked in the same zone. Now, he was little more than a decaying corpse.
Soren quickened his pace, fear coiling in his gut. Not just fear—but something deeper, nameless.
"Stop right there!"
At the gate to the zone, two guards armed with rifles barked the command as Soren approached.
"I'm here to work," he said calmly, lowering his gaze in submission.
"Your twiggy body won't last another trip, kid," one sneered. "You'll end up like those things outside. Just meat."
"I know."
Soren glanced toward the writhing forms on the ground and said nothing more.
"Then get in. Try not to die—we're not in the mood to drag your corpse out."
Waving dismissively, the guard let him through.
Soren gripped the pickaxe tighter, stepped forward without a word. T1193 had multiple pits, each classified by yield. The richer the vein, the deeper the pit—and the deeper the pit, the heavier the radiation. Today, he was heading to one of the worst: a nearly depleted shaft, drenched in radiation.
He knew this from the memories in his new body. But he couldn't turn back. His body needed food. His sister needed food. If he didn't dig, they'd starve by tomorrow or the next day.
Outside the zone, the world was swarming with the infected. There was no food, no shelter. This job, dangerous as it was, was all he had left. Dignity? Pride? Those were luxuries for a dead world.
Eventually, the pit came into view—dark, filthy, the entrance stained with blood and rotting flesh. Leftovers from the workers who hadn't made it out.
"Move! Out of the way!" Two soldiers in gray uniforms dragged a corpse from the tunnel.
"Damn it, should've never let that freak in. Now I've gotta haul him out. If I get infected from this dump, I swear—"
One soldier muttered curses as he worked.
"Kid," he snapped at Soren, "don't push yourself. You drop dead in there, I'm the one who's gotta fetch your corpse."
"Thanks," Soren replied quietly.
The soldier blinked. "Did—did you just thank me?" He looked at his partner like he'd seen a ghost.
"Forget it," his partner muttered. "Let's get these bodies outta here."
Soren hadn't meant anything by it. It was just normal courtesy. The soldier had warned him, after all. But in this twisted world, even basic manners felt alien.
He stepped deeper Into the mine. The stench worsened with every step—decay and despair thick in the air.
Clang!
The sharp sound of metal hitting stone echoed ahead. After walking for what felt like ages, Soren finally heard another miner—no, not saw, but heard. The tunnel was too dark to see anything clearly.
He paused, lifted his pickaxe, preparing to begin.
"Back off. This is my spot," growled a raspy voice from the shadows. The tone was hostile, territorial.
"Understood."
Soren moved on. He wasn't about to provoke anyone in this unfamiliar world.
A satisfied grunt echoed behind him as he passed.
After weaving through more workers—ten, maybe more—the tunnel finally grew quiet. He'd reached nearly a kilometer in. There, he found an abandoned coal cart.
"Lucky. At least there's a cart here," he muttered.
The zone didn't provide tools. Just carts. Miners had to bring and maintain their own gear—something many of them couldn't afford.
He caught his breath. Even walking this far had taxed his weakened body. Raising the pickaxe, he struck the wall with all his might.
Suddenly, a voice rang inside his head.
[Skill trace detected. Activating interface…]
[Incorrect angle: 93 degrees. Force output inefficient. Low accuracy. Low yield. Poor efficiency.]
[Recommended angle: 43 degrees upward. Force: 30kg. Tense arms. One fluid motion.]
Data flooded his mind. A screen appeared—exactly like the one he'd seen in a game just days ago.
[You have unlocked: SYSTEM INTERFACE]
Soren stumbled backward, drenched in sweat.
[System initialization complete. Binding in progress…]
[Binding complete.]
The voice continued coldly, ignoring his shock.
A new screen lit up in his mind:
Name: Soren
Class: Blade Initiate
Strength: 10
Agility: 10
Intelligence: 9
Skills: None
Skill Points Remaining: 1
"What… What is this? Why is there a game screen in my head?"
He knew this setup well. It was a typical character sheet from a game. But how—how had he become a game character?
Then it hit him.
This was the game he had registered for the night before.