Cold.
Jesus Christ!
Why is it so cold?
Alucent's eyes snapped open to unfamiliar rafters above him. His hands shot up to his throat automatically.
The knife. Where's the- It should be here, right here...
His fingers searched frantically but found nothing. Just smooth skin. What the hell happened?
The memory hit him like a truck: 07:08 PM on June 30, 2025. That graffiti-strewn warehouse 5 kilometers east of Ashwood Heights, walls covered in spray paint and broken dreams. Those rogue cultists in rotting robes chanting like they were summoning actual demons from whatever hell they crawled out of. And the knife, God, that rusty piece of shit slicing through his throat like butter. He remembered choking on his own blood, the metallic taste flooding his mouth as everything pooled on that disgusting concrete floor.
I died. I know I died. I felt my life drain out through my fingers.
But here he was, sitting on some narrow bed that definitely wasn't his sagging beige sofa back at 14 Willow Lane, breathing air that was thick and musty. The smell hit him like a wall - old wood, dampness, and something else. Warm mist drifting from vents in the walls, carrying the scent of heated metal and steam.
This isn't my cramped living room with the 42-inch TV and those outdated outlets that never worked right. This sure as hell isn't home.
Where the fuck am I? What happened after those freaks slit my throat?
He swung his legs over the edge and immediately knew something was very, very wrong. His hands looked completely different. Way bigger, stronger. These weren't the soft hands of someone who'd spent years hunched over a keyboard surviving on ramen and cheap coffee.
The chipped frosted glass pane in the window rattled as wind hit it, and his reflection made his stomach drop. Same mind, but everything else was different. Piercing blue eyes instead of brown. Black curly hair falling down to shoulders that were way too broad. A face that was actually handsome, with a jawline that could cut glass.
These aren't my hands. This isn't my face. What did those psychos do to me?
He was younger too. Maybe twenty-two, definitely not the exhausted twenty-six-year-old data analyst who counted every dollar because Mom's medical bills ate through everything. This body was tall - had to be at least 6'2" - and had actual muscles that responded when he flexed. Energy pulsed through him, something warm and electric that definitely hadn't existed when he was Elias Reed.
This is completely insane. The name in his head felt foreign but somehow right: Alucent Luci.
How do I know that name? Why does it feel like it belongs to me now?
As his panic started settling into something more manageable, more stuff began flooding his mind. Memories that definitely weren't his memories. Someone else's life bleeding into his consciousness like water through a cracked dam.
The cottage creaked around him with every gust of wind, and he realized the whole place was made of something called Ironvine Wood. The knowledge just appeared in his brain, complete with the understanding that this stuff was expensive and built to last. But this place was falling apart anyway.
How do I know what Ironvine Wood is? I've never even heard of that before in my life.
He stood up, testing his balance in this stolen body. The floorboards groaned under his weight, and that frosted glass window kept rattling like something was trying to get in from outside.
Moving through the cottage was like walking through someone else's fever dream. The parlor had these walls covered in embossed crimson damask wallpaper that used to be nice but now looked like old blood in the dim light. A chandelier made of frosted glass droplets hung crooked from the ceiling, designed for oil flames instead of the electric lights he was used to back in his modest apartment.
Everything's broken. Everything's falling apart. Just fucking great.
But wait... his mind started calculating even while he was freaking out. Broken things meant cheap. And cheap meant opportunity if you were smart enough to fix them up. All those years watching every penny disappear into medical bills while Mom got sicker and sicker suddenly seemed relevant.
Why am I thinking about money right now? I should be having a complete mental breakdown. But honestly, focusing on practical stuff beats panicking about whatever nightmare I've landed in.
The confusion was still there, making his head pound, but he could think clearer now. Even his childhood of financial hardship was starting to make sense in this context.
Even in whatever world this is, money probably still keeps you alive.
The kitchen was completely different from his outdated oak cabinets and that faulty gas stove that never heated evenly. Here there was this cold coal stove surrounded by unheated kettles, all connected by a network of brass pipes. Everything ran on steam apparently, part of some Steam Power System that his borrowed memories understood but he definitely didn't.
Steam Power System. The knowledge materialized in his brain like someone had downloaded it there, complete with muscle memory of how to operate the damn things.
In the main hall, he found this contraption his hijacked memories called a Steamsewer. It was like someone had taken a Victorian sewing table and merged it with a small brass boiler. The gears were completely seized up and the gauges read zero, but the thing looked like it had cost serious money when it actually worked.
Inherited memories. From who though? What happened to whoever used to live in this body? Did I kill him just by existing here?
The basement was where things got really interesting. There was this whole workshop setup called a Forgepit - anvil, bellows, coal-fired hearth, all part of the Steam Power System for crafting stuff. Cold and abandoned, but the equipment looked solid. Professional grade.
Workshop means income potential. Income means I don't starve to death while figuring out what the hell happened to me.
The air down here was damp and carried that same warm mist from the steam vents throughout the cottage. His sharp mind, the same money-focused thinking that had kept him and Mom afloat during the worst times, immediately started assessing repair costs and profit margins.
His fingers absently played with something on his left hand, and he froze. There was a ring there, actually glowing with this faint light and pulsing warm against his skin. The sight of it brought back every detail of the ritual: those rogue cultists chanting in languages that made his ears hurt, symbols carved into the warehouse floor with surgical precision, the pure terror as that rusty blade came down on his throat.
This ring. This Weave Anchor ring. The name appeared in his head unbidden. This damn thing is connected to everything that happened.
He tried pulling it off, twisting and yanking until his finger started bleeding, but it wouldn't budge. Like it had grown into his skin or fused to his bone.
Back in the kitchen, there was a note on the table. All fancy handwriting and official seals, the kind of bureaucratic bullshit that meant trouble. Something about "cottage assignment approved" and "summons to the Scribe's Tower" and "compliance with Rune Covenant traditions."
Politics and bureaucracy wrapped up in polite threats. Some things are apparently universal constants.
Sir Vorn. The name felt heavy when he read it, loaded with authority and the kind of power that didn't like being ignored. Someone who expected absolute obedience and probably had creative ways of dealing with people who disappointed him.
Scratching at the door broke his train of thought. He opened it to find a skinny gray cat staring at him with that look cats get when they want food. At least some things made sense.
"You hungry?" he asked, then stopped. His voice was different too. Deeper, rougher, like it belonged to someone who'd screamed more and laughed less. The cat didn't give a shit about his identity crisis and just rubbed against his legs, purring.
At least cats are universal constants, even in nightmare dimensions.
About ten minutes later, while looking through cabinets for something to eat, Alucent became aware of something else flowing through the air around him. Like that feeling right before a thunderstorm, but constant and alive. Energy moving through everything - the steam vents, the pipes, the very walls of the cottage. Runeforce, his borrowed memories whispered. The power source that kept this whole Steam-Rune Age civilization running.
How do I know this stuff? Whose memories am I carrying around like stolen luggage? And what happened to the guy who used to own this body?
He could feel it now, this Runeforce, responding to his attention like it was waiting for him to figure out how to use it. Part of some Rune Energy System that his hijacked brain understood on an instinctive level but terrified him on every other level.
The cottage kept making its settling noises around him, wood creaking and pipes hissing. Outside it was getting dark, and the shadows through that chipped frosted glass were starting to look like things that shouldn't exist.
I'm alone in a falling-down house in some other world, wearing someone else's body, with magic I don't understand and people expecting me to follow orders I never agreed to.
Could this actually be Metempsychosis? His mouth went dry.
He'd read tons of web novels about exactly this scenario. Always thought it would be cool, getting a second chance with knowledge and power. Turns out when it actually happens, it's terrifying as hell. Every breath felt like theft, every heartbeat a reminder that he was walking around in a dead man's skin.
This is definitely one of those "be careful what you wish for" situations.
If his head wasn't still aching and his body didn't feel so wrong, if the trauma of having his throat slit wasn't still searing through his mind in waves, he might think this was all some kind of fever dream.
Okay, calm down. Deep breaths. He tried to stop his mind from spiraling into panic mode.
Basic survival first. Food, shelter, security. Figure out the magic and politics later.
But as he knelt down to examine the cold coal stove, running his fingers over brass fittings that were green with age, that Weave Anchor ring pulsed again. Warmer this time, more insistent. And with it came this certainty that scared the shit out of him: whatever killed Elias Reed and created Alucent Luci was just the beginning. There were bigger plans in motion, and he was part of them whether he wanted to be or not.
I'm either going to figure out how to play this game, or I'm going to get played. And I probably don't get to choose which one.
The steam vents made these soft hissing sounds throughout the cottage, like the place was breathing. The Ironvine Wood kept creaking its rhythm, and somewhere out there in the gathering dark, the world kept turning. He closed his eyes and tried to feel that Runeforce flowing around him like something he was just starting to understand but already feared.
Tomorrow there's this Sir Vorn summons and whatever's waiting at the Scribe's Tower. Tonight, I need to figure out how to survive in a world that runs on steam and magic and probably human sacrifice.
Broken things are just opportunities for someone smart enough to fix them. And these hands, whatever else they might be good for, definitely know how to work with tools and machinery. The muscle memory was already there, skills he'd never learned but somehow possessed.
They probably know how to break things too, when it's necessary.
The thought surprised him, but he didn't push it away. In this new world, knowing how to break things might be just as useful as knowing how to fix them. Maybe more useful.
The cat had wandered over to the cold stove and was giving him that expectant stare again. Right. Feed the cat first.Then figure out how to not die in a world where death is apparently just another form of employment.
At least I've got a starting point now. A workshop, equipment that can be repaired, and a mind that understands profit margins even when everything else has gone completely insane.
Things could definitely be worse. Though given where I am and what happened to get me here, they'll probably get worse soon enough.