Darkness.
Absolute darkness stretched in all directions, an endless void where no light dared trespass.
It was not merely the absence of sight but a presence, heavy and oppressive, swallowing all sense of time and space.
A single orb of light, no larger than a fist, pierced this abyss.
It floated with purpose, a solitary beacon threading through the infinite.
The darkness parted like a curtain, revealing intricate lines — cosmic threads weaving through space, binding universes to galaxies, galaxies to planets, all tethered by that singular, shimmering strand.
The orb, cloaked in a faint green aura, endured its journey unscathed. It descended toward a violet-hued planet, slicing through clouds and atmosphere with silent grace.
Below, a city sprawled, its skyline a blend of sleek skyscrapers and ancient temples, gravity-defying spires glowing with Aether.
The orb slipped through an open window into a cluttered apartment, where books and clothes lay strewn like casualties of a storm.
It hovered above a young man on a bed, his sunken eyes closed, his breathing shallow. With a soft pulse, the orb plunged into his chest.
A purple glow flared around him, fierce and fleeting, before fading into stillness.
…
Damien jolted awake, his heart pounding like a war drum.
His eyes flickered, struggling to make sense of the ceiling above — a cracked plaster monstrosity that looked nothing like the peeling paint of his old, rundown house back on Earth.
'Earth?'
The word felt distant, like a half-remembered dream.
He swung his legs over the bed's edge, wincing as his bare feet brushed a crumpled bag of... what were these?
He picked up the packet, squinting at the neon label: Energy Chips: Aether-Infused Crunch!
"The hell are Energy Chips?" he muttered, his voice hoarse, unfamiliar. He tore the bag open and sniffed.
Not bad — kind of like barbecue with a zing that made his tongue tingle. He popped one in his mouth, and damn, it was better than any potato chip he'd ever tasted.
But the room around him? That was a disaster.
Clothes were flung over chairs, books splayed open on the floor, and more Energy Chip bags littered every surface.
"This guy's a slob," he grumbled, then froze.
'This guy?'
He stood, his legs wobbling like a newborn colt's, and shuffled to a cracked mirror propped against the wall.
The face staring back stopped him cold.
Sharp cheekbones, a jawline that could cut glass, and stormy gray eyes under a mop of jet-black hair.
He was absurdly handsome, the kind of face that'd make Instagram models weep with envy.
But it wasn't just the looks — it was the familiarity. He'd seen this face before, not in a mirror, but in ink and animation.
His stomach lurched as the pieces clicked.
"Holy crap," he whispered, gripping the mirror's edges. "I'm Damien Blade."
Elijah Grayson, retired military vet and lifelong novel junkie, had read enough isekai to know what was up.
He'd died — probably that heart attack he'd felt coming after one too many late-night Chronicles of the Divine Clans binges — and somehow ended up reincarnated in the body of a side character from his favorite series.
Chronicles wasn't just any story; it rivaled Shadow Slave and The Beginning After the End in his world, with a novel, a manhwa with jaw-dropping art, and an anime that made every frame a masterpiece.
And it DID NOT get the TBATE treatment.
And Damien? Poor bastard was an extra, a nobody who got maybe two pages of screentime before biting the dust.
Damien Blade, heir to the Hephaestus Clan, was supposed to inherit a fiery, world-shaking Blessing from the god of flames.
Instead, he got saddled with a "lame" Blessing from Xiphoros, the minor god of swords.
The clan, humiliated, banished him, and during the Academy of Divine Trials' Entrance Exam, his own clansmen ganged up on him.
Off-screen, unceremonious death. No mourning, no legacy. Just a footnote in a story that moved on without him.
Elijah ran a hand through his new, ridiculously perfect hair. "Well, that's not happening this time," he said, smirking.
He knew every plot twist, every monster, every backstab in Chronicles. If he was stuck in Damien's body, he'd rewrite the script like every Extra did in a novel they reincarnated in.
No way was he dying on some monster-infested island. But first, he needed to figure out where he stood.
Was the original Damien dead? Did their souls merge? And where was the obligatory system pop-up that every isekai protagonist got?
He sat back on the bed, crunching another Energy Chip — seriously, these things were addictive — and stared at the ceiling.
"Come on, system. Don't leave me hanging. I've read enough of this crap to know you're coming."
As if on cue, his vision shimmered. Glowing runes, sharp and cryptic, materialized in the air, pulsing with a faint purple light.
The words were strange, almost poetic, and carried a weight that made his skin prickle. He leaned forward, reading aloud as the runes burned into his mind:
---
O, Great Host, who braved the void's embrace,
Through trials of the multiverse, thou hast found thy place.
Soul of host and shell entwined, in fusion's sacred art,
Thy will prevails, the stronger heart.
The Devourer wakes, its hunger thine to claim,
Welcome, Damien Blade, to Artherus' flame.
---
The runes faded, replaced by a translucent panel hovering before him, like a holographic game interface. It read:
---
System Awakening Complete
Host: Damien Blade
Souls Claimed: [0/1000]
Status: Initiate, Neophyte Realm
Blessing: Bladebond (Xiphoros)
Aspect: Edge of Memory
Flaw: Phantom Cuts
---
Damien blinked, his jaw dropping.
"Devourer System? That's... ominous as hell."
He'd expected something standard, like a skill tree or a stat boost, but souls? This was straight out of Shadow Slave's darker corners.
The system's name alone screamed trouble, and in a world ruled by clans and gods, "Devourer" didn't exactly sound like a crowd-pleaser.
Still, if it meant power, he'd take it. He had two months until the Academy Entrance Exam, a seven-day death trap on Vrykolakas Island.
If he wanted to survive — hell, if he wanted to even thrive — he needed to get moving.
He stood, testing his new body. It was lean, agile, but untrained, like a sports car with no driver.
Elijah's military discipline kicked in. First, clean up this pigsty. He kicked a pile of clothes aside, grimacing at a half-eaten Energy Chip bag stuck to his foot.
"Kid, you lived like a raccoon," he muttered, then caught himself.
'I'm the kid now.'
It was a weird thought.