"I hope this world burns."
The words slipped from Riven’s lips like a curse. A puff of white breath escaped his chapped mouth, dissolving into the cold air that blanketed the tall grassy hill where he lay hidden.
He crawled slowly through the damp undergrowth, his body smeared with dirt and dust. He was twenty years old, with olive-toned skin and messy black hair plastered to his sweat-soaked forehead. In his hands, he clutched a battered spyglass he’d bought after haggling with what little money he had.
His eyes were fixed on the battlefield raging below.
A wide stretch of land unfolded beneath the cliff where Riven lay. In the center of it, a war was unfolding—less like a military campaign and more like a nightmare made real. Thousands of soldiers clad in black armor—bearing the crest of the Arkham Kingdom—charged down the hills on horseback and foot. They wielded swords, spears, and magic, shouting in a tongue not everyone could understand.
And yet... their enemy was just one person.
Amid the storm of fire and shattering magic, Riven couldn’t make out the figure clearly. All he could see were explosions, shockwaves that shook the earth, and blinding flashes of light that split the sky like divine fury.
"What the hell is that...?" Riven muttered, squinting through the cracked lens of his spyglass. "Is it even... human?"
Entire squadrons were annihilated. The ground was torn asunder. Trees uprooted like weeds. Blood streamed like rivers, while the air was saturated with screams—cut off mid-howl, as if swallowed whole by the mist.
This wasn’t a battlefield.
It was a slaughterhouse.
"Damn this world!" Riven slammed his fist into the earth beside him, as if feeling the despair of the soldiers being torn apart below. "Why the hell was I reincarnated if I’m still poor and have to fight just to survive? You might as well have erased all my memories of my past life!"
His eyes reddened—not from dust or wind, but from years of frustration compacted into a single moment. Compared to the monsters fighting below, he felt small.
Insignificant.
If soldiers this powerful and numerous were being massacred like insects, what chance did he have?
"Shit!" he growled. "I want to go back—to Earth. I want to play games again, watch anime, listen to KPop—damn it! How the hell could I die before O** Piece even ends?!"
Riven—that was the name he used now—had once been an ordinary human from earth. A temp worker who died from sheer exhaustion in the modern world. Born into poverty in a tropical country, he’d grown up dreaming of becoming a competitive swimmer... but life had no patience for dreamers.
At fourteen, his father was paralyzed in a work accident. His mother walked out on them. As the eldest of eight, Riven had no choice. He quit school and took up whatever work he could find—cleaning swimming pools, waiting tables, delivering food, hauling bricks on construction sites.
His free time was spent sleeping, if at all.
He didn’t live for himself. He lived so others could.
And when his body finally gave out—collapsing mid-step on his way home, blood pouring from his nose—it was the end of everything.
Or... the beginning of something else.
In this new world, Riven was born into a poor family on the outskirts of the Belmore Kingdom—a world ruled by magic, monsters, and endless war. His parents died in a monster attack when he was twelve. The only one left was his little sister, Mira—the only reason he fought so desperately to stay alive.
To survive, Riven took the most dangerous path: scavenging weapons from battlefields. He snuck into ruins, looted corpses, and searched for swords or magic trinkets to sell on the black market.
It was disgusting. Risky. But there were no other options.
A day of honest labor in the markets might earn a crust of dry bread. But a single broken enchanted dagger? That could feed them for a month.
"If you have nothing," he once told Mira, "you have to be brave enough to take risks."
That was the first law for those born without choices.
Even with nothing but his sister in this world, Riven still dreamed of a better life. That was why he saved every coin he could—risking life and limb to do it.
Today, armed with a rusted sword stolen from a fallen soldier two weeks ago, Riven had climbed the northern ridge beyond the fortress. He slipped through tall golden grass into a hill overlooking a cursed plain. Word had it a massive battle would erupt here. He’d heard it from a drunk old knight at a tavern the night before.
And now... the promised hell had come.
"Who the hell is that...?" he whispered.
He still couldn’t see the figure. Shrouded in smoke and mist, all he could catch were flashes—waves of dark energy sweeping through entire companies in a single motion. Sometimes, the sky itself split open as if welcoming a god descending from the heavens.
"An Archmage? A demi god? Or a monster pretending to be a man?"
Suddenly, the ground beneath him quaked. A massive fireburst detonated from the center of the battlefield, sending a wave of heat that singed the grass.
Riven nearly dropped the spyglass.
Then—footsteps.
Light. Soft. But distinct.
Just enough to make Riven’s breath catch.
He lowered the spyglass, heart thudding. His fingers reached for the hilt at his waist—the sword he’d looted, now his only defense.
He held his breath. His pulse pounded in his ears like war drums.
The footsteps were coming from behind.
Riven steadied himself, trying not to make a sound. His eyes darted cautiously across the fog-veiled grass.
And then... a silhouette.
A man. Moving slowly. Each step deliberate.