In the bustling city of Valerion, the air was thick with the noise of honking mana vehicles, endless chatter, and the occasional street vendor shouting about roasted meat or glowing crystals.
Among the crowd, a young man—around eighteen years old—pushed his way through lazily, his expression twisted in annoyance. He wore a dark blue t-shirt and faded jeans, blending perfectly into the sea of ordinary faces. His black hair was messy, and his eyes, just as dark, carried a mixture of boredom and barely-contained irritation.
"Hah... here goes another day in this shitty city," he muttered under his breath.
His name was Amon.
He didn’t look special. In fact, most people bumped into him without even a second glance. But deep inside, he was anything but ordinary.
Amon shoved his hands into his pockets and turned into one of the side alleyways. As he walked, the buildings around him shifted from shiny and tall to broken and rusted. The pavement cracked beneath his shoes. Trash lined the corners. The smell of smoke, sweat, and poverty clung to the air like fog.
He entered a rundown neighborhood that resembled a slum and headed toward a half-collapsed building leaning slightly to the left, as if it might give up on life at any moment.
"Still standing, huh?" he muttered, looking at the building like it had personally offended him.
Climbing up the rickety staircase to the second floor, he walked down a dim hallway and stopped at the first door on the right. He pulled out a rusted key, jammed it into the lock with a grunt, and twisted.
The door creaked open.
"Finally home..."
He stepped inside, but after a few seconds of silence, he added with a scowl, "Not like this dogshit place counts as home."
He shut the door behind him with a dull thud and took in the sight of his apartment.
It was a single-room unit with a tiny attached kitchen. The floor was cracked. The ceiling dripped occasionally when it rained. A lone, thin mattress sat in the corner of the room, just big enough for one person. The kitchen was hidden behind a door on the left side of the hall, barely visible in the gloom.
The walls had peeled paint, and deep cracks ran along them like veins on dying skin.
With a sigh, Amon dropped onto the mattress and stared at the ceiling.
"Seventeen years," he muttered. "Seventeen damn years since I reincarnated into this magical, beautiful, bullshit world."
This world—Kṣitiḥ’—was supposed to be a fantasy paradise. Magic, dragons, flying castles, swords, monsters... all the cool stuff he used to dream about in his previous life.
When he had first opened his eyes as a baby in this new world, Amon—formerly known as Lucas—was excited. He’d thought he had hit the reincarnation jackpot. He expected cheat powers, a noble background, maybe even a hidden bloodline or a system interface.
Even though he still miss his past life family and want to see them again.Over the years with his new parents he was able to move on and started to get excited about this world until they died.
But no.
No cheats. No rich family. No magical prodigy awakening.
Instead, he was born as a commoner.
The world of Kṣitiḥ’, as he learned, didn’t run on justice or kindness. It ran on power.
And if you had none, you were nothing.
Nobles ruled over everyone. The monarchy controlled entire regions, and if you were born poor, you stayed poor—unless you clawed your way up. Merchants, mages, and noble clans all lived in shining cities. Meanwhile, people like Amon lived in shacks one push away from collapsing.
"Too bad I was born a commoner," he muttered with a sigh. "Even worse, an untalented one."
With his stomach rumbling, Amon sat up and dragged himself into the cramped kitchen.
"Quite amazing being broke... even in a magical world," he said sarcastically.
The kitchen was just wide enough for him to stretch both arms out. A leaky tap dripped endlessly into a cracked sink. The single-burner stove flickered oddly, buzzing like it might explode any moment.
Amon opened the cupboard and pulled out his greatest treasure: a packet of instant noodles.
He stared at it dramatically.
"Dinner of champions," he said, saluting it before tearing it open.
He boiled water on the dying stove, dumped the dried noodles in, and stirred slowly with a spoon that had lost its handle. The smell of overly salty, spicy broth filled the air. It was processed, unhealthy, and possibly expired.
But to him?
It was comfort food.
After a few minutes, he poured the noodles into a chipped bowl and sat cross-legged on his mattress. He leaned back, blowing gently on the hot surface before slurping a mouthful.
"Still tastes like poverty," he said with a sigh. "But damn... it’s warm."
The broth was simple, too salty, and had barely any seasoning, but it warmed his chest.
He stared at the flickering lightbulb above him as he ate, listening to the sounds of Valerion through the cracked window—cars honking, people yelling, laughter in the distance, maybe even a fire spell going off somewhere.
The chaos outside was constant.
Inside, it was just him and his bowl of noodles.
"This world has dragons, ancient dungeons, and sword-wielding maniacs... and here I am, eating trash noodles on a mattress."
He laughed dryly.
"Hah... commoners have it rough. And I’ve got it worse. Most of them at least have families. Me? I got isekai’d and landed straight into poverty. Bravo, god. Good one."
He slurped more noodles, steam fogging the cracked lens of his glasses. At least technology had made its way into this world—though limited, things like crystal-powered phones, mana lamps, and even magic-powered vehicles existed.
After finishing the last bite of his noodles, Amon flopped onto the mattress and let out a long breath.
Though Phones are too expensive that he can’t afford it same goes for other modern base gadget.
"Should I read something?"he take out the book he had brought recently.It was a action novel not as good written as from his past world but still readable.
Some things never changed.
Even in his previous life, he had been obsessed with games, anime, and web novels. And now, after seventeen years in this twisted magic world, he still clung to those tiny pieces of joy.
Hours passed.
Eventually, he dropped the book beside him, yawned, and pulled the thin sheet over his bruised legs.
In this cold world of status, bloodlines, and raw power... all Amon had was his stubbornness, his sarcasm, and a bowl of cheap noodles.
And maybe, just maybe...
A spark of something more, waiting to awaken.
As he drifted off to sleep, snoring lightly, the light from the city crept in through the blinds, painting the cracked walls with a ghostly orange glow.
Tomorrow, everything would repeat.
But maybe not forever.