He felt cold.

 

His body was rapidly losing its heat.

 

And against the tyrannous cold embrace of the night, it meant only one thing: he would soon freeze to death.

 

However.

 

Instead of lamenting his approaching death, he simply smiled. He looked at the pale snow falling from the sky and gasped for the cold air.

 

"Hah."

 

Using his remaining strength, he opened up his hand, letting the snow touch his palm. He welcomed the chilling air, unafraid nor concerned about what would happen to him soon afterwards.

 

After all...

 

He was dying.

 

Not in the case of freezing to death but rather, succumbing to one's wounds and injuries.

 

His body had been reduced to nothing but rags and tatters. Holes of varying sizes pierced his limbs and body, rendering them incapable for any movements save for sheer will. His chest was replaced by a massive hole, to which blood constantly poured out and escaped from his body.

 

It was a mystery on how could he, who had suffered such mortal-ending wounds, still live to see the day's end.

 

However, that didn't matter now, as he was bound to die soon.

 

"Hah."

 

He scoffed at himself. He was once the apex of the apex, an existence crafted into perfection.

 

And now... he was reduced to this. A mere dying cripple barely clinging onto his fading life.

 

He gasped for air once more. As he opened his mouth however, blood came out of his throat. He coughed, splattering blood to his ragged suit.

 

'Was it worth it?'

 

He thought to himself as he slowly looked up at the snowy night.

 

'It was worth it.'

 

He smiled and weakly closed his eyes.

 

A man who had filled his ambitions. A man who succeeded in his goals. And a man who had reached destinations that many considered as nigh impossible to obtain.

 

He had done it all.

 

And this is the price of his goals and ambitions. A life. His life.

 

However, his life was more than enough as an exchange. He was content. He was satisfied.

 

With his vision getting fainter as seconds passed, he saw a figure. A mirage. 

 

It was the maiden of death, covered by a white gown with a theatrical mask covering her face.

 

He looked at the lady of death stretching her pale, bluish arms towards him, hugging him like a mother to a child. Then, his body numbed, alongside his vision blurring into darkness. The lady of death dragged him to the sea of nothingness, the plane that existed beyond the living world.

 

All he could feel was death itself claiming his soul.

 

And then...

 

Then...

 

There was nothing.

 

He had finally reached the conclusion of his existence. The ending of his story. His death.

 

And yet...

 

He could still think.

 

Despite stripped off of his senses and existence, his consciousness remained intact, untouched by death. He could still perform basic thoughts such as pondering.

 

Eventually, perplexity filled his thoughts. Was this to be expected to happen sometime after one's death? Or was this the beyond, a prison where one's consciousness is locked and sealed forever?

 

He found the situation strange.

 

After all, this was the first and last time he encountered such a situation. He had no experiences of being "resurrected" and "revived" prior to this moment. And as such, he had no knowledge of how did dead people fared after they trekked into the beyond.

 

Was he supposed to pretend that he was truly dead by forcing himself to think nothing?

 

He contemplated. And after some time, he agreed with his thoughts. He prepared himself and slept. He descended into a deep slumber, dreaming of nothingness.

 

And so, time passed. His thoughts became one with the sea of nothingness, a peaceful silence that stretched to eternity.

 

Or that was the plan.

 

As he slumbered for an untold amount of time, he was disrupted by something.

 

A feeling. A sense.

 

It was cold.

 

As soon as the feeling of cold seeped inside his thoughts, it exploded, filling his thoughts with nothing but the vast coldness.

 

His brain scrambled. His senses should had already been numbed by death and yet, he could still feel the chill of the air flowing to where his arms should have been located.

 

Numerous questions flooded him. Amidst his confusion, he subconsciously moved his arm. And so did his arm moved, waking him up from his labyrinth of thoughts. Though he could not see, he could feel it moving as clear as a mirror.

 

Doubts ran inside his mind. Wasn't he supposed to be dead? Why could he still feel his limb?

 

Mixed emotions brewed inside his mind. Confusion, anger, mockery, and dread. Was death playing a prank on him? Or was this just a hallucination after sleeping for an untold amount of time?

 

Death jesting him was simply out of the question. Death had no personality nor an identity to begin with. And besides, even if it did have one, what would death gain? Nothing?

 

If this was simply a hallucination, then it wouldn't make sense as he could feel the chilling wind bristling the pores of his skin and the tiny hairs throughout his arm in each passing second. It was too realistic to be described as a mere hallucination.

 

But if the senses of his arm felt realistic, then perhaps...

 

Was he being revived?

 

Anger fueled inside him. That mustn't be true, right? No, that's not possible. That shouldn't be true.

 

But the feeling of his fists clenching proved him wrong.

 

And so, dread filled his thoughts. All he wanted was to end his suffering and rest into an eternal slumber just like what he had promised. Yet, he was being woken up without his own permission.

 

He began to think. Which bastar—no— saint was bringing him back to life? Those so-called society's "heroes?" No, that was ridiculous. They, who had labeled him as the most vile, malicious, and dangerous villain, wouldn't even think twice on whether to revive him or not.

 

Or could it be those thugs, cultists, and underground syndicates? Even they, who were the extreme of the extremes, still had the rationality to not let someone like him to descend back into the living world. They knew better than anyone else that it would be the wisest choice not to deal with him at all, nor even think about him.

 

Only destruction awaited those who were foolish enough to summon him back to the mortal world. Even those who were the most pious and kindest of people knew that fact.

 

He pondered. He thought of the many people he knew of that had abilities of resurrection. However, he dismissed them one by one as those people inside his head were either dead, deceased, or killed by either those "heroes" or him.

 

While he continued to think, he felt his senses becoming more and more clearer. He felt the blood's warming touch rushing down throughout his numbed limbs, freeing them like an ice being thawed. He felt his hair tingle against the cold wind, and he felt the beat of the heart that should have been erased alongside with his chest after being hit by an orbital laser.

 

And as soon as his heart began to beat properly, a strange stuff touched his limb. No, they were showering his entire body. He focused his attention on his limbs, trying to figure out what was stuff that was touching him.

 

It was wet. Like a water droplet. They fell onto his skin like needles before flowing down to his feet and rear.

 

Instinctively, he knew. Though he could not see, he knew that the stuff that was showering him was the rain.

 

At the same time, he also knew that he was indeed being recalled back into the world once more.

 

Though anger surged inside him, he could only wait and look at the fool who revived him back.

 

So, he waited. He waited until he could see a light trying to peer his eyes. Naturally, he opened his eyes, seeing the outside world once more. Though searing pain followed his action, it was negligible compared to the bliss and overflowing emotions his senses expressed as he returned back to the living world.

 

His nose greedily collected and inhaled the earthly scent of the rain while his ears exploded in delight as it heard the sound of the torrential rain collapsing down on him. His skin and flesh shivered as the rain fell and flowed through them, and his eyes gazed in passion after coming back from an eternity of staring the abyss.

 

Nonetheless, he ignored the joys of his senses. He blankly stared at the area around him.

 

Before him was a street paved in stone with water flowing towards the drain across his vision. And above that drain was a store of flowers and plants alongside rows of houses that stretched as far as his eyes could see. People in shabby, ragged clothes also littered his vision, sitting and sleeping on the flooded street as they drenched themselves in the same rain he was under.

 

Mixed emotions dwelt inside him. Confusion and anger intertwined with one another. Who were these... people? And where is this? Was this the place he was summoned, a street of beggars and paupers? And were these beggars the one who summoned him?

 

He did not know.

 

His expression crumpled. Why was he, the person who had reached the tip of the world and the ultimate perfection, ended up being summoned back by lowly beggars and paupers?

 

"Hah."

 

He scoffed. Not to the beggars before him but to himself. He mocked himself, with his eyes full of ridicule towards his shabbily-dressed body.

 

For someone who orchestrated and caused many of the world's tragedies, his life only equaled to a gutter trash rat? It was ridiculous, laughable even. It was comical to the point where he could not help but think if his life was simply an elaborate prank.

 

"I see... I see..."

 

He looked up and laughed. He laughed like a madman, ignoring the gazes and eyes of others. He ignored the rain that was pressing him down and flowing towards the insides of his mouth. He laughed haughtily, loudly as it could possibly get. His laughter swallowed the noise around him and before long, he could only hear nothing but the sound of his mocking laughter.

 

"Ahahahahahahaha! Ahahahahahahaha!"

 

Emotions brewed and danced inside his head as he laughed.

 

"Ahahahaha! Ahahaha—"

 

But just as he could laugh, something flashed inside his head, jolting his brain. He gritted his teeth in pain as the pain surged forth inside his head. 

 

He clenched his fists and placed his other hand to his head, trying to ease up the pain. However, it didn't help. Rather, the pain only got worse as the flashes inside his head started to run around his brain in laps.

 

He grimaced in pain. He breathed heavily as peered at the flashes on the top of his head.

 

'What... what is this?'

 

The flashes that ran in laps continued to fasten themselves up. Then, after blinding him for a couple of seconds, he looked at something strange. Before his eyes was a man unfamiliar to him. That man busied himself with training and bonding with his family, unfazed by the harshness of life.

 

As he continued to see the man's boring routine, he knew. Before him, or rather, the scene that played inside his head was the memories of someone.

 

The scene before him continued. It followed the man's life, from his childhood to his teens. And before long, he was drafted into a primitive war of horses and lances. The man alongside the other faceless soldiers fought off distant lands and territories, with each battle nearly costing his life. And after a bitter victory, he returned home, only to see it burning aflame.

 

Panic struck the man. And so he searched. He searched for his family until he could see them in horrific conditions. They were brutally slaughtered, their limbs mutilated into pieces and bodies tied to a tree's branch. Their heads were bashed against on numerous pikes and axes. The expressions on their faces told of a story he would rather not know about.

 

Only hell would tell how much they have been tortured to death.

 

The man, horrified beyond comprehension, ran. He fled and hid in some remote region out of fear of being chased and found by the perpetrators and arsonists who slaughtered his family. And eventually, after succumbing to paranoia, he fled the country he lived for the entirety of his life and wandered throughout many regions. He became a vagrant and eventually, became a beggar in some faraway land he did not know nor care about. And from there on, he spent the remaining time of his life sleeping on the streets and drinking booze to erase the horrific events that etched deep inside his mind.

 

And that person...

 

Was him.

 

The last thing the beggar saw before his final farewell to the world was the street and the flower shop before him, the street he himself first gazed upon as soon as he was brought back to life.

 

"Hah... haha..."

 

He looked at the shop across his vision and leaned against the wall where the beggar inside his memory rested his back before closing off his eyes once and for all.

 

'This must be a joke.'

 

He thought to himself as he recalled the memories of the beggar. However, even if he denied it with all his might, he knew that he became the beggar.

 

The fact that he could vividly feel the beggar's remorse and myriad emotions that were locked deep inside his heart further proved that he had indeed became one with the man who had lost everything.

 

He gasped for air as he contemplated on the emotions dwelling inside him, processing the mixtures of rage and sentiments that raged within the beggar's body.

 

The beggar sought revenge for his family.

 

The beggar desired the proper justice for his family.

 

The beggar wished to pay those who slaughtered his family in cruel methods far malicious than what his family had suffered.

 

But alas.

 

He could not do so, as he was simply an ant against the kingdom of elephants and tigers.

 

His cries would not reach anyone as within that kingdom lied the sea of deafness and ignorance.

 

Therefore, he could only weep in sorrow and rot trying to achieve a dream of chasing after a star.

 

And now...

 

He had become this very man, this man who had lost everything against the very kingdom he was fighting for.

 

He had become Meros Visconti.

 

A man of influence and noble heritage. A noble who became a vagrant after an insidious plot of treason and deception.

 

As the flashes of memories reached its conclusion, his brain finally stopped jolting. He heaved for the earthly air and adjusted himself to what he had just experienced. He placed his hand over to his rapidly beating heart and looked it the paved street before him.

 

"Fuck."

 

He was confused. After all, this was his first time experiencing such event.

 

Coming back from the dead only to be revived as someone else. It was such a surreal feeling that he wondered on whether everything he was currently seeing was real or not.

 

The thoughts of resurrection and anger no longer lingered inside his mind. Instead, it was replaced by questions he had no answer.

 

Why? Why was he being revived? Was it to avenge the begga— no, Meros Visconti's family? Was that it?

 

And how? How did someone managed to bring him back to life? And to a primitive world no less. It was nonsensical. It was unrealistic. He had never heard of some grandiose or weird magic that could send one's soul to another world over the course of his entire life.

 

However, that didn't matter. After all, he was already Meros Visconti himself, and there was no denying it.

 

He looked at his body, dressed in a shabby gray cloth and baggy shorts. His skin, though drenched by the rain, still retained the dirt and filth that clung to him from all those years of endlessly wandering without cause.

 

He swept his now-golden hair up and sighed.

 

Everything was a mess. His mind was in total disarray, unable on what to focus on. Numerous thoughts clashed and battled with each other as they tried to claim a spot somewhere inside his head. He had retained the thoughts of Meros Visconti, and at the same time, he had retained the thoughts of his original self, Astel Hass.

 

Moving his gaze towards the flower shop with the sign "closed" hanging on the door, he peered the insides of his head. He thought of his new identity as well as his original identity.

 

Unlike Meros Visconti, he, Astel Hass, was considered as a villain in his world. He was the "Magna Magia," the calamity that brought the world into numerous conflicts and regressing it back to the age of barbarism. He led countless "heroes" and civilians into horrifying ends and demise, tragedies that could only be described as unspeakable and taboo.

 

If not for the combined forces of the remaining creatures that survived his onslaught, he would have ended his wretched world once and for all. But alas, as fate would not have it, fate itself descended into his world and sided against him, thus bringing his life to an end.

 

And now, he, the "Magna Magia" Astel Hass, took over the body of a pauper named Meros Visconti that lived on another world.

 

"Hah."

 

He gasped for air.

 

Everything seemed ridiculous but alas, what could he do? Dance and sing praises about it? He could only accept what he was given.

 

"Therefore... my name shall be...."

 

Astel Hass had already died. And so was Meros Visconti.

 

"Astel Meros Visconti."

 

He muttered. Then, he continued.

 

"That's good enough."

 

He smiled.