Nathaniel was born under the wrong star, or perhaps, the wrong meteorite.
In this world, he was not the unlucky killer, but Nate, the skinny, handsome boy who was already bearing the weight of eighteen years of debt and despair. His physical appearance was the only kindness fate had shown him, a cruel irony of sharp cheekbones and solemn, deep-set red eyes that made him look like a tragic figure from a noble romance. It didn't pay the bills.
He lived in the cramped, shadowed underbelly of the Kingdom of Veridia, miles away from the gleaming white marble of the prestigious Mana Academy. Their home was a single room rented from a perpetually grumpy baker—the only man who would accept the meager payments they could offer. The air always smelled of yeast, desperation, and the faint, sweet scent of the herbal poultice his mother, Elara, used.
Elara was the reason Nate woke up before dawn every day. She was gentle and frail, beautiful even in her sickness, a constant, flickering candle in the overwhelming darkness. She had what the local healers called "Mana Rot," a slow decay of the inner core caused by exposure to tainted energy, a common affliction among those whose loved ones failed to return from the Abyss.
Nate's father, a commoner with dreams larger than his wallet, had been a Rank 1 Mana Practitioner—a mere novice. To afford the necessary tools, training, and the initial Abyss Walker's Permit, he had borrowed heavily from a local guild, promising a massive return from the supposed treasures of the Abyss. He died six years ago, two weeks into his first foray, leaving behind a young wife, two small children, and a debt that had ballooned three times over with predatory interest.
This debt was Nathaniel's inheritance.
He worked three jobs. By day, he hauled fish at the docks, his muscles aching with the kind of exhaustion that never left. By afternoon, he cleaned chimneys, inhaling soot and the condescending remarks of the well-to-do. In the evenings, he sometimes ran packages for the baker.
"Nate, you have to eat," his little sister, Maya, pleaded one evening.
Maya, barely thirteen, was their other light. She was fiercely protective and unnervingly perceptive. Right now, she was pushing a bowl of thin vegetable broth toward him.
"I ate at the docks, May," Nate lied easily, resting his hand on her soft, dark hair. He was careful not to linger. He still couldn't feel touch the way others did, but the act of comfort itself was a learned performance, necessary to maintain the fragile normalcy of their home.
He had no knowledge of his past life yet, but the instinct to suppress his own needs was hardwired into his soul. His current existence was one long, agonizing lesson in self-sacrifice, tragically similar to the life he had just left behind, only this time, he was trying to save others instead of destroying them.
"The guild collector came by again," Elara coughed from the corner, her voice like dry leaves.
Nate's pleasant mask didn't slip. "Which one? The large, sweaty one?"
"No, the one with the metal teeth. He said he saw a good-looking boy like you and thought you'd be better served as security for their establishment if we can't make the payment." Elara managed a weak, fearful smile. The implication was clear: the guild wanted his body, one way or another.
Nate's knuckles whitened, hidden beneath the thin blanket he held. The payment was due tomorrow. If they missed it, the consequences would be severe. He had already sold everything of value, including the silver locket his father had left, and still, it was not enough.
He considered his options: running away, stealing from the docks, or, the most humiliating option, groveling to the Guild Master. None of them offered a long-term solution. He was trapped in a financial labyrinth built on the misplaced ambition of his dead father.
How do people bear this? Nate thought, the unfamiliar question echoing in his mind. Why does the world insist on crushing the weak for the entertainment of the strong?
The bitterness was profound, pure, and utterly natural to this life. He didn't know it, but this intense, simmering resentment was the first crack in the seal of his past self.
The next morning, his eighteenth birthday.
It was overcast, matching Nate's mood. He was on his way to the docks, walking down a narrow alley to avoid the main street, where he might run into the guild collector.
A flash of color caught his eye—a discarded, greasy piece of parchment stuck to a brick wall. It was a wanted poster, featuring a crude sketch of a handsome, smiling youth with red eyes, wearing a simple blue tunic.
WANTED: RUNAWAY APPRENTICE.Name: Nathaniel.Reward: 50 Silver Marks.
Nate stared at the drawing. It was him.
Wait. Runaway apprentice?
The novel Abyss Walkers Chronicles had a side character named Nathaniel. A noble son. He was the childhood friend of the original protagonist. He was a background character who ran away from his strict aristocratic family to become a rogue Mana Practitioner, only to die tragically in the first major Abyss dive, allowing the protagonist to inherit his valuable family heirloom.
I am not that Nathaniel, Nate thought, heart suddenly hammering. My name is Nathaniel. I am a commoner.
Then, the memories struck. Not like a gentle wave, but like a hundred feet of solid granite dropping onto his skull. The meteor fragment. The foster homes. The banker, the first lightning bolt, the jail time, the author Thierry, the final, fatal trip, the second lightning bolt. The pain, the emptiness, the rage. The crushing, awful truth of a life spent as the universe's joke.
The memory was too much for the young, exhausted soul of Nate to contain. His two lives, one of cosmic misfortune and one of grinding poverty, merged in a single, agonizing flash of absolute clarity.
The world blurred. The smell of fish, the damp air, the sound of gulls—all went silent.
A new voice, wet and synthesized, exploded into the vacuum of his mind.
[Host Soul-Merge Complete. Core Trauma Factor: 100%.]
[Birthday Detected: 18th. System Activation Initiated.]
[Welcome, Nathaniel. Your Harem King System is online. Note: I see you've been working out. Nice.]
Nathaniel slid down the wall, his thin legs giving out beneath him. He looked down at his hands—hands calloused from the docks, but now containing the cold, calculating intelligence of a sociopath.
The guilt over Maya, the love for Elara, the poverty and the debt—all the simple, desperate emotions of this life were instantly smothered by the ancient cynicism of his first life. They weren't gone, but they were tools now. He saw the debt not as a tragedy, but as a flaw in the system to be exploited. He saw the world not as crushing, but as waiting to be manipulated.
A slow, chilling smile stretched across his face, a smile that neither Nate the commoner nor the Unlucky Killer had ever possessed. It was the smile of a player who had finally received the cheat codes.
I remember now.