Patrick woke with a sense of numb awareness, his body aching, chains digging into his skin. The sharp sting of yesterday's awakening still lingered, a constant reminder that he was no longer in his lab, no longer in the life he had known.
At first, he had struggled to accept it—the absurdity of it. Transmigration. A parallel reality. He had dismissed the thought at first as delirium from the tachyon blast, but the evidence was undeniable. The body he inhabited was not his own, the room smelled of wet earth and decay, and the cruel laughter of the woman from yesterday haunted him even now.
It didn't take long for him to come to terms with the truth. He was in an alternate Earth—one that looked, at least superficially, like the Britain of his old world. Rolling hills, dense forests, cobblestone streets, and scattered villages all lined the horizon. But the familiarity ended there.
Patrick's mind raced. If the geography matched his past Earth, he was somewhere near what had been the United Kingdom. It was disorienting—familiar and alien all at once. Trippy. His senses tingled as if reality itself were trying to adjust him to its strange rhythm. And then, slowly, he began to get the hang of it.
The world obeyed different rules here. Magic existed—not in the fanciful sense of books or myths, but as a natural law of this reality. It was woven into the air, the soil, the stones, and the very people who inhabited it. Science had been abandoned long ago, replaced by overreliance on elemental power. A simple lever could not move a cart; a mage could do it with a flick of their hand. A fire mage could ignite the hearth with a thought. A water mage could summon rain to irrigate crops.
Patrick absorbed this knowledge instinctively, as if his mind, sharpened by years of study and logic, could make sense of this new reality faster than most.
Magic was varied. Some people commanded fire, lightning, water, or earth. Others specialized in subtler arts—ice, lava, the growth of plants, or healing. A few had psychic abilities, telepathy that allowed them to read minds or deliver attacks directly into thought. Others could shape their bodies—turn flesh into stone, metal, or crystal, manifest claws, or grow wings. Superhuman strength existed, as did telekinesis. A rare few possessed multiple abilities, but those were almost legendary.
Despite the fantastical nature of these abilities, there was a strict hierarchy. Mages—those born with magical affinity—ruled. Non-mages were their tools, laborers, servants, and peasants. The nobles were overwhelmingly mages, the elite soldiers and knights of the empire. Commoners who happened to possess magic were often soldiers or apprentices, but even they were limited by birth. The nobility achieved nearly an eighty percent chance that their children would inherit magic, maintaining bloodline purity to ensure their dominance.
Patrick's stomach churned as the implications settled in. He was not a mage. That much was clear. The chains that dug into his skin were not just a symbol of physical restraint—they were proof of social hierarchy. He had no abilities. No elemental control, no psychic power, no shapeshifting. Just the body of a slave.
The body he inhabited belonged to a boy named Gregor. Patrick recalled fragments of memory that were not his own: Gregor had been an orphan in the Badlands, captured when the Britannian mages conquered that chaotic region. The Red Scorpion Gang had bought him, a cruel and notorious group of slavers and enforcers known for their brutality. Patrick's stomach twisted as he imagined what horrors awaited him. The chains, the iron biting into his wrists and ankles, were nothing compared to what they might have planned.
Even so, he forced himself to breathe, to think. Panic would not serve him. Gregor's mind had been broken, shaped for obedience, but Patrick's mind—sharp, analytical, trained in science—could still reason. He could survive. He had survived worse in his past life, after all—collapsing particle accelerators, explosions, near-death experiments. Survival was instinct, and now it was necessity.
Patrick began to survey his surroundings. He was in a dim room, a low ceiling with wooden beams, rough stone walls, and a dirt floor. Outside, he could hear the faint sounds of life: the distant ringing of a bell, the murmur of voices, the sharp cries of animals. Every sound was amplified by his heightened awareness, every detail stored in his mind as he tried to map this strange, medieval, and magical world.
He ran through possibilities. Escape would be impossible in his current state. No magic, chains, and weak muscles. But understanding the world was step one. That meant observation. That meant patience. That meant hiding any sign of fear while he learned the rules.
Patrick let his gaze wander to the small puddle at his feet. He saw Gregor's reflection again—hollow eyes, pale skin, sharp features that spoke of neglect and abuse. He flexed his fingers against the iron shackles, testing their weight. Every movement hurt, but it was necessary. He could not allow himself to feel helpless for long. Survival demanded adaptation.
He could already see the lines of society. Nobles dressed in fine robes, insignia glowing faintly with their magical aura. Soldiers moving with precise formation, magical energy crackling along their weapons. Non-mages in rags, bent with labor, doing the work no mage wished to touch.
Magic stones, rare metals like mythril, adamantine, orichalcum, and even meteorite ore glinted in shops and in soldiers' equipment. Patrick cataloged them mentally. Knowledge of materials could be leverage. Even in this primitive-seeming society, there were patterns, rules—physics had been replaced by magic, but logic still existed in the structure of power.
And then there were the Red Scorpions. He didn't want to think of what they would use him for. They had bought him as property, and the chains confirmed it. He was their tool, their slave, a pawn in their schemes. He forced the thought away. Panic and despair would not save him. Observation, patience, and strategy would.
Patrick exhaled slowly, letting his mind focus. He could not change his body, could not undo his transmigration, but he could change his approach. His knowledge of science, logic, and critical thinking remained intact. Even in a world dominated by magic, those skills were dangerous if wielded correctly.
He began to plan, silently, meticulously. Gregor's body might be weak. His social standing low. But Patrick Graham had survived impossible odds before. He would learn this world. He would exploit it. He would survive—and eventually, he would dominate.
Chains clinked as he flexed his wrists again. Pain surged, but it was a reminder. A reminder that this was real. That he had been reduced to a slave. That magic ruled here, and he did not possess it. But for the first time since opening his eyes in that puddle, Patrick felt a spark of clarity.
This world was strange, dangerous, and cruel. But it was also predictable. Logic existed beneath the magic. Patterns existed. Rules existed. And rules could be bent, exploited, and even broken with enough cunning.
Patrick Graham, trapped in the body of Gregor, slave of the Red Scorpion Gang, made a silent vow.
He would survive.
And then… he would rise.