Gregor had discovered the spark within him—but a spark alone was meaningless without a vessel strong enough to hold the fire.
His ability was perfect. Terrifyingly perfect.
Absorb. Manipulate. Disperse. Any form of energy.
But his body—Gregor's frail, starved body—was the weak link. If he attempted to channel too much energy now, he would collapse. Break. Maybe even explode from within. Patrick understood this immediately. Great power without a foundation was nothing but suicide wrapped in potential.
So he trained.
He trained harder than he ever had in his past life.
Pull-ups on wooden beams that creaked under his weight.
Sit-ups on cold stone floors.
Push-ups until his arms trembled violently.
Squats until his legs burned and threatened to buckle.
Every morning before dawn, when the gang members were still snoring drunk from cheap ale, Gregor disciplined his body with military precision. Sweat soaked the ground; his breath rasped in the quiet gloom of the slave quarters.
And as he trained, he absorbed.
Ambient magic was everywhere in this world—floating like particles of dust in sunlight, permeating the air itself. Normal humans couldn't sense it. Mages manipulated it with affinity. But Gregor devoured it simply by existing.
It seeped into him with each breath he took.
It reforged his bones.
Hardened his muscles.
Thickened his blood.
Sharpened his vision.
He no longer needed the crooked walking stick the gang had tossed at him when he first arrived. The sickness plaguing his body evaporated. His spine straightened. His gait steadied. His eyes—once dull and sunken—now glowed faintly with life and latent power.
The thin, dying slave named Gregor slowly transformed into something else.
Something dangerous.
And all the while he trained, his mind remained a machine—running scenario after scenario, contingency after contingency.
What routes existed out of the compound?
Where were the guards stationed at different times of day?
What were their magical affinities?
Which rooms were locked?
Which rooms were empty?
When were meals delivered?
Where were the keys kept?
What time did Simon Marks wake up?
When did he leave his office?
How many mages were in the gang?
What abilities did they have?
Patrick had once been the kind of man who could run battlefield simulations for fun. Now he ran simulations for survival.
For a month, he lived with one principle:
Eat. Sleep. Train. Work. Observe. Prepare.
Every day brought a new piece of information.
Every night brought a new plan.
And today—finally—was the day those plans converged.
The Red Scorpion Gang ran their operations from a compound designed to resemble a crude fortress—a sprawling wooden-and-stone structure with towers, battlements, and thick gates. It was no palace, but it was intimidating. It was meant to be.
Rumors whispered among the slaves spoke of their leader, Simon Marks.
A bastard of one of Britannia's great noble houses.
A fire mage with talent most knights would envy.
A man who should have been serving in the imperial army—yet instead wasted his abilities on brutality and greed.
Gregor didn't care about his pedigree. He didn't care about his rank, his magic, or his power.
All he cared about was freedom.
The sun rose sluggishly over the slums of Scotland, painting the compound in a muddy, orange light. As the rays filtered into his cell, Gregor opened his eyes, calm and cold.
D-Day.
The day he would cease being property.
The day he would stop being a ghost.
The day he would make his move.
He sat cross-legged on the floor of his small cage, eyes half-closed, absorbing the weak morning magic in the air until his muscles hummed faintly under his skin. The iron collar around his neck clinked softly whenever he breathed; the chains on his ankles dragged against the stone floor.
A shadow moved outside. Footsteps approached.
The hinges creaked as the cage door swung open.
Gregor lifted his head slowly.
It was her.
The woman he first saw upon waking in this world—the woman whose cruelty stank worse than the bloodstained rags she wore as clothing. Her face twisted in a familiar sneer, lips curling with contempt.
"Well, slave," she said, voice dripping with malice, "today's the day we finally put you to use. Dogs need feeding, after all."
Gregor stood, the chains rattling softly.
She didn't notice how steady his posture was.
She didn't notice the clarity in his eyes.
She didn't notice the quiet storm building beneath his skin.
She only noticed what she expected to see: prey.
"Move," she snarled. "Or I'll drag you by your hair—"
Gregor spoke calmly.
"How does it feel," he asked, "to know you won't live long enough to see this world enter an era of enlightenment?"
Her brow furrowed.
"What are you—?"
Gregor raised a single hand.
His palm faced her.
And he pulled.
The heat in the air vanished instantly, sucked toward his hand like a whirlpool. Frost crawled over the ground beneath her feet. Her breath crystallized in front of her mouth.
"No—wait—!"
Her scream died in her throat.
Her skin whitened.
Her lips turned blue.
Her hair froze in midair.
Her eyes widened with horror before frost sealed them shut.
Within seconds, she fell to the stone floor—pale, frozen, dead.
Gregor lowered his hand.
He didn't look away.
He didn't flinch.
He didn't regret it.
She had never considered him human.
So he didn't treat her like one.
He reached up and grabbed the iron collar around his neck. His fingers clenched. The metal groaned.
Then—
CRACK.
It snapped like rotted wood.
Next, the chains on his ankles.
CLANG.
CLANG.
Broken.
Shattered.
He stood completely free for the first time since arriving in this world. His breath rose in a thin mist—the last remnants of the cold he'd stolen.
Gregor exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders, feeling the weight lift.
The compound was full of gang members—hundreds of them, some armed with magic, some with blades, all of them dangerous.
But he wasn't afraid.
He had trained.
He had prepared.
He had evolved.
His eyes hardened with resolve.
"No man," he whispered, "owns me."
He stepped over the frozen corpse and walked out of the cell.
D-Day had begun.