Damien blinked his eyes open, the world around him swimming into focus through a haze of confusion and disorientation. The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood and the acrid stench of decay, assaulting his nostrils like a punch to the gut. He pushed himself up from the cracked pavement of what appeared to be a desolate city square, his slender frame barely 50 kilograms of wiry muscle and bone aching from the awkward position he'd landed in. His red eyes, sharp and unnatural even to him, darted around, taking in the devastation.
Buildings loomed like skeletal remains, their facades shattered and crumbling, as if clawed apart by enormous beasts. Windows gaped like empty sockets, shards of glass crunching under his feet as he stood. Cars and vehicles littered the streets in twisted heaps, their metal frames bent and rusted, tires deflated and doors hanging off hinges. Bloodstains splattered the ground in dark, dried pools, painting a gruesome mural of chaos. Not a single soul stirred no humans, no animals, not even the buzz of a fly to break the eerie silence. The sky above was a muted gray, heavy with unspoken dread.
"Hah," Damien muttered under his breath, his voice echoing faintly in the emptiness. He adjusted his monocle glasses, the thin frame perched precariously on his nose, as he scanned the ruins with a mix of irritation and disbelief. His red eyes narrowed, reflecting the crimson stains around him. "If I'm being reincarnated, at least reincarnate me where people live. No girls here at all fuck, at least a milf. I wouldn't mind that." He cursed inwardly, his lips curling into a sardonic smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes. The thought of his previous life flashed briefly a mundane existence cut short, now replaced by this nightmare. But this wasn't some fantasy novel with magic and heroes; this was raw, brutal reality. Or whatever passed for it in this reincarnated hell.
His gaze snagged on movement in the corner of his vision. There, lurking at the entrance of a dilapidated store its sign half-torn and illegible a grotesque figure shuffled. It was humanoid, but twisted: pale, rotting skin stretched over protruding bones, eyes sunken and glassy. Wings, leathery and tattered like those of a malformed bat, drooped from its back. "Is that a zombie?" Damien whispered to himself, his heart pounding in his chest like a war drum. He ducked behind a overturned vending machine, pressing his back against the cold metal, his breath coming in shallow, controlled gasps. Peering out cautiously, he watched the creature's erratic movements jerky, unnatural, as if driven by some primal hunger rather than thought.
"Shit, this... this is an apocalypse world," he realized, his mind racing. The buildings weren't just broken; they bore gouges from claws and impacts that no human could make. Monsters had done this. And now, here he was, dropped into the middle of it like discarded trash. He adjusted his monocle again, a nervous habit from his old life, his red eyes fixing intently on the zombie-like thing as it hovered near the store's entrance, behaving abnormally sniffing the air, wings twitching sporadically.
Then, faint but unmistakable, sounds reached his ears from inside the store. Muffled cries, desperate and hoarse. "Help... someone, please help!" It was undoubtedly an older woman's voice, laced with terror and exhaustion, echoing through the broken doorway like a plea from the grave. Damien's pulse quickened, a mix of adrenaline and hesitation surging through him. Should I save her? But how? I don't even have a power. Is there any system stuff? No, not that either. So shit, why drop me here? I'm already a fucking weakling with 50 kg weight. He glanced down at his thin arms, feeling the frailty in his bones. In his previous life, he'd been no athlete just a guy who preferred books and screens over brawn. Now, that could get him killed.
His eyes scanned the square frantically, searching for anything useful. There, half-buried under rubble near a toppled lamppost, lay a baseball bat its wooden surface slick and stained with dried blood, chips and splinters marring its once-smooth finish. "Shit, this one's all bloody. Who left it here? Did they die?" he murmured, crouching low to pick it up. The weight felt heavy in his hands, unfamiliar and ominous, but it was better than nothing. He gripped it tightly, his knuckles whitening, the sticky residue clinging to his palms like a grim reminder of its previous owner's fate.
Swallowing hard, Damien began to move slowly, deliberately, using the scattered debris as cover. He darted from one shadow to the next, his footsteps light and measured, heart hammering so loudly he feared the creature might hear it. The zombie-thing remained oblivious, its wings fluttering weakly as it pawed at the store's threshold. Peering through a crack in the wall, Damien caught sight of the woman inside: long black hair matted with sweat and dirt, cascading down her back; green eyes wide with unbridled fear, darting around the dim interior. She was huddled in a corner, her clothes torn and soiled, breaths coming in ragged sobs. She hadn't seen him yet good. Her face, lined with the weariness of someone in her thirties or forties, was etched with pure panic, lips trembling as she whispered another faint plea.
But the creature shit, that looks like a zombie with wings blocked the way, its grotesque form hulking in the doorway. As Damien's gaze locked onto it, something strange caught his attention: hovering above its head, like a ethereal hologram visible only to him, was a number. 73 years. "What is that?" he thought, his brow furrowing in confusion, red eyes widening slightly behind his monocle. The moment he focused on it, staring intently and pondering its meaning, a translucent screen materialized in his vision plain, no description, nothing fancy. Just stark text:
Host lifespan: 80 years.
Damien shook his head in disbelief, blinking rapidly as if to dispel an illusion. "Is this my lifespan? Huh, so I have 80 years... and that zombie-looking thing has 73 years." His mind whirled, piecing together the puzzle. Can I extract it? If it's showing... The thought barely formed before the number on the zombie's head began to drop rapidly 73, 72, 71 plummeting like sand through an hourglass. The creature let out a guttural screech, its body convulsing, wings flapping wildly in futile resistance. Then, as the counter hit zero, its form exploded in a burst of foul-smelling ichor and decayed flesh, splattering the ground and walls in a visceral spray.
Damien recoiled, wiping a speck from his cheek, his expression a mix of shock and exhilaration. The screen in his vision updated seamlessly:
Host lifespan: 153.
A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth, his red eyes gleaming with newfound intrigue. Power. He had power after all something tied to lifespans, extraction, extension. The woman inside the store finally noticed him, her green eyes locking onto his figure amid the gore. Her fearful expression shifted slightly surprise flickering across her features, mingled with a tentative spark of hope.