In the bustling city of Valerion, the air was thick with the sounds of honking mana-powered vehicles, endless chatter, and the occasional street vendor shouting about roasted meat or glowing crystals.
Among the crowd, a young man of around eighteen pushed his way through lazily, his expression twisted in annoyance. He wore a dark blue T-shirt and faded jeans, blending perfectly into the sea of ordinary faces. His black hair was messy, and his equally dark eyes carried a mixture of boredom and barely contained irritation.
"Hah... Here goes another day in this shitty city," he muttered under his breath.
His name was Amon.
He didn't look special. In fact, most people bumped into him without even giving him a second glance. But deep inside, he was anything but ordinary.
Amon shoved his hands into his pockets and turned into one of the side alleyways. As he walked, the buildings around him gradually changed from shiny, towering structures to broken, rusted ones. The pavement cracked beneath his shoes. Trash lined the corners, and the smell of smoke, sweat, and poverty clung to the air like fog.
He had entered a rundown neighborhood that resembled a slum. His destination was a half-collapsed building leaning slightly to the left, as if it might give up on life at any moment.
"Still standing, huh?" he muttered, looking at the building as if it had personally offended him.
Climbing the rickety staircase to the second floor, he walked down a dim hallway and stopped at the first door on the right. He pulled out a rusted key, shoved it into the lock with a grunt, and twisted it.
The door creaked open.
"Finally home..."
He stepped inside, but after a few seconds of silence, he added with a scowl, "Not like this dogshit place counts as home."
He shut the door behind him with a dull thud and took in the sight of his apartment.
It was a single-room unit with a tiny attached kitchen. The floor was cracked, and the ceiling occasionally leaked whenever it rained. A lone, thin mattress sat in the corner of the room, just big enough for one person. The kitchen was tucked behind a doorway on the left side of the room, barely visible in the gloom.
The walls had peeling paint, and deep cracks ran along them like veins on dying skin.
With a sigh, Amon dropped onto the mattress and stared at the ceiling.
"Seventeen years," he muttered. "Seventeen damn years since I reincarnated into this magical, beautiful, bullshit world."
This world, Kṣitiḥ, was supposed to be a fantasy paradise. Magic, dragons, flying castles, swords, monsters... All the cool stuff he used to dream about in his previous life.
When he had first opened his eyes as a baby in this new world, Amon, formerly known as Lucas, had been excited. He thought he had hit the reincarnation jackpot. He expected cheat powers, a noble background, maybe even a hidden bloodline or a system interface.
Although he still missed his family from his previous life and wished he could see them again, he had gradually learned to move on. Over the years, his new parents had helped him find happiness in this world, and he had even started looking forward to the future.
Until they died.
But no, there were no cheats. No wealthy family. No magical prodigy awakening.
Instead, he had been born a commoner.
The world of Kṣitiḥ, as he had come to learn, didn't run on justice or kindness. It ran on power.
And if you had none, you were nothing.
Nobles ruled over everyone. The monarchy controlled entire regions, and if you were born poor, you stayed poor unless you clawed your way up. Merchants, mages, and noble clans lived in shining cities. Meanwhile, people like Amon lived in shacks that were one push away from collapsing.
"Too bad I was born a commoner," he muttered with a sigh. "Even worse, an untalented one."
With his stomach rumbling, Amon sat up and dragged himself into the cramped kitchen.
"Quite amazing, being broke... Even in a magical world," he said sarcastically.
The kitchen was just wide enough for him to stretch both arms out. A leaky tap dripped endlessly into a cracked sink. The single-burner stove flickered strangely, buzzing as if it might explode at any moment.
Amon opened the cupboard and pulled out his greatest treasure: a packet of instant noodles.
He stared at it dramatically.
"Dinner of champions," he declared, saluting it before tearing it open.
He boiled some water on the dying stove, dumped the dried noodles in, and stirred them slowly with a spoon that had lost its handle. The smell of overly salty, spicy broth filled the air. It was processed, unhealthy, and possibly expired.
But to him?
It was comfort food.
After a few minutes, he poured the noodles into a chipped bowl and sat cross-legged on his mattress. He leaned back, gently blowing on the hot noodles before slurping up a mouthful.
"Still tastes like poverty," he said with a sigh. "But damn... It's warm."
The broth was simple, too salty, and barely seasoned, but it warmed his chest.
He stared at the flickering mana-stone lightbulb above him as he ate, listening to the sounds of Valerion coming through the cracked window—cars honking, people yelling, laughter in the distance, and perhaps even a fire spell going off somewhere.
The chaos outside was constant.
Inside, it was just him and his bowl of noodles.
"This world has mythical beasts, ancient dungeons, and sword-wielding maniacs... And here I am, eating trash noodles on a mattress."
He laughed dryly.
"Hah... Commoners have it rough. And I've got it even worse. Most of them at least have families. Me? I got isekai'd and landed in poverty. Bravo, God. Good one."
He slurped up more noodles, the steam fogging the lenses of his glasses. At least technology had made its way into this world. Although limited, things like crystal-powered phones, mana lamps, and even magic-powered vehicles existed.
Unfortunately, phones were far too expensive for him to afford, along with most other modern gadgets.
After finishing the last bite of his noodles, Amon flopped onto the mattress and let out a long breath.
"Should I read something?"
He picked up the book he had bought recently. It was an action novel, not as well-written as the ones from his previous world, but still readable.
Some things never changed.
Even in his previous life, he had been obsessed with games, anime, and web novels. And now, after seventeen years in this twisted magical world, he still clung to those tiny pieces of joy.
Hours passed.
Eventually, he dropped the book beside him, yawned, and pulled the thin sheet over his bruised legs.
In this cold world of status, bloodlines, and raw power... all Amon had was his stubbornness, his sarcasm, and a bowl of cheap noodles.
And maybe, just maybe a spark of something more, waiting to awaken.
As he drifted off to sleep, snoring lightly, the light from the city crept in through the blinds, painting the cracked walls with a ghostly orange glow.
Tomorrow, everything would repeat.
But maybe not forever.