Blood of the Beast God

Chapter 01: Welcome to the World of Games

The mountains didn’t make a sound. They just sat there, dark and brooding, under a cold, hooked moon.

Up above, stars glittered in every direction—scattered like pieces on some endless chessboard. Down in the valley, mist crept across the ground, thin and pale, giving everything that ghost-town vibe, as if the world itself had walked away and forgotten this place.

Still, it wasn’t completely dead. Flowers pushed through the earth in little patches, trees stood tall and stubborn, and the air carried a heavy mix of smells—sweet blossoms tangled up with the raw, sharp scent of grass. It was the kind of air that made you breathe a little deeper without thinking, though it was almost too much, like wine that went to your head.

Then the silence cracked. A bird screamed, high and sudden. A second later, the horizon darkened. Crows. Hundreds of them, maybe thousands, surging upward like a black tide that swallowed the sky whole.

And in the middle of that lonely valley? A camp. Or something pretending to be one. Four fat wooden stakes pounded into the ground, a few logs lashed across them like crooked teeth, leaving gaps wide enough to slip a hand through. At the center, a fire burned low, its glow soft and steady, painting everything with that strange crimson tint firelight always brings.

A bed of dry, yellow weeds had been laid out like makeshift bedding. A boy—seventeen, maybe—lay sprawled across it. Eyes closed. Body limp. Breath shallow.

That’s when the voices came, faint and broken, like echoes in a dream:

“Move, hurry! Too many beasts in these parts. We have to reach the next camp before dark, or we’ll never get out!”

“What a waste… such a solid shield, but he’s done for. Brother Theron, what now?”

“With wounds like that? He’s nothing but a burden. Leave him.”

And then silence.

Kaelen’s eyes snapped open. He didn’t move right away. Just stared at the firelight, his gaze drifting over the crude camp. Something stirred in him, that odd mix of strange and familiar that makes your chest feel heavy.

Eventually, he sat up. Looked down at himself. His clothes were a mess—a rough linen tunic torn nearly to rags, a pair of patched trousers, and shoes so thin they might as well have been socks. The fabric was shredded, clawed open by branches or worse.

In one sharp motion, he tore the tunic from his body. Moonlight spilled over bronze skin, muscles cut and scarred, like a statue hammered out of iron and flesh. It would’ve been beautiful, in a brutal way—except for the wound.

A hand-sized gash ripped across his chest. Flesh split. Ribs showing. Only inches from his heart.

The blood had dried dark. When his fingers brushed over it, flakes of clot came away like old paint peeling off wood.

The pain hit him like a knife. Sharp. Immediate. He gasped, sweat springing across his forehead, and slumped back against one of the stakes, trembling as the fire crackled.

Minutes passed. The agony dulled to a cold, steady throb. Gritting his teeth, he tore what was left of the tunic into strips and bound them tight around his chest. It wasn’t much, but it was something. Enough to keep him on his feet a little longer.

His face burned red, his breath came heavy. But he was alive. Somehow.

“So this is transmigration…” His voice was a whisper, half disbelief, half awe.

His eyes unfocused as memories—new ones—slid into place. Not his, but his now all the same. He let out a bitter laugh. Transmigration. People always dreamed of it like some cosmic gift, a blessing.

Maybe for some it was a curse. Waking up in a world you didn’t know, stripped of everything familiar—most people would lose their minds. But for Kaelen? It was a gift. His first life was over. He had died. And here he was, alive again.

He remembered death too clearly. The void. Endless, suffocating silence. No sound, no movement, no time. Just the black swallowing everything.

And memories. That was all he’d had left. They replayed again and again, every detail, every mistake, like a reel you couldn’t turn off. Torture, sure, but also the only thing that kept him sane. And now? Now he had a body again. A second chance.

Then—

A howl.

Long, sharp, cutting through the night like a blade. It echoed across the valley, closer, louder, until it felt like it was right in his ear.

Wolves. He knew the sound instantly.

His hand went to his side out of habit. Empty. No sword. His heart sank. He scrambled to his feet, scanning the camp for anything that might work. Fire, weeds, stakes… nothing.

“Damn it,” he spat. “They even took my blade.”

The pieces in his head slid into place.

This body was called Kaelen too. A name that echoed the god of war, son of Zeus. But here? The name meant nothing. If it had weight, he wouldn’t be bleeding out in some forgotten valley.

The wound told the story anyway. It was earned during the Trial of Death. Every candidate had to pass it to become a professional. Kaelen had walked into Death Canyon with more than twenty others. A month later, only six remained.

And he had been cut down saving someone else.

Elena.

Love unreturned is the cruelest chain. He had stepped in front of her, taken the beast’s claws to his chest. And what had it bought him?

The empty camp answered for her.

She hadn’t loved him. To her, he was nothing but dead weight. And dead weight gets left behind.

That much he could accept. In a twisted way, he even thanked it. If not for that wound, he wouldn’t have died, wouldn’t have crossed worlds, wouldn’t be here now. That part he could forgive.

But the sword? The sword was different. That cut too deep.

Jaw set, he grabbed a burning log from the fire, sparks flying, and pressed his back to the northern stake. East, south, and west were blocked by the logs. That left the north, the only open side. He’d face it head-on.

Shadows flickered through the moonlight. Lean shapes. Fast. Wolves.

Kaelen gripped the log tighter. His chest ached—not just from the wound, but from the weight pressing down on him. He had barely begun this second life, and already death was here to collect.

The howls spread, echoing across the valley, answering each other in the dark.

And then he saw them.

Four wolves, their eyes glowing a ghostly green. Firelight rippled over their brown fur, their lean bodies tense with hunger. Saliva dripped from jaws lined with teeth sharp enough to snap bone like twigs.

And they were closing in.