The Outcast: Michael Grey's Rise to the Top

Chapter Seven: Rebirth

The first thing Michael felt when he came to was the sensation of being dragged and soft, wet sand beneath him, the ocean breeze on his skin.

He gasped and sat up abruptly, heart pounding like a war drum. His lungs screamed as he inhaled sharply, and he doubled over to cough out a lungful of seawater, retching violently.

Then the memories hit him all at once.

Victor. The gunshots. The suitcase. The plunge into the ocean.

'That bastard really tried to kill me…'

It wasn’t often that Michael got angry, but now he felt a sensation that was so cold and seething, deeper than anything he’d ever known. Still, he pushed the emotion aside and focused on something more pressing.

He should be dead.

He remembered the bullets, the blood, the pain. And yet, when he examined his body, there wasn’t a single wound. No blood. No torn flesh. His shirt was still damp with holes and some red stains, but his skin beneath it was whole.

Then he realized that there was something still clutched tightly in his hand.

The injector. The device he had stolen from Victor.

Suddenly, a light-blue interface shimmered into his vision, almost like a HUD from a video game, except… he wasn’t wearing anything on his face.

> [Congratulations! Objective: Host Resuscitation Completed]

[Completion Time: 5:20:45]

[Completion Rank: B]

[Rewards Granted:]

– Full Integration with the Wargod System

– Soul Skill Tree Unlocked

– Soul Skill: Observe Obtained

– Soul Skill: Foresight Obtained

Michael blinked hard. Then blinked again. The display was still there.

What the hell was this?

He turned the device over in his hand. On its smooth metallic shell, one word was clearly etched: RISAX.

He focused his thoughts and sent out a mental question. 'What are you?'

> [The Host is referring to the Wargod System]

[The System is a prototype nanotech construct, designed for full biological integration at the cellular level]

A prototype? So this was really one of a kind… No wonder Victor lost his mind when I took it.

Michael exhaled slowly, trying to make sense of it all. 'System', he asked silently, 'that message from earlier, something about an objective? What does that mean?'

> [Objectives are personalized missions determined by the Host’s circumstances and environment. Completing objectives results in rewards. Failure may result in penalties, including physical harm or financial loss.]

His breath caught slightly.

This thing wasn’t just some glorified health boost. It was alive—or at least functioning like a hyper-advanced AI—and it had goals, missions, even stakes.

And it had chosen him.

He focused again and instinctively brought up the interface.

> [Host Designation: Michael Grey]

Level: 5

Health: 100%

Energy: 86%

Willpower: 100%

> Strength: 10 | Agility: 15 | Endurance: 13 | Control: 15 | Intelligence: 14

> [Soul Skills:]

– Observe (Lv 1): Provides intel on selected targets. Depth depends on level comparison.

– Foresight (Lv 1): Grants a two-second glimpse into the immediate future.

Michael stared at the screen, then at his hands. They felt… different. Lighter, more responsive in fact, almost strangely so.

And then he caught his reflection in the water.

His hair that had once dark like his father’s, was now a clean, snow-white sheen. He tilted his head, half in awe, half unnerved.

So this was the cost of rebirth.

---

By the time he made it back to his street, Michael had gotten a better sense of the Wargod System’s interface and inner workings. It wasn’t intrusive like he had expected something in his own mind to be. Instead it felt like an extension of his own thoughts. Its connection to his Biz-Watch confirmed what he’d guessed: it could tap into his financial data, among other things.

But there was no time to process that now.

As he turned the corner to his home, a small crowd was gathered outside.

His stomach dropped.

Without hesitation, he pushed through the people until he reached the center.

And there, standing above a kneeling William Grey and a sobbing blonde girl held down by two suited thugs—was Victor.

Michael’s pulse surged.

His father was bowed in pain, one hand bracing his side, the other stretched protectively in front of Ari. She was crying and begging, her face still beautiful even through the tears, but completely powerless against the brute strength of the men holding her down.

“Please, Victor!” she cried, her voice raw. “You don’t have to do this. Whatever happened, please, we can fix it. We can find another way!”

Victor smirked, stepping toward her with mock sympathy.

“You should be grateful you’re not on the ground with him,” he said, reaching out. “Don’t make me—”

His words were cut short by a hand.

A hand clamped around his wrist with terrifying force.

Victor turned, and froze.

Standing there, dressed in torn clothes, eyes filled with a frozen storm, was the cousin he had killed.

“If you touch my sister,” Michael said, his voice low and ice-cold, “I’ll make sure you never use that hand again.”