Excerpt 1

  (Page 243, Section 4)

  The Zamongarai, a powerful subspecies of minotaur, are renowned for their immense strength and imposing physiques. Despite their raw power and capacity for tremendous feats of brute force, they are often overshadowed—even among their own kind—due to limited intellect and poor agility, which leave them struggling with tasks that require precision or finesse. As with most races, however, a rare few manage to rise above these inherent limitations.

  Source: Introduction to Creatures – Biologist Ukan

  Excerpt 1 End

  *****

  One of life’s greatest mysteries is what happens after death. But for Hassan, that question had already been answered.

  The Heavens, the Hells, and all the realms in between were no myth—they were real, as tangible as life itself.

  And Hassan had earned his place in one of the Heavens.

  Throughout his life on Earth, he had avoided serious wrongdoing, treated others with kindness, and gave generously to those in need. He stayed on the right path, unwavering.

  In Heaven, one of the most cherished privileges was the boundless freedom to explore limitless possibilities—provided, of course, that your rank permitted it.

  After what felt like eons of peace and opportunity, Hassan craved something new.

  He chose to be reborn in a fantasy world of his own design.

  Among infinite worlds, realms, dimensions, and universes, he chose one world: Astrithon, a land of chaos and wonder nestled within the vast greater universe of Kaironexus.

  Astrithon stood apart—renowned for its intricate connections to countless planes and its endless wars. It was also famed for its astonishing variety of races.

  Some, like behemoths and dragons, were physically formidable. Others, such as elves, mind weavers, and soul-based beings like wraiths and nightmares, excelled in magic or soul manipulation.

  This diversity promised centuries—if not millennia—of entertainment.

  What set Astrithon apart even more was its refusal to remain still. Cataclysms, wars, and upheavals struck with relentless frequency—and above them all loomed the trials: ancient, unyielding, and born from the will of Kaironexus itself.

  These trials were governed by Kaironexus, a vast and impartial universe whose Will shaped the very laws of existence. They were forged through its actions and guided by its core imperatives: to expand, evolve, and accumulate power—imperatives born in the wake of catastrophe.

  That catastrophe occurred long ago, when Kaironexus collided with another universe—an event that unleashed cataclysmic destruction and nearly led to its own annihilation. From that moment on, it embraced a single truth: survival demanded strength.

  Through endless observation, Kaironexus discovered that conflict bred innovation, and the pursuit of power fueled growth. By fostering these forces, it gradually amassed strength and knowledge across the eons—and from this wisdom, the trials were born.

  Though unforgiving, the trials remained fair. Kaironexus had come to realize that neutrality best nurtured growth, while overt assistance often led to unintended consequences—chief among them, rebellion against its very self.

  To preserve that balance—and to prevent similar disasters from befalling itself or its inhabitants—Kaironexus enforced immutable laws.

  Direct intervention, especially during trials, was strictly forbidden.

  Even beyond the trials, no world, realm, or dimension was permitted to directly empower its inhabitants. Assistance was limited to the most basic knowledge, fleeting insight, or the faintest whisper of guidance.

  Knowledge capable of artificially enhancing strength through science or sorcery was also heavily restricted, as such shortcuts—though tempting—often crippled long-term growth and stunted potential at higher tiers.

  To avoid being seen as cruel or unjust—and to prevent rebellion—Kaironexus carefully shaped the structure and rewards of the trials. Rewards were proportional to the difficulty faced, and they extended not only to the participants but also to their worlds, realms, or dimensions.

  To Hassan, the system’s delicate balance of order, restraint, and reward was utterly fascinating.

  However, Hassan knew that retaining his knowledge of Heaven—and his immunity to permanent death—would strip away the genuine fear and excitement he craved.

  To preserve the authenticity of the experience, he chose to enter Astrithon with only his earthly memories, frozen at age thirty-five. All knowledge of the afterlife would be erased.

  He also feared that carrying divine truths into a world of false gods and clashing beliefs might lead him to blasphemy—or worse, compel him to betray his faith in the name of survival. To prevent such a fate, he chose to erase all religious knowledge and implement fail-safes, ensuring he could never unwittingly sin against God and risk forfeiting his place in Heaven.

  Then came the matter of choosing a race—a decision that proved more difficult than he had anticipated.

  In Astrithon, no race was inherently weak, though hive-based species required far longer to grow stronger and were often born into servitude.

  Hassan decided to set strict criteria: his new race had to be humanoid, possess a physical body, mind, and soul, and avoid hive affiliations.

  Even with those filters, more than a hundred thousand species remained eligible.

  In the end, he left it to chance.

  In less than a heartbeat, his transformation was complete—revealing a bull-headed, fur-covered humanoid: a Zamongarai.

  A distinctive subspecies of minotaur, the Zamongarai were renowned for their formidable strength and impressive physique—though also infamous for their slower intellect.

  To avoid that particular drawback, Hassan opted to retain his human-level intelligence, as well as his mental and soul faculties.

  He had no desire to spend years relearning language or struggling through basic reasoning—though he admitted, this was, in a sense, cheating.

  Still, it would ensure he could fully enjoy the depth of the experience.

  Zamongarai experienced their most intense development during their first thirty years, with growth slowing greatly after age 100 and regression beginning around age 300—unless they achieved a high enough tier, which extended their lifespan alongside their growing power.

  This early window would largely shape Hassan’s physical, mental, and soul-related potential.

  He chose to begin his incarnation at two weeks old.

  By that age, a young Zamongarai no longer required milk and could crawl with only moderate supervision, thanks to their naturally robust physique—which made injuries less of a concern.

  However, oversight was still necessary due to their limited cognitive development. They were known to eat random objects or crash into walls, sometimes causing brain damage—typically until around age ten.

  With his past life knowledge, Hassan wasn’t worried about those hazards. Walking normally, however, still depended on nervous system maturation—particularly the spinal cord and motor cortex—so while it would take some time, his Zamongarai physique meant he’d only be unsteady for a short while.

  Next, he planned his upbringing.

  He would be born as a random orphan in a modest town—but one equipped with everything essential for someone striving to reach the pinnacle of strength. At the same time, he ensured the region wouldn’t face any destruction for at least ten years at the town level, and thirty years at the regional level—all within the Golden Age of Astrithon.

  As for his caregivers and specific location, he chose not to interfere. He let those details unfold naturally, unconcerned with who his adoptive parents would be or where exactly he’d be placed.

  In Astrithon, orphans of war were often cared for by local communities, charitable institutions, or extended family until they were deemed fit to fend for themselves—allowing surviving adults to focus on defending their land.

  Such a setting would offer both basic stability and the freedom to explore his potential—especially since he wouldn’t be tied down by obligations. At most, he’d have a caregiver or a distant relative overseeing him.

  This carefully chosen starting point would allow Hassan to capitalize on the Zamongarai’s rapid early growth, granting him more time to train—and offering a significant long-term advantage, while also making the journey far more engaging and rewarding.

  Before leaving Heaven, Hassan selected four essential perks to make his journey thrilling yet feasible.

  First, he carried over his human intellect, soul, and 35 years of Earthly experience—a time when he was at the peak of his adventurous prime.

  Second, he created a system panel and an internal space to track progress and assist with training.

  Third, he found the most advanced methods to maximize the potential of his body, mind, and soul—ensuring he could train each attribute efficiently.

  And finally, he safeguarded himself against external control and corruption, fortifying his will against all forms of manipulation.

  These foundational perks would define the extent of his ultimate potential. Moreover, the system and training space function on a level far beyond the detection abilities of Astrithon or even Kaironexus, eliminating any risk of being discovered.

  With everything in place, Hassan bid farewell to Heaven and embraced the vibrant unpredictability of Astrithon. As a fledgling Zamongarai in a world of endless peril and possibility, he was eager for the challenges ahead.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  *****

  On a grassy battlefield, drenched in blood and littered with the mangled corpses of Zamongarai, beasts, and monstrous foes, two opposing armies squared off.

  Each warrior sat astride a colossal bull mount, their towering forms tense, muscles coiled like bowstrings, ready to snap. The stench of iron and blood clung to the air—thick and suffocating.

  “I told you not to let your pride get the better of you, Rokface! You damn fool—look at what you’ve caused!”

  War Chief Axes bellowed, his voice cutting through the howling wind like a blade.

  “Hundreds of our warriors are dead, and countless others lie wounded because you charged headfirst into the enemy without a plan!”

  Breathing heavily, Axes glared at Battlelord Rokface, his expression murderous.

  Around them, surviving soldiers moved in weary silence, their armor dented and smeared with blood. Some leaned on weapons, barely standing. Others knelt beside the fallen, whispering last rites to comrades who would never rise again.

  “And what of it, Axes?” Rokface snapped, his grip tightening on the reins of his mount.

  “Winter is nearly upon us. We can’t fight without supplies. If we had waited, they would have used that portal to reinforce their numbers while we were forced to shelter from the cold.

  We had no choice but to destroy it.

  Besides, we crushed their forces. The dead will be honored, their descendants cared for. And we, the survivors, will earn our merits—”

  “Enough, Rokface!” Axes roared, his voice trembling with fury.

  He thrust a hand toward the lifeless bodies beneath tattered banners, their frozen forms stiffening in the bitter wind.

  “We could’ve won without that reckless charge. Now, hundreds are dead, and our forces are stretched thin.

  If we take another hit like this, we won’t be able to hold the line.”

  He leaned forward, voice raw with grief.

  “Look around you! Your own brother. His wife. Both lie among the dead. And their son—just two weeks old—is now an orphan.”

  His defiant glare wavered, faltering beneath the weight of truth. His eyes drifted toward the lifeless rows, scanning faces frozen in final dignity. There—his brother and sister-in-law, still and solemn in death.

  His gaze caught on the familiar weapon gripped in his brother’s hand, a flail half-buried in blood-soaked mud. Nearby, his sister-in-law’s staff lay beside her, silent witness to their end.

  Rokface froze.

  His mount shifted uneasily, sensing the weight of his silence.

  For a moment, he clenched his jaw, hands trembling slightly on the reins.

  Then, slowly, he exhaled—a bitter, hollow sound that seemed to drain the fight from him.

  “They died an honorable death,” he said at last, his voice quieter now, edged with something weary and final.

  “I’ll raise their son in their stead. I’ll make him a great warrior.”

  He raised a fist to his chest in silent vow, then turned his mount away—offering no further words to Axes.

  He lifted his gaze to his troops, his tone regaining its commanding steel.

  “Soldiers, we return. This invasion is over.”

  Axes watched him go, jaw tight, frustration burning in his chest.

  But as Rokface rode farther from the battlefield, disappearing into the fading light, Axes felt something else—something he hadn’t expected.

  A trace of pity.

  He didn’t know if it was for Rokface, for the dead, or for all of them—but it was there.

  Axes turned back to his soldiers, the fire in his voice returning—not from anger, but from duty.

  “Bury our companions where they fell. With their armor. With their weapons.

  They fought as Zamongarai should—and they’ll rest as they deserve.”

  The warriors stirred—silent at first, then began to move.

  Slow. Steady.

  Burdened by the weight of loss and responsibility.

  *****

  My head...

  Hassan struggled to open his eyes as the world spun violently around him.

  After what felt like an eternity, the dizziness began to fade, and he was finally able to take in his surroundings. To his shock, he wasn’t in his bedroom. Instead, he appeared to be inside a primitive, medieval-style tent.

  The space was adorned with bundles of leather hides—each crafted from creatures he didn’t recognize—arranged so meticulously that they seemed to tell silent stories of their own. A soft, ethereal white light bathed the room, emanating from a luminescent plant nestled in a tall pillar-like mound of earth at the center. Its delicate, frosted-glass-like leaves shimmered with a magical glow, casting soft shadows across the pristine canvas walls.

  Remarkably, everything seemed untouched by time—not a speck of dust in sight. Even the air felt warm and strangely inviting.

  He opened his mouth to speak—but the sounds that emerged were slurred and mangled, distorted by unfamiliar vocal cords.

  He paused, frowning. My voice... it sounds wrong.

  Fortunately, he wasn’t in the habit of speaking his thoughts aloud anyway.

  Hassan’s astonishment deepened as he realized just how clearly he could see every detail. Colors were unnaturally vivid, sharper than he had ever experienced before, as though his eyes had been enhanced. Reaching up instinctively to touch his face, he froze.

  There were no glasses perched on his nose, no VR headset strapped to his head. Instead, his fingers brushed against smooth yet hairy skin. His heart sank.

  Could this be a dream?

  Desperate to understand, he looked down at his body. What he saw made his breath catch—his skin was a deep, grayish black, cloaked in a sleek coat of black fur. Every inch of him felt alien, as if he had been transplanted into someone else’s body.

  Then, a strange sensation tingled at the base of his spine. Turning slightly, his eyes widened.

  I even have a tail.

  Taking a shaky breath, Hassan forced himself to stay calm. If this is a dream, he thought, it’s alarmingly real.

  Once the dizziness subsided further, and the reality of his situation refused to change, Hassan decided to explore his surroundings.

  Rising to his feet—or at least attempting to—he felt unsteady and weak, his balance foreign and fragile. Glancing downward, his stomach turned.

  Instead of toes, hooves met his gaze.

  A jarring realization struck him: his body wasn’t his own.

  This has to be some kind of nightmare, he thought as he cautiously stepped off the bed.

  The tent’s interior loomed around him, everything appearing enormous. Rough pelts from strange, unknown creatures hung from the walls and ceiling, their arrangement evoking the aura of trophies—or perhaps some form of decoration.

  Before he could inspect further, the sound of heavy footsteps made him freeze.

  A towering, robed figure entered the tent, its presence filling the space. Hassan's throat tightened as he stared, his breath catching.

  Even concealed beneath the heavy fabric, the creature's humanoid form was unmistakable. Each bulging bicep, nearly rivaling the new size of Hassan's entire frame, strained against the robe’s confines. Its face, shrouded in coarse brown fur, bore an air of primal regality, further enhanced by two majestic horns that arched elegantly from both sides of its head.

  The creature's cloven hooves met the ground with uncanny grace, each step resonating in a soft, rhythmic cadence that seemed to echo through the earth itself.

  They stared at each other, the silence thick with tension.

  Finally, Hassan broke eye contact, backing away instinctively, hoping the creature would ignore him.

  That hope was short-lived.

  The bull-figure approached him, its expression unreadable. To Hassan, the faint curve of its lips looked more like a devilish grin than anything else.

  Panic surged through him. He stumbled backward, lost his footing, and crashed to the ground.

  Crap! What kind of nightmare is this?

  Eyes wide with alarm, Hassan watched as the giant reached toward him. Instinctively, he curled into himself, shut his eyes, and braced for impact.

  Instead, two enormous hands scooped him up with surprising gentleness.

  He remained tense, expecting the worst—but moments later, he found himself upright again. Or rather, standing on hooves.

  Slowly opening his eyes, he was startled to find the giant’s expression softened, a strange sadness flickering across its features. Before he could process what it meant, the creature lifted him once more, holding him as if he were something fragile.

  A deep, guttural murmur reached Hassan’s ears. The creature was speaking, but the words were incomprehensible. Then, with careful precision, it set him back onto the bed.

  Hassan watched in bewilderment as the bull-figure turned to a nearby table, where it began chopping herbs at an incredible speed, mixing them with practiced precision in a small bowl. When it returned, it sat beside him, holding a wooden spoon filled with the mixture.

  The creature’s gaze was soft, almost expectant, as it raised the spoon toward him.

  Hassan hesitated.

  What’s the worst that could happen?

  Taking the hint, he leaned forward and tasted the herbal mush. To his surprise, it was palatable—though far sweeter than he had expected.

  As he ate, a troubling thought gnawed at him. Why is the giant treating me like a child?

  Piece by piece, unsettling details began to fall into place.

  First, the creature had seemed overjoyed to see him. Then, it had picked him up gently, placed him down with care, made him food, and now watched him eat with almost parental patience.

  And the creature itself... covered in fur, with hooves instead of feet, and a tail swaying behind it.

  A cold realization crept over him.

  Had I somehow become a monster like the one before me? Did this creature think I was its child?

  The thought froze him, fear tightening its grip on his mind.

  But he forced himself to stay calm—panicking wouldn’t help. Perhaps this is still just some terrible dream.

  As the meal ended, the giant gently lifted him again. Hassan fought the urge to struggle, his heart pounding as he willed himself to stay composed.

  Placing him down carefully, the creature kept a firm grip on his arms, its enormous hands steadying him as if afraid he might fall.

  Confused, Hassan stood motionless until the bull-figure began murmuring again and nudging him forward with gentle, deliberate pushes.

  It took him a moment to realize what was happening.

  It’s trying to teach me how to walk, he thought, a mix of disbelief and unease settling over him.

  As he took a few shaky steps, the creature loosened its grip, towering over him like a patient instructor. Hassan’s legs wobbled under the unfamiliar weight of his new body, but with each step, he grew slightly more stable.

  After a few successful strides on his own, the giant released him entirely, stepping back.

  Its lips curved into what Hassan initially perceived as a fiendish grin—but this time, the expression seemed softer.

  Almost proud.

  Like a parent watching its child’s first steps.

  A chill ran through him.

  It didn’t bring comfort. It only deepened his suspicion.

  This creature really thinks I’m its child, he realized, his mind racing to piece together how or why this could be happening.

  For a while, Hassan paced the tent, his hooves clacking softly against the ground, each step a little more confident than the last. The unfamiliar weight of his new body made movement awkward, but he was adapting—slowly.

  Then his eyes fell on the curtained exit.

  A flicker of hope stirred in his chest.

  If I step outside… maybe I’ll wake up.

  It wasn’t logical, but dreams rarely were. Back on Earth, his worst nightmares always ended the same way—falling, dying, or simply hitting a moment too intense to bear. Then he'd wake up, drenched in sweat, heart pounding. Maybe this was the same. Maybe this whole surreal world would collapse the moment he passed through that curtain.

  Driven by desperation more than belief, he acted on impulse. His hooves stumbled awkwardly as he broke into a clumsy dash, the sound of his movement echoing off the canvas walls. He pushed through the curtain, bracing for anything—light, falling, pain—something to snap him back to reality.

  Instead, the moment he stepped out, two massive hands caught him mid-stride and lifted him into the air as if he weighed nothing.

  Hassan froze, limbs tense, breath locked in his chest. That tiny sliver of hope—the idea that this might be a dream—shattered in an instant.

  The scene that unfolded before him was unlike anything he could have imagined. Dozens of tents sprawled across the landscape, with many more dotting the distance—forming a loosely organized settlement. Massive, bull-headed creatures moved with purpose: hauling supplies, maintaining weapons, tending fires. Most shared the same towering, fur-covered features as the one holding him.

  Yet they weren’t mindless brutes. They spoke to each other in a deep, guttural language, their tones carrying inflection, their body language deliberate. One laughed. Another pointed toward a distant tent. The air vibrated with a sense of culture, structure—intelligence.

  They’re not beasts, Hassan realized, a chill prickling the back of his neck. They’re people.

  His heart sank. The vibrant colors, the strange yet intoxicating scents in the air, the contrast between the creature’s warm hands and the cold bite of the outside air—even the overcast sky and the earthen ground—everything felt far too vivid, too real to be a dream.

  His gaze swept across the camp, eyes scanning for anything—any glitch, flicker, or inconsistency that might prove this world false. But all he saw was life unfolding around him.

  This isn’t a dream.

  This is another world.

  And this... this isn’t my body.

  A wave of panic welled up inside him, hot and suffocating. But before it could fully take hold, the bull-figure cradled him closer and turned back toward the tent. Its presence, strangely enough, exuded calm. Warmth radiated through its fur and muscle like a blanket fresh from the sun.

  Back inside, the giant set him down gently on the bed and, with practiced care, ran a large hand over his head. Then it stepped back, watching him in silence. Its expression was unreadable—not angry, not pleased. Simply... watching.

  Hassan lay there, unmoving. The phantom sensation of those massive hands still lingered on his arms, grounding him as his mind tried to catch up. What he had just seen—and what it meant—settled on him like a weight he couldn’t yet name.

  This sort of thing only happens in fiction... right?

  The thought clung to him like a lifeline, even as reality continued to press in from all sides. He grasped at the hope that this was all some elaborate dream—something his brain had conjured up after too many books, games, or a really bad meal.

  But the weight of exhaustion pulled at him, heavy and relentless. His head throbbed, his body still felt foreign and wrong, and the world around him—too vibrant, too loud, too real—was overwhelming in a way no dream ever had been.

  His limbs sagged into the bedding as if surrendering to gravity itself. He stared up at the softly glowing ceiling, the light from the strange plant casting gentle light across the canvas walls.

  When I wake, I’ll be back in my real body. My real life. I have to be.

  He clung to the thought like a lifeline, but deep down, a quiet voice whispered the unsettling truth—what if this is it?

  *****