He awoke to blackness—thick, suffocating, absolute. His head throbbed with every heartbeat; broken ribs and crushed limbs screamed with every twitch. It was hard to tell if he was bleeding or if the pain was all that remained of his body.

  This sucks. This sucks. Why? Why? WHY?! His mind spun in tight, dizzy circles. This wasn’t possible. This wasn’t fair. How was he still alive? Why was he alive, trapped, crushed, alone?

  His thoughts spiraled—panic, then despair. This is it. I’m going to die here, buried like a nobody in a world that barely noticed I existed. All his hope, all the “main character” bravado—gone. He was just a body beneath a world’s worth of stone.

  But then, in the blur of fading consciousness, he saw her. His sister. The memory cut through the dark: the car, the headlights, her scream, his hands shoving her away as the truck bore down. He died. But he’d saved her.

  He’d done something that mattered.

  And now, in this mad realm of kings and monsters, gods and games, he’d been given another shot. Another story. One he already won. Maybe it was just a fluke.

  No. Something inside him snapped. This isn’t the end. This isn’t how I go out. Not like this—not buried, not forgotten.

  Anger built—hot and wild, eclipsing pain, burning away the fear. The darkness wasn’t just the world pressing in—it was his own. It thickened, responded, coiled and surged at his will.

  Ryun bends to command, he remembered. Wasn’t that what Jafar said? He’d barely understood then, but now—now he needed it.

  With the last shreds of strength, Jonathan reached for the black fire inside. Felt it flood his veins, crackling with something ancient, something that wanted to obey.

  “MOVE THIS SHIT OFF ME!” he spat, voice echoing in the hollowed earth.

  Power exploded from his core—his aura roaring to life, Ryun surging outwards in a violent wave. Boulders shattered. Earth buckled. The darkness recoiled, driven back by pure, furious will. And then, spent, he slumped back, consciousness slipping away as the world above cracked and the air rushed in.

  He woke with a gasp, and this time he wouldn’t let him drift off again. Sunlight filtered in through the cracks, weak but real. Well, that’s something. First light in my own private tomb. Sweet.

  He tried to sit up—bad idea. His legs felt like rubber bands twisted by a sadistic toddler. One good look and he could tell why: swollen, wrong angles, definitely broken bones. Worse, his left arm was just… gone. Torn off somewhere in the collapse, maybe vaporized. The stump throbbed. Great. Down to three limbs. Progress?

  He couldn’t help but snort at the absurdity. Bet the insurance adjuster on this place is going to have a meltdown.

  He did a quick, shivery assessment. Head intact. Chest—busted, but not caved in. Bleeding, but he’d felt worse after gym class once or twice (if you squinted). All things considered, “lucky” wasn’t the word he’d use, but luck—real, stupid, cosmic luck—was the only reason he wasn’t just another name in the rubble.

  So. Here he was. Alive, somehow. Alone, probably. Every term, rule, and tradition in this world was nonsense to him. No supplies, no help. Guess the tutorial is over.

  But then Jafar’s words echoed in his skull. Ryun can do anything. Heal. Restore. It’s energy left by dead gods. Willpower’s the key.

  Healing seemed impossible. What did that even mean? But… restoring? That, he could picture. Maybe that was the trick: See the arm coming back. Believe it.

  He closed his eyes and focused, lips quirking in a half-smile. “Alright, universe. If firebombs and death gods are fair play, then let’s see what “restoration” looks like. Gimme my damn arm back. Boom. Restored.”

  He willed it—felt the heat of anger, the ache of want, the raw, stubborn refusal to die incomplete.

  If Ryun bent to will, then so would his body.

  Jonathan’s misery was beginning to feel downright comical.

  Fifteen minutes. He’d focused, visualized, whispered every half-assed mantra, spell, prayer he could remember, and still… nothing. His arm was as absent as ever. He stared at the stump, flexed the phantom muscles, and swore quietly. “Guess I’m not that kind of protagonist, huh?”

  Hunger gnawed at his belly, sharp and sudden. Was it blood loss, or something stranger? The logic of this world was all over the place: he’d run like a superhuman, survived a nuclear-level blast, and was now bleeding so much that the rocks beneath him were getting heavier, sinking into the ground under the weight. That couldn’t be normal. Yet, aside from the pain and the exhaustion, he wasn’t dead. Just close.

  How do bodies even work here? He turned the thought over, mind fuzzy with fatigue. If he were still a normal human, he’d be a memory by now. Maybe in Requiem, survival wasn’t about organs or bones, but something else—raw will, the weird alchemy of Ryun?

  Still, the bleeding worried him. It pooled thick and dark, impossibly heavy—pressing into the stones and dirt, making the rubble shudder as if weighed down by lead.

  He lay back, feeling the ache in his bones, the gnaw of hunger, and the sharp sting of failure. “Come on, body. Get with the program,” he muttered, but his eyelids drooped.

  Maybe, he thought, you had to understand the rules before you could break them. He let himself drift, mind chasing answers, too tired to fight the darkness again.

  Drifting on the edge of consciousness, Jonathan felt something tug at his senses—a quiet, insistent calling. He groggily looked around with his good eye, searching for movement or meaning. Nothing but the cave-in, the streaks of sunlight, and the pool of thick, dark blood seeping from where his arm used to be.

  A wild idea gnawed at him. Was it the blood? He stared at the puddle beside him, noticing now that, on the slab of broken slate beneath his body, most of it had slid off, pooling in a dark, heavy puddle at his side. The sensation intensified—a compulsion or invitation, he couldn’t tell which.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  He hesitated, then, with a soft curse, dipped his good hand into the blood.

  As his fingers dipped into the blood, the world tipped and time shattered. The present fell away, replaced by a torrent of someone else’s memory—his memory, but not his own.

  A Temporal Echo.

  He saw himself, but not as he was—as Jafar, back when Jafar was still mortal. No crown, no divine radiance—just sweat, fear, and iron resolve. He was in a battered field beneath storm clouds, locked in battle with a monstrous beast, its hide plated like stone and its fangs like daggers.

  Jafar fought with a heavy axe, feet slipping in mud and blood, the roar of the beast echoing in his skull. The fight was desperate—every blow a struggle, every dodge closer than the last. The beast lunged, and Jafar tried to counter, but too slow: teeth flashed, pain exploded, and his hand was gone—severed in a blink.

  He staggered back, axe tumbling from numb fingers, staring in horror at the stump. Panic hit him—a raw, mortal fear. Not like this, he thought. Not here—not now!

  He clutched at the wound, blood running hot over his skin. Then—something answered. The blood didn’t just pour; it pulsed, shimmered, responded. It writhed, shaping itself, flesh and bone spiraling out, re-forming his lost hand even as the beast bore down on him. Not Ryun. Not willpower. The blood itself—the lineage, the memory, the spark of something ancient and furious.

  The vision flickered, splintered. Jonathan was hit by a blinding barrage of other images—faces he didn’t know, voices whispering of betrayal, futures fractured and kaleidoscopic, a thousand possibilities he couldn’t grasp.

  He yanked his hand away, gasping in the darkness, vision swimming with afterimages.

  He considered the vision, heart hammering, breath ragged. He wiped the sweat from his brow, lifted his ragged stump, and forced himself to focus—really focus, the way he had when he shattered the rubble or during the evaluation room’s test. He tried to sink deep, past the panic and confusion, into the raw core of his being.

  Just like Jafar in that memory, he thought. No gods. No miracles. Just blood, and the stubborn refusal to die.

  He imagined his arm—bone, muscle, skin, nerves—reforming, threading itself back together. He didn’t know if Jafar had pictured it, or just willed it, but Jonathan wanted to try it all.

  Something in the blood responded—an ancient spark, the echo of kingship or madness, who could say? Gold light flickered in the gloom, pain blossomed hot and sharp as bone reknit and flesh crawled over the wound. The process was dramatic, violent, almost electric. In moments, his arm returned—not perfect, not the flawless limb he’d been born with, but solid, functional, undeniably his.

  He stared, flexed trembling fingers, and nearly wept. The ache in his bones told him it wasn’t quite brand new, but for now, it was enough. He could survive. He could move.

  The barrage of visions and their warnings—futures, betrayals, burdens—still buzzed at the edge of his mind, but Jonathan shoved them aside. Those problems belonged to another day. For now, all that mattered was getting out.

  Jonathan got to work, patching himself up piece by piece. The process was ugly—forty-five grueling minutes spent gritting his teeth, feeling bones slide and muscles knit together, sometimes in ways he was pretty sure no med student would approve of. He could tell a few things were probably out of place; he wasn’t a surgeon, and this wasn’t some magic “auto-fix.” Guess I need to add biochemistry to the study list, he thought wryly.

  Still, after a few loud pops and some extra surges of Ryun and blood, he felt better—almost good, in fact. He rolled his shoulders, stretched out aching limbs, and found that most of the pain had faded. His new arm flexed awkwardly but worked, and his legs could hold his weight. Not bad for someone who was mulch an hour ago.

  He glanced around the cramped stone hollow he’d made. There was enough space to move, maybe enough to practice. Welp. When life traps you under a mountain, might as well get some training in.

  He focused, alternating between Ryun manipulation—feeling the energy swirl, learning how to pull, push, and focus it—and the stranger, raw power of his blood. Each practice attempt came with discoveries and new questions. Could he heal hunger? Heal exhaustion? Could he use the blood to find a way out, or make himself stronger?

  As his stomach rumbled, Jonathan eyed the stone above. If I can’t fix hunger, maybe I can just punch my way out.

  Either way, he wasn’t helpless anymore.

  Jonathan quickly decided that juggling both blood and Ryun at once was a waste of energy—especially with blood manipulation still feeling slippery and unpredictable. Better stick to what I can control for now. He found he could nudge his wounds closed, patch minor scrapes, and dull the aches, but anything big was taxing and left him shaky.

  So, Ryun it was. He sat cross-legged, closed his eyes, and tried to remembered the term Senten had said “imaginer.” So he figured, imagine what you want. Shape it.

  It sounded simple—too simple. Still, he tried. He pictured a floating ball of Ryun in front of him, tried to make it spin, then flatten, then stretch into a blade. For a while, nothing happened but a bit of warmth behind his sternum and some twitching shadows in the dark. He grumbled, focused harder, and felt—something—shift. The energy pooled around his aura, like water behind a dam.

  Trial and error became his method. When he pushed too hard, the energy slipped away, scattering into the earth. When he held too tight, it fizzled, refusing to take shape. Eventually, he found a sweet spot: imagine it, will it, but don’t force it.

  He realized, after several tries and a splitting headache, that Ryun used his aura as a kind of buffer or conduit. The more he “ran” his aura, the faster it burned through—not just the energy, but something vital inside him. When his aura dropped low, he felt bone-deep fatigue and a gnawing hunger that made his gut twist. If he pushed too far, he’d be empty.

  But as his aura refilled (slowly, naturally, like a battery charging in sleep), the tiredness and hunger faded—not completely, but enough to make him wonder if these needs were tied more to his energy than to his biology now.

  Still hungry, though. Can’t Ryun conjure up a burger? He snorted. Probably not at this level. But at least he understood a little more. In Requiem, imagination and intent could shape the world—but only if you had the will and energy to back it up.

  With his aura flickering and his body aching for real food, Jonathan leaned against the cool rock, mind buzzing with what he’d learned.

  He eyed the dark, crusting blood on the rock floor. It wasn’t sinking anymore—had lost that impossible heaviness, looked dull and almost ordinary now. Guess even magic blood goes bad if you leave it out long enough, he thought, half amused, half relieved. The days of dipping his hand in the movie “Jafar The Asshole Who Lived” pool were done. He’d take the visions for what they were—warnings, not a script.

  “I’m not Jafar. Don’t even know what could make me swing an axe like that”, he mused. If it were up to him, he’d have used a sword. He’d take hints, sure—only an idiot ignored what worked—but he wasn’t here to follow Jafar’s road map. He’d blaze his own trail. And when he faced him one day, he wasn’t just going to survive—He was going to win. As Jonathan. Or whoever he becomes.

  As his aura recovered, a new idea bubbled up—one pulled from the games that had gotten him through so many real-world slumps. Destiny. Warlock Stormcaller. That kit was always second nature to me… Why not make it real?

  He began practicing, shaping his Ryun not into rigid forms, but as fluid, formless living lightning—black and red energy, flickering and crackling, snaking up his arm and around his hand like a storm made of molten shadow and rage. It danced, responsive, neither solid nor gas, something electric and hungry, ready to be shaped into whatever his mind could conjure in a fight.

  He grinned, thinking of what he could do if he ever got blood manipulation down—reinforced fists, brutal extensions, whatever he could dream up. Ryun wasn’t a skill tree—it was an empty canvas, begging to be filled with imagination and guts. A sandbox for powerful and complex thinkers.

  For three more hours, he drilled: calling, shaping, dispersing, healing. Each test was a little easier, a little clearer. Hunger nagged, but he could push past it now.

  All it took was a nuke to the face and a half-day panic attack to unlock his real starter kit. Go figure.

  Finally, Jonathan planted his feet, aimed for a shaft of fractured light in the rubble above, and let loose a burst of Ryun—like a lightning-struck geyser, blasting him upward through stone and dust.

  He landed hard, coughing, blinking in sudden sunlight. The world was… wrecked. Bodies and rubble stretched to the horizon, the field nothing but scorched scars and smoke.

  He surveyed the devastation, jaw set, eyes hard.

  “Well, figured as much.”