Pain.
Not the searing, brutal kind that rips through consciousness—but the kind that came with the faint coppery scent of blood and the chill of damp stone beneath his back. The lingering sort. The kind that seeps into your limbs like a cold fog, wrapping around every bone, sinking into every thought. He was awake. He could feel it. More than that—he was alive.
But something was different.
He gasped. Moved weakly, and suddenly… there was movement above him. A weight. Warmth. Skin. A gasp—not his own.
His eyes widened. Above him sat the orc woman. Her gaze was focused, almost trance-like. He could hear her breathing—deep and steady—like distant thunder in a storm, and the warmth of her skin against his own sent a jolt through his nerves. Every inch of contact reminded him how real, how dangerously real, this was. Alexander stared at her, his heart pounding, but his body refused to obey. Her movements were rhythmic, controlled—not violent, but deliberate, almost ceremonial.
He was overwhelmed. He didn't know what was real. Whether he was dreaming. And then—a fleeting thought.
She looks like... Grushnara from Orc Dominion X. The way she moved, the wild hair, that glare—it couldn't be. A hallucination, maybe? But everything felt so vividly physical—the rhythm of her motion, the heat between them, the weight of reality pressing down like iron chains. Was his subconscious trying to twist comfort from fantasy, or was fate just playing a sick joke? That was just a game. A modded, NSFW one at that.
He wanted to laugh, wanted to scream. This can't be real... A tremor ran through his chest—a strange mix of shame, shock, and the absurdity of it all. Grushnara? No, no—this has to be a dream.
Gor'ka murmured something in her language—rough, deep, and foreign. Though Leopold couldn't understand the words, the tone was resolute and solemn. "I'm yours. Your woman," she said in Orcish, her words carrying the weight of ancestral custom—a vow passed from mother to daughter, rooted deep in blood and battle. To her, this wasn't seduction. It was a declaration, a sacred rite. She believed the fight was trial enough, and his victory had made her his. The words fell from her lips not with passion, but with certainty.
He didn't understand them—but the conviction in her eyes was unmistakable. Her voice was low and filled with ancient tradition—a vow not just of passion, but of fate. The words struck him like the echo of something inevitable. She placed one hand on his chest, the other over his mouth. Her eyes flickered briefly as she looked at him. No triumph. No hunger. Just determination.
His attempt to resist failed due to his weakness. His muscles wouldn't obey. His mind scrambled for answers. What was happening? Was this a dream? A feverish illusion? Or…
Then came the climax. His body reacted, despite his mind resisting. She felt it. Whispered something in her tongue, kissed him—not softly, but with a rough, primal urgency. Her mouth was hot against his, her tongue pressing past his lips with an unfamiliar forcefulness—he flinched at the sharp graze of her tusks, a jarring reminder that this was no human kiss. His breath caught in his throat, more from shock than pleasure. Then she withdrew. Smiling. Satisfied. She lay down beside him, pulled the blanket over them both.
He stared at the cave ceiling. Rigid. Trembling slightly. This isn't real, a part of him insisted. It can't be. And yet, the heat on his skin, the ache in his limbs, the pounding of blood in his ears—all whispered the same impossible truth.
He clenched his fists, slowly, as if to prove he could. Is this still me? The pressure of his grip triggered a strange, muscle-deep ache—familiar, but not. His mind reeled, caught between Alexander's disbelief and the brutal certainty of Leopold's memories. It was a gesture of grounding, and yet it only deepened the dissonance. Who had those hands truly belonged to, before now? His hand responded. Stronger than before. But the sensation—of touch, of strength—felt alien. Not Alexander's. Not entirely his own. A scream built in his throat, a desperate denial, a fractured memory clawing upward—This isn't who I am… Or is it? He swallowed it. Instead, he breathed. Once. Then again.
If this is real… then who the hell am I now?
Remembering the Fall
What just happened?
Fragments returned to him: The car. The voice. The impact. The darkness. The cliff. The orcs. The battle. The woman. The cave.
He blinked. Turned his head. Saw her sleeping beside him. Her features had softened. Peaceful. Her hair—tousled—spilled over her shoulder. Her olive skin marked by scars, but her face held a strange beauty. Wild. Free. She could've been on one of his posters. A heroine. A warrior. A fantasy.
Only… this wasn't a poster. Not a game. Not a dream.
He was awake. And alive.
He remembered. Piece by piece. Alexander and his fears—the empty nights in front of a screen, the silent apartment, the constant feeling of being wrong and weak, the house that was never a home. The old Leopold. The hatred, the violence, the arrogance.
But that was no longer him.
I'm in a new world… No. An old one? Or both?
His gaze shifted to his hand. His fingers. Leaner. Stronger. The muscles beneath his skin. It wasn't just his mind that had changed—it was everything.
A thought formed slowly. Clearly. He had been in this world for maybe twenty minutes—and already, he'd lived more than in twenty-one years of his old life.
I will live.
Not survive. Not flee. Live. Breathe. Decide.
He thought of Vienna. The city that once was—with its tattered barrier circles, half-ruined academies, and alleys where light elves and humans had once shared bread and stories. A city bleeding history from every cobblestone. A place of magic and betrayal, of resilience and ruin. He remembered an old lesson—taught to young Leopold by a graying tutor—about the Starfall. The calamity that had shattered the Roman world, torn the veil between realms, and birthed this strange new Earth where monsters roamed and dungeons bled magic into the soil. "Two great falls," the man had said. "One of empires, one of reality."
Leopold—or was it still Alexander?—smirked bitterly.
I'm a Habsburg, he thought. Seriously? A bloodthirsty killer wielding some kind of aura-based super magic in a pseudo-historical fantasy world. A Duke of Austria, a warlord with a blood-soaked name—and no idea how to be any of it. But maybe… maybe he didn't need to be anyone else. Not the failure he had been. Not the monster who had ruled before.
I am no longer Alexander. I am no longer Leopold. I am… reborn. Like blood steaming from a fresh wound, I have shed what was—and taken breath as something new.
A quiet sigh beside him. She nestled against him, as if she sensed the storm within. He let it happen. Just for the moment.
And slowly, with a pounding heart and fevered skin, he drifted back into sleep.
Not as an escape—but as a first step through the fire.
As a beginning.