Chapter 7: Ditch of Fate

The ditch stank of decay. Eliot's small body, fragile and weak, lay amongst the crawling insects. Each breath he took was shallow, each rasp of air laced with the musty, damp scent of earth and rot. His limbs felt too heavy to move, his chest too tight to inhale, his mouth too dry to even form a whisper. And yet, despite the frail beating of his heart, the boy clung to life, though I—now we—both knew it would not last.

I felt everything he felt—the pain, the hunger, the cold that seeped into his bones like winter's first frost. His stomach had long since ceased its pitiful growls, now just a hollow pit of agony. He shivered uncontrollably, his skin slick with sweat despite the chill, his face smeared with dirt and blood from where he had tumbled into the pit. Every inch of him was broken. Bruises bloomed under the pale moonlight like flowers of pain, while open cuts festered, crawling with insects that feasted upon his flesh. The world above, as far as Eliot could see from the bottom of the ditch, was indifferent—a sliver of the moon, cold and distant, offering no warmth, no hope. No rescue.

This child was dying. Alone.

I watched as his eyelids fluttered, struggling to stay open. I could feel it—his body giving up. It had long stopped hurting in the way most would imagine; now, it was just the creeping numbness that slowly claimed him, a quiet surrender to death.

Eliot's lips were cracked, his tongue swollen. I felt his thirst. His tiny hands, caked with dirt, twitched as he reached out toward nothing—just a child, desperate for someone to save him. But no one came. No one ever would.

It was strange, I thought, in these final moments of his life. What does a boy like Eliot think about? His mother, surely—warm, soft, gone. The cruelty of his aunt, the betrayal of family, though he likely didn't understand it. Or maybe he thought of nothing at all, just a blur of pain and confusion. Was it better not to think? Better to fade without memory, without the burden of knowing?

It didn't matter. Death was upon him, and it would be cruel to stretch it out further.

And then... the strangest thing happened. His heartbeat slowed, faltered, and finally, with one last shallow breath, it stopped altogether.

But I remained. Conscious, alert—inside him.

It was then I realized... I was not Eliot Blackthorn. Not truly.

The clarity hit me like a wave of cold water: I was Leon Winter, the man who had once held the world in his grasp. Leon Winter, who had died by the sword of his closest friend, Sebastian Vettel. Leon Winter, who had lived as a monster and died as a man.

So where was I now? Hell? Purgatory, perhaps? No. This place, this wretched ditch, was too cruel even for Hell. My body felt heavy, limbs unusable, as though I had been chained to the earth itself. I could not speak, nor could I scream. All I could do was feel.

And I felt... everything.

I tried to move, to shift, but it was as if the muscles in this boy's body had forgotten how to function. My throat burned with thirst, and my stomach churned with a hunger that could not be described as mere need. It was desperation—a black hole of starvation that clawed at my insides like a beast, gnawing away at what little strength I had left.

I tried to open my eyes, but they were too weak, too exhausted. All I could see was the sliver of moonlight above me, peeking through the jagged edges of the ditch that had become my grave. The silver light was cold, distant—just like the last time I had looked up at the sky before Sebastian plunged his sword into my chest.

Ah, yes. Sebastian.

The memories rushed back—his face twisted with pain as he drove his blade through me. I remembered his words, the way he looked at me as if I had betrayed him, betrayed the world. His righteousness. His conviction. His foolishness.

Was this his son, then? Eliot Blackthorn? The child of the man who had killed me? It would be poetic, wouldn't it? Reincarnated into the very bloodline of the man who ended my reign.

I could have laughed if my throat wasn't so parched, so painfully dry. My situation was ironic, almost amusing. How long had it been since I last found humor in anything? I had spent years, decades, ruling a world that despised me, manipulating the lives of those beneath me like chess pieces, only to end up here—reduced to the weak, dying body of a boy abandoned in the dirt.

But I couldn't afford to dwell on the absurdity of it. Whether this was fate, karma, or something else entirely, it didn't matter. The truth was, I was here. I was alive, in some twisted form, and I could feel the boy's heartbeat returning. Weak, but present.

This body—it was mine now.

And while the situation was not ideal, I would not waste it. I had been given a second chance—one that most men, especially monsters like me, did not deserve.

But this body, this weak, broken shell... it would take time to rebuild. I could feel the weight of starvation, the exhaustion, the malnutrition pulling at me like a heavy cloak. But no, this was not a dream. The pain, the hunger, the fear—they were all too real. And that was how I knew.

I was no longer Leon Winter, the ruler of nations.

I was Eliot Blackthorn.

And if I was to rise again, I would have to accept that fact.

Perhaps this was some sort of twisted game, perhaps not. But I would play it, nonetheless. After all, I was Leon Winter. And I had always known how to survive.

A faint glimmer of moonlight, just beyond reach.