Chapter 2

Morning light cascaded through Adrian's blinds, illuminating his pale face. The VR headset lay abandoned on his nightstand, a silent reminder of his near-encounter with the legendary Aamon. He felt a peculiar lightness in his chest, a strange absence of the usual tightness that accompanied his allergies. Maybe, he thought with a flicker of optimism, the game had somehow boosted his immune system.

School was a monotonous affair. Despite feeling a newfound alertness, Adrian struggled to focus during his history lecture. His mind kept drifting back to the Obsidian Citadel, to the deafening roar that had ripped him from the game. Was it just a bug? Or was there something more to it?

It was lunch time and Adrian was having a break. He sat alone on a park bench, munching on a sandwich. A group of older boys, notorious for their bullying, sauntered by. Adrian instinctively tensed, bracing himself for their usual taunts.

"Hey, look who it is," one of them sneered, a hulking figure with a shaved head. "The sickly kid."

They circled him, their faces twisted in cruel amusement. Adrian remained silent, hoping they would just move on.

"Going to cry again, weakling?" another one jeered, shoving him towards a nearby tree.

Adrian stumbled, landing hard on the ground. Rage, a primal and unfamiliar emotion, surged through him. He pushed himself up, glaring at the menacing faces.

"Leave me alone," he growled, the words surprisingly steady.

The bullies were taken aback. This wasn't the usual timid Adrian. Before they could react, a swaying truck careened around the corner, its horn blaring.

Adrian froze in the spot. Is this truck kun that will transmigrate me into a world of adventurers. He thought foolishly.

The world seemed to slow down, the screech of tires an agonizingly long scream. Then, a bone-jarring impact.

Pain. White-hot, all-encompassing pain. He tried to breathe, but a searing agony filled his lungs. Darkness crept at the edges of his vision. A faint whimper escaped his lips – I wish I will receive an OP skill. This was his last conscious act in this fragile human body.

Then, a void.

A vast, echoing emptiness. His own memories, fragmented and human-centric, intertwined with something else – a boundless power, a hunger for battle, a crushing loneliness. He was adrift in this endless space, a spark of consciousness in an inky black sea.

And then, a spark ignited. A flicker of recognition, a memory of self-destruction, a yearning for oblivion. But this yearning was countered by a primal instinct – the will to survive.

Slowly, the fragments coalesced. The human memories, the vast power, the echo of a monstrous roar. A single thought pulsed through the void: Aamon, the Devourer of Gods, was not dead. He was reborn.

Adrian's eyes snapped open. The sterile white of the hospital room came into focus. But these weren't Adrian's eyes. They were a fiery obsidian, burning with an ancient power. The boy on the bed was gone. In his place, a monstrous entity stirred, a god trapped in a human shell.

A thin smile played on his lips, a smile devoid of human warmth. "So," a voice rumbled from his throat, a voice that echoed with the power of a thousand storms, "this is the new game."

The words hung heavy in the air, a chilling contrast to the sterile silence of the hospital room. A moment later, the monstrous entity within him seemed to take full stock of his predicament.

A pale hand, far too small and delicate for his liking, clenched into a fist. Aamon surveyed the sterile whiteness of the hospital room with disdain. Here he was, the Devourer of Gods, the terror of the Obsidian Citadel, reduced to a bedridden patient hooked up to a symphony of beeping machines.

"Well, this is just delightful," he grumbled, his voice a low growl that vibrated through the thin sheets. "A god in a hospital gown. Talk about a fall from grace."

He flexed his fingers, wincing at the unfamiliar sensation of weakness. "This meatsuit is positively pathetic," he muttered. "Skin like tissue paper, bones like twigs. How am I supposed to conquer anything in this getup? Sneeze on a goblin and it'd probably walk away with a concussion."

A flicker of Aamon's old humor surfaced. "Maybe I should try charming my way out of here. 'Excuse me, good sir, could you detach this infernal drip from my magnificent arm? I have a world to… well, not exactly devour, but definitely intimidate in a vaguely godlike manner.'"

The image of himself pleading with a harried nurse brought a rumble of amusement from his throat. No, subtlety wouldn't suit his current situation. He needed a plan, one that didn't involve throwing a tantrum worthy of a particularly petulant toddler. Unfortunately, brute force was also out of the question. This fragile body wouldn't withstand a good sneeze, let alone a full-blown display of godly power.

Aamon sighed, a sound that sent a shiver down the spine of a nearby fly. "Alright, alright," he conceded. "Looks like I'm back to square one. Stuck in another gilded cage, albeit a far less impressive one this time."

But unlike his previous predicament, this cage had weaknesses. This world, this reality, was governed by different rules, less absolute, more… bendable. A cunning glint entered his newly awakened obsidian eyes. He, the Devourer of Gods, would not be defeated by a lack of decent armor or a pesky IV drip. No, he would learn the rules of this new game, exploit its loopholes, and rise to power once more. This time, however, he wouldn't be trapped in a secluded lair, bored out of his skull. This time, he would conquer this world from the inside, one hospital bill at a time.