THE GENERAL'S DISGRACED HEIR

Inky blackness. A vise clamped around Mark's skull, squeezing out the edges of consciousness. A groan escaped his lips, a rusty hinge protesting its duty. His eyelids cracked open, battling against the heavy curtain of sleep. Stillness. Only an endless void of the deepest, darkest ember greeted his blurry vision.

Then, a voice. Angelic, yet devoid of warmth, it echoed in the cavernous space within his mind. "[Conditions have been met]," it boomed, the pronunciation sharp and inhuman.

"What the actual hell?" Mark thought, his mind a tangled mess. The voice continued, unfazed by his internal chaos. "[Class conversion has been applied: Ascendant]," it declared, a metallic echo following each word. A pause, then, "[Initiating host distribution...] [Unique Skill obtained... 'Eternal Gluttony']..."

Gluttony? What the hell was going on? A strangled cry, half question, half plea, ripped from Mark's throat. "Who's there?! Stop screwing with me!" His head throbbed, a rhythmic counterpoint to his rising panic. He needed to wake up, grab some goddamn painkillers. But his body refused to obey, a dead weight tethered to an unyielding bed.

As if sensing his mounting panic, the voice dropped another bombshell. "[Bonus skill acquired... Mystic Skill: Celestial Wheel']."

Just as abruptly as it began, the voice vanished. Silence. Eerie, suffocating silence. With a surge of defiant energy, Mark forced his eyes open wider. The blurry void sharpened, revealing the familiar silhouette of a bed frame above him. Memories flooded back, a torrent of images culminating in the blinding flash of headlights and the sickening crunch of metal.

"The van... I got hit by a van," he whispered, a tremor of fear running through him. "Am I in the hospital?" Panic clawed at his throat. "My insurance card... expired! Shit, I gotta get out of here!" He strained against the invisible bonds holding him captive, his muscles screaming in protest. Nothing. Not even a twitch.

"Did they turn me into a fucking quadriplegic?!" Despair settled in his chest like a lead weight. Then, a new thought struck him. "Since when are hospital beds this fancy?" He could clearly see the intricate design on the ceiling, impossible if he wasn't flat on his back. A cold dread snaked its way down his spine. This wasn't a hospital room. This was something... else entirely.

Mark forced a shaky breath through clenched teeth. "Alright, alright," he muttered, trying to calm the frantic pounding of his heart. "Chill the hell out, buddy. Figure out where you are first."

The weight of his situation pressed down on him. Was he dead? Stuck in some bizarre afterlife purgatory? A whimper escaped his lips as his mind conjured images of his beloved video game collection and the meticulously painted figurines he'd spent years collecting. Gone. All of it. No family to inherit his nerdy treasures, just him and the vast, unsettling silence.

Then, a whisper. A murmur that snagged on the edges of his awareness. Mark's head snapped towards the sound, his muscles screaming in protest. There, in the dim corner of the room, a sight that defied logic materialized. "Cosplay convention in the afterlife?" he mumbled, his voice raspy.

Two figures stood bathed in a pool of muted light, their attire seemingly ripped straight from a high-class maid cafe. The uniforms were a stark contrast of black and white, the crisp white aprons highlighting the elegance of the long-sleeved black dresses. Frilly detailing adorned the aprons, adding a touch of whimsy to the otherwise formal attire. The high-necked dresses hugged their figures before flowing into full skirts that danced just above their ankles. White stockings, a stark counterpoint to the dark fabric, completed the ensemble.

But the women themselves were as different as night and day. One possessed a voluptuous figure, her ample curves straining against the confines of the uniform. The other, in stark contrast, was a vision of delicate features and a slender frame. Both, however, shared the same perfectly polished air, like porcelain dolls brought to life.

Mark's throat felt like sandpaper. Swallowing did little to ease the dryness as he gaped at the two women. Were they real? Had someone rigged some elaborate afterlife fantasy for him? Each one possessed a beauty that belonged on the cover of a magazine, their maid uniforms like a twisted dream. He needed to get a grip.

Focusing on his hearing, a sliver of awareness returned. The maids were whispering, their voices barely above a murmur. "It's karma, Vivian," the petite one hissed, her voice laced with satisfaction. "Karma for the General's humiliation washing over that brat!" She clasped her hands together, glee sparkling in her eyes.

The voluptuous maid, seemingly the leader, hushed her instantly. "Quiet, you fool! Didn't Head Maid warn us about walls having ears?" Her voice, a low purr, sent shivers down Mark's spine despite his confusion. The petite maid flinched, her eyes darting nervously around the room. Then, they landed on him.

For a heartbeat, the room held its breath. The petite maid's eyes widened, her face draining of color as a shriek tore from her throat. "GHOST! GHOST!" she screamed, her voice high-pitched and frantic.

Vivian jolted, fear replacing her earlier smugness. Their screams echoed, bouncing off the opulent walls. A horrifying realization flickered in the voluptuous maid's eyes before she bolted, disappearing through the grand double oak doors with a slam.

Mark, left in the wake of their panicked escape, felt a strange surge of strength. He pushed himself up to a sitting position, intending to calm the hyperventilating maid. But as he shifted, his eyes caught a glimpse of his reflection in a full-body mirror across the room. The air left his lungs in a whoosh. Staring back at him was a face he didn't recognize. A face that sent a chilling whisper through his mind: "Who the f**k is that?"