There was pressure in his chest—then nothing.
Marcus remembered the stadium lights, the roar of the crowd, and the impossible pile of burgers in front of him. He had been smiling, grease on his cheeks, as he pushed for one more bite. Always one more. Then came the tightness in his chest, the blurring of lights, the cold rush of panic—and darkness.
He had died doing what he loved.
And then… the board.
A divine chessboard suspended in endless starlight, surrounded by titanic statues of radiant and shadowed gods. He'd stood among thirteen strangers, all bewildered, all waiting. A voice like honey and thunder had spoken of sin and virtue, of games and proxies. Marcus had barely grasped it before being hurled through light wind and sound.
Now he gasped.
Air flooded his lungs—sweet, rich, strangely flavoured with the scent of roasted meat and wild herbs. He blinked open his eyes, staring up at a canopy of oversized mushroom trees glowing faintly blue. Strange birds croaked in the distance, and the earth beneath him felt warm, almost spongy.
Marcus sat up slowly.
The first thing he noticed was his body—smaller. Leaner. Still broad-shouldered, but muscular instead of round. His large gut was gone, replaced by a solid core. He flexed, shocked by the lack of strain. His tan skin was smooth, his hair thicker and tied in a warrior's braid down his back. His teeth felt sharper. His fingers are nimble.
He stumbled to a nearby pool and caught his reflection.
"Damn…" he muttered. "Is that me?"
His once-brown eyes now shimmered like molten bronze. His ears were slightly pointed, and his face was more angular, and chiselled. Tribal markings glowed faintly on his arms.
He was no longer human.
He had awakened as a Gorvok—a subterranean warrior race known for their insatiable appetites and unmatched endurance. Known across Auron as miners, eaters, and warriors, Gorvoks were tough, and gluttonous, but capable of incredible discipline when trained.
"Well," he chuckled. "I guess the gods got jokes."
A movement behind him made him spin—quicker than he expected.
A stout woman in leather armour stood there with a boar tusk strapped to her back. Her skin was grayish and thick, her own tribal tattoos matching his.
"You landed quiet for a Gorvok," she said, sniffing. "Fresh out the stone womb?"
He blinked. "Uh, something like that."
"Come on then, pup. You'll want to eat. The first feast tells the ancestors who you are."
She turned, leading the way.
Marcus followed, dazed but curious. Every step felt new. The world pulsed beneath his feet with mana. The air was dense with energy. And though he tried to speak of the divine game, the board, the gods—it was like his throat locked. No sound came. The knowledge was sealed.
His skill: Devourer's Discipline.
He remembered it now. The divine gift burned into his spirit. The ability to consume almost anything—matter, energy, even magic—and store it temporarily to amplify his strength, speed, or stamina. But it came at a cost: overconsumption could lead to internal overload. Temperance was the only thing that kept the gluttony from destroying him.
Back on Earth, he hadn't always known when to stop.
Here, he would have to learn.
As the Gorvok village came into view—built into the cavernous walls of a glowing mushroom forest—Marcus took a deep breath.
"New world, new body, new rules," he muttered.
He didn't know what the gods expected of him. But one thing was clear: this was a second chance.
And he'd be damned if he wasted it.