"Ouch!"
Kael groaned, reaching up to clutch his throbbing head.
The last thing he remembered was a fiery battle… and dying. Again.
"Where am I this time?"
He blinked against the harsh daylight filtering between two crumbling buildings. His surroundings slowly came into focus: piles of rotting garbage, rusty cans, broken electronics, and the overwhelming stench of decay.
And most importantly—he was lying in the garbage.
"Seriously? What kind of miserable body ends up dumped in the trash?"
He muttered, flicking a banana peel off his head.
"What a shitty life…"
He inhaled deeply, trying to calm himself, though the stench of the dump made things worse.
'Calm down, Kael. You're the most handsome and attractive bastard in any world.'
He reminded himself.
Grimacing, he gripped the edge of a rusted bin and pushed himself upward.
"Come on... come on—"
Thud!
He flopped out of the trash heap—straight onto his face.
"Ughh!"
Blood trickled from his nose. He groaned and clutched it with one hand, using the other to prop himself up. He wiped away the clinging garbage from his clothes, which hung loosely on his thin body.
"Huuuuhh..."
He took a deep breath and finally looked down at the body he now inhabited.
It was lean, scarred, and frail—pale limbs crisscrossed with old wounds.
'Weak. Definitely weak,'
He thought, brow furrowing.
He hated these early stages. Every time he was reborn into a new body, it felt like learning to walk again—with the memories of a thousand brutal deaths still rattling in his skull.
Then he heard it—muffled voices.
He's not alone.
That was rarely a good sign.
He pressed against a nearby wall, breathing quietly as the voices grew louder.
'Two? No… maybe three people. Either way, not good.'
He strained to make out the words, but they came through garbled—like a broken radio.
Then, a blinding flash appeared in front of his eyes.
[Transmigration Successful. World: Apocalypse-Ruins (Serial Code #1285)]
[Host: Kael (Vessel: "Scavenger Boy" – Low Grade)]
[Previous Abilities Retained: 'Enhanced Awareness (Lv. 4)', 'Survival Instincts (Lv. 5)', 'Weapon Proficiency (Lv. 3)']
[New Acquired Ability (from previous death): 'Tongue of Babel (Lv. 1)']
The notification faded, leaving Kael alone once again.
'Tongue of Babel. Interesting… and just in time.'
The once-garbled voices became crisp, as if a dial had finally tuned in.
"...don't know why we keep checking this sector. It's barren," a gruff
male voice complained.
"Orders are orders, Silas. You want to argue with me?" snapped a sharp-
toned woman.
"Captain's not here, is she? The pickings here are for rats. Or... whatever that was."
A third voice, younger, nervous, chimed in.
"I-I heard something. A groan. Over there."
'Damn it.'
He hadn't moved fast enough. Before he could slip away, the woman shouted:
"Hey! You! On the wall!"
Kael froze, watching three figures emerge from the shadows of broken machines. They wore patched clothing and carried makeshift weapons: a rusted pipe, a sharpened rebar, and a bent car antenna.
"Who are you?"
The rough-voiced man, Silas, stepped forward, rebar in hand, eyes narrowing.
"You look like you've been chewed up and spat out. Another stray?"
Kael opened his mouth, but the words wouldn't come. His voice felt foreign—stiff. Best to listen first.
The woman strode forward, her severe bun matching her attitude.
"Don't ignore me, kid. This isn't a playground. What's your designation? Who do you run with?"
"I don't… run with anyone," Kael rasped. His throat burned.
'It hurts.'
Silas scoffed.
"Lone wolf, huh? In Sector 7? That's a death wish. Got anything valuable on you, boy?"
Kael shook his head.
"Don't make us check the hard way," the woman warned.
The younger one—Finn, probably—glanced nervously between them.
"Silas… maybe he's just lost?"
"Lost means weak, Finn. And weak gets eaten here."
He jabbed the rebar forward.
"Now answer the question. You belong to anyone?"
Kael's mind raced.
No gear. No resources. No strength. Fighting them now was suicide. But surrender wasn't in his blood.
"I died," he said bluntly.
The words slipped out before he could stop them. Truth, but madness to their ears.
Silas laughed.
"Died? Ha! Kid, we're all dying."
"He's crazy," Finn whispered, stepping back.
The woman tilted her head, a glint in her eye—not fear, but curiosity.
"Died, huh? So now you're... what? A ghost?"
She studied him carefully.
"You got a name, ghost?"
"Kael."
"Kael,"
She repeated.
"Right. So, Kael the dead boy. You wander into our turf with nothing to offer? Or is there something you've got? A skill? Something that kept you breathing in Sector 7?"
The pitch, Kael thought.
Every world. Every life. He had to play it right.
He looked at their weapons, at the dynamics between them. He had one new ability. Maybe it could save him.
Tongue of Babel
Understand and speak any language instantly. Fluency improves with exposure.
He focused on the woman's tone, rhythm, and the subtle dialect beneath her words. The System hummed as it translated, mimicked and adapted.
"I can speak your language,"
He said slowly, matching her accent eerily well.
"And any other. Perfectly. Instantly."
Silas scoffed.
"We speak English, kid. So what?"
But the woman's eyes widened. Just a little.
"Prove it," she challenged.
"Speak a dead tongue."
Kael closed his eyes, reaching deep into the archive of lives past.
A language from a world where words shaped reality. The dead tongue of a fallen empire.
He spoke:
"Eldoria e'lareth. Ar'doron ilios faer. Kael s'ven."(This world is broken. The journey of light continues. I am Kael.)
A moment of silence.
Finn gasped.
Silas looked stunned, lowering his rebar.
The woman studied him for a long beat… then smiled. Slowly. Dangerously.
"Well, I'll be damned," she muttered.
"A talking corpse with a trick up his sleeve. Maybe Sector 7 isn't so empty after all."
She pointed her rebar toward a ruined doorway.
"Alright, Kael. You're coming with us. Let's see what else that 'death' taught you."
Kael met her gaze, unflinching.
He had no choice. Not yet.
But this world, like all the others, would serve his purpose.
Survival.