Lucien Voss was already late for nothing important, which made the whole thing funnier later.
Rain slicked the São Paulo sidewalks into black mirrors, the kind that reflected back every shitty neon sign and your own tired face if you bothered looking.
He clutched the phone like it owed him money, thumb scrolling through the pre-order page for the last physical volume of that dumb webnovel series he'd been mainlining for six months straight.
The truck horn barely registered.
One second he was dodging a puddle that smelled like old piss and engine oil, next second the world flipped sideways.
Impact didn't even hurt at first.
Just this wet crunch against his ribs, like stepping on a bag of chips too hard.
Body ragdolled across the asphalt, phone skittering away into the gutter.
Lucien tasted copper and something sweeter—probably the cheap energy drink he'd chugged earlier.
If I get another shot, he thought while the sky spun above him, I'm not playing hero. Fuck saving the world. I'm the prick who takes everything and laughs about it.
Then nothing.
Black.
The kind of black that doesn't even pretend to be peaceful.
Pain came back sharp enough to make him gasp, but it vanished just as quick, sucked out like someone pulled the plug on a bad dream.
Lucien blinked.
Ceiling above him was wood, cracked and sagging, the kind of roof that looked one strong sneeze away from caving in.
He was lying on a straw mattress that itched like it had opinions.
Smelled like old hay mixed with somebody's week-old sweat and a faint whiff of woodsmoke that made his stomach growl before his brain caught up.
Not São Paulo.
Not even close.
Sunlight leaking through a crooked window was too orange, too thick, like it had been filtered through cheap honey.
Voices drifted in from outside—two guys arguing about the harvest in words that sounded half-Portuguese, half-something older and sharper.
"Those damn tubers are rotting again," one grumbled.
"Baron's gonna tax us twice if we don't hit quota."
Lucien sat up slow.
His hands looked wrong.
Thinner, smoother, no calluses from typing reports for a boss who couldn't spell "deadline."
Legs felt longer too.
He flexed his fingers and the joints popped clean, like new hinges.
Okay. Either I'm dead-dead or this is the isekai lottery nobody ever actually wins.
Before he could spiral further, the air inside his skull did this weird vibrate thing.
Not a sound exactly.
More like someone cranked the bass on a subwoofer parked directly in his bones.
His teeth hummed.
The straw mattress creaked under him like it was complaining about the sudden weight shift.
A blue rectangle snapped into existence right in front of his face, floating there like it paid rent.
Golden letters spun lazy circles before locking into place.
[System Primordial of Greed awakened. Host detected as perfect vessel. Awarding 10 Primordial Initial Rewards for being the first worthy carrier in billions of years. Enjoy the jackpot, you greedy bastard.]
Lucien stared.
Then he laughed once, short and ugly, the kind of laugh that comes out when your brain short-circuits between terror and horniness for power.
"Damn," he muttered under his breath, even though the word felt weirdly translated in his new mouth.
The panel didn't flinch.
It just waited, patient as a loading screen.
The rewards started dropping one by one, slow enough that he could feel each one settle into his chest like warm coins.
First: Primordial Bloodline of the Sin of Greed.
Whatever he wanted—power, cash, knowledge, women—multiplied forever.
It would eat other people's skills, bloodlines, even the rules of the world if he stared hard enough.
Lucien felt something uncoil behind his ribs, hungry already.
Second: Primordial Fox Companion.
A pet that would turn into something way more interesting later.
Loyalty baked in. Illusions, primordial fire, the whole package.
He pictured a fluffy thing and immediately wondered how fast it could bite a guy's throat out.
Third: Pocket Primordial Universe.
His own little reality outside everything else.
Time ran a thousand times faster inside.
Mana pure as uncut coke.
He could bend the laws in there, farm infinite shit, train until his bones screamed.
Lucien's mouth went dry.
That's not a cheat. That's printing money while everyone else is still counting coins.
Fourth: Immortal Primordial Soul.
Death couldn't touch the real him anymore.
Soul reattached automatically.
He could steal essence from whatever he killed.
Felt like cheating at a game he hadn't even started playing yet.
Fifth: Infinite Chaos Treasury.
Bottomless inventory that auto-looted anything he killed or just really, really wanted.
No more backpack management.
No more "sorry, inventory full" bullshit.
Sixth: Infinite Primordial Evolution.
Any skill or bloodline he picked up leveled itself forever.
No caps. No grinding walls.
Just endless upgrade porn.
Seventh: Primordial Authority over Laws.
He could straight-up steal, tweak, or invent the rules of reality.
The example that popped into his head—everyone owes me ten percent of their shit—made him grin so wide it hurt the new face.
Eighth: Primordial Conquest Bond.
Anyone he wanted bad enough would get tied to him forever.
Loyalty plus power sharing.
Consent optional if the greed hit critical mass.
Ninth: Primordial Domain Awakening.
Instant download of every ancient art, magic, technique across the multiverse.
His brain suddenly felt too big for the skull, like it was stretching.
Tenth: Primordial Unlimited Shop (Maximum VIP).
Full access from minute one.
Buy anything.
Goddesses. Laws. Bloodlines.
Whatever the multiverse was selling, he could swipe the card.
The panel hung there a second longer, then faded like it was embarrassed by how broken it was.
Lucien sat completely still on the itchy mattress, heart jackhammering against ribs that felt brand-new and twice as strong.
He ran a hand through hair that was longer than it should be—purple at the roots, fading into something neon-pink at the tips that actually glowed a little when he moved.
Jesus. I look like a final boss who moonlights as an idol.
"Fuck me," he whispered, testing the voice.
Deeper. Smoother.
The kind of voice that could talk a queen out of her crown and into his bed without raising a sweat.
"This isn't some beginner village tutorial arc. This is the 'I win the game before the game even knows I'm playing' package."
He swung his legs off the bed.
Bare feet hit packed dirt floor, cool and slightly damp.
Muscles flexed under the thin tunic like they'd been waiting years to be used.
No more office-chair hunch.
No more 28-year-old Brazilian dad-bod creeping in from too many late-night chapters and delivery food.
This body was 18, sculpted, and already humming with power that made his skin prickle.
Outside, footsteps thudded closer—heavy, purposeful, the kind that belonged to someone used to kicking doors open instead of knocking.
Lucien's new senses picked up the rhythm easy, like the world had turned the volume up just for him.
He rolled his shoulders once, cracked his neck, and felt that greedy little thing in his chest purr.
The door to the rundown shack was half-rotted anyway.
Wouldn't take much.
A purple-pink ball of fire punched straight through the window like it owned the place.
No glass shattering, just a soft pop and the smell of ozone and burnt sugar.
It hovered right in front of his face, pulsing warm, alive, like a heartbeat you could pet.
Tiny fox ears poked out of the flames.
A tail flicked once, scattering sparks that didn't burn.
Then the voice slid into his head—female, sweet enough to rot teeth, dangerous enough to make the hair on his arms stand up.
"Master… I finally woke up for you."
Lucien's grin came slow, lazy, the kind that said he already knew exactly how this story ended.
And he was going to enjoy every second of stealing it.