Darkness.
Thick, weighty, absolute.
Niklas stirred, or at least tried to. His limbs didn't respond the way they should. His muscles ached, alien and uncooperative. Every breath felt like dragging rusted chains through his lungs.
Where…?
A dull ache pulsed in the back of his skull. His tongue felt like sandpaper. The air was wet, moldy, foul. Somewhere in the distance, water dripped steadily—plunk, plunk, plunk. A slow, rhythmic sound that felt like the world counting down to something terrible.
Then, pain. His senses returned in jarring waves. His wrists burned. Metal. Shackles. Cold and tight.
His eyes blinked open.
Stone ceiling. Low, uneven. A single shaft of gray daylight filtered through a tiny slit high in the wall. Rats skittered across the far side of the room, unfazed by the human chained beneath them.
Niklas inhaled sharply.
"This… this isn't the lab."
He jerked up—but the chains yanked him back down, metal clanking loudly against the iron bolts embedded in the wall. His breath hitched. Panic surged.
"What the hell…?!" His voice was deeper, rougher.
Then he saw his hands—bigger, scarred, covered in dirt and dried blood. Calloused like a man who'd worked or fought his whole life. This wasn't his body. His arms were thicker. His legs longer. He had chest hair—he never had chest hair.
He scrambled toward the puddle near the wall and looked at his reflection.
The face staring back was not Niklas Tesla Yamato.
It was older—early twenties maybe—hard-edged, stubbled jaw, faded bruises along one cheekbone. A long, thin scar ran from his right eyebrow to his jawline. His dark hair was matted with sweat and grime. His brown eyes—not black, not his—looked wild and unfamiliar.
He sat back, trembling. "This is… this is someone else's body."His mind reeled. But he knew exactly what had happened.
Quantum dislocation. Cross-dimensional consciousness transfer. Experimental theory. Not supposed to be possible.
But here he was.
And this—the chains, the stench, the stone walls—this wasn't Earth.
Click-clack.
Footsteps echoed beyond the cell door—metal boots on stone. A key turned in the heavy iron lock.
Niklas scrambled to his feet, heart thudding, instinctively backing against the far wall like an animal. His hands curled into fists, his new muscles taut, unfamiliar.
The door creaked open.
Torchlight spilled into the cell. A silhouette stood in the doorway—tall, armored, feminine.
She stepped forward, the torch revealing her sharp features and cold expression. Her hair was a deep forest green, pulled back into a tight bun beneath a polished helmet. She wore a leather coat over a steel breastplate, with a sword strapped to one hip and a crop tucked into her belt.
She stopped just inside the cell and stared at him, her gaze hard.
"So," she said flatly, "the dog finally wakes."
Niklas opened his mouth, tried to speak, then swallowed hard. "Where am I?"
Her lip curled. "Still delirious, huh? Or just playing dumb? You're in Blackgate Dungeon, cell B-9. Property of Her Grace, High Marshal Alrenia of Thalvera."
His heart skipped. Dungeon? Property?
"I think there's been a mistake," he said quickly, hands raised, palms open. "I'm not who you think I am."
The woman cocked her head. "Really?" She stepped forward. "So you're not Alerik of Varnhold? The rebel slave who struck his mistress and fled?"
Niklas shook his head. "I—I don't know that name. I swear. I woke up here and—"
Crack!
The back of her hand slammed across his face, sending him sprawling.
Stars burst behind his eyes. Pain shot through his jaw. He tasted blood.
"You speak when spoken to," she said coldly. "Men don't argue. Men listen."
Niklas looked up from the floor, one knee under him, breathing hard. His fingers trembled. This wasn't some cosplay matriarchy—this woman genuinely believed he was beneath her. And she had the power to enforce it.
"What is this place…?" he whispered.
Her expression didn't change. "This is the Queendom of Thalvera. And you, rebel scum, are a convicted criminal scheduled for punishment. Depending on the Marshal's mood, that might mean forced labor, gladiatorial conscription… or public gelding."
His blood went cold. "Wait, wait, wait—gelding?!"
She smirked. "You wouldn't be the first male to lose his stones for insolence. Perhaps you should learn obedience before they come for you."
Niklas stared at her, mind racing. This is real. This is not a simulation. I've actually… fallen into another world. And men…
Men were slaves here.
And I'm in the body of a rebel who struck back.
The soldier crouched, looking him in the eye. "But lucky for you, Marshal Alrenia has a fondness for pretty rebels. She'll want to look you over herself before deciding your fate."
Niklas fought to keep from flinching.
"You may have been useful in the mines. Or in the pits." Her eyes traveled over him, assessing. "Too bad you're broken now. I'll be sure to tell the healers to leave your face untouched. The crowd always loves a handsome fighter."
She stood and turned. "You'll be moved tomorrow. Sleep well, dog."
The door slammed shut.
Silence.
Niklas slumped against the wall, heart hammering.
This was a nightmare. A matriarchal society where women ruled like warlords and men were disposable. No magic. No technology. Just cold steel, political power, and brutality.
His mind reeled, but his genius refused to rest.
First: assess the body. It was damaged—scars, bruises, some old breaks—but strong. Endurance was high. Reflexes felt sharper. Alerik, whoever he had been, had clearly been a fighter.
Second: the social structure. Patriarchy inverted. If women held all military, political, and social power, then men were seen as assets—or burdens. That explained the language: "dog," "property," "obedience."
Third: escape? Impossible. Not without understanding the terrain, the schedule, the rotation of guards. He needed data. He needed to observe.
But most importantly—he needed to survive long enough to figure out what the hell he was supposed to do here.
Niklas leaned his head back against the wall and let out a shaky breath.
"I died in a lab… and woke up in a dungeon," he muttered. "They wanted to put my brain in the stars…"
He laughed, bitterly.
"…and I landed in chains."