The world didn't end when Caleb died.
No light at the end of the tunnel. No spiraling memories flashing before his eyes. No pain, either. Just the final exhale of a body that had been slowly failing for years, and then… nothing.
Silence.
He hadn't feared it. Not really. Caleb had lived every day of his eighteen years with the knowledge that time was borrowed, and like most borrowed things, it could be taken back without warning. Marfan Syndrome wasn't loud. It didn't scream or warn you before it struck. It whispered beneath your skin, threading its way into your bones, your heart, your future. You looked fine—tall, thin, almost ghostly—but every step, every heartbeat was a question.
Will this be the one?
It hadn't been dramatic, in the end. Just a quiet evening in the hospital room he'd come to think of as a second bedroom. His mom had fallen asleep in the chair, face tilted toward the window where the streetlight poured in gold. The machines beeped gently beside him, then stuttered. Slowed.
Then stopped.
That was it.
Drifting was the only word he could use for what came next.
There was no body. No voice. No weight. Just motion—slow, dreamlike, without shape. Caleb felt, more than saw, that he was somewhere else now. The air—or whatever passed for it—felt... cleaner. Not in the physical sense, but in the spiritual one. Uncluttered. Still.
He didn't speak. Didn't need to. There were no words here.
But something—someone—was aware of him.
Not a god. Not a judge. Just a presence, ancient and deliberate, like the hum of gravity. It didn't speak to him so much as let him understand: you were made with limits. You were dealt a hand that asked too much of you, too early. We did not forget.
Caleb didn't know who "we" was. It didn't matter.
There was no reward offered. No apology. Just a truth passed quietly between the spaces of his fading self:
You were not broken. Just unfinished.
A pulse echoed through the void, like a heartbeat not his own, and in its wake, he felt something change. Something rebuild. The first time he felt weight again, it wasn't crushing—it was grounding.
Fingers. Legs. A spine. A chest that filled with breath, not pain.
And then—eyes.
He woke to the smell of dust and metal.
Warm light filtered through a shattered skylight above, slanting across an abandoned floor strewn with broken gears, rusted pipes, and cobwebbed machinery. His body—his new body—was lying on what looked like a table. Not a hospital bed. A workbench.
Caleb sat up slowly, expecting the familiar dizziness. None came. His limbs felt strange—heavy in a way they'd never been—but steady. Real. For the first time in his life, his body felt like it belonged to him.
He looked down.
No IV lines. No monitors. His chest rose and fell without the tight, whispering ache he had known since childhood.
"I'm... alive?"
His voice cracked, dry but strong.
Then it spoke.
"Good afternoon, Caleb. Initial diagnostics complete. You are stable. Welcome back."
A soft, measured voice filled the space—British-accented, calm, with the clipped elegance of something designed, not born.
Caleb flinched, scanning the room. "What—who—?"
"I am your designated Artificial Intelligence Companion. You may refer to me as 'Jarvis.' I have been integrated per your soul's specifications at the time of reincarnation."
Caleb stared at the ceiling, then at his hands. Soul specifications?
"Wait… is this a dream?"
"Negative. Conscious reality confirmed. You are presently located in an unknown region of this world's industrial district. Coordinates: unregistered."
He blinked.
A heads-up display flickered in the corner of his vision, faint and transparent. It labeled things around the room—"pipe, non-functional," "scrap metal, grade C," "workbench: unpowered"—like some kind of augmented reality overlay. In the lower right, a small tab blinked: [System Active].
Caleb reached out instinctively.
A window opened before him—simple, elegant, like a user interface from a sci-fi movie. It had two sections:
[Materials Shop – Tier 1 Unlocked]Current materials available: basic alloys, circuits, wiring, scrap titanium (unrefined)Quantity: Unlimited
And just beneath it:
[Sell Creation to Earn System Currency?](Note: system evaluates design originality, utility, and efficiency for pricing.)
He exhaled slowly, more stunned than excited.
"…This is real."
"Affirmative, Caleb."
He stood, unsteady not from weakness, but disbelief. His feet found the cracked stone floor and held. For the first time in his life, he didn't have to wonder if his heart could handle standing up.
There was still fear in him. Not of death anymore, but of the unknown. And yet, beneath it, something else stirred.
Freedom.
Caleb rubbed the back of his neck and took a step toward the workbench. His bare feet scuffed softly across the cold stone floor. The air smelled faintly of rust, oil, and something chemical—something alive and rotting. He swallowed and looked up at the blinking interface in the corner of his vision.
"Jarvis," he said, voice still unsure, "can you… explain what's going on? Like, where I am? And what this whole thing is?"
"Of course, sir."
There was a brief pause—calculated, not hesitant.
"You are currently located in what appears to be a decommissioned mechanic's workshop in the Undercity—commonly known as Zaun. This city, and the world it inhabits, exist within a reality distinct from your origin point. Specifically, you now reside within the universe associated with the Arcane Continuum."
Caleb blinked. "Zaun? Wait… you mean that Zaun?"
"Correct. The same. As for your 'system,' it is a function of your reincarnated form. The system is divided into two primary components: the Materials Shop and the Sellback Interface."
Another tab appeared in his peripheral view, this one more detailed.
[System Overview – Tier 1 Access]• Materials Shop: Tiered inventory of crafting components; current tier: Basic.• Unlimited use of Tier 1 materials.• Higher tiers must be unlocked through creative construction and system-value assessment.• Sellback Interface: Upload completed inventions or designs for analysis and credit exchange.• Currency earned may be used to unlock subsequent material tiers.
Caleb stared, slowly nodding along. He found himself… understanding it. Not just in a surface way either. His brain was mapping it, connecting threads, imagining the framework behind the system's design, its limitations, the logic gates, the data flow.
"Wait," he muttered. "Why… why do I understand this?"
"Because, sir," Jarvis answered evenly, "you now possess the full intellectual capacity, reasoning ability, and cognitive development associated with one Tony Stark of Earth-199999—known colloquially as the 'MC.'"
Caleb went still.
"…I'm sorry. What?"
"In layman's terms, you now possess Tony Stark's IQ, problem-solving ability, engineering instinct, and creative adaptability. In this world, those gifts are yours by default—formed as a direct result of the reinforcement process applied to your soul."
He staggered back a step, genuinely breathless for a moment.
"You're telling me I have Tony Stark's brain?" His voice cracked at the end. "Why didn't you start with that?!"
"You did not ask, sir."
Caleb let out a laugh—short, startled, giddy. He leaned against the bench, head tilted toward the ceiling.
"Oh my god. I actually get to use it. All of it."
Years of dreaming about doing things his body never allowed—building, inventing, problem-solving on a scale that mattered. All those late nights watching videos of robotic suits, breakthrough reactors, clean energy designs—wanting to be something more than a brain stuck in a breaking frame.
And now? Now the frame wasn't breaking.
And the brain? It was faster than it had ever been. He could feel it.
Focus returned quickly. He tapped the blinking "System" tab and opened the shop menu again. Clean layout. Easy to navigate. He could already imagine organizing the material options better—maybe setting favorites, rearranging storage groups. He'd do that later.
Right now, he needed to look around.
The room he stood in was dim but not pitch black—sunlight streamed through a cracked skylight and flickered off hanging chains and metal shelves. To his left, a rust-stained sink. To his right, an old motor block half-dismantled and buried under greasy rags.
The walls were covered in cracked paneling, soot marks, and faded blueprints. In the corner, a stack of circuit boards and bent metal rods leaned against a rusted oxygen tank.
Definitely an old garage. Whoever had worked here was long gone.
The air was heavy. He could hear faint sounds from outside—pipes hissing, metal clanking, voices shouting in the distance. Zaun. Of all the places he could've ended up, it had to be Zaun.
Not that he minded, exactly. But he wasn't stupid. Zaun was dangerous, and people down here didn't take kindly to strangers—especially ones with soft bodies and no muscle to back them up.
Caleb looked down at his arms.
Healthier than before, no doubt. But still long and lean. No real bulk. His bones didn't ache, and his joints felt stable, but he knew better than to pretend he was suddenly invincible. This was the same body—just cleaned up. Reinforced.
But not weaponized.
"Jarvis," he said, hands resting on the edge of the workbench, "I'm guessing this place isn't secure."
"No, sir. It is not. Ambient audio indicates proximity to gang-affiliated individuals within a three-block radius. Defenses recommended."
Caleb nodded slowly.
"Yeah. That's what I thought."
His eyes scanned the scattered tools and parts on the bench.
He didn't have a blueprint yet. No grand suit of armor or laser cannon. But he had access to materials. Tools. And for the first time, a mind that could really use them.
He exhaled slowly, fingers closing around a dented wrench.
"I need to build something."