(Jakari POV)
I woke up to an endless void.
Not the dim glow of a hospital, not the harsh buzz of fluorescent lights. Just pure, stupid darkness, the kind of dark that sits heavy behind your eyes and doesn't let up.
I tried to move. Nothing. My arms felt like they weren't even attached. No weight. No feedback. It was like a thousand tiny hands were squeezing my limbs into uselessness, like my body had been wrapped in silence.
I held my breath. Nothing. No air, no lungs working, no chest rising. Panic started its engine in my skull, RPMs spiking faster than any sane thought should go.
'What the actual—WHERE THE FUCK AM I?!'
A voice cut through the void so clean it shut my brain off for a second.
"Ah, looks like you're finally awake, traveller."
I pushed my eyes open the best I could. The sound came from somewhere and everywhere at the same time, and when I turned, I nearly fell out of whatever I wasn't standing on.
A man — no, a figure — hovered in front of me. Tall as hell. Like, stupid tall. My gut told me ten feet, maybe more. His outline wasn't solid; it shimmered and wavered like a heat mirage or a swarm of fireflies arranging themselves into a body. Bits of light pinged and fizzed across where a face should be.
He didn't have a real face. No clear eyes, no mouth. Just…presence. Calm, deep, like the quiet before a hurricane decides it's done being polite. The kind of presence that makes you feel like the universe just judged you mildly and decided you were entertaining enough to keep.
When he shifted his gaze in my direction, something in the shimmer brightened like a smile. Or at least that's what my brain translated it into. It was unnerving. Proper spine-tingle territory.
Then the figure blinked or thought better of the whole "be a scary cosmic silhouette" look and phased into something more human — less nightmare fuel, more polite cosmic employee.
"Oops, my bad about that. Didn't mean to shock you, traveller," he said, like he'd stepped on my toe and felt bad about it.
I tried to collect myself, to steady my voice, but my mouth felt like it belonged to someone else. My mind did a quick inventory: limbs? check-ish. Breath? no. Dignity? questionable.
He didn't waste time. "Alright, listen. I won't dwell — I'm a busy man and have other travellers to process. Let's get to the point." His voice rolled through the void, and the words seemed to echo from all angles like a cathedral with excellent acoustics.
"You're in what is known as the Limbo. Simply put — and I believe you'll understand — you died. You're a soul awaiting processing. It's my job to decide where you go next."
My brain tried to cram that into something sensible. Processing. Limbo. Died. The words pinged like bad receipts in my head.
'Dang… so my black ass really just died, huh?'
The thought popped into my head before I could stop it — half joke, half resignation. The figure's shape flickered, and for the first time since he appeared, I could read something like amusement across his shifting features. As if he'd read my inner commentary and approved of the punchline.
He tilted his head, a human gesture on a not-human face. "Honesty. I like it," he said. "You'll find honesty is useful in my line of work. But—practical matters: you are eligible for… relocation." His tone was clinical but not cruel. Like someone about to hand you a flyer for an apartment complex you can't afford.
Relocation. Translation: pick your afterlife package. My stomach — if I had a functioning one in this void — looped.
Then he added, like he was offering the menu at a restaurant: "But, I'll leave that option up to you. Either you can go to Heaven and rest peacefully, or be transported into another world and live another life."
The idea of a forever nap? Flying through the skies? Eat whatever I want and not get fat at all? Tempting. But transmigrate to another world? My inner anime nerd sat up straight.
The figure glanced at a watch on his left wrist — yes, an actual watch — and I could tell he was growing impatient. After a lot of thinking, I made my choice.
"I choose to be transported to another world," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "In my past life I lived a shitty one. My parents were the only things that kept me going after I fell, got arrested, and just scraped through to college. They were always there. This time, I want to be the one in control of my future."
He studied me for a few seconds that stretched like hours. Then he spoke: "Well, if that's your choice, let's not dilly-dally." He snapped his fingers.
Three objects appeared in the void like stage props: a huge flatscreen TV, a carnival-sized wheel with a lever, and a hundred floating cards drifting in a slow, hypnotic spiral.
I blinked. My anime-weeb brain immediately started connecting dots. TV = world selection. Wheel = character roll. Cards = items/gear. Classic roulette of destiny.
The figure walked toward the TV, and his footsteps sounded thunderous, like a horse galloping across a canyon, even though there was nothing here to echo off of.
"All right, let me explain how your gambles work," he said. "The TV is your first gamble. It determines which world you go to. I'll turn it on, and it will randomly choose a reality.
The wheel is your second gamble. You pull the lever, and it spins through characters in that world, from heroes to nobodies. Luck decides.
The last gamble is a deck of one hundred cards with items. They range from useless trash to legendary artifacts like Ruyi Jingu Bang, Zangetsu, or Excalibur, whatever your nerd-heart desires.
Just remember: A good item helps, but a blade is only as strong as its wielder."
I sat and thought about which world I'd want to land in and which I'd want to avoid. The possibilities were ridiculous: Berserk, The Walking Dead, Pokémon, Dragon Ball, One Piece, Marvel, DnD. Each came with its own immediate risk of dying horribly or becoming fodder for some grim subplot.
The figure watched me and asked, calm as a customer service rep.
"So, will you gamble? You could end up with Pikachu's powers and a brass ring in Berserk. Will you bet, or rest eternally?"
I thought about my whole life, the hustle, the promises to my parents, the shelf of half-finished goals, and clenched my fist.
"Let's do this."
"So be it."
He switched on the TV with a remote. The screen cycled through billions of realities so fast my head wanted to spin.
Channels flipped like cards: medieval kingdoms, starship bridges, monsters, heroes, ruins, rainforests, skyscrapers, arenas, voids. It was dizzying and intoxicating.
Finally, the channels slowed. The figure read the title aloud with a small smirk.
"Seven Deadly Sins: Four Knights of the Apocalypse, huh. Well, let's hope you get enough power to defend yourself, or you're screwed."
I started sweating. Great. A world I knew, and a familiar one at that. But knowing the story didn't equal power. I'd seen how the cast could consume or be consumed. I swallowed. 'Please not a stick,' my brain prayed.
We moved to the wheel. The figure gestured for me to pull the lever. My hands were shaking, but I gripped it and shoved with everything I had.
The wheel spun so fast it blurred. For a second, it felt like my heart was trying to keep pace with it. When it slowed, we peered to see which face it landed on.
"Donny," the figure announced, the word landing like a dunk. "Damn, fortune must really hate you. You get the comic relief with telekinesis. He barely masters it."
Zero for two, right? I stared. Donny. Comic relief. Telekinesis. My chest sank. It wasn't the worst, at least I wouldn't be useless, but it wasn't exactly the protagonist package either.
Whatever. Better than nothing. I shuffled toward the cards.
"As I said," the figure reminded me, "there are a hundred options. They cycle every fifteen seconds. A good item could leave you and be replaced by trash. You can wait and hope, or pick one when it shines. If you want two items, you must offer something of equal measure in return."
"Nah, I'm good. One's fine," I said.
The cards glowed and began their countdown. They flickered, brightened; the glow meant they were switching. Planning to bait a better pull, I waited for the next flash, then scanned the spread and made my choice.
I grabbed the card on the far right, as far out as I could reach, and flipped it over slowly like a man revealing his one last poker hand.
When I saw the image, I nearly laughed and nearly cried at the same time. It was six large daggers with curved dark-purple blades, black hilts with gold accents, the hilts shaped like dragon heads—sleek, menacing, and clearly made from otherworldly material.
"YES, Sung Jinwoo's Fangs of Antares Daggers!" I shouted before I could stop myself.
(image right here)
The figure's smile faded into something more like a frown. "Damn," he muttered. "I wanted you to go 0-3 and end up with a stick or something."
With a snap of his fingers, the card in my hand floated up and merged into me — a sensation like a cold coin dropping into my chest. The wheel sent a stream of energy through my torso. The TV pulsed. The void collapsed into a pinpoint of light.
Everything went black.
My thoughts went dark for a period I couldn't measure. Then—
—then there was motion, a yank, a stomach-flip, and the world ripped open like paper.
(3rd Person POV)
The scent of wood and ashes lingered in the cabin, clinging to the air like an unshakable reminder of both warmth and fragility.
On a fragile wooden bed, a woman lay exhausted, her chest rising and falling heavily, sweat glistening across her pale skin. Strands of dark reddish-purple hair stuck stubbornly to her forehead, framing her tired but radiant face. Her light red eyes—filled with exhaustion, hope, and relief—locked on the midwife standing beside her.
The midwife, a tall, graceful woman with long curls of snow-white hair and gentle purple eyes, offered a soft smile.
"Congratulations, Mrs. Clarent. It's a boy."
Her words were like a balm to the heavy air. With practiced care, she passed the newborn into his mother's arms. The infant stirred weakly, sparse patches of reddish-purple hair crowning his tiny head. When his eyes cracked open, a pair of striking crimson irises glowed faintly in the dim light.
Hilda Clarent let out a shaky breath, her lips curving into a tired but contented smile. She held the child close to her chest, murmuring in a hoarse but warm voice, "Thank you… doctor."
Her gaze softened as she studied the tiny face resting against her. "I'm glad… he's a boy. We always wanted a boy." She smiled through her exhaustion, eyes wet as her newborn weakly grasped at her fingers with surprising determination.
The midwife looked on with approval, her own smile never faltering.
Across the bed, Gareth Clarent remained by his wife's side, his hand still clutching hers tightly even though his knuckles had turned pale from the pressure. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he forced a laugh between sobs, unable to contain his emotions.
"Welcome to the world, champ," he managed to choke out, leaning down to press his forehead against his wife's. She gently cupped his face with her free hand, and the three of them folded into a tender family embrace.
After a moment, the midwife cleared her throat softly, drawing their attention back.
"One last thing before I leave you to rest," she said gently. "Have you decided on a name?"
Hilda and Gareth exchanged a look, smiling through the tears and exhaustion. Then, in unison, they answered:
"His name will be Donny."
The midwife nodded approvingly, bowing politely before excusing herself. She left the small family in peace, stepping out to prepare the child's official records.
Inside the cabin, Gareth carefully took the baby from his wife's arms once she finished nursing him, letting her sink back into the bed with a grateful sigh. Hilda's eyelids fluttered shut, a tired but happy smile still etched on her face.
Holding his son close, Gareth looked down at him with trembling lips and wet eyes. The newborn giggled softly, his tiny hands stretching out and curling around his father's finger. The grip was impossibly small, yet strong enough to tighten Gareth's throat with emotion.
"Donny…" he whispered, voice breaking.
His thoughts lingered as he pressed the boy gently against his chest.
I hope you grow into the man you want to be, my son. Don't let anyone—not fate, not the world, not even me—stop you from chasing what you believe is right.
(Donny's Pov - Age 2)
I'm two years old now, and honestly, my life's been pretty smooth since my reincarnation. Well… smooth for me. For my parents and the people around me? Eh, not so much.
I've been causing my fair share of chaos in the Clarent household. I learned how to crawl at a ridiculously fast pace early on, and now that I can waddle around on my stubby little legs, no corner of the house is safe. More than once, I've been caught sneaking into the family library, flipping through dusty tomes about magic. My parents always freak out when they catch me, scoop me up, and toss me back into the crib like I'm some escaped criminal.
Our maid, Cynthia, has had it the hardest, though. Poor woman. She's basically become my personal babysitter-slash-bodyguard. If I'm not spilling drinks and food everywhere, then I'm knocking over vases, climbing on top of furniture like a little gremlin, or—my personal favorite—accidentally peeing on the marble floors when I forget I don't have diapers anymore. One time, I almost toppled down the stairs, and she literally dove headfirst to catch me, taking the hit herself. She limped for two days while I giggled and drooled. Yeah… she deserves a raise.
But don't get it twisted. I'm not just goofing around or being a baby menace. Oh no—this is prime time training. I might not be able to throw boulders or weapons at people, but I can still sharpen the one weapon I've got right now: my mind. Since I'm too young to really unleash my magic, I decided to focus on meditation and mental exercises.
Of course, that backfired, too. Every time I go quiet for too long while meditating, my parents panic like I just died in my crib. One time, they even dragged me to a doctor, who poked and prodded me with all these weird tests, only to say, "Your child is perfectly healthy." I could tell my parents didn't believe him, though. I mean, imagine seeing your two-year-old sit cross-legged like a monk, eyes closed, not moving a muscle. Yeah, I get why they were concerned.
Still, the training's been paying off. When I meditate, I visualize scenarios—fights, strategy drills, even conversations. It's like rewiring my brain to be sharper and faster. The soul's tied to the mind, and the mind's tied to magic, so the stronger my mental foundation is now, the easier things will be later.
Six months into this routine, I finally managed to levitate a toy block in my room. It only lasted a few seconds before I collapsed onto the floor, my tiny body completely drained, but it was enough. Proof. Real progress. I napped like a log after, drooling all over my pillow, but I didn't care. That was the first step.
I've kept it hidden from everyone, though. My parents think I'm just an energetic, curious little boy. And that's exactly how I want it—for now. If they find out, they'll hire some tutor to "hone my talents," and then I'll be stuck under constant supervision. Nah, I'd rather grow at my own pace.
For now, my secret stays mine.
I'll admit, it's frustrating. I know what I want to do, but this small body just isn't ready yet. So I play the long game. I wait. I train. I learn. Every stumble, every nap, every tiny success is one step closer to becoming the person I need to be in this world.
And as I drifted off that night, staring at the faint glow of the candlelight in my room, one thought kept circling in my head:
Two years down. A whole lifetime to go. This time, I won't waste it.