The Realm of Catharsis was dying.
It was a terrifying thing to watch.
The sky used to reflect the joys and sorrows of billions of mortals.
Now, it was shattering like broken glass.
Huge cracks of nothingness tore through the clouds.
They swallowed the golden light of the gods' home.
At the center of it all stood the Prime Entity of Emotion.
He didn't rule with violence or magic.
He was the silent director behind every tragic hero and triumphant king.
His true power was absolute empathy and an overwhelming presence.
But even a god of emotion couldn't fix the end of the universe.
Behind him, the Ark-Gate hummed with wild energy.
It was a portal to help the surviving gods escape to a new dimension.
He turned to his adopted son, Valerius.
"The bridge is stable, Valerius," the Entity said sadly.
"Go. Lead them. I will hold the destruction back."
Valerius didn't move toward the portal.
Instead, he stepped right up to his adoptive father.
His face was a bitter mix of grief, envy, and cold ambition.
Suddenly, Valerius drove a blade of pure dark energy straight through the God's chest.
The Entity gasped.
His divine presence flickered violently.
He looked down at the blade, completely stunned.
"Valerius... why?"
"I'm sorry, Father," Valerius whispered coldly.
"In the new world, they won't need a silent director hiding in the shadows."
"They won't need a god who only makes them feel."
"They will need a ruler. A king who commands."
"If you cross that gate, they will always look to you instead of me."
The Entity coughed, his golden blood spilling onto the floor.
He didn't feel angry.
He just felt the crushing weight of his son's insecurity.
"You fool... You can't rule people if you don't understand their hearts."
Valerius pulled the blade out without another word.
He stepped through the portal, shattering it behind him.
Left alone on the collapsing stage, the God of Emotion closed his eyes.
The universe folded in on itself.
Everything went dark.
---
Countless dimensions away, in the year 2026, Earth was having a normal Tuesday.
The sun was hot, and the traffic in Los Angeles was terrible.
A twenty-four-year-old movie nerd was walking down the street.
He was completely lost in his own world.
He knew everything about cinema.
Every script, every box-office hit, every forgotten indie movie from the 90s.
His brain was a massive archive of pop culture.
But he was just an ordinary guy working a dead-end job.
He stepped off the curb, putting his headphones on.
*SCREEECH!*
He snapped his head up.
A massive delivery truck had blown a red light.
It was heading straight for someone frozen in the crosswalk.
He didn't think. He just moved.
He dove across the hot asphalt and pushed the person out of the way.
But he wasn't fast enough to save himself.
The truck's heavy bumper clipped his side, sending him flying.
He hit the ground hard and rolled to a stop.
His ears were ringing.
*Is this it?* he thought, looking up at the sky.
*Am I going to wake up in a magical world now?*
He blinked. He wiggled his fingers and toes.
It hurt, but he was fine. He wasn't dead.
"Holy shit," he laughed, sitting up.
"I survived the truck!"
He looked up at the sky to thank his lucky stars.
But his smile vanished.
The sky wasn't blue. It was burning red.
A giant, flaming meteorite was falling straight toward him.
No sirens. No news alerts.
Just instant death dropping from space.
"You have got to be kidding—"
*BOOM.*
---
In the silent void between worlds, two broken souls drifted.
They were waiting to be recycled into the cosmic wheel.
One was the ancient, bleeding soul of a betrayed God of Emotion.
The other was the fractured soul of a mortal with an infinite archive of stories.
They bumped into each other.
They didn't clash. It was a perfect fit.
The God felt the mortal's mind, drowning in thousands of brilliant scripts.
The mortal felt the God's terrifying aura.
He realized this being could radiate a presence that could force an army to kneel.
*You know every story ever told,* an ancient voice echoed in the void.
*And you can make them feel every single word,* a modern, energetic voice replied.
They were both incomplete.
One was a director without a script.
The other was a scriptwriter without a stage.
The void churned violently as the two souls wrapped around each other.
They fused their essence into something entirely new.
It was far too ambitious to just fade away.
Reality tore open.
The cosmic wheel snatched the newly forged anomaly.
It pulled it down into the timeline of a world very similar to the one that had just burned.
---
**Cedars-Sinai Medical Center - Los Angeles, California**
**August 1982**
The room smelled sharply of rubbing alcohol and expensive flowers.
The newly forged soul felt a heavy sense of physical limitation.
He couldn't move his arms properly.
His vision was incredibly blurry.
But his mind was startlingly sharp. He was alive.
"Look at him, Richard. He hasn't cried once," a deep, gravelly voice boomed.
The heavy thud of a wooden cane hit the floor.
An older man stepped closer to the crib.
"The pediatricians said his vitals are perfect, Father," a second man replied steadily.
"But we have a situation downstairs. Security is struggling to hold the press back."
"They want a statement."
A warm, exhausted hand gently brushed against the infant's cheek.
"Let them wait," a woman murmured softly from the hospital bed.
The infant blinked.
His vision adjusted to see the three figures.
The younger man, Richard, stood in an expensive suit, looking stressed.
The woman in the bed looked tired but fiercely protective.
But the older man dominated the room.
He leaned on a gold-tipped cane.
He had thick silver hair and piercing blue eyes.
He stared right at the newborn.
"They want a statement? Tell them the heir is here," the older man said.
"Tell them Arthur Blackwood has a grandson."
For a fraction of a second, the God's soul stirred.
A microscopic wave of heavy pressure rippled through the crib.
Arthur paused. His breath hitched slightly.
The newborn wasn't crying.
His deep blue eyes were locked onto the patriarch's gaze.
It was an eerie, unbreakable focus.
A massive, genuine grin slowly spread across Arthur's wrinkled face.
"Look at that stare, Richard," he chuckled.
"He's not afraid of a damn thing. He's a Blackwood through and through."
"Have you decided on the name, Victoria?" Richard asked his wife.
She smiled tiredly. "Donovan."
"Donovan," Arthur repeated, testing the weight of the word.
"Donovan Blackwood."
In the crib, Donovan remained perfectly still.
His mortal memories rapidly aligned with the names.
Arthur Blackwood, the undisputed titan of Warner Communications.
Richard, the executive president.
Victoria, the Oscar-winning director.
He had been placed at the absolute summit of the entertainment world.
Donovan closed his eyes.
A tiny smirk formed on his face.
The stage was set.
The show was about to begin.