Chapter 2: My Body Got Hijacked by a Dead Sect Master
Asterion stretched his new body.
Flesh that wasn't his own responded with sluggish obedience. His hands moved instinctively—muscle memory guiding them through simple patterns, stances, stretches—yet each movement felt hollow. Weak. Brittle.
A faint grimace tugged at his lips.
This body was… fragile.
Not just in strength, but in presence. In resilience. The kind of vessel that had never known war, had never stood beneath a blood-red moon as comrades died. Even in his world, a four-year-old child carried more natural toughness than what he felt here.
But Asterion had expected this.
He exhaled slowly, letting the breath settle the simmering disappointment. No, choosing Evan wasn't some random decision or momentary whim. This had been planned.
His long life had taught him that brute strength wasn't enough.
He had been in this world for some time now. Long enough to observe it. Long enough to study its people and, more importantly, the threads of fate surrounding them.
Most lives were ordinary.
Some burned brighter than others.
And then there was Evan Mercer.
Asterion closed his eyes, remembering the moment he first truly noticed the boy.
He didn't look like much. Pale. Anxious. Like someone who hadn't slept in days. But Asterion had learned long ago that appearances meant little. What mattered was what lay beneath the surface—the potential.
And Evan radiated it.
It wasn't raw power, not yet. It was more like… possibility. A glimmer of something vast and undefined. Untapped.
More importantly, fate gathered around him.
The boy was destined for greatness.
And beneath that was something else—something Asterion recognized all too well.
Desperation.
Loneliness.
A hunger to matter.
That was what made Asterion pay attention.
This world was already moving toward dangerous times. Asterion had seen enough in its future to know that much.
And unless something changed, things would end badly.
But Asterion had a theory.
Evan might be the key.
More than that, helping the boy now could prove invaluable later.
He had learned about ghosts—about the strange science his parents practiced, about the strange energies they called ectoplasm. Asterion understood enough to recognize the parallels. The terminology was different, but strange forms of energy were hardly unfamiliar to him.
If Evan could tap into that—if he could become more than a boy with ghost problems—then maybe, just maybe, he could become something else.
A protector.
A medium.
A shaman.
A ghost hero.
Asterion didn't know yet. But that was fine.
He didn't need to know everything.
He had always been a believer in the bigger picture. A thousand years had taught him to look beyond what stood directly in front of him and prepare for what came next.
Now it was Evan's turn.
He wouldn't force the boy. He would show him. Guide him. Nudge him, if he had to. And if Evan refused?
Well… Asterion hadn't spent this long watching the threads of fate just to ignore what was coming.
He sat in silence for a moment, letting the thoughts settle.
His current existence wasn't what he expected.
But then again… neither was becoming the Knight of Fate. Or the Sect Head of the Heavenly Flame Sect. Or a father.
And he had survived all of it.
So no, this body wasn't strong. Not yet.
But strength could be earned. Taught.
And Evan Mercer?
He was going to learn.
Okay, let me start with a simple truth:
Waking up to find a thousand-year-old immortal warrior using your body like it's an Airbnb is not on anyone's list of "Top 10 Chill Ways to Start Your Day."
Especially not mine.
One second, I was in third-period algebra, halfway through calculating the square root of "why am I still alive," and the next thing I know… I'm watching myself walk through the halls of Ravencrest High like I own the place.
Except I wasn't the one driving anymore.
Nope. That honor went to some ancient soul-fragment warrior dude who decided, "Hey, this scrawny kid looks like a great spiritual crash pad." And apparently, my body was his five-star hotel.
"This kid hasn't even tried to take care of himself," my voice muttered, except it wasn't my voice.
It was deeper. Cooler. Confident in a way I usually only feel when I'm watching superhero movies and pretending I could land a backflip without dislocating a spine.
And also?
Judgy.
So. Judgy.
"No wonder Derek walks all over him."
Rude.
First of all, I didn't ask to be the local punching bag. It's just... hard to defend yourself when your best combat move is "fall down and hope they trip too."
Yet there I was—still me, technically—walking like I'd just stepped out of an action movie. Shoulders back. Chin up. Swagger turned up to eleven. It was like someone had turned Evan Mercer into Evan Mercer: Immortal Warrior Remastered Edition.
And that someone was named Asterion.
Yes. That Asterion.
Except old. Way older. Like "a thousand years of life experience" older. And yeah, he was real. Real enough that a piece of his soul had somehow ended up in my universe and was currently using my chest like it owned the lease.
I was officially haunted by a guy who insisted he wasn't a ghost.
Welcome to my life.
"So, let me get this straight," I said mentally, because apparently we were on full-on mind-sharing terms now. "You're an ancient warrior from another dimension, part of your soul is here, and now you're… what? My personal trainer?"
"More like your guide," he answered, all calm and cosmic, like Yoda if Yoda were six feet tall and had rage issues. "You have potential."
Oh good. Potential. That's the word every nerdy kid hears before they get shoved into a locker.
Still, I couldn't ignore the weirdly warm feeling that came with his presence. Like standing near a campfire made of lightning. He was ancient and powerful, yeah, but there was kindness buried somewhere under the "you disappoint me" tone. A little bit of hope. Maybe even... pride?
Until he made the list.
I'm not even joking. He took a stroll through my brain like it was a shopping mall and found the dusty little corner where I kept my Totally Private Dream Goals™, Do Not Read Ever. And then—he read them out loud. In my voice. With commentary.
Here's the damage:
Get good grades – "Admirable. Also... not going well."
Beat up Derek – "He's weak. You can win with training. Or better aim."
Look cool – "Unclear metric. We'll work on this."
Become strong – "Now we're talking."
Learn magic – "The spiritual energy here is unusual. You're already halfway there."
Get some girls – "Hn. You lack subtlety."
Win over Sofia – "...Hearts are foolish. But worth chasing."
I didn't know whether to be flattered or mortified. Honestly, both. Probably more mortified.
But here's the thing—Asterion's not some genie who can just poof my problems away. He's stuck in the spiritual equivalent of dial-up internet. Every time he uses his power, it drains him. Which means:
No world-shattering attacks.
No ridiculous energy blasts.
No punching asteroids.
What I do get is:
Ancient pep talks,
A running commentary on my life,
And extremely judgmental training montages.
Yay.
Still… as I watched myself—Asterion—glide down the hall, giving Derek the kind of look that makes alpha males suddenly reconsider their entire personality, something weird happened.
People moved out of the way.
Teachers paused.
Even Derek flinched.
And deep down, buried under the sarcasm and anxiety, a tiny voice whispered something I hadn't let myself believe in a long time:
"This could work."
Let me start by saying:
I didn't ask for a master.
Especially not one who was part soul fragment, part ancient warrior, and apparently powerful enough to yeet a planet into the sun just by sneezing too hard.
But hey, I guess life decided I needed one.
So there I was, still watching my body strut through Ravencrest High with Asterion in the driver's seat and me stuck in the back yelling, "Please don't make eye contact with Sofia—TOO LATE, abort!"
She blinked. I think she actually noticed me.
I may have ascended spiritually right then. Or at least my puberty did.
Anyway.
As we walked, I felt Asterion's presence shift. Like he'd just finished reading the user manual of my life and finally decided to talk to the sad little nerd who came with the package.
"You're weaker than I expected," he said.
...So that's how we were starting this friendship. Awesome.
"But not hopeless," he added after a beat. "Your body is soft, untrained. No discipline. No control. Like a wet leaf in the wind."
"Wow," I muttered in my head. "Thanks for the compliments. You always this warm and fuzzy?"
"Only when I like someone."
I couldn't tell if that was a joke or a threat.
Then he launched into The Talk.
Not that talk. The other one. The "you're about to become your school's next fitness freak" talk.
"We'll be training in two ways," he said. "Physically, in the real world. And mentally, inside your consciousness."
"Cool," I said out loud. A nearby kid looked at me like I'd just offered to eat a chalkboard. I pretended I was on a Bluetooth call, like a very sweaty businessman in sneakers.
Asterion kept going:
"Your body isn't used to my presence. Even though I'm less than one percent of what I once was, that fragment alone could still reduce this planet to ash."
"...Cool," I repeated, this time internally, trying very hard not to pee myself.
"But I'm not here to destroy anything," he added, as if that needed clarification. "I'm here to teach. And teaching means no shortcuts. No power-ups. You want strength? You earn it."
I sighed. Somewhere in the distance, I could hear every shonen anime protagonist nodding solemnly.
"You'll exercise daily. Run, climb, stretch. Your body will adapt faster just by holding my soul. You'll become stronger. Faster. Your muscles will grow, your endurance will improve, and your hair might even stop being so weird."
"Hey!"
"You'll become superhuman within a month," he added. "If you work hard."
...
I'm not gonna lie. My brain immediately started playing epic training montages.
You know the ones—jump cuts, inspirational music, sweat dripping dramatically off my nose as I do push-ups on a mountaintop, and Sofia clapping in the background wearing a cheerleader uniform and maybe slow-motion wind in her hair.
It was a beautiful dream.
Then Asterion crushed it with:
"In your mind, we will also train. I'll teach you how to fight. How to focus. How to channel your instincts and not die every time something glows and flies at your face."
"Rude," I muttered. "That happened like… three times. Max."
Discipline.
The dreaded D-word.
I already felt my video game time dying in a corner somewhere.
Still... this was insane. I mean, Asterion Ardyn was literally offering to train me. Me. Evan Mercer. The guy who trips over air and once sprained his ankle sleeping.
Now I had an ancient soul coach in my head and a personal boot camp scheduled between classes.
I should've been panicking.
Instead?
I was smiling.
Like a big, dumb, overly excited fanboy smile. Because somewhere in the back of my brain, behind all the sarcasm and trauma and ghost fights and social awkwardness, I was thinking—
This is it. This is my origin story.
Asterion's voice brought me back down to Earth. "Don't look so happy. My training is brutal. It will test your limits. It will hurt. And sometimes... you'll want to quit."
Yeah. I knew enough about training arcs to know what he meant. They were always full of blood, sweat, and at least one traumatic flashback. But...
I nodded.
"I can take it."
He didn't say anything for a second. Then, I heard the faintest sound—maybe approval, maybe amusement.
Definitely Asterion.
"Good."
And just like that, I took my next step down the hall—still in full-on borrowed swagger mode—and realized something strange.
For the first time in forever... I wasn't afraid of the future.
I was charging straight into it. With an ancient soul fragment at my side and maybe—just maybe—the chance to become something more than Ravencrest High's favorite punching bag.
I was ready.
Probably.
Maybe.
Okay, 50% ready.
But that's better than nothing.