The first thing Davion Mensah felt was the weight of silence.
Not the kind of silence that comes from sleeping with earphones in or from walking through Kingston at night when the clubs had long since gone quiet.
No—this silence was heavy, oppressive, like the hush of a church before a funeral begins. His lungs burned as if he'd been pulled out of the sea, and he gasped, clutching at his chest.
When he opened his eyes, he was no longer on the familiar streets of Earth. Gone were the cracked sidewalks, the smell of jerk chicken from the corner shop, and the laughter of his cousins.
Instead, he was sprawled across a stone floor beneath the high arches of a throne room that looked like it had once commanded respect but now sagged beneath the weight of centuries.
Cracks ran through the walls like spiderwebs. The banners that hung above were moth-eaten rags.
The throne itself—a massive seat of obsidian carved with runes he couldn't recognize—looked fractured, as though one more breath might shatter it entirely.
"Wha… wha gwaan?" Davion muttered, slipping back into his Jamaican lilt without thinking. His voice echoed in the chamber, hollow and lonely.
The air smelled of dust, iron, and something faintly bitter, like ashes that had never cooled.
Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet. His reflection in the cracked obsidian floor startled him.
The last he remembered, he had been in his early twenties, dark-skinned with sharp cheekbones, short dreadlocks pulled back into a tight bun.
Now, he looked the same… and yet not. His eyes glowed faintly gold, as if some ember had been buried in them, and a strange crown shimmered like heat above his head, flickering in and out of existence.
"Dis nuh real," he whispered. But the cold stone under his palm, the weight of the air, the aching pull in his chest—all of it screamed reality.
Then came the voice.
It did not echo from the halls. It reverberated inside his skull, deep and resonant, a language older than English, older than Twi, older than anything human. Yet somehow, he understood every word.
"King."
Davion flinched, looking around. "Who seh dat? Show yuhself!"
Silence. Then again:
"King. The crown is yours. The world is dying. Save it… or perish."
And with that, the voice faded, leaving him shaking, his heart hammering like a drumline in carnival.
He stumbled forward, each step echoing too loud. The closer he came to the throne, the heavier the air became.
His knees threatened to buckle as though some unseen force was pushing him down, demanding respect he didn't yet know how to give.
When he finally touched the armrest of the throne, his mind was assaulted by visions.
He saw a vast kingdom spread across continents—lush forests, shining rivers, cities brimming with life.
Armies in gleaming armor patrolled the walls. Scholars studied in marble towers. Kings before him sat proud and unyielding upon this very throne.
But then the vision shifted.
The forests withered. The rivers dried into cracked mud. The armies crumbled into dust. The scholars' towers fell into ruin.
The kingdom shrank and shrank, eaten away by a darkness that crawled across the land like ink spilled across parchment. Screams echoed in the distance. The once-great world was collapsing inward, folding upon itself like a dying star.
And through it all, the throne remained, stubborn and cracked, waiting for a newbrave one or perhaps a fool to sit upon it.
Davion stumbled back, gasping, sweat pouring down his forehead.
"Mi… mi dead?" he asked aloud, panic rising in his chest. "Mi ketch accident or summ'n…? Dis is di afterlife?"
No answer. Only the oppressive silence.
But the crown above his head flickered again, brighter this time, as though mocking his doubt.
He sank onto the throne, the obsidian cold against his skin. Immediately, he felt it—power thrumming beneath him, broken but still alive, like a dying heart that refused to stop beating.
He could sense the world beyond the ruined castle: its people starving, its lands fractured, its skies trembling with storms of energy he could not name.
This was his.
His kingdom.
His world.
And it was falling apart.
For a long time, Davion sat in silence, head in his hands. He thought about his mother back in Jamaica, always telling him he needed to stop dreaming about comic books and anime and "live inna di real world."
He thought about the job he'd been chasing in Kingston, the endless cycle of rejections, the way opportunity always seemed to dance just out of reach.
He thought about Ghana, his father's homeland, where he had always promised himself he'd travel to one day, to see the land of his ancestors.
Now all of that was gone.
And in its place was this—this broken world and a crown he never asked for.
At last, he forced himself to speak. "If mi really is king… then wha mi fi do? How mi save dis?"
As if in answer, the throne pulsed beneath him, sending a jolt through his body. Images filled his mind again—this time of doors.
Countless doors, stretching into infinity, each glowing with strange energy. Behind them, he sensed entire civilizations. Worlds upon worlds. Naruto. Bleach. Dragon Ball. Marvel. Stories he knew from his childhood, from the manga and comics he devoured late at night.
But they weren't just stories. They were real. And his crown was the key.
"Summon a guide," the voice whispered faintly. " When you are ready connect to other worlds. Take their strength. Bind their worlds. Save your own."
Davion's hands trembled. "Yuh telling mi… mi can call pon other worlds? Fi merge dem wid mine?"
The crown pulsed once in affirmation.
His mind reeled. It sounded impossible, insane. But what part of this wasn't insane already? If this was the only chance to save the world he had inherited, what choice did he have?
He stood, squaring his shoulders. "Alright den. If mi really is king… den mi cyan sit down an bawl. Mi haffi act."
The throne pulsed again, approving.
He searched the ruins of the chamber until he found what looked like an altar near the far wall.
Ancient runes were carved into the stone, glowing faintly. He didn't recognize the language, but somehow he understood it instinctively. This was the Summoning Rite.
He knelt before it, placing his hands on the runes. They flared to life, golden light burning against the gloom. His heart thundered in his chest as words formed on his tongue, words he had never learned yet knew by instinct.
"By di crown dat claim mi head, by di throne dat hold mi soul, mi call fi aid. From across di stars, from worlds beyond, come to mi side.
Stand wid mi. Guide mi. Mek we save dis kingdom together!"
The ground shook. The air rippled. The altar blazed so brightly he had to squeeze his eyes shut.
Something was coming.
Something powerful.
Something that would change everything.
But before the light fully burst, Davion faltered. A thought pierced through his resolve.
"Who mi really a go call?"
The throne pulsed again, but no image appeared. It seemed the choice was his.
And so his mind raced.
If he could summon anyone from the infinite tapestry of worlds… who would be his first ally?
His heart wanted to scream Gandalf—the wise wizard of so many childhood fantasies. But something within him rejected the idea.
He didn't want some distant old white wizard looking down at him like another lost boy.
He needed someone who understood struggle. Someone who understood what it meant to carry weight, to lead when no one else would.
A memory surfaced—late nights reading comics, flipping through issues of Green Lantern. Not Hal Jordan. Not Guy Gardner. Not Kyle Rayner.
John Stewart.
A man who had been a soldier, an architect, a leader. A man who carried the weight of entire galaxies with discipline and will. A man who looked like him.
Davion's lips curled into a shaky smile. "Yeah. If mi need a first ally, den it cyan be nobody else but him."
He tightened his grip on the altar. "John Stewart! Green Lantern! Mi call yuh. From di cosmos, from di light of will itself—come stand by mi side!"
The chamber shook so violently stones cracked from the ceiling. The altar exploded in emerald fire, flooding the throne room with light.
And through the brilliance, Davion saw the outline of a man forming—tall, broad-shouldered, clad in black and green armor that glowed with cosmic power. His eyes burned with emerald fire, and his jaw was set like iron.
When the light finally died down, John Stewart stood there, Green Lantern ring glowing on his hand, gaze sharp and heavy as he surveyed the ruined throne room.
His eyes fixed on Davion, narrowing.
"Who summoned me?"
Davion swallowed hard, his throat dry as dust. But he forced himself to stand tall, the flickering crown above his head burning brighter now.
"Mi name is Davion Mensah," he said, voice steady despite the storm in his chest. "An mi… mi is di King of dis dying world. An mi need yuh help."
John Stewart's expression did not soften. His voice was like granite when he answered.
"You'd better have a damn good reason for dragging me here, boy."
Davion's heart pounded. He knew this was only the beginning. The real test had yet to come.