There once was a man who lived not merely in luxury but in the very womb of excess. Ruli Volt. A name that rang like platinum bells in boardrooms, echoed through digital halls where billionaires whispered, and sat carved into the plaques of skyscrapers he would never enter because they bowed to him from a distance. A name spoken not with admiration, but with the hushed reverence one might reserve for the divine if the divine had a penchant for cruelty. And I daresay, he basked in it.
Ruli was not rich. No. Rich men envied him. Wealth, for him, was not a number, nor a limit it was gravity. He did not chase money; it orbited him, clung to him, begged to be used. His fortune did not merely secure his comfort it choked the very concept of poverty out of his radius.
Women? Ah, yes. He had not three, nor thirty. Ruli had access. That irresistible, toxic kind of allure that opened doors to people, bodies, and souls. He did not woo. He did not need to. People fell into his bed like coins into a wishing well, hoping to be chosen. Not for love, mind you, but for relevance. For a place in the limelight, however brief. And I daresay, he rarely remembered their names.
He was beautiful, but not in the way poets write about. No, his beauty was sharp. Measured. A calculated precision of features, posture, grooming each line of his face drawn like a blade. A living sculpture of narcissistic perfection, too flawless to be anything but manufactured. And perhaps, in a way, he was.
Intelligence? Let us not insult the word. His mind was a palace, yes but one with no windows, only traps. Ruli saw patterns in chaos, moved markets with a gesture, and crushed opposition with the softest smile. He played people like music. Found the frequency of their fears, their hopes, their hungers and conducted them into silence.
Strength? Engineered. Maintained like a luxury car. His body was an instrument sculpted by personal trainers, state-of-the-art programs, nutritionists, and, some whispered, darker methods. He wore his muscle like royalty wore crowns—not for utility, but for symbolism. The lion had claws not because it needed to hunt, but to remind the world it could.
In a world where most clawed their way to relevance, Ruli had been born standing atop the mountain and he never once looked down.
He didn't need friends. Didn't seek love. Didn't believe in family. In truth, he didn't believe in anything but himself. People were, to Ruli, commodities. Variables. Brief distractions between the main events of power and pleasure.
His father, the great Augustus Volt, tycoon of titans, builder of cities, had once looked upon his son not with affection, but with pride. As though admiring a machine he had spent his life assembling. A masterpiece. Not a child. Not a legacy. A project completed.
And when Augustus died—oh, what a death, surrounded by marble and gold and silence—he left everything to Ruli. Not because he loved him, mind you, but because he believed in him. The Volt Empire, built with blood, litigation, sweat, and fear, passed to Ruli as naturally as breath to lungs. And within a single year... it bloomed.
Stocks soared. Competitors vanished. Entire markets bent like reeds in the wind. There were no boardroom battles—only coronations. And Ruli? He barely had to try.
He took what his father built and turned it into something that didn't just dominate—it dictated. Cities, governments, entire industries—knelt. They did not applaud. They obeyed.
But oh, what a hollow brilliance it was.
For beneath that golden exterior lurked a soul colder than the numbers he loved.
Ruli Volt discarded people like receipts. Especially family. Blood meant less than air to him—at least air served a function. His older sister, once the pride of high society, had her wings clipped the moment she lost her inheritance in a legal misstep Ruli may or may not have orchestrated. No more dresses, no more mansions. Just neon lights and whispered offers. A butterfly forced to crawl. Her body, once adorned in silk, now sold in alleyways. And Ruli? He never looked her way again.
His older brother, a soft thing with poetic dreams and weak convictions, placed his heart in the hands of a lover who left the moment money ran dry. The spiral was swift. Addictions followed. Then silence. Then death, unofficial but certain. The kind of death no one announces—because no one cares.
Of the younger siblings, only James rose. Brilliant, methodical, silent as the grave. A man who built machines smarter than humans and chose not to share them. He rose not with Ruli's help, but in spite of it. Some whispered the Volt heir even tried to sabotage him once—only to find James had built safeguards in anticipation. Clever boy. Too clever. And, according to recent news... dead. A lab explosion, they said. How convenient.
Michael, fourth of the Volt line, had clung to James like ivy to stone. Always the follower. Always smiling behind someone else. And now? Alone. Cracked. Crumbling. A puppet with no strings left to tangle him.
And the youngest—the forgotten flower. A girl barely grown before she vanished. Some said she ran. Some said she was taken. Some didn't say anything at all, because nobody bothered to ask. I daresay she may well be rotting in a gutter as we speak, her name lost like a dream upon waking.
Did Ruli care?
No. Not even in the abstract.
To him, they were stories with unsatisfying endings. Obsolete tools. Failed experiments. He discarded them all without hesitation, like dull knives from a pristine set.
He was a monster. But not the loud, blood-drenched kind. No, Ruli was the evolved monster. The one who dressed in navy suits tailored to the cell. Who smiled at cameras. Who signed autographs in ink made from the tears of the ruined. He never raised his voice. He never needed to. His silence cut sharper than most swords.
Power dripped from him like cologne. His every step echoed through corridors padded in fear. His presence turned confident men into interns, titans into mice. And he knew it.
Gods, I daresay he enjoyed it.
He lived above the city—not just physically, but conceptually. His penthouse overlooked the skyline like a throne over a battlefield. Marble floors kissed by moonlight. Walls of glass, untouched by fingerprints. Art from forgotten masters hung beside technology not yet legal. His bed? Custom-made from fibers engineered by a lab dedicated solely to his comfort. His view? A sea of lights—all of them blinking for him.
Every morning, his calendar filled itself. Meetings, negotiations, the occasional scandal to erase. And every night, music played through speakers more expensive than most cars. Jazz, usually. Something smooth. Empty. Like him.
Lovers came and went. Names blurred. Bodies blurred. Everything blurred except his schedule, which remained sharp as glass. No one lingered. No one dared. Because Ruli didn't invite affection. He permitted presence.
And yet—he was bored.
Oh, he would never admit it. Boredom was for the weak. But I daresay there were days when the mirror looked back at him and he did not recognize the man reflected. Not out of confusion, but out of apathy. He had seen his face a thousand times. It changed nothing. He felt nothing.
Each day bled into the next. A loop of pleasure, dominance, control.
And then, one evening...
He slept.
No drugs. No alcohol. No threats. Just a simple desire for rest, as natural and irrelevant as breathing.
Soft jazz filled his penthouse. The air smelled of imported vanilla and antiseptic wealth. The silk sheets clung to his skin like water. He closed his eyes, expecting dreams he wouldn't remember.
And woke...
Beneath three suns.
The suns burned, but not like ours.
One glowed like molten sapphire—blue, deep, suffocating. Another throbbed with golden fire, pulsing as though it were alive, breathing heat into the air itself. The third was pale, almost silver, like a dying star that refused to collapse. Together, they painted the sky in hues no artist could ever mimic. A canvas of contradictions—blinding and beautiful, maddening and serene.
Ruli stood—or rather, Daves stood now. For the man that had ruled the Earth with numbers and cold words had been left behind, or so it seemed. And this new name—Daves Frojas—clung to his mind like a whisper he didn't remember hearing, yet could not forget.
He looked around.
The landscape was... unholy.
Not in the demonic sense, no. More like sacredness gone mad.
The world around him pulsed. The grass shimmered with a metallic sheen, shifting with the light. The wind carried no sand, no salt, no dust—only memory. Or so it felt. Each gust brought a taste of something forgotten, like breathing in nostalgia.
And that tree.
I daresay, the tree deserved an ode of its own.
It rose far beyond logic. Its roots burst from the ground like serpents, weaving through canyons and hills alike. Its trunk was impossibly wide, bearing runes that moved. Not shimmered. Not reflected. Moved. As though the bark itself was alive and whispering. And the crown—ah, the crown—disappeared into clouds that were not clouds, but veils of light wrapped around reality.
Daves knew this place.
He didn't remember it. But he knew.
Because once, long ago, Ruli's mother had spoken of it. Between sleeping pills and hallucinations, between wine-stained lullabies and screams in empty hallways, she had painted this world with her words. She called it Ahor Zai. The Place of Ends and Beginnings.
A world choking in ruin.
A world screaming for a savior.
The world of The Savior of the Insaveable World.
His mother's novel. Her obsession. Her prison.
Daves had never read it—not truly. But he had heard enough to recognize the signs. The suns. The tree. The hum in the air. Even the scent—it reeked of fiction. Of intention.
He clenched his hands.
Skin—same.
Muscles—intact.
Clothes? No longer tailored suits, but something... other. Black leather, foreign fabrics, etched with symbols that made his eyes hurt if he looked too long. A sword hung at his side—not a gun, not a chip, not some corporate code. A blade. Primitive. Beautiful. Real.
And then, the air moved.
Not the wind. Not the sky. The air itself.
As if reality exhaled.
A voice followed.
Not heard. Felt.
Like a thought that had always been there but only now decided to speak.
"Daves Frojas."
He turned, hand on hilt, eyes sharp.
No one.
Yet he knew.
This world was watching.
And it knew his name before he did.