Flawless Ambition (Expanded Chapter)
The thought had crossed my mind before, usually during tedious safety briefings or while watching some adrenaline junkie wipe out spectacularly on a nature documentary. Skiing. A stupid way to die. Not like charging a machine gun nest, or sacrificing yourself to push a toddler out of a burning building's path. Not heroic. Not even mysterious, like vanishing on a solo sailing trip. Certainly not the kind of exit that earned you statues in the town square or mournful ballads sung in taverns. It was… undignified. A punchline waiting for its setup.
But here I was. Zane Gabriel Everett, professional cynic and accidental underachiever, definitively proven right in the most terminal way possible.
One moment, I was a blur against the blinding, pristine white of the Alps, gravity's eager plaything. I'd been trying to impress Clara? Clarissa? Some name that evaporated faster than mountain mist, all flashing smile and expensive gear. Showing off, taking a slope steeper than my skill level warranted, chasing that fleeting thrill and her approving gaze. The next—well, the next was a sickening symphony of impact. A rogue tree trunk, half-buried in powder, materialized like a bad joke. Cold, sharp and absolute, exploded through me. A sound like dry kindling snapping—my kindling. Then the world became a pinball machine, my skull the silver ball ricocheting off unforgiving wood with brutal, cartoonish violence. Regret, thick and cloying as tar, flooded what was left of my consciousness – not for the girl, not even really for the dying, but for the sheer, spectacular banality of it all. This was the finale?
Then came the silence.
Not peaceful. Not serene. An absence so profound it felt like a physical weight, pressing in from all sides. Silence that swallowed sound before it could even be conceived.
And the void.
Utter, featureless, infinite… nothing.
---
Ever drifted in a place so profoundly empty it made your soul itch? Like being trapped in the sensory deprivation tank of eternity, only without the comforting knowledge you could tap out? Yeah, me neither—until this cosmic waiting room swallowed me whole.
No sky. No comforting illusion of up or down. No ground to anchor the disorientation. No gravity to tell your insides where they belonged. Just… me. Or rather, the fading echo of me. A point of awareness adrift in a lukewarm, dark soup of pure Nothing. The only sensation was the faint, persistent hum of existing, a maddening tinnitus of the spirit. No body, no breath, just the irreducible fact of I am, suspended in the void.
"Great," I muttered—or tried to, the impulse forming without lips, tongue, or lungs. The thought echoed in the emptiness. "Not even a lousy tunnel of light. Guess I wasn't VIP material. No harp lessons for Zane." The sarcasm was reflexive, a life raft built from cynicism in an ocean of nullity.
Was this death? The promised end? Or just limbo? Cosmic buffering while the universe checked its celestial clipboard? Maybe I'd been routed to the overflow server. Purgatory's loading screen.
I couldn't tell. Time wasn't linear here; it looped, stuttered, bled. Memories, vivid and disjointed, surged and receded like toxic tides. The sugary taste of childhood birthday cake juxtaposed with the acrid sting of betrayal. The mindless rhythm of a long car ride bled into the visceral crunch of my fist connecting with Father O'Malley's surprised jaw (a disagreement over parish funds and perceived hypocrisy – definitely a long story). Fragments of joy, shame, boredom, petty victories, and profound failures swirled into an endless, jumbled newsreel titled 'The Mediocre Life and Times of Zane Everett.' A highlight reel curated by a nihilist.
And like any self-respecting modern soul abruptly divorced from its fleshy anchor, I started narrating my own tragicomedy. The internal monologue became my anchor in the absence of all else.
> Born decidedly average to mildly disappointed parents.
Died spectacularly below average on a Swiss postcard.
Tried therapy once. Diagnosed with 'chronic snark' and 'terminal apathy.' Quit after three sessions.
Called my boss a 'corporate vampire sucking the soul-dry husks of the proletariat' during a performance review. Got fired. Worth it.
Helped an old lady cross a busy street, but only because I mistook her mink stole for serious wealth. She gave me a peppermint. Felt vaguely cheated.
Karma?
Probably a draw. Maybe slightly in the red. Let's call it… cosmic store credit.*
The absurdity of tallying cosmic points while floating in non-existence almost sparked a laugh. Almost.
"Alright, Death," I projected my thoughts into the suffocating emptiness, imbuing them with as much weary impatience as a disembodied consciousness could muster. "You've had your laugh. The pratfall is over. Let's move this along. Show me the clipboard, the skeletal receptionist with glowing eyes, the infernal elevator muzak… whatever bureaucratic hellscape awaits. Just do something."
As if summoned by my celestial kvetching, the void… rippled.
Not a sound, not a light, but a disturbance in the absolute fabric of the nothingness. A presence manifested. It wasn't seen so much as felt – vast, ancient beyond comprehension, radiating an indifference so profound it bordered on contempt. And yet, beneath that cosmic ennui, threaded through the fabric of its being… was a distinct undercurrent of annoyance. Like a librarian disturbed during their one quiet hour by a patron asking for the location of the 'fiction' section.
Then, a voice. Not booming with divine judgment, not whispering with ethereal wisdom. Just… bored. Weary. The voice of an entity that had processed a trillion souls and found precisely zero of them truly interesting.
> "Self-awareness," the voice stated, dry as lunar dust. "More than most arrivals exhibit. Less dignity too, but that's… not necessarily a flaw. Merely a characteristic. Zane Gabriel Everett."
I turned—a conceptual shift in focus rather than a physical movement—and beheld… it.
A Being. The word felt inadequate. It was a paradox given form, or rather, given the potential for form. Shapeless, yet possessing a terrifying solidity. A tapestry woven from shifting light, devouring shadow, and emotions so alien I couldn't begin to name them. One microsecond it resembled a harried librarian drowning in celestial paperwork, spectacles perched on a nebula. The next, it was the furious, collapsing heart of a dying star, radiating final defiance. It was awe-inspiring and profoundly tedious simultaneously.
It continued, its 'voice' resonating directly within the core of my awareness. "You have accumulated… sufficient karmic residue. A net balance hovering just above the threshold of utter dissolution. Enough to warrant… reincarnation."
I blinked conceptually. "I died falling off a ski slope while trying to impress a girl whose name I can't even recall. How in the name of existential absurdity does that translate to karma points? Did I earn bonus points for style? Or lack thereof?"
The Being shifted, a conceptual shrug that conveyed millennia of dealing with obtuse mortals. "Petty. Cynical. Frequently sarcastic to the point of abrasion… yet you never crossed the threshold into genuine, deliberate cruelty. Your moral compass, while perpetually spinning, never quite pointed due south into malice. And occasionally," the voice took on an even drier tone, "despite your best efforts to the contrary, you inadvertently… assisted others."
"…By accident," I emphasized. "Pure, unadulterated coincidence or misinterpreted self-interest."
"Precisely," the Being confirmed, its shifting forms momentarily settling into something resembling a stern headmaster. "And the universe, Zane Everett, weights intent far less heavily in its cosmic ledger than your species generally believes. Outcome, however minor, however unintentional, registers. Your account is… solvent. Barely."
I crossed my non-existent arms, a gesture of spectral defiance. "Alright, cut the celestial small talk. What's the deal? Reincarnate as a dung beetle? A particularly pessimistic earthworm in a polluted swamp? Do I get a choice, or is it cosmic roulette?"
"Choice," the Being intoned, a flicker of something that might have been mild amusement passing through its form (a brief shimmer of aurora borealis over a dark ocean). "Significant choice. Due to your… unique balance sheet… you qualify for a Transfer. Before your soul anchors irrevocably into the karmic cycle once more, you may select your destination reality… from any conceivable world. Even fictional ones. And," it paused for effect, the void seeming to hold its breath, "you may select accompanying powers. Within defined limitations, naturally."
Something stirred within the nebulous remnants of my being. Not a physical sensation, but a resonance. Excitement, long dormant, flickered. Possibility, vast and terrifying, yawned open. And beneath it all, unexpected and sharp—purpose. A direction. A challenge.
"Any world?" I echoed, the thought vibrating with sudden intensity. "As in… manga? Fantasy novels? Sci-fi epics? Anime universes dripping with overpowered protagonists and convoluted magic systems?"
The Being solidified momentarily into the image of a vast, indifferent eye. "Yes. Fiction, legend, hypothetical realities… all are within the scope of the Transfer Protocol. Be aware, however, that your chosen world will intrinsically influence the nature and scope of the powers you may take with you. Compatibility is… non-negotiable."
A grin spread across my conceptual face. The old defiance, the sarcasm, crystallized into something harder, sharper. Ambition. "Alright. Enough preamble. Let's cut the cosmic crap. I know exactly where I want to go." I projected the name into the void like a challenge: "The Lord of the Mysteries universe."
A pause. Not just silence, but a profound stillness that stretched, thick and heavy. The shifting forms of the Being froze. The ambient hum of the void seemed to dim.
"…You are aware," the Being finally spoke, its voice slower, heavier, laced with a newfound incredulity, "that the designated reality codenamed 'Lord of the Mysteries' is statistically categorized as a Class 12 Existential Hazard? A veritable meat grinder for human sanity and continuity? Populated by entities colloquially termed 'Great Old Ones' and 'True Deities' whose mere attention can unravel minds? Governed by pathways steeped in inherent corruption, escalating madness, and an oppressive, inescapable Fate system that grinds even the ambitious into cosmic dust?"
"Exactly," I said, the smirk deepening into something feral. "It's perfect."
"Perfect?" The Being's form flickered violently, momentarily resembling a storm cloud lit by internal lightning. "Elaborate. Before I assume your soul suffered more cranial trauma than initially diagnosed."
"Yeah, perfect," I affirmed, the words charged with a conviction I hadn't felt since… well, ever. "The risk? That's the point. The ever-present threat of annihilation, corruption, or just plain bad luck? That's the fire that forges something worthwhile. I didn't cling to life before, and I sure as hell don't want to drift through eternity as some perfected, boring spirit. I want to ascend. To claw my way up from the muck. To stare into the abyss of the unknown and dare it to blink first. To fight gods and monsters not because I'm a hero, but because they're in the damn way. To grab divinity by the throat, look it dead in its incomprehensible eyes, and demand answers. And I want to enjoy the brutal, terrifying, exhilarating process of becoming the strongest entity I can be, in the shortest, most violently efficient time possible. Safe is boring. Safe is… average. I've done average. I died average. Never again."
The Being was silent again. Then, a low, rumbling sound emanated from it, not quite a chuckle, more like distant tectonic plates shifting. It held a note of… respect? Or perhaps just profound resignation to mortal stupidity.
"…Very well, Zane Everett. Your choice is registered. The Transfer to Reality LOM is authorized."
With a silent thrum that vibrated my non-existent bones, a tome materialized before me. It wasn't made of leather, but something older, darker, etched with runes that seemed to writhe and burn with cold, celestial fire. The title seared itself onto my perception: THE PATHWAY RULEBOOK: Parameters, Limitations, and Existential Safeguards for Ascendant Souls.
"You face a secondary choice," the Being explained, its voice regaining its bureaucratic cadence. "Option One: I grant you a pre-configured Pathway Group. A cluster of six interconnected Beyonder Pathways. Each comes with documented rituals, established Acting methods, known sequences, and… relative safety protocols. Tried and tested, albeit perilous."
It paused, the runes on the tome glowing faintly. "Option Two: You may exercise creative autonomy. Utilizing the rules within this volume, you may devise up to five original Pathways. Define their domains, their powers, their sequences… and their inherent, unique madnesses."
Curiosity warred with pragmatism. I willed the tome open. Concepts, diagrams, equations of cosmic law flooded my awareness. The rules governing power creation were Byzantine, terrifying, and demanded sacrifices that made my spectral form recoil. Creating a Pathway wasn't just defining powers; it was defining a fundamental law of reality within its domain, balancing concepts with counter-concepts, ensuring the path didn't instantly annihilate its walker or unravel the local spacetime. The cost for even minor conceptual powers was astronomical – souls, concepts, pieces of reality itself. Trying to create a Pathway focused on, say, Ultimate Sarcasm would likely require the distilled essence of a thousand broken comedians, a pocket universe steeped in irony, and probably the voluntary sacrifice of my own sense of humor. Permanently.
I slammed the conceptual book shut after what felt like an eternity, but was likely mere subjective seconds. "These rules are utterly, cosmically insane," I muttered, the weight of the knowledge pressing down. "I couldn't create a Pathway for brewing the perfect cup of tea without needing to sacrifice a sentient star cluster and redefine the concept of 'steeping'. Forget sarcasm."
The Being's form shimmered, a ripple passing through it that might have been the equivalent of a smirk. "A wise, if unsurprising, assessment. Pragmatism serves. Option One, then?"
"Pre-packaged Pathways, thanks," I confirmed, relief warring with a slight pang of relinquished control. "Give me the established insanity."
"Noted," it intoned. A complex sigil, resembling intertwined serpents devouring their own tails while balanced on a labyrinth, briefly flared in the void before me. "Pathway Group designated 'Serpent's Labyrinth' assigned. Knowledge integration commencing." A torrent of information – sequences, rituals, dangers, Acting principles – flooded my consciousness, settling like cold, intricate machinery.
"Now," the Being continued, "the final tier of your starting parameters: Sequence. Due to inherent soul-stability limitations within the Transfer Protocol, the highest compatible Sequence you may begin with is Sequence 2: Angel. Attempting to anchor a Sequence 1 or Above-The-Sequence power would cause immediate, irreversible soul-fragmentation. You would cease to be Zane Everett before you drew your first breath in the new reality. You would become… something else. Likely catastrophic."
I processed this. Starting as an Angel. Immense power, yes, but still leagues below the true monsters of that world. A demigod, not a deity. Vulnerable, but far from helpless. "Sequence 2 is acceptable," I nodded. "More than acceptable. A solid foundation. I'll build from there."
"Era of insertion," the Being stated. "The LOM reality possesses distinct epochs, each with unique perils and opportunities. You may choose. However, I strongly advise against the Fourth or Fifth Epochs. The Fourth is… unstable, reality wounds bleeding through. The Fifth is currently experiencing localized apocalypses and rampant Outer God interference. Statistically suboptimal for survival, let alone ascension."
The answer was immediate. "The Second Epoch," I declared. "The Age of death and disasters."
Another pause, heavier this time. The Being's form condensed into a dark, swirling vortex dotted with cold, ancient stars. "…The epoch of nascent godhood, rampant god-war, primal chaos barely constrained by emerging order. clash, deities walk openly, secrets are fresh and lethally potent. Sanity is a rare commodity. Are you certain, Zane Everett? The mortality rate for Sequence 2 entities in that era is approximately 83% within the first decade. Often involving being devoured, subsumed, or used as a pawn in conflicts beyond their comprehension."
"Certainty is overrated," I replied, the thrill of the challenge burning brighter. "Chaos is opportunity. Fresh secrets mean less entrenched power. If I'm going to ascend, I want to do it where the climb is steepest, the air thinnest, and the fall… well, we know how that ends anyway. Second Epoch."
"Acknowledged." The vortex dissipated. "As compensatory adjustment for the selected high-difficulty parameters – Reality LOM, Second Epoch insertion – you will receive a temporary anchoring mechanism. Two years of 'Seferot-based Soul Stabilization.' A buffer against the immediate corrosive effects of your Pathway and the ambient madness of the era. It will shield your nascent identity, grant you time to adapt… to remember who you are. After that period expires… the shield dissolves. You must establish your own mental anchors – beliefs, principles, rituals that tether 'Zane' to the ascending power – or lose yourself entirely to the Path. You will become a faceless Angel, then a Monster, then… something worse."
"I'll manage," I said, the words a vow to the void and to myself. Two years. A head start against the abyss. I'd use it.
The Being drifted closer, its presence now immense, filling the void with its ancient, indifferent weight. "One final configuration: Fate Integration. Do you wish a subtle insertion, your arrival minimally disruptive, allowing you to move unseen? Or do you desire a more… pronounced entry? A ripple, perhaps a wave, to announce your presence?"
"Unnoticed," I stated firmly. "Let the world sleep on me. Let the gods glance past. I'll make my presence known when I'm ready, on my terms. Stealth is the first weapon."
"And the Gaze of the Outer?" the Being pressed. "The Old Ones who slumber beyond the Curtain? Your power, your very existence as an Angel from nowhere, may draw attention. Their attention is… undesirable."
"I'll avoid it," I said, the plan already forming in the crucible of my ambition. "Use the Seferot buffer, stay low, move carefully. Learn the shadows of that world before I challenge its light. Delay their notice as long as humanly – or Angelically – possible."
"And when delay is no longer feasible?"
I met the shifting, incomprehensible gaze of the cosmic entity. "Then I'll stare back."
A profound silence descended, deeper than before. The void itself seemed to hold its breath. The transaction was complete. The path was chosen. The die was cast into the abyss.
"Zane Gabriel Everett," the Being spoke, its voice resonating with the finality of a cosmic gavel, deeper and more resonant than ever before. "The Transfer Protocol is engaged. Your new form coalesces within the Second Epoch of Reality LOM. You will awaken with the knowledge and power of your Sequence 2 Pathway integrated. The Seferot Anchor is active. Your journey… begins."
It paused, a last point of contact in the infinite. "What shall your final utterance be? The last word of Zane Everett before his rebirth into the Serpent's Labyrinth?"
I felt it then, not fear, but a fierce, defiant joy. A grin, wide and reckless, spread across my non-existent face. This wasn't an ending; it was the ultimate, chaotic, dangerous beginning. A chance to be anything but average. To spit in the eye of fate and carve my name onto the bones of gods.
The word echoed in the void, sharp, clear, and utterly devoid of doubt:
"…mysteries."
The void dissolved. The Being vanished. The last echo of my old self was swallowed by the roaring, terrifying, exhilarating plunge into a new, impossible life. The fall, it seemed, was only the beginning of the climb.
[End of chapter]