(Hey everyone,
This is my first fanfic, and honestly, I'm just excited (and a little nervous) to finally share it. I've always loved stories like Smallville, One Piece, and anything that mixes powers, character growth, and a bit of chaos—and this is my attempt to bring that all together.
Any feedback, comments, or suggestions are genuinely appreciated. Whether it's about the plot, pacing, characters, or even small details—I'm here to improve and grow with each chapter.
Thanks for reading,)
It started like any other day: dull, gray, predictable. I had big dreams once—plans to travel, build something lasting, maybe even change the world. But reality? Reality had other ideas. It chipped away at those dreams until there was nothing left but routine and reruns. Everything people promised would be exciting—adulthood, freedom, finding your purpose—ended up being about bills, small talk, and answering emails you didn't care about. Even happiness felt like a knockoff version of what it was supposed to be.
I was walking home from another wasted afternoon—grocery bag in one hand, headphones in, avoiding eye contact with strangers. The sidewalk smelled like rain that never came. I was thinking about dinner. About how I'd probably just reheat something and scroll until sleep.
And then I got hit by a bus.
The irony wasn't lost on me. Of course I'd die this way. People always joked about getting hit by a bus—there was even a meme about it back in the day. But the actual experience? It wasn't funny. It was loud. Crushing. And weirdly slow. My last thought, as the world spun out like a busted kaleidoscope, was that I always wondered what it would feel like. Now I knew. It felt like dying. Slowly.
Darkness fell. But I wasn't gone.
When I opened my eyes, or whatever counted as eyes in this place, there was no body—no form. Just...awareness. And a voice.
"Oh, for stars' sake, not another one."
The voice wasn't male or female—just...irritated. Dry. Like a bureaucrat five minutes into unpaid overtime.
"You're not supposed to be here," it continued. "You weren't scheduled to die. Paperwork error, timeline glitch, soul-processing mix-up—whatever. Doesn't matter. Let's move this along."
A shape emerged from the void: a shimmering, celestial wheel. Rings of text in countless languages rotated slowly, glowing with a soft inner light. I floated toward it, my nonexistent feet drifting over nonexistent ground.
"What is this?" I asked.
"Reincarnation wheel," the voice replied. "Observed universes only. You get one spin. Don't argue."
The words hit like a slap. Observed universes. That meant fictional. TV shows. Movies. Games. Stories. All the places people had imagined—and somehow, someone had been watching.
The wheel lit up.
It spun fast—symbols flaring like neon, whole realities flickering past in chaotic rhythm. I couldn't make out most of them, just flashes of color and movement. But now and then, something clicked. A glimpse of a hammer soaring through lightning. A dragon roaring over icy mountains. A village with swirling headbands. A school of witchcraft. A burning city beneath twin moons.
Asgard? Westeros? Konoha? My brain scrambled to keep up.
Then something weirder: candy-colored skies and bouncing ponies. And something else—dark, slow, ancient. I saw a pagoda rising from mist. I saw a spaceship tear through a star.
Some I recognized instantly. Some I couldn't place. Some were just... bizarre. Like dreams half-remembered or channels I'd never meant to find.
"Am I dreaming?" I murmured.
"If you were, I wouldn't be stuck here cleaning up after reality's mistakes," the voice muttered. "Now spin."
I reached out and gave the wheel a push.
It spun again—faster this time, like the whole multiverse was on shuffle. Then, slowly, it began to slow. The lights dimmed. The motion blurred into stillness.
It landed.
"Smallville," I read aloud.
Not Gotham. Not some hyper-stylized anime world where everyone had a sword or a mech. Just... Kansas. Wide skies. Cornfields. Secrets buried in barns. The place where Superman got his start—before the cape, before the flights, before the world knew his name.
I stared at the word like it had betrayed me.
"Seriously?" I muttered.
The voice didn't answer. Maybe it was giving me time to process. Or maybe it just didn't care.
Smallville. The show. The one I used to rewatch out of boredom. I'd never made it all the way to the end, but I remembered the basics. Superman before the cape. Meteor freaks. Lex Luthor with no hair. Some of it was cheesy, sure, but it had heart. And superpowers. So... I could work with that.
"Because you've been placed in a high-variability world—" the voice cut in with a sigh, "—you're entitled to a second spin. Powers. A requirement, not a gift. Don't get excited. The world has rules. You'll need it."
A second wheel appeared.
This one buzzed with chaotic energy, flickering like bad neon. It didn't promise broad categories like "magic" or "telepathy." It offered specifics—refined, curated, and sometimes completely unhinged. These weren't general powers. They were drawn from entire worlds I'd known, binged, obsessed over.
I leaned in, heart rate picking up.
Mutant Gene – Shadow Travel (Percy Jackson Universe)Hero Trait – Luck Manipulation (Misfits)Quirk – Tape Arms (My Hero Academia)Meta Ability – Sandwich Summoning (The Amazing World of Gumball)Cursed Technique –Ito Ito no Mi – String Manipulation (One Piece)Talking to Fish (almost Aquaman, but worse)Alien Physiology – Mild Invisibility (Ben 10 reject)Fruit – Slow Clap Echo (causes a small sonic pulse when you clap slowly)
Some were powerful. Some were jokes. And some made me wonder if the system was trolling me personally.
Come on. Just one good spin. Something sharp. Something with layers. I didn't need to be unstoppable. Just... interesting.
The wheel slowed.
Please not fish-talking. Please not sandwich summoning. I swear, if this lands on Tape Arms, I'm taking it as a personal attack.
It clicked. The glow pulsed once. Then settled.
Ito Ito no Mi – String-String Fruit.
I blinked.
"Seriously? Doflamingo's power?"
"That's the one," the voice said flatly. "String manipulation. You'll figure it out. Oh, and Haki's included—Observation and Armament, dormant of course. Comes standard now. You'll have to train for it."
I froze.
Wait. Haki was part of the package?
That was new. That was big.
And the fruit itself? I didn't hate it. Actually... I'd always been curious about it. There was something elegant about the way Doflamingo fought—how he turned invisible threads into lethal traps, stitched buildings into deathtraps, made people dance on command. He wasn't just strong.
He was a maestro. Conducting an opera of chaos and control, one string at a time.
I'd watched those scenes wondering how it all worked. How the threads moved. What it felt like to control a space so completely, like the entire world was an instrument and he was holding the bow.
Now I didn't have to wonder.
Now I could learn it myself.
I felt my breath hitch—not in fear, but in anticipation. Strings weren't flashy like fire or lightning, but they were precise. Creative. If I figured this out, really figured it out, I wouldn't need brute strength.
I'd be untouchable.
The voice cleared its throat—or whatever counted as that here. "Try not to die again. The paperwork's already a mess."
Everything went dark.
I woke with a sudden, choking gasp, as if I'd been dragged out of deep water and forced to breathe again before I was ready. My lungs expanded too fast, pulling in air that felt sharp in my chest, the kind of air that shouldn't have been there at all. I stayed still for a moment, blinking hard against the golden light pouring through the window, my thoughts slow to catch up with the fact that I was breathing, sitting upright, and somehow—alive.
It didn't make sense. The last thing I remembered was the crash—screeching tires, a deafening impact, and a moment of weightless panic just before everything cut to black. Then there had been nothing. Not even darkness. Just absence. A void without edges, without sound, without thought. I had drifted in that emptiness, untethered and weightless, and I had known—absolutely known—that it was the end.
And yet here I was.
My heart began to pound as I looked down at my body and realized it wasn't mine. My hands were thinner, my arms longer, my legs narrow and slightly awkward in jeans that didn't quite fit. The weight and shape of my body were unfamiliar, lighter somehow, as if I'd been reset into something younger, something unformed. When I touched my face, I found smooth skin where there should have been stubble, and features that felt strangely untouched by time. This wasn't just survival—it was replacement.
As I struggled to understand what was happening, the man beside me tapped the steering wheel and spoke with quiet ease, like this was just a normal morning drive.
"Bad dream?" he asked, not looking over.
His voice landed heavily, not because I recognized it, but because something about it stirred something deeper—like the echo of a memory I hadn't yet remembered. I turned my head slowly, wary of what I might see, and studied his profile: the tired set of his jaw, the crease between his brows, the steady way he focused on the road ahead. He looked worn down, older, but still carrying something beneath the surface—grief, maybe. Responsibility. Love trying to hold itself together.
And then it happened.
Not all at once, but like a crack forming across glass—then shattering. A jolt inside me, sharp and sudden, and then a flood of memory that didn't belong to the life I had just remembered losing. A new name surfaced first—Alexander. Then a woman's face. A hospital bed. A funeral. Long nights of silence and muffled arguments. Cardboard boxes filled with a life that no longer fit. Metropolis fading into the rearview mirror, and the dry, whispered promise of a fresh start in a smaller, quieter place.
It overwhelmed me—not just the images or facts, but the emotions tied to them. The grief in Alexander's chest was mine now, heavy and real, as if I had lost her too. And the anger—at his father, at the move, at the way life had just kept going without explanation—was still lingering in the background, raw and unresolved. Yet beneath it all, something unexpected stirred.
Wonder.
Because I hadn't just survived.
I had been moved.
Given another chance.
A new name, a new body, a new world—and not just any world. Outside the window, fields stretched in every direction, framed by old wooden fences and distant silos beneath a sky so wide it barely felt real. I knew this place. Not from any memory of living here, but from somewhere else entirely—from stories, from television, from a version of reality that had always seemed fictional.
Smallville.
The name hadn't been spoken yet, but I didn't need to hear it. I could feel it. I could see it in the shape of the land, in the emptiness between towns, in the quiet weight of the man beside me. I wasn't just in a new life—I was in a familiar one. A world of secrets and legends. Of heroes before they wore the cape. And I wasn't just passing through it.
Welcome to Smallville. Population: 45,001.
My eyes lingered on it—too long, maybe. But it hit like a quiet drumbeat.
This wasn't just the beginning of a new town.
It was the prologue to a story I already knew—and a life I didn't.
Smallville. Home to meteor freaks, moral dilemmas, and more near-death experiences than a Bond film. The kind of place where fate didn't tap you on the shoulder—it threw you through a barn wall and expected you to figure out why.
I remembered the people.
Chloe Sullivan—loyal to the point of recklessness, smarter than everyone in the room, and never able to stop digging, even when it got her in trouble. A genius with a spine of steel, wrapped in sarcasm and curiosity.
Then there was Pete Ross—Clark's best friend, the one who tried to carry the weight of the secret and cracked under it. Not because he was weak, but because he was scared of what that truth would do to his friend. He wasn't wrong.
Lana Lang—the girl everyone loved, or thought they did. Beautiful, kind, and somehow always at the center of the storm. She'd survived more assassination attempts than most presidents, and still managed to smile like none of it stuck.
Lex Luthor—brilliant, haunted, and trying so hard to be good that it tore him apart. Born too close to the wrong name. A villain waiting to happen, but not without a fight. And behind that polished charm, the gears were always turning—tracking threats, collecting secrets, building a future only he understood.
And then Clark.
Clark Kent. The guy with the moral compass of Jesus and the jawline of a comic book cover. He wanted to save everyone, and sometimes he actually did. But for all that power, he could also be shockingly naive. He'd take down a dangerous meteor freak, hand them over to the police, and never think twice about what happened next—never check if Lex swooped in with a research van and made them disappear.
And now… I was in the middle of it.
No cape. No alien DNA. No secret lab or family fortune.
Just me.
A kid with the String-String Fruit, no Haki, and a head full of half-remembered episodes. A reincarnated teenager sitting in a dusty car, wondering if any of this was supposed to make sense.
But underneath it all, I could feel it—that hum. A faint pressure just under the skin, like invisible threads waiting for the signal. My power hadn't awakened yet, not fully, but it was there. Quiet. Steady. Mine.
The road narrowed, curving into a dirt path lined with wooden posts and wire fencing. On one side, old silos leaned in the distance; on the other, a few cows grazed lazily behind rusting metal. The tires shifted from asphalt to gravel, crunching forward, dust curling up in little clouds around the wheels.
Up ahead, a small house came into view, tucked behind a bend in the fence line—old, weathered, but standing.
"That's it," my dad said, nodding ahead.
The house came into view, rising out of the landscape like a scene from a postcard. A two-story farmhouse, weathered but sturdy, with white-painted wood and a deep porch that wrapped around the front. A barn sat off to the side, and beyond that, more fenced-off land. There were no neighbors in sight—just hints of other farms far across the plains.
Alexander sat quietly, taking it in.
In both of his lives, he had only known cities. The endless noise, the sidewalks, the neighbors packed close like books on a shelf. This was... different. Breathing space. Isolation. Quiet.
He wasn't sure if he liked it.
The car slowed to a stop beside the house. His dad let out a breath and rubbed his palms against his jeans. "We'll make it work," he said, voice low but sincere. "It's not the same without her, but... maybe this place will help."
Alexander didn't answer right away. The porch creaked as he stepped out, the air thick with dust and wild grass. He nodded, almost to himself. "It's better than I imagined," he said finally.
They spent the next hour unloading boxes. Most of it ended up in his room—books, clothes, a few bent posters he didn't remember choosing. It all felt borrowed. Ghost possessions of a life he hadn't lived.
Across from the window, fields stretched toward the horizon. He could make out a couple of farms in the distance, silos rising like dull silver towers. One of them might've been the Kent farm, but he couldn't be sure. They all looked the same from here.
A mirror hung crookedly above the dresser.
He stood and looked.
The face that stared back wasn't what he expected. Blond hair, cut short but not too neat. Green eyes, sharp and a little too vivid. A jawline that looked like it was trying too hard. Broad shoulders.
He looked like a model. A young adult actor trying to pass for fifteen.
"Not that anyone in Smallville would care. In a town where aliens crashed through barns, good cheekbones weren't exactly special."
Still, he didn't hate it.
In a world of superpowers and aliens, maybe this was average.
A gust of wind pushed through the open window. He stood there for a few more seconds, then turned back toward the bed, grabbed a hoodie, and made for the door.
Downstairs, his dad was still unpacking some kitchen stuff. "Going out?"
"Yeah. Gonna look around."
Really? You barely left the apartment in Metropolis."
Alexander shrugged, trying to act casual. "Fresh start, right?"
It wasn't a lie. Not really.
He stepped outside, closed the door behind him, and took a deep breath.
It was time to see what this new body could do.
The wind had picked up. Not enough to be cold—just enough to make the tall grass whisper and shift. Alexander zipped up his hoodie and stepped off the porch, the farmhouse door clicking shut behind him.
The property stretched out in every direction—fences, dry patches, patches of tilled earth, and the dark line of trees at the far edge. That's where he was headed.
He didn't just walk.
He tested it. That wide, loose-armed strut Doflamingo always had—like every step was a flex, like the world was his and it hadn't caught up yet. Alexander tried it, half as a joke, half to feel something sharper than nerves. It felt ridiculous. It felt awesome.
No one was watching. Probably.
Still, he kept an eye on the distance. The last thing he needed was Clark Kent—if it was the later seasons—catching him with telescopic vision and wondering why some random kid was shooting threads out of his fingers.
He crossed the field and slipped into the woods, ducking beneath low branches and weaving between the trees. The forest quieted the world. The wind dulled. The light thinned. A fallen log marked the spot. Secluded, uneven ground. Enough space to fail without witnesses.
He exhaled slowly and raised his hand.
Nothing.
Then—just barely—threads.
Thin, shimmering strands flickered out in random directions. One snapped into a leaf. Another drooped and tangled around his wrist. They jerked like tangled fishing line, too weak to pull anything, too erratic to control.
He stared at them.
"Really?" he muttered.
And then, unexpectedly, he laughed. Short, startled, honest.
"No. This is good."
He tried again. Slower this time. Focused.
It wasn't about muscle—it was about intention. Like nerves stretching past his skin. The threads reappeared, less wild now. One hovered midair, trembling. He pushed—mentally—and it twitched, then vanished.
Still—progress.
They were real. Weak. Sloppy. Barely functional.
But real.
He crouched low, placing one hand on the ground. He imagined the threads anchoring themselves into the earth, winding through roots and rocks, spreading like veins under the forest floor. Nothing moved. No slicing wires, no Haki, no sudden explosion of strength.
Just silence.
And potential.
That was enough.
He stood slowly, flexing his fingers as the last thread shimmered and faded. He wasn't powerful yet. Not even close. But he wasn't ordinary anymore either.
And that... meant everything.
A faint strand danced across his fingertips—gone as quickly as it came, but impossible to ignore.
He smiled to himself.
"I'll figure it out."
The breeze picked up as he turned back toward the house. One week until school started. Seven days to understand what he could do—and how far he could push it.
This time, he wouldn't be unprepared.