Aaric Morgan slumped over his mahogany desk. The weight of sixty years pressed down on him like an iron vise.
The office was quiet. Outside, the city hummed, indifferent. Stacks of unpaid bills and failed contracts littered the room—a monument to a life spent clawing at success, only to fall short.
He had dreamed of wealth, of influence, of leaving a mark on the world.
Instead? He had scraped by. Lived with regrets. Carried the bitter taste of failure like a shadow that never left.
Every missed opportunity. Every foolish investment. Every person he had wronged—or failed to help—replayed in his mind like a relentless echo.
It was 2025. His body had grown weary under the burden of his mind. The heart, worn thin by stress and disappointment, finally gave out.
A sharp pain tore through his chest. Aaric gasped, clutched at himself, and the last thing he saw was the city skyline, blurred by tears and disbelief.
And then… darkness.
When he opened his eyes again, the world had changed.
The smells, the sounds, the very air carried grit and smoke. He was no longer in his office. No longer in 2025.
He was on the cobbled streets of London. 1919.
And he was thirteen.
Everything came rushing back. Every market crash, every war, every secret, every mistake. Knowledge of the future burned within him—a weapon and a burden in one.
The streets were cruel. Orphaned, penniless, and small for his age, Aaric quickly learned the rules of survival.
He ran with street urchins. Stole what he could. Observed those with power. Memorized every detail.
The world was raw. Violent. Ready to devour the weak.
Aaric Morgan would not be devoured.
He made a promise, quiet but fierce: This time, he would not fail.
This time, he would rise.
Not just for wealth. Not just for comfort. But for mastery. Security. Legacy.
Every street corner. Every alley. Every whisper of London's underbelly became his classroom.
Even at thirteen, Aaric Morgan was already planning his empire.
And the world, unaware, would bend to him.