[Owen POV]
"Are you sure you're going to live here?" the elderly white woman asked as I signed the lease for the one-bedroom apartment in Pasadena.
"Sure. This place has the cheapest rent compared to everywhere else," I replied, taking the key from her hand. Even in 1996, rent in California was expensive compared to other parts of the country.
"That's because this place has nothing! No basic heating or air conditioning. Only working water," her eyes darted around, looking uncomfortable with the place.
She gave me a sceptical look, "Are you sure you aren't a runaway?"
With my dishevelled appearance and a black duffel bag slung over my shoulder, it was no wonder she had those kinds of thoughts.
"You've seen—and confirmed—my emancipation papers," I said with a tired smile. It was already the third time she asked me the question.
She sighed. "Alright then. I won't press the matter further."
"You know I'm just short, right? I look twelve, but I'm actually sixteen. I even did a semester in college," I shooed her away, hinting at the door with my eyes.
"Alright, Mr. Chase. I'll be going now. If you need anything… don't call me. I won't be responsible for you," she said, giving me a serious look before leaving.
After she left, my smiling face and innocent façade disappeared.
The cracked white paint on the ceiling of the empty South Pasadena apartment provided me some solace as I laid down on the hardwood floor.
"In a way, my start here began with seeing an unfamiliar white ceiling huh?"
There was no furniture, no bed, no stove, not even a curtain. There was just me, flat on my back with a rolled-up hoodie as a pillow and the smell of leftover paint stinging my nose.
I took some short rest as I contemplated my life.
It was January, and I was sixteen years old again. I woke up inside this body after the original died a month ago.
He had a heart complication and underwent major surgery, which left him in a coma for three days. No one knew that his soul had already passed on—and someone else had replaced him.
I found myself inside an uncaring family that didn't even greet me when I came back from the hospital. They treated me as a burden, unwanted, and invisible. Since I had no attachment to them, I decided to leave the family.
I forced an emancipation process after blackmailing my parents with a few conveniently timed photos that proved my dad's pathological cheating—and his other family he had with a former Latina maid.
He was a politician running for the local council, so a scandal at that moment would've crushed his political career.
The mother tried to play the "mom card," tugging at her son's guilt and love for her. But she hadn't even spoken to the original me for about a year. The reason I was so small was due to fetal-alcohol syndrome. I survived, even though she tried to kill me while I was still in her womb.
I had already graduated high school. The previous me had skipped multiple grades, had the top SAT scores in the nation, and even got into Harvard Law at 15 years old.
Got offers from Cambridge and MIT. But the parents rejected those and forced him into Harvard, which I dropped out of after waking up from a coma.
It took one month to wrestle away from the family. We went to court for the emancipation process, the judge wanted to wait until I fully recovered, so I had to get the doctor's release note. My dad had some pull with the hospital so it was easy.
Then I was truly gone. And I didn't think anyone in the family cared.
My experiences taught me if you weren't wanted in a place, just find somewhere you would be welcomed. I've lived and died nine times, and this method has proven right almost always.
And no, I don't mean metaphorically, like "I was dead inside." I mean full-on dead.
Buried. Incinerated. Atomized. Stabbed. Burned. Crushed. One time, surgically disassembled.
Each death was real, well, as real as it could be for a serial reincarnator like me. Each body was mine—sort of. Every time I woke up in a new one, there was a moment where I wondered-- how long will this one last?
Let's rewind a bit. Back to the beginning…
The very first time I died, I was almost 18. Hit by a truck in 2025—a classic death.
My first transmigration dropped me into the body of a 13-year-old street urchin in medieval England, right after the plague.
It was disgusting. Rats everywhere. No toilets. People thought soap was black magic. But I had my memories, and I figured—why not lean in? I became a bard. I learned to play a lute, which wasn't hard as I had prior experience with a guitar.
Sang songs, told stories, earned a little coin.
I used the memory of my previous life to get ahead, like an isekai protagonist always does. And there was something about the absence of cameras that felt strangely freeing. I could make some mistake, and it wouldn't be plastered on the internet forever.
At fifteen—the peak of my life, since people only lived till thirty back then—I was invited to perform at a king's banquet. I was at the top of the world.
The king wanted a song for his mistress, Heather. So, I sang Heather by Conan Gray, not thinking too hard about it. Big mistake. The king thought I was confessing my love… to him.
I was executed as I screamed my last words, "I swear I'm not gay!". I mean, even if I was, that shouldn't have been a crime. But medieval Europe doesn't do nuance.
After I died, I started out my third life as a fourteen-year-old girl in plague-era France. Being gender bent is equal parts weird and equal parts interesting. It was my second transmigration.
I got better from a fever. That's it. Just a fever. And for that, they burned me at the stake after the towns folk knew about it.
"I recovered after a disease! I'm not a witch!" I shouted as the flames licked my foot.
"She knows the word 'recover!' She is a witch!" the mob yelled.
I only managed to live for a month there. And honestly? I was a witch. But not before I transmigrated there. I found a coven while walking in the woods and learned some rituals from them.
Fourth life, I ended up in a 15-year-old baron's body in a fantasy kingdom. Knights, magic, mana—it was like Dungeons & Dragons come to life, but with more of a Korean webtoon vibe.
I trained in swordsmanship, learned how to control mana. I was on the path to becoming an aura knight. Honestly? It was cool. I killed some demonic beings, learned about rituals, had some rom-com style life until the genre changed.
My dad, the Baron, was a demon worshipper who decided to sacrifice his virgin son to summon a demon lord.
"Of course," I muttered with a deadpan expression as he lifted the dagger. "Go ahead, father. Be more original."
My fifth life started right after. I became a street theatre actor in Renaissance Italy. The troupe was a front for an underground assassin guild. I made some real friends here. I learned how to kill with a dagger and cry on cue—a useful combo.
I made it far. From thirteen years old to almost eighteen. It was a hard life, full of thorns and loss.
It even made me want to give up living, but I promised someone. I went out with a bang, enacting revenge for my theatre troupe member who was killed by a corrupt city lord.
Nineteen stab wounds later, the curtain closed.
In my sixth life, I went to a Murim world—yes, the kind with qi cultivation and Sects. I was a ten-year-old, and an apothecary's assistant in the Tang Clan who died because he was experimenting with poisons.
I learned medicine, martial arts, and even got a girlfriend or two. I received a nickname; Poison Dragon. My genius seemed to threaten the demonic sect leader. He waged war with the orthodox faction and killed everyone.
I died at the age of seventeen, as I found enlightenment and managed to cut off the head of the Heavenly demon. A life for a life type of ending.
In my seventh life, I was born a clone in an intergalactic empire. No rights, no name, just a number and a bunk. I lived for three years as an academy trainee before being thrown into an intergalactic war.
I had an advantage over my classmates since I'd cultivated a bit of internal energy during training. Most of them died within the first month of the war. I survived, but that ended up being my downfall.
They called my internal energy "dark matter" and cut me open to study it, classifying it as an esper ability. They dissected me while keeping me alive. It was a torturous experience.
Naked on a metal slab, organs on the tray beside me, I asked the researcher, "Can I at least get a blanket? It's drafty in here."
He didn't laugh. But I did. I died when he removed my brain from the rest of my body.
My eighth life, I was finally back in LA. But this wasn't the normal LA. I woke up when the previous owner was killed by a vampire.
I become an ordinary teen in a world of vampires, demons, witches, and even the slayers. I trained hard, broke through the warrior realm, tried to be a hero. For a short while, I did. I become the nightmare for the vampires. Then I did a stupid thing – I fell for a succubus and was sucked dry.
In my defence… She was ridiculously hot. My hormonal teenage body couldn't take it.
In my ninth life, I was a 16-year-old prince consort in Imperial China.
The Imperial Princess fell for my jade beauty—yeah, I looked like a porcelain doll. But she was a little… possessive. One might even call her a yandere.
She cut off my hand for touching her sister's arm, even though I was just helping the kid after she tripped on the stairs.
I learned a lot in this life despite never going out of the house. She showered me with gifts– medical books, exorcisms books, magical beast books and many more. She destroyed my meridian so I couldn't cultivate after a year, but before that, I learned a lot about the Taoist teachings.
I could transform small things, make a puppet move, and even learned traditional musical elements.
Then my wife got a scar on her face from a fight with a demon. As she became disfigured, she assumed I'd stop loving her. So, she killed me. Then herself.
Was I flattered? Traumatized? Both? Or do I have Stockholm Syndrome? Anyway, I was finally out of the cage.
My tenth life. I was born as a kid in 1980s Japan. Honestly, I was getting pretty tired of it at this point.
Eight-year-old boy. No powers. No monsters. Just a normal kid. That's what I chose.
I became a child actor as my family was pretty poor. I became famous quickly as I had learned acting before. My parents and I lived a normal life… until my 13th birthday. That's when monsters attacked Tokyo.
I watched millions die in seconds. A giant hero in a red, white, and blue bodysuit appeared and tried to stop it.
I was pinned under rubble, crushed slowly, atoms scattered when a beam deflected wrong. I regretted not learning the internal energy here, at the very least I could've saved my parents.
I regretted not cutting the cake sooner as I died during my birthday party. It was a small chocolate cake my mother made. I wanted to eat it for weeks.
This time, though, I didn't wake up in a new body. I went somewhere else—a transfer channel where I met a snobbish goddess and a balding supervisor god.
Turns out, this whole transmigration mess was her fault. Why? When I died the first time, I bumped into her in the afterlife queue. Someone sneezed behind me, made me jump out of line.
My hand accidentally grazed her chest. She shrieked and slapped me into the reincarnation stream before they could erase my memories.
So, she cursed me to die and live again. And again. And again.
The supervisor showed her the CCTV footage. "It was an accident!" he argued, basically acting as my lawyer.
She grunted and shot me a look of disdain, still couldn't believe in me. She still believed I was a pervert.
Thus, while my godly lawyer's back was turned, she kicked me back into the cycle—even though I'd actually been acquitted of my so-called crimes. I swore I heard her giggle as I fell into the pit of misery again.
I transmigrated again to the body of a 16-year-old, third son of two emotionally absent, privately wealthy, publicly philanthropic parents in New Jersey.
I arrived here a month ago on the hospital bed. The body's kinda chubby, glasses-wearing, and only four-foot-seven (144cm) in height. I pulled at the waistband and peeked under.
"Oh my god. I'm going to be a virgin forever."
And the cherry on top of everything. I was transferred into the body of the one who started all of this. That son of a bitch who sneezed while we waited in line.
…
"I also don't know if that bitch of a goddess won't kill me again before I hit eighteen."
In all my past lives, I had never once made it to my eighteenth birthday.
I unzipped the black duffel bag beside me. Inside were several essential items: my birth certificate, emancipation papers, high school diploma, other important documents, fifty grand in cash, some medicines and a candle.
Not only did I blackmail my dad for emancipation—I made sure to secure some startup capital, too.
I had an older brother and sister. The brother worked at a prestigious New York law firm. The sister studied fashion in Paris. Both have trust funds—at least five million dollars each in their accounts.
But not me though. There was nothing allocated to me.
On my sixteenth birthday, my great-aunt sent me a t-shirt with my name misspelled. The same woman got my brother a Hummer. My sister, a Porsche.
I could've milked the dad for more since the family was disgustingly rich, but I just wanted out. I even changed my last name. From Jack Kennedy to Owen Chase, which was my name in my first life.
As I woke up from my nap, I closed my eyes and tried to sense the qi—the natural energy of the world—but my sixth sense was severely blocked.
"It's been a month. I should use another method." I muttered as I sat up straight and crossed my legs.
"It's going to be hard to fix a congenital defect."
It was late at night, and I hadn't bothered turning on the lights. Still, I wasn't worried. I'd dealt with this before.
"If I want to fix the defect, I need a full cyclic accumulation of heaven's energy. At least twelve years' worth of internal force. If my spiritual root isn't damaged, I could get there in two years. Maybe less if..."
In one of my lives, I'd used witchcraft to force open my senses. It accelerated my cultivation by leaps and bounds.
"I guess I'll just repeat that," I said, standing weakly. My legs weren't familiar with the meditation process yet.
I grabbed a stack of bills and left the apartment. Despite the cheap rent, the building had decent security, so I didn't worry about leaving the cash behind.
I took the elevator from the fifth floor and walked to a nearby butcher shop. Before I rented the place, I had made sure I was within walking distance to some of the establishments I needed.
"Do you have chicken blood?" I asked the butcher, a rugged man with a bloodstained apron. He was chopping a thick slab of meat when he looked up, and then looked down again since he didn't see anyone when he looked up.
He gave me a look. "Kid, does your mom know you're out this late?"
"I'm actually eighteen. Just a very tall midget," I lied. "I can show you my ID if you want." This was a gamble.
He waved it off. "Forget it. But we don't usually keep the blood. I tossed today's by-product already."
My gamble succeeded.
"I understand. I just need it for a movie project. Can I pick it up tomorrow? I need about ten gallons."
"Sure. Five dollars. Just charging for the container. Chicken blood has no value here."
We shook hands, and I went to a nearby herb shop, hoping to pick up some useful ingredients. But without my spiritual senses, I couldn't tell the difference between spiritual herbs and regular ones.
Still, I bought a few. I picked herbs that would be beneficial to my body whether they were special or not.
My stomach has been growling for a while now. So, I bought potatoes, beets, green beans, and some clean spring water before bringing them all back home.
I saw a cake shop while I was walking back and stopped for a moment when I saw a small chocolate cake by the window. Then, I walked away.
"It'll help if I cleanse my body—get rid of all the processed crap and enter a state of purity, like a Tibetan monk. No TV. No junk. No temptations."
My original plan had been to go deep into the woods and survive on meditation alone, but that'd be suicide in my current state. Maybe after a year or two of training.
I took a bite of a raw potato, then a green bean. "Peh—disgusting," I gagged, nearly spitting the bean out.
I didn't have a stove. It was supposed to come with the apartment, but the landlord hadn't installed it yet. Said it'd be another week or two. Or else I would've cooked it a little.
The next day, I picked up the chicken blood. Using the blood, I drew runes on the living room floor—five concentric circles using the blood. The entire floor of the house was covered in it. The landlord would be pissed if he walked in right now.
I took off my shirt, revealing the surgical stitches on my chest. As I sat cross-legged in the center, I began connecting the runes to my body—arms, chest, stomach, hands, even my face and forehead.
I lit the thirty candles I'd bought, then grabbed the most important item of all.
"Noise-canceling headphones," I said aloud, placing them over my ears. I needed absolute focus to recite the Latin incantation without distraction.
"Aperi mentem, sensus sextus,
Clavis arcanae reseretur.
Visus ultra, vox occultae,
Tenebris lux reveletur.
Spiritus fluit, anima surgit,
Vincula mundi frangantur.
Sanguis vetus, ignis novus,
Portae magicae pandantur."
(Open the mind, sixth sense awaken,
Let the key of secrets be turned.
Sight beyond, voice of the hidden,
Let light be revealed in darkness.
Spirit flows, the soul rises,
Let the world's chains be broken.
Old blood, new fire,
Let the gates of magic be opened.)
I repeated the chant nearly a hundred times before I felt something. It was subtle at first. But soon, the blood runes began to move, pulling inward like threads drawn into me.
"Spiritus fluit, anima surgit!
Vincula mundi frangantur!
Sanguis vetus, ignis novus!
Portae magicae pandantur!"
My voice rose. The apartment trembled. The moment the clock struck midnight, the runes flared red-gold and surged toward my forehead. My body started to levitate.
The ritual succeeded! My sixth sense burst open like a long-clogged drain finally giving way. I slipped into a fugue state as the energy of heaven and earth flooded into me.
Then I coughed—hard. A clot of black blood splattered onto the floor. More impurities oozed from my pores.
Time lost all meaning. Minutes melted into hours. Hours into days. Days into weeks.
My cultivation was finally interrupted by furious pounding at the door.
When I opened my eyes, the potatoes had sprouted and the green beans were dry husks.
"Ugh. I smell like a corpse," I muttered—then froze. "Oh shit. I really smell like a corpse."
"SPPD! Open up!" someone shouted from outside. Cops.
Panicking, I bolted to the bathroom and took a freezing shower. I kicked over candles and threw open every window, desperately trying to clear the stench.
"Damn it! They must think I'm dead! Or that someone is!" I hissed. "I don't even have Febreeze!"
"Open up, now!" The cops banged harder.
Still naked, I cracked the door, keeping the chain latch on while I wore my pants. Two cops stood outside—one man, one woman.
"Hey, kid," the male cop said sternly. "Open the door."
"Do you have a warrant?" I asked, voice small but steady.
He blinked, caught off guard. "No, we don't have a warrant. Just open up!"
I shook my head. "Then I don't have to let you in. Come back when you have a warrant."
I tried to close the door, but the woman caught it with her hand. Her eyes locked onto the dried blood on the floor behind me.
"Is that blood?! Open the door right now or I'll kick it in!"
It was the blood I coughed up during the cleansing. Since they had a clear motive, now I had to let them in.
I sighed and unlatched the chain. "Yeah, yeah. Come on in."
The moment they stepped inside, both cops recoiled.
"Ugh." The woman braved forward, crouching to examine the bloodstain. "What happened here?!"
I shrugged. "Missed my meds so I spat up some blood. I've been too weak to get out of bed until today—and then you guys showed up." I leaned on the wall, arm trembling, pulling off a very convincing act of fatigue.
"What?! Why are you spitting blood?" she asked, voice softer now, tinged with concern. Then, she saw the long scar on my chest, the scar from the heart surgery which had healed nicely.
So, I gave her a version of the truth, minus the blackmail and magic.
She asked if I had any family I could reach out to. I was legally an adult, but she clearly didn't feel right leaving me alone in this state.
"Oh, I do have an aunt in Hollywood," I remembered. "She became estranged from the family twenty years ago, so I don't have any way to contact her."
"Really? What's her name?" the male cop asked.
"Jessica. She used to be Jessica Kennedy. I think she's married now, so I have no idea what her last name is."
That part was mostly a deflection—I didn't expect them to actually try to find her. I just needed them distracted from the chicken blood containers and candle remains in the kitchen.
"Hello! I'm here to install the stove!" a handyman called out from the doorway while the cops were still inside.
The male cop stepped in like it was his job to supervise, claiming someone needed to watch over things for a young boy like me. He seemed skeptical of the service guy—maybe just overly cautious, or maybe he just had something against Latino workers.
"Hey kid… Do you not know how to live on your own?" Officer Sandy suddenly asked.