My name is Duke Rewark.
At least… that's who I used to be.
In my past life, I was a man of numbers. A financial investor, living in 2026 London, where everything had a price and time itself felt like a commodity. My work was simple: I made money. I bet against markets, bought collapsing stocks, predicted oil surges, shorted currencies. Billions flowed through my fingers like water, but I never cared for the champagne parties or the fast cars.
I cared only for one thing. Football.
While my colleagues spent weekends golfing in Dubai or sipping wine in Tuscany, I was at the pub, scarf wrapped around my neck, screaming at the TV. Arsenal, United, Liverpool, even the small clubs — I loved them all. I knew every formation, every tactical trend, every transfer rumour. And when I wasn't watching football, I was playing Football Manager, losing myself for days in imaginary worlds where I turned nobodies into champions.
Some said it was childish. I said it was my escape.
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But fate doesn't care about passion.
It was a rainy Thursday night, late 2026, when everything ended. My car — a silver Tesla, ironic for a man who hated modern gimmicks — hydroplaned on a wet motorway. For a moment, I saw my life flash: the trading floors, the celebrations, the lonely apartment filled with matchday scarves… and then darkness.
I thought that was it. Game over.
But then — I woke up.
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The smell was the first thing I noticed. Milk. Powder. A warm blanket. Then the sounds — a woman humming, the cries of newborns. I couldn't move. My arms were tiny, weak, fragile. My throat made only infant noises.
And then it hit me: I wasn't dead.
I was reborn.
The year? 1968.
The place? Luton, England.