The sky burned.
Crimson clouds hung low, bleeding across a battlefield that stretched beyond sight. Mountains lay cracked open like skulls, rivers boiled, and the air smelled of iron and smoke. In the middle of the ruin stood a man — battered, scarred, but unbowed. His name had been whispered through realms, feared by demons, cursed by gods.
Frank.
He'd been called many things in many lives — hero, monster, savior, destroyer. But tonight, he was just a man with too much power and nowhere left to go.
His sword — a long, jagged thing forged from the bones of a dead world — trembled in his hand. Not from weakness, but exhaustion. Around him, corpses of fallen deities lay like broken stars. The war that had consumed eternity was finally over.
And yet, silence felt heavier than battle.
The wind carried voices. Echoes of those who'd fought beside him. Lovers, rivals, friends who had long turned to dust. He felt their memories flicker through his mind — fleeting, painful, precious. A thousand lifetimes condensed into one final heartbeat.
Frank knelt beside the last of his enemies — a god whose wings were torn, whose halo had cracked. The being's light dimmed, face twisted in disbelief.
"You… were never supposed to exist," the god rasped.
Frank smiled, faintly. "Neither were you."
He drove the sword through the god's heart. The world shuddered. A burst of divine energy lit up the sky, scattering the last clouds of war.
And just like that… it was over.
Frank dropped the weapon, his knees hitting the scorched earth. His vision blurred. The weight of countless lives pressed on his chest. Every battle, every reincarnation, every sacrifice—all for this hollow peace.
He looked at his hands, shaking, blackened from channeling too much divine power. The veins beneath his skin glowed faintly blue — remnants of the cosmic energy he'd stolen from fallen gods. Even now, it whispered to him, begging to be used again. But there was no one left to fight.
He tilted his head toward the fading horizon.
"Hey… Fate," he murmured, voice cracking. "Is this what you wanted?"
No answer. Just the soft hum of dying reality.
Frank laughed — dry, bitter, tired. The sound of a man who'd lived too long. "Figures."
Lightning forked across the sky, though there were no clouds left. The air trembled, then tore apart.
From the wound in space, a presence emerged. Ancient. Vast. Watching.
A voice filled the air, so deep it made the world tremble.
"Frank of the Infinite Paths."
He squinted up, eyes glowing faintly gold. "You sound familiar."
"You have walked too far. Defied too many endings. You were meant to die eons ago."
"Guess I missed the memo." He forced a smirk. "You gonna kill me or lecture me first because I say no?"
The void shimmered. From it, a shape descended — not god, not demon, something else entirely. A figure wrapped in flowing darkness, no face, only the shimmer of countless eyes hidden within its form. The weight of it pressed on Frank like gravity itself.
"You devoured destiny," it said. "Tore through timelines. Broke the balance that binds the worlds. You cannot be contained."
Frank spat blood. "Containment was never my strong suit."
"You mock even at the end so be it then?"
"That's the only thing keeping me human."
A pause. Then: "You are not human."
The figure raised its hand. Light gathered in its palm — not warm, not holy, but the raw white of creation itself. The kind that unmade as easily as it made.
Frank gritted his teeth. His instincts screamed to fight, but he had nothing left.
"I fought for this world," he said quietly. "For every world. You think you can just erase that?"
The being didn't reply. Its light struck him.
Agony erupted through him. His soul cracked — not in pain of flesh, but something far deeper.
He screamed.
Memories spilled out in streaks of gold and violet, scattering into the void. Each one a lifetime — him laughing with friends under twin moons, holding someone's hand before a final battle, standing alone against the endless night. Every victory, every failure—ripped away.
He tried to hold on, clawing at the air, shouting into the storm of his own unraveling.
"No! You can't— stop!"
The figure's voice stayed calm, unfeeling.
"You will not end. You will be… divided."
Frank's body disintegrated into threads of light. His soul tore apart like shattering glass, each fragment spinning away into unseen realms. His power scattered, his essence divided into infinite shards.
One final thought burned through the chaos:
I'll find myself again.
The figure watched, silent. Then, softly:
"Let us see what becomes of you when you are no longer whole."
The world went dark.
---
Somewhere else — far, far away — a cry pierced the night.
Rain drummed gently against the windows of a hospital room. A newborn boy screamed his first breath into the world. Nurses rushed, doctors smiled, a mother wept with joy.
No one noticed the flicker of golden light that glowed in the baby's eyes for half a second before fading.
Frank was born again.
But this time, he was small. Weak. Human.
No divine fire. No cosmic memories. Just fragments — echoes buried deep in dreams that hadn't yet come.
Outside, lightning flashed.
Inside, the newborn fell silent. His gaze drifted — not toward the people around him, but the ceiling above, as if something ancient inside him was listening.
For the briefest moment, he heard it.
A voice, faint and teasing, echoing through the new silence.
Welcome back, sleepyhead.
Then, nothing.
---
The years that followed were ordinary on the surface.
Frank grew up in a quiet town, the kind where nothing remarkable ever happened. His mother was kind, his father tired but loving. There were scraped knees, school days, cartoons, bedtime stories. The sort of normalcy he'd never known in a thousand other lives.
Yet something in him never quite fit.
He'd stare at the stars for hours, feeling a tug in his chest, like the sky was missing something — or maybe he was. He'd wake from dreams of fire and battle, heart racing, words from languages he didn't know still on his tongue. His reflection sometimes felt like a stranger's.
At seven, he drew a picture that scared his teacher — a giant, winged figure split in half, surrounded by shards of light. He couldn't explain why he drew it. He just knew it was real.
Sometimes he'd wake up crying, whispering names that faded before sunrise.
Sometimes, he'd feel a warmth in his chest, like someone was laughing softly from far away.
By the time he turned ten, the dreams had grown stronger.
He began seeing flashes — moments of his past selves flickering like broken film: a man wielding a sword forged from starfire; a woman with silver eyes crying under a blood-red moon; a beast roaring in the heart of an ocean made of flame.
Each image lasted seconds, but left him trembling for hours.
And always, just before waking, he'd hear that same soft voice.
You're not ready yet, Frankie-boy.
He'd look around, heart pounding, but there was never anyone there.
---
The day he turned thirteen, the dreams changed. They stopped being glimpses and became… memories.
He stood on a field of ash again — the same one from a thousand lives ago. He could feel the heat, the pain, the weight of the sword in his hand. He could hear that voice, the one from beyond the sky.
"You are incomplete."
And in that dream, for the first time, he answered.
"Then I'll make myself whole."
When he woke up, the mark was there — faint, glowing just above his heart. A sigil shaped like a broken circle, pulsing softly like a heartbeat. He covered it with his hand, eyes wide. It felt alive.
The next night, the voice returned — louder now, almost amused.
Finally awake, are we? Took you long enough.
Frank froze. "Who's there?"
Relax, you're not crazy. Well, maybe a little. A soft chuckle. I'm Jessica. Your system, guide, conscience — whatever word makes you feel less lonely.
Frank blinked. "System? What system?"
Oh, sweet summer child. You've got homework to do.
She laughed — warm, smug, alive.
Welcome back, Frank. You've got a lot of pieces to find.
---
He didn't understand what she meant. Not yet. But deep down, something inside him — the thing that had survived gods and wars and time itself — stirred.
The fragments of his soul were out there, scattered across worlds.
And the path to reclaim them had just begun.
---
End of Chapter One.