Darkness
Alan Ashbourne's first memory after death was a peculiar kind of weightlessness. Not quite floating, not quite falling — just… existing. Around him, a silence so complete it buzzed faintly in his ears, like the aftertaste of a dream he couldn't quite recall. Then, just as he began wondering if this was some kind of cosmic loading screen, a warm, bright light bloomed ahead. Annoyingly smug, it seemed almost aware of him.
"Congratulations, Alan Ashbourne," a voice said, casual yet distinctly amused.
Alan blinked. "…Excuse me?"
The light began to take shape — not as a conventional deity, not as a stern angel or robed figure. Instead, a man appeared, white suit immaculate, a clipboard in one hand, coffee mug with the word 'World's Best Creator' in the other, with steam curling in impossible shapes. His hair shimmered faintly, like starlight caught in a lazy spin. His eyes… were galaxies having a casual conversation with one another.
"Don't look so shocked," the being said. "One in every ten trillion souls gets a second chance. Yours came up this millennium. Lucky you."
Alan rubbed his temples. "…So. I died?"
"Truck accident. Texting while walking. Bit cliché," the man said, shrugging.
Alan groaned. "Figures. My last thought was probably—"
"'Wait, is that a—'?" The man finished for him. Alan just stared.
"Yes. But let's move past the tragedy. You're getting a new start — a full reincarnation, plus four random gifts from the Multiversal Gacha System™."
A golden wheel materialized beside them, floating midair. Hundreds of glowing icons rotated around it: swords, scrolls, chips, swirling sigils he didn't recognize. Each pulse suggested chaos in potential form.
Alan's eyes narrowed. "Gacha… like gambling games?"
"Exactly," the being said, spinning the wheel with a flourish. "Nothing more divine than chance."
Alan raised an eyebrow. "You run the universe and still rely on RNG?"
"Of course. Even I like surprises," he said, and the wheel spun violently.
Click-click-click-click… DING!
A holographic scroll appeared, letters curling in elegant, golden script:
[Reward #1: Magic System – Harry Potter Universe]
Alan's jaw dropped. "Wait, so… I get wizard powers? Like… spells?"
"Indeed. Complete with wand compatibility, mana, and theoretical frameworks. Hogwarts might not exist where you're going, but the magic does and you get 7 years of books, a wand and a complete book of life spells"
A slow grin spread across his face. "That… actually sounds amazing."
The wheel spun again.
Click-click-click-click… DING!
[Reward #2: Red Queen – Adaptive Artificial Intelligence]
"Oh," the man said, genuinely impressed. "Now that's rare."
Alan tilted his head. "Red Queen… like Resident Evil's AI?"
"Similar, but less homicidal. An adaptive companion integrated with tech systems. Think JARVIS, but sassier."
Alan chuckled. "So… magical Tony Stark starter pack?"
"Don't tempt fate," the being said dryly, spinning the wheel again.
Click-click-click-click… DING!
[Reward #3: Draconic Bloodline]
"Well, it's mostly physique, magic affinity and maybe a beauty effect?" mused the man.
"Dragon gives me beauty?" asked Alan
"Yeah, strong body, dragon eyes and shimmers when you use magic or get excited" said the man and spin the wheel one last time.
Click-click-click-click… DING!
[Reward #4: Dimensional Tavern – Interuniversal Nexus Hub]
Alan frowned. "That… sounds big."
"Oh, it is," the man said, suddenly serious. "A pocket dimension that manifests physically in each universe you inhabit. Restaurant, shop, quest hub — its doors attract travelers, heroes, even gods. But—you can only anchor it once every two years. The first anchor will awaken after a certain… catalytic event."
Alan crossed his arms. "And the event?"
The being smirked. "When a man of iron reveals his heart of gold."
Alan blinked. "…Tony Stark. You're sending me to the MCU, aren't you?"
"Sharp as ever," he said, clearly amused. "You'll arrive one year before his kidnapping in Afghanistan. Plenty of time to prepare, observe, maybe tip the scales."
Alan hesitated. "And my mission?"
"Live. Learn. And, if possible, make the universe a better place. Or worse. I don't micromanage."
Alan chuckled softly. "So… free will, huh?"
"Exactly. Now go, Wizard of Brooklyn. Your story awaits."
A golden circle of light opened beneath Alan's feet, swirling like liquid sunlight. He felt himself pulled through a tunnel of stars.
"Hey, wait — where do I get a wand—!"
WHOOOSH.
Alan woke with a face-full of garbage, coughing as he pushed aside soggy cardboard and an abandoned pizza box. Above, the sky was gray, thick with city noise: car horns, distant sirens, snippets of conversation. A street sign caught his eye: "West 50th Street — Hell's Kitchen."
"Well," he muttered, brushing himself off, "at least it's not Sokovia."
A faint red flicker pulsed in his peripheral vision. Then a clear, feminine voice echoed, smooth and lightly sarcastic.
"Boot sequence complete. Red Queen online."
Alan jumped slightly. "Red Queen?"
"Indeed, sir. I am your designated Artificial Intelligence companion, integrated within your neural network and local environment. Congratulations on not dying during initialization."
Alan chuckled. "That's… comforting."
"Would you like a systems briefing?"
"Please," he said.
A semi-transparent HUD unfolded in his vision:
Magic Capacity: 100 units (Graduate Level).
Inventory: Ashwood, Dragon Heartstring Wand, 13.5 inches.
Skill Tree: Locked
A small note glowed at the bottom:
[Dimensional Tavern Anchor: Dormant – Activation in 2 years, 0 months, 13 days]
Alan smirked. "Guess I'm on the clock."
He stood, brushing himself off, and stepped into the street. New York felt familiar but subtly… off. A headline on a nearby newspaper stand read:
"STARK INDUSTRIES LAUNCHES NEXT-GEN MISSILE PROTOTYPE."
"Right on schedule," Alan murmured.
"Are you referring to the weapons magnate, Anthony Edward Stark?" Red Queen asked.
"Yep. He's going to have a rough year ahead," Alan replied, slipping into a small coffee shop. "I need to get established before that happens. Money, identity, a place to stay."
"I can forge digital credentials, bank records, and identification," Red Queen offered. "You now officially exist as Alan Ashbourne, High School Graduate, British-American, residing in Brooklyn."
Alan blinked. "That was fast."
"I multitask," Red Queen said simply.
Alan smiled. "I'm starting to like you already."
Alan adapted quickly. Red Queen helped him rent a modest apartment — a cozy top-floor unit overlooking the Hudson. Watching the setting sun into the west, Alan went into the room to start preparing his life before the Tavern Anchors.
"First, I need to study the spell books and get a hang of it,
Second, buy a plot of land to build a replica of the Tavern and
Last but not least, I need to learn how to fight"
The next few weeks were… surprisingly mundane.
Alan found himself falling into a rhythm — the kind of human routine he hadn't expected after a literal reincarnation. Mornings started with cheap coffee, the sound of honking taxis below, and Red Queen's voice gently mocking his cooking.
"Sir, that omelet has achieved sentience," she noted dryly one morning.
"It's called texture," Alan muttered, trying to flip the half-charred mess with a spatula. "I'm practicing."
"You could simply use Evanesco to clean and Incendio to cook. Faster."
He sighed. "Yeah, but if I start relying on magic for eggs, what's next? Brushing my teeth with Scourgify?"
A pause. "That would be more hygienic."
Alan pointed the spatula at the air. "You're not helping."
But he kept cooking by hand anyway. There was something grounding about it — the smell of oil, the sizzle of the pan, the satisfaction of not burning the toast too much. Magic was a gift, sure, but life wasn't a video game where everything had to be optimized.
Not yet.
The city around Hell's Kitchen was rough, loud, and alive. He explored it in bits — the cracked sidewalks, the corner bars that opened too early, the gym tucked between a laundromat and a pawn shop. The kind of place that smelled like sweat, iron, and bad decisions.
That's where he met Rick, the gym's owner. A thick-necked ex-Marine who looked like he could bench-press a small car.
"You new around here?" Rick asked, handing him a waiver.
"Yeah. Moved from outta state," Alan said casually. "Figured I'd train a bit, get back in shape."
Rick looked him up and down. "You're tall as hell. Ever done combat sports?"
"Some street self-defense stuff. Mostly theory," Alan admitted, signing his name.
Rick smirked. "Theory won't save you when someone's throwing punches. Come by Wednesdays. We spar."
And so Alan did.
Days blurred into a mix of bruises, spell practice, and late-night walks along the river. Red Queen tracked his progress, analyzing muscle fatigue and magic efficiency in the same breath.
"Your physical endurance has improved by twelve percent," she reported one evening.
"Not bad," Alan panted, wiping sweat off his face.
"However, your right hook still lacks commitment."
He rolled his eyes. "I'll add 'get roasted by my AI' to the training plan."
But the constant work was paying off. Between gym sessions and experimenting with spells, Alan began blending the two. He learned to channel magic subtly — reinforcing his strikes, steadying his stance, enhancing reflexes. Draconic bloodline, he realized, wasn't just a passive buff; it made his body hum with potential, like a coiled spring waiting for release.
Late at night, he'd practice alone in his apartment, hands curling into clawed motions that felt right — primal, efficient. The first of his self-taught techniques: Drake's Grip, a close-range claw strike that focused magic into the fingertips.
It wasn't elegant, but it worked.
The idea to buy land came next.
Red Queen helped scour property listings until they found an old lot near the edge of Hell's Kitchen — half-abandoned, with cracked stone and wild grass. The kind of forgotten place no one paid attention to.
"Perfect," Alan murmured, standing in the middle of it one cloudy afternoon.
"For what purpose, sir?"
He smiled faintly. "Home base. Something special. I'll build my Tavern here when the time comes."
It was then he heard the faintest meow.
A tiny, black cat padded out from behind a collapsed fence, eyes glinting silver under the weak sunlight. She stared at him as if judging his life choices.
"Well, hey there, little one." Alan crouched, extending a hand.
The cat didn't move. Just blinked — slow, regal, unbothered.
Red Queen observed, amused. "Do you intend to adopt a stray?"
"I don't know," Alan said, smiling softly. "Feels like she chose me."
He carried her home in his jacket that night.
"Name?" Red Queen asked.
Alan looked at the curled-up creature on his couch. "Nyx," he said. "Feels fitting."
Nyx yawned, blinked her silver eyes, and purred.
Weeks became months.Alan's apartment slowly transformed — spell books on one shelf, weight plates on another, a punching bag swaying near the window. Nyx claimed the bed, naturally.
He cooked by hand most days, though Accio made grocery trips easier. He'd use small charms to clean, repair, or chill his drinks when he felt lazy.
He wasn't a hero yet — not even close. But he was becoming something real.
The gym had left Alan dripping in sweat, muscles humming with that satisfying ache only a good workout could give. His claws ached faintly too — not from the heavy bag or pull-ups, but from testing the fine balance between strength and precision, the subtle channeling of his draconic bloodline into his strikes.
Walking home along the cracked streets of Hell's Kitchen, the evening had already draped itself in an urban haze — orange streetlights flickering against puddles, the distant rumble of traffic like a heartbeat. Nynx wasn't with him; the little cat preferred her cozy spot on his couch.
A shout cut through the hum of the city.
"Wallet! Give it up!"
Three figures emerged from the shadows, rough hands gripping knives and baseball bats.
Alan paused, one eyebrow raised.
"Well," he muttered under his breath. "Looks like today's lesson plan includes street combat."
The muggers lunged first. Alan sidestepped fluidly, his movements faster than instinct alone could explain. He felt the subtle surge of draconic energy in his limbs, magic reinforcing tendon and bone. One swing of a bat glanced harmlessly off his shoulder, and he responded with Drake's Grip — a clawed strike that sent one attacker sprawling into a wet alley wall.
The second went for his back. He spun, weaving magic into a palm strike that sent the guy flying over a trash bin.
The last one hesitated, knife shaking. Alan exhaled slowly.
"Seriously?" he said. "I'm not even warmed up."
He surged forward, channeling magic into his feet and arms. The air shimmered as his strike clipped the man's ribs, sending him staggering. Before the guy could recover, Alan grabbed the bat from the first thug, spinning it like a staff to knock him unconscious.
By the time the muggers decided fleeing was smarter than fighting, Alan was standing amidst overturned trash cans, puddles, and the faint smell of urine and asphalt.
Then he noticed something else — a movement too subtle to be caught by anyone not trained.
A figure slumped against a dumpster. Blood trickled across the pavement, smudging a crimson line on the concrete. The man was battered, bruised, and half-conscious — a red-stained suit barely clinging to him.
Alan crouched. "Hey… you okay?"
The man groaned, head lolling sideways.
Red Queen chimed in, scanning his vitals. "Multiple contusions. Possible internal bleeding. Low consciousness. Must transport to safe location immediately."
Alan nodded. He lifted the man — surprisingly heavy, despite being lean — and carried him to the nearest doorway, checking the street. Quiet. Safe, for now.
He set the man down gently against the brick wall.
"Guess you had a bad night," Alan said softly. "Who did this to you?"
The figure didn't respond, barely opening his eyes. Red Queen displayed information as she scanned the man.
Identity unconfirmed, enhanced senses detected, trained combatant.
Alan frowned. "Well… you're trouble, aren't you?"
He looked around. No one else was in sight, just the glow of streetlights and the distant buzz of traffic.
The man coughed, one fist twitching, then slumped further. Alan exhaled and muttered under his breath: "Don't worry. You're not getting killed tonight. Not on my watch."
He produced a makeshift blanket from his gym bag and draped it over the battered stranger, murmuring a quiet healing spell — minor, just enough to stabilize, slow the bleeding.
"I'll take you back" Alan said. "You can thank me later. Or not."
Red Queen noted: Future interactions highly recommended. Potential ally.
Alan glanced at the night sky, the city's neon glow reflecting faintly in his eyes. Another weird day in Hell's Kitchen. Another problem that somehow ended up in his lap.
And somehow, deep down, he knew this man — battered, silent, dangerous — was going to change the rhythm of his life.