The first sensation was nothing. Not darkness, not silence, but a complete and utter absence of being. Then, like a single pixel flickering to life on a dead screen, came thought.
Where…?
The thought was formless, a whisper in a void. With it came a dawning awareness, not of a body, but of a self. A consciousness trapped in an endless, featureless grey expanse. There was no up, no down, no time. There was only him, and the gnawing, frantic need to remember.
He tried. He clawed at the edges of his own mind, searching for a name, a face, a single memory. How old was he? Sixteen? Forty? A hundred? The concept felt meaningless here. How had he died? A car crash? Old age? A whisper in his ear? Nothing. Just a void where a life should have been. The more he strained, the more the emptiness seemed to press back, a silent, indifferent wall. Panic, a familiar stranger, began to set in. He'd been trying for what felt like hours, days, years. Time, like memory, was a broken compass here.
"Don't bother. You won't remember."
The voice wasn't loud, but it cleaved the silence with absolute authority. It came from everywhere and nowhere. A figure solidified out of the grey mist a few feet away. It was vaguely humanoid but lacked any defining features—a silhouette made of deep-space nebula, with two points of soft, white light where eyes might be.
The consciousness, the man, focused on the figure. "Who… who are you?"
The figure's head tilted. The points of light flickered. "A name is a difficult thing. A label for a transient state. But you may call me… Drmac. It is as good a designation as any."
"Drmac," the man repeated, the name feeling strange in his mind. "Where am I? Why can't I remember anything?"
"You are in the space between. The interval. A waiting room, if the analogy pleases you," Drmac said, his voice a calm, resonant hum. "You cannot remember because you are not meant to. The life you lived is over. Its details are being… processed. The ledger is being balanced. Clinging to it would only cause you further distress."
"Processed?" The man's thoughts felt sluggish, yet sharp with a sudden, cold clarity. "You mean… karma?"
"A crude but fundamentally accurate term," Drmac replied, a note of approval in his voice. "The sum of your choices. The weight of your actions. It is being tallied even now." He gestured, and a shimmering, translucent screen appeared in the air between them. Numbers, symbols, and strange glyphs scrolled down it too fast to read. "Ah. And here we are."
The scrolling stopped. A single, elegant number glowed in the center of the screen: +4,742.3
The man stared at it. "What does that mean? Is that… good?"
Drmac's form seemed to shimmer with what might have been amusement. "It is decidedly decent. Your life was… a study in extremes, shall we say. You performed a great many awful deeds. Selfish, cruel, acts born of anger and fear. But you also performed a great many more good deeds. Acts of kindness, sacrifice, and compassion that, in the grand calculus of this universe and the next, outweighed the shadows. The sum is a positive one. A respectable one. Enough for a considerable boon."
A knot of tension the man didn't know he'd been holding began to loosen. "A boon?"
"Indeed," Drmac said, the screen dissolving. "For souls with a positive balance, the standard path is reincarnation. A new life, a fresh slate. However, souls with a surplus such as yours are given a choice. An opportunity. You may reincarnate into any world of your choosing."
The man's mind, previously a void, suddenly flooded with a torrent of images. Worlds of steel and shadow. Worlds of high fantasy and cosmic horror. Worlds he knew, intimately, though he couldn't recall his own life. The memories weren't his life, he realized. They were the stories. Every comic book he'd ever flipped through, every anime he'd binged late into the night, every novel he'd devoured, every movie he'd watched on a rainy afternoon. Every single one was there, a perfectly cataloged library in his resurrected mind.
"Any world?" he asked, his voice trembling with a new emotion: hope. "Any world I know?"
"Any world within the vast tapestry of creation that your soul has a connection to," Drmac confirmed. "With one exception. You cannot return to Earth. Not the one you knew. That door is closed."
The man nodded slowly. It made a strange kind of sense. No going home. He opened his mouth to ask a question, to perhaps plead his case for a peaceful world like Animal Crossing, when Drmac raised a hand that was more of a suggestion of a hand than a physical thing.
"But first," Drmac said, and his voice took on a formal, ritualistic tone, "the entry fee. To enter a world with your memories intact, with any chance of altering its course, you require power. A foundation. Boons. They are drawn from the well of creation itself." With a flick of his wrist, a shimmering, ghostly roulette wheel materialized in the air. It was divided into hundreds of segments, each labeled with a name. The man's eyes went wide as he recognized them.
Warhammer 40,000. Lord of the Mysteries. Reverend Insanity. The Culture. The Dark Tower. SCP Foundation. AM.
"This will determine the world of your rebirth," Drmac said. "Spin."
A cold dread, far deeper than the panic of the void, shot through the man. His hand, a translucent shimmer, reached out and touched the wheel. It was like touching static electricity. He gave it a light spin.
The wheel whirred to life, the names blurring into a kaleidoscope of potential horrors and wonders. It slowed with agonizing deliberation. The pointer clicked past One Piece, past My Hero Academia, past Star Trek. It crawled over Berserk. The man felt his non-existent heart seize.
It clicked again. And again. It was going to stop on Warhammer. He was sure of it. A universe of eternal war and soul-crushing despair.
Click.
The wheel settled with a final, decisive thunk.
The pointer was dead center on a single, bold word: INVINCIBLE.
The man felt a wave of relief so profound it was almost physical, washing away the phantom panic. He let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. Invincible. Mark Grayson's world. A world of superheroes, alien invasions, and a darkness that lurked beneath the surface. It was dangerous, incredibly so, but it wasn't Reverend Insanity. It wasn't the AM-verse.
"A wise reaction," Drmac observed, a hint of dry amusement in his voice. "Your wheel favored perilous extremes. A near thing."
"You're telling me," the man breathed.
"Your destination is set," Drmac continued, his form straightening. "You will be reborn into the world of Invincible. You will be one year older than Mark Grayson. Your memories will remain dormant until your fifteenth year, at which point they will fully integrate. Until then, your body will operate on a form of… autopilot. A baseline personality to carry you through childhood."
The man nodded, his mind already racing ahead, thinking of Viltrumites, of Omni-Man, of the ticking clock.
"However," Drmac said, and another, larger roulette wheel materialized beside the first, "your power is not yet determined. This wheel dictates the source of your boons. The universe from which your abilities will be drawn. Once it lands on a universe, a secondary wheel will spin to determine the limit, the scope of the power you are granted."
"Show me," the man said, his voice steadier now.
Drmac gestured, and the second wheel spun. This one was even more packed than the first. He saw Power Rangers flash by, making him wince at the campy, yet potentially powerful, nature of it. Ben 10 followed, and a genuine pang of sadness hit him. The Omnitrix would have been incredible. It flashed past Generator Rex, Adventure Time, Regular Show, Steven Universe, The Powerpuff Girls—each one a treasure trove of potential. The wheel slowed.
It clicked past a dozen more before finally, with a sense of finality, it stopped.
JUJUTSU KAISEN.
"Oh, you have got to be kidding me," the man groaned. His brief elation evaporated. Jujutsu Kaisen. A world where power came at a horrific cost, where the strongest sorcerers were doomed to lonely, violent ends. The ceiling was high—Gojo Satoru-level high—but the floor was a meat grinder.
"Do not despair yet," Drmac said, as a secondary wheel, this one with three distinct segments, appeared inside the first. "The limit."
He spun the inner wheel. It was a blur of colors and symbols the man couldn't decipher. It spun for a long moment before slowing, then stopping.
The three segments on the wheel each contained a word. The pointer was unmistakably centered on the middle one: GODLY.
The man's jaw would have dropped if he had a jaw. "Godly?"
Drmac nodded slowly, his form seeming to pulse with a quiet satisfaction. "A fortuitous spin. You will receive power at the very apex of what that system can offer, but without the inherent drawbacks of the world that birthed it. The binding vows, the risk of becoming a curse, the loneliness of infinity—these are not your burden. Let us define the specifics."
He raised a hand, and a complex diagram appeared. "Firstly, you will possess Cursed Energy at the level of Yuta Okkotsu. A vast, nearly bottomless well that will only grow as you age and, more importantly, as you kill. Any creature you slay will contribute to its growth. The amount depends on the creature's race and its strength. A Viltrumite will grant a far greater boon than a common bank robber."
The man's mind started spinning. A feedback loop. Power to kill stronger things, which in turn made him stronger. Good.
"Secondly," Drmac continued, "you will have the capacity to hold twenty-five Cursed Techniques. You may take fewer, and use the empty slots to modify the techniques you do choose, sacrificing a slot for each significant modification."
A holographic list of Cursed Techniques from the Jujutsu Kaisen universe appeared, scrolling before him. Limitless. Shrine. Idle Transfiguration. Comedian. Ten Shadows. Construction. The list went on and on.
The man fell silent, his form flickering with the intensity of his concentration. He was no longer a disembodied consciousness; he was an architect, building a foundation for survival. He began to mentally discard techniques.
Shrine? Powerful, but ultimately just a tool for destruction. In a world with Viltrumites, raw physical destruction was a common commodity. He needed more.
Limitless? The ultimate defense, but reliant on the Six Eyes for true efficiency. Even if the modifications could mimic that, the technology of the Invincible universe was absurd. A sufficiently advanced weapon or a clever enemy could bypass it eventually. Too much of a gamble.
Idle Transfiguration? Morally reprehensible at its core, and the knowledge of what it could do turned his stomach. Pass.
One by one, he eliminated the top-tier techniques. They were either too limited in scope, too situational, or simply too dangerous to rely on. He also discarded dozens of weaker ones, filing them away as useless in a world of planet-shattering superhumans.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity of mental calculus, he spoke. "I've made my choices."
Drmac inclined his head. "State them."
"First," the man said, "Sky Manipulation."
A diagram of the technique appeared, showing its principles of atmospheric control, pressure, flight, and barriers.
"Second, Puppet Manipulation."
Another diagram appeared, showing the strings of Cursed Energy extending to control multiple bodies, sharing senses.
"And third," the man said, his voice filled with a quiet, intense focus, "Contractual Reclamation."
Drmac's light-eyes flickered with interest. "An interesting choice. A non-combat technique, and one that is technically godly in its potential within its own universe, given a receipt."
"Exactly," the man said. "Now, I have twenty-two empty slots. I'm going to use them to modify these three."
He focused, and the diagrams shifted. Twenty-two points of light, representing the empty slots, floated around the three techniques.
"Contractual Reclamation first," he stated. "I'm using seven slots."
He began to mentally weave the modifications. "Modification one: Remove the variability in cost. Everything I recreate with a contract will now require the same amount of Cursed Energy. A house will cost the same as a hamburger."
The technique's diagram pulsed, a new strand of code weaving into its core.
"Modification two, using the remaining six slots from this batch: I can now recreate anything with a contract or receipt, provided it does not possess a complete, independent consciousness. I can recreate an egg with a living, unhatched being inside. I can recreate a tree, a complex machine. But I cannot recreate a person, a dog, or any being with a formed mind and will. Also, I can only use original receipts or direct, perfect copies. No copies of copies. The technique will know the difference."
The diagram for Contractual Reclamation solidified, its edges now glowing a soft, refined gold. It was no longer a niche utility; it was a universal replicator.
"Next," the man said, his mental voice firm, "Sky Manipulation. I'm using three slots."
He focused again. "Modification one: A significant decrease in Cursed Energy consumption for all applications. Modification two: A corresponding increase in the freedom of its use, removing any somatic or concentration-based drawbacks. Modification three: An overall reduction in physical and mental strain."
The Sky Manipulation diagram shimmered, its clouds condensing into denser, more controlled patterns. It was now a seamless extension of his will, a sustainable, powerful ability.
"Finally," the man said, taking a deep, non-existent breath, "Puppet Manipulation. This is where I'm using the most slots. Twelve."
Drmac leaned forward, his interest clearly piqued.
"First modification, using six slots: Range. The maximum effective range for controlling puppets is now the size of Earth. This range will grow in tandem with my Cursed Energy reserves."
"Second modification, using the final six slots: Sensory input. I can now harness the senses of all my puppets simultaneously. I can see, hear, smell, and feel from up to a thousand puppets at once as a baseline. This number will grow as my Cursed Energy does. Furthermore, the ability to process this immense flow of information will permanently augment my mind's natural analytical capabilities. It will allow me to learn complex subjects at an accelerated rate, process battlefield data with superhuman clarity, and fundamentally enhance my cognitive functions."
The Puppet Manipulation diagram exploded in complexity. The simple strings became a vast, intricate web that encompassed a globe. The puppet icon's head was now a constellation of sensory nodes, all feeding back to a central, supercharged mind.
The man finished, his form feeling exhausted despite not having a body. He looked at Drmac.
The being was silent for a long moment, studying the three reconstructed techniques. Then, his light-eyes flared with what could only be described as approval.
"Remarkable," Drmac said, his voice echoing in the void. "You took three abilities that were, in their original state, decent. You have turned two of them into top-tier abilities. Contractual Reclamation is now a form of matter-energy manipulation that borders on reality warping within a specific domain. Puppet Manipulation… you have turned a niche support technique into a global surveillance network, a hive mind, and a cognitive enhancement tool all in one. You have made yourself into a one-man army with the potential for exponential growth. A wise and cunning allocation of resources."
A flicker of pride warmed the man's core. "I did what I had to."
"Indeed," Drmac said. "Now, the final details. Your new life. You will be an orphan. No family ties to complicate your early years or to be used against you. You will reside in a modest apartment in the same neighborhood as Mark Grayson. You will attend the same high school. Your name, your face, your very existence will be mundane and unremarkable to all who see you."
The man nodded, absorbing the details. Proximity to Mark was crucial.
"Your body is being prepared even now," Drmac said, the grey void beginning to lighten around them. "Your consciousness will be inserted, and you will live on autopilot until your fifteenth birthday. Then, you will awaken."
The man felt a pull, a gentle but insistent tugging at the edges of his being. The conversation was over. He looked at Drmac, this cosmic being who had been his judge, jury, and patron.
"Thank you," he said, the words feeling small but sincere.
Drmac's form began to dissolve, his light-eyes the last to fade. "Do not thank me. Thank your past self for the surplus of decency. Now, go. Your new story awaits. Make it a compelling one."
The light became blinding.
The first thing that registered was the texture. Starch-stiff cotton, worn thin with age and washing. The second was the smell: mildew, cheap laundry detergent, and the faint, stale scent of instant ramen.
His eyes shot open. He was staring at a water-stained ceiling, cracks spreading from a single, flickering light fixture like a map of a forgotten country. His heart was hammering against his ribs, a frantic, living drum he hadn't felt in… how long? He sat up so fast his vision swam, a wave of dizziness crashing over him. He was in a small, cluttered room. A single bed, a desk piled with second-hand textbooks, a wardrobe with a missing door. Through a half-open doorway, he could see a cramped living area with a worn-out couch and a tiny kitchenette.
This is it, he thought, his breath coming in ragged gasps. This is the place. My place.
A flood of information—not memory, but context—rushed into his mind. The name on the birth certificate in the desk drawer: Ren Akiyama. The orphanage he'd been raised in until he was ten. The small stipend from the state that paid for this apartment. The quiet, unremarkable existence of a boy who kept to himself, got average grades, and never drew attention. The autopilot had done its job. It was now the summer before his thirteenth birthday. And in a year and a few months, Mark Grayson would get his powers.
He looked at his hands. They were the hands of a boy on the cusp of manhood, thin but not frail. He clenched them into fists, feeling the unfamiliar strength of his new body, but more than that, he felt it. A reservoir of power deep within him, a cold, vast ocean of energy. Cursed Energy.
He sat on the edge of the bed for a long time, processing. His mind, already enhanced by the Puppet Manipulation modifications, felt sharp, almost painfully so. He could recall the modifications he'd made with perfect clarity. He could feel the three Cursed Techniques nestled in his soul like dormant seeds, waiting for him to reach out and grasp them.
Slowly, he raised a hand. A thin, almost invisible string of Cursed Energy extended from his fingertip. It wavered for a moment, then shot across the room, latching onto a pencil on the desk. He twitched his finger, and the pencil rolled. A grin, wide and a little unhinged, spread across his face. It worked.
He let the string dissolve and flopped back onto the bed, staring at the water-stained ceiling. The grin faded, replaced by a look of grim determination.
The weight of his knowledge settled onto his shoulders. He knew what was coming. The Chicago incident. The Invincible War. The Viltrumite Empire. The Scourge Virus. The death and destruction that would be visited upon this world, and upon Mark Grayson, again and again.
He was an orphan in a tiny apartment with three powerful abilities, a sharp mind, and a head full of secrets. He was a single, unknown variable dropped into a pre-written narrative. He couldn't save everyone. He couldn't stop the Viltrumite Empire on his own, nor did he wont to. But though he could prepare for what is to come and the benefits it would bring to him. He could grow. He could position himself to be something more than a bystander when the world started to burn.
A thousand puppets. Global range. A mind enhanced to process it all. The ability to create anything he had a receipt for. The power of the sky itself at his fingertips.
as he drifted off to sleep, the faintest shimmer of Cursed Energy clung to his fingertips, and a single, silent thought echoed in the chambers of his newly awakened mind:
Time to get to work when i wake back up.
in a place unknown to all things living the being which had just guided one soul to its next life sat on a manifested throne as it spoke its face shocked and baffled "did i forget to tell him about the (slight) changes" it stated shaking its head as a worried smile appeared on its face it spoke once more "no its ok i am sure he will be fine"