Somewhere along the east coast of the United States, a young man stood on the rooftop of a high-rise apartment building, his figure silhouetted against the early morning sky. The city sprawled out beneath him like a sea of concrete and glass, the lights of countless windows flickering like distant stars. A cool breeze tugged at his tailored suit, but he remained motionless, his gaze fixed upward. The clock on his phone read 8:37 AM.
It’s starting a little late, he thought, slipping the phone back into his pocket.
He waited.
The morning sky, clear moments ago, began to stir. Thin, vertical columns of steam suddenly followed a cascade of objects launching through the atmosphere. The sight, violent and unnatural, should have sparked terror—a primal dread that would’ve gripped the heart of any other person. But the man on the rooftop didn’t flinch. His lips curled into a faint, almost imperceptible smile as the objects arced across the horizon, their ascent breaking the calm of the quiet morning.
Without a word, he turned and headed back toward the stairwell, moving with the calm precision of a man entirely in control of his role. His suit—dark, sleek, and perfectly tailored—fit him like a second skin. Not a hair out of place, his steps smooth and deliberate, posture immaculate, he descended into the depths of the building. His mind was already elsewhere, ticking through the checklist of what came next.
When he reached the door of Apartment 301, he paused for just a moment, brushing off an imaginary piece of lint from his sleeve before turning the handle. The door opened soundlessly, revealing a scene that had unfolded flawlessly in his absence.
The apartment was massive—far larger than any typical living space. If one paid close attention, they would have noticed the subtle signs indicating that the walls were discreetly torn down to merge neighbouring apartments, creating one vast chamber. The transformation was meticulous, leaving no trace of its original design, only this cavernous room illuminated by dim, flickering candles.
Seventy-seven figures were gathered in the space, each dressed in a peculiar mix of religious garments and formal attire. Robes of deep crimson and midnight blue, turbans of silk, and embroidered vestments draped their bowed forms. Their heads were lowered toward the floor in reverence, facing a small, intricately carved marble ziggurat that stood at the centre of the room. The air was thick with the scent of incense, the kind that clung to the lungs and made every breath feel weighted.
On the floor around the ziggurat, lines of chalk crisscrossed in complex, precise patterns, each symbol meticulously drawn. Scattered along the pathways were artefacts—relics of ancient times, objects of power, each placed at critical points in the formation. The light from the candles flickered across their surfaces, casting eerie, shifting shadows.
Yet, it wasn’t the elaborate ritual or the solemnity of the participants that would catch an observer’s attention. No, the most unnatural aspect of the scene was the shimmering portals that hovered at the edges of the ritual circle. Like ripples in the fabric of reality, these portals shimmered faintly, their edges wavering like heat haze. If one dared to peer into them, they would catch glimpses of places far beyond the confines of this room—places of immense power and importance.
Through one portal, the towering columns and grand dome of St. Peter’s Basilica gleamed under the Vatican’s lights. Through another, the sacred Kaaba in Mecca stood surrounded by pilgrims. Another revealed the pristine white pillars of the White House, while others glimpsed at temples, palaces, and sanctuaries scattered across the world. The man stepped inside, his presence seemingly unnoticed by the others as they continued their chants, the soft murmur of foreign languages and ancient tongues drifting in the air.
Scanning the room, the man’s eyes locked onto the only other figure standing. A tall, blonde man—his frame that of a linebacker, broad-shouldered and powerful—stood at the far end of the room. His gaze flickered to the chalk lines on the floor as he navigated around them, careful not to disturb the ritual. Despite his imposing size, he moved with the precision of someone accustomed to such delicate operations. When he reached the man in the suit, he spoke in a low, gravelly voice.
"The nukes launched two minutes late, but regardless, we’ll be completing the ritual in fifteen minutes, as scheduled."
The blonde man’s expression was tight, as though something weighed on him heavier than the role he was playing. After a moment of hesitation, he added, “Sir... are you sure you want to leave? With the sheer amount of Koupā this ritual will generate, we could achieve something far more grand than what you're planning."
For a heartbeat, the only sound in the room was the soft hum of chanting and the crackle of candle flames. The man in the tailored suit remained still, his face as unreadable as ever. His expression, calm and stoic, did not waver as he spoke.
“You know very well why I’m doing this,” he replied, his voice a smooth blend of authority and indifference. “The damage caused by the thermonuclear devices should be more than sufficient to disrupt the mundane world. That’ll give you the chaos you need for your little coup d’état. And, if the ritual produces the results we anticipate, there should be more than enough weight left over to cripple any non-mundane force that stands in your way.”
The blonde man clenched his jaw, the flicker of doubt still visible in his eyes. He swallowed hard, as if the weight of his next words was too great to voice. But in the end, he said nothing.
It wasn’t long before the distant wail of sirens cut through the stillness. Five minutes later, a strange, grating alarm erupted from the suited man’s phone. He glanced down, his expression impassive, as the screen displayed the message in bold, unforgiving text:
“BALLISTIC MISSILE THREAT INBOUND TO @$%$$ #. SEEK IMMEDIATE SHELTER. THIS IS NOT A DRILL.”
The suited man exhaled softly, as though the notification were nothing more than a mild inconvenience. With calm precision, he removed the battery from the device, slipping both the phone and its power source back into his pocket. Around him, the change in atmosphere was subtle but palpable. The once steady chants of the prostrating figures wavered, their voices tinged with unease, though they tried to maintain the rhythm of the ritual. If one listened closely, the fear beneath the surface was unmistakable.
But the suited man remained unfazed, his focus unwavering as he waited for the next signal. The only sound that broke through the rising tension was the faint beep of the blonde man’s watch.
"Boss," the man said, his voice low, "now should be the perfect time."
No further words were necessary. The suited man moved toward the ritual circle, stepping carefully over the lines drawn in chalk, his movements methodical. He ascended the marble ziggurat in the centre, his dark silhouette stark against the flickering candlelight. With a single motion, he traced a circle in the air with his finger, and in response, a portal materialized—a void of inky blackness that seemed to devour the light around it. The portal didn’t appear to lead anywhere, its edges rippling with something not quite comprehensible, as if reality itself strained against its existence.
For the first time, the man showed a flicker of hesitation. His hand hovered before the portal, and his body language betrayed a momentary pause, as if what he was about to do could be the gravest mistake of his life. But the hesitation lasted no more than a heartbeat. His resolve hardened, and with a deliberate movement, he brought his finger to his eye, pressing it deep into the soft flesh —knuckle-deep.
A collective gasp echoed through the room. The squelching sound of his eye being crushed beneath his own fingers filled the space, followed by a sharp, eerie whistling, like the sound of ice shattering. It was then that everyone present realized the man had lost something far greater than his eye. It wasn’t just the blood that now dripped steadily into the portal; he had severed a part of himself, something intangible yet vital.
The portal responded instantly. The once-inert darkness burst into life, shimmering with incomprehensible colours, swirling in patterns that defied the limits of human perception. Those gathered around the ziggurat stared, mesmerized, as the portal pulsed with energy, revealing something beyond the boundaries of mortal understanding. Their chants had died down entirely now, replaced with stunned silence as they gazed into the abyss.
But the man—now one-eyed—turned to face the room, his face transformed by a bright, carefree smile. It was a jarring expression, one none of them had ever seen before—a smile tinged with mischievousness, as though he had just pulled off the greatest trick of his life.
Before anyone could process what had just happened, the man gave a quick wave, and without hesitation, stepped into the portal.
And then, in an instant, he was gone.
*************
The sky above was an endless expanse of vibrant blue as the one-eyed man stood in a field of strange crimson grain. He threw back his head and let out a booming, unrestrained laugh that echoed across the alien landscape.
He had done it.
He had truly done it.
With glee, he tore off the stuffy, formal suit he had worn for so long, revealing the tacky attire beneath an obnoxiously loud Hawaiian shirt, the kind adorned with neon-coloured pineapples, and loose, off-white linen shorts that billowed in the breeze. Completing the ensemble was a pair of overly large, unfashionable sunglasses, which he perched on his nose with a flourish. The entire look screamed “Old man on vacation,”
Taking a deep, exaggerated breath of this new world's air, he smiled wider than before, stretching his arms out to embrace the new reality.
"Goodbye, shitty old world... and hello retirement! HAHAHA!"
The man strutted forward, his laugh echoing like thunder, utterly unconcerned with whatever lay ahead.
**************
Back in the ritual room, the instant the leader vanished into the portal, a crushing weight descended on everyone present. It wasn’t symbolic, but literal—like the gravity of the room had increased tenfold. Chants turned into gasps, and within moments, every person was forced to the ground, bodies splayed out as if the air itself had turned against them.
Only eight seconds passed before the door exploded inward with a deafening bang. The room was instantly flooded with a team of enforcers—magical SWAT in tactical black robes, crackling with energy. They moved in precise formations, covering every corner of the room with glowing weapons drawn, ready to strike.
**************
Somewhere deep in rural America, only miles away from a crucial military installation, a farmer peered up at the sky, puzzled. Something had fallen from the heavens, landing with a tremendous crash right in the middle of his field. He climbed onto his tractor, heading toward the wreckage, curiosity gnawing at him.
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
It looked like it had once been part of a plane—though he couldn’t be sure. Metal scraps littered the area, scorched and twisted beyond recognition. But what really caught his eye was something far stranger—a pristine, untouched orange cube that stood out against the wreckage like a sore thumb.
With his brow furrowed, the farmer attached a chain to the cube and used his tractor to haul it out. It didn’t budge an inch, but after several attempts, the container finally shifted. Oddly, it didn’t appear locked, despite its indestructible appearance. After a moment’s hesitation, he popped the lid open.
Inside was a single sticky note, written in horrible nigh unreadable handwriting:
*"Sorry I took your warhead. Needed it for my retirement funds.
-Sincerely William H."*
The farmer blinked at the note, completely flabbergasted.
**************
Twenty-four hours later, in a dim, smoky bar somewhere on Earth, the television blared as a news anchor rattled off the latest global updates. The images of ballistic missiles, frozen mid-launch, dominated the screen.
“The nuclear scare on Monday sent shockwaves around the world, as every major power inexplicably launched the majority of their nuclear arsenals at military and civilian targets. But in an unprecedented turn of events, not a single one of these weapons detonated. Experts are baffled. Professor, what do you make of this?”
The camera shifted to a distinguished-looking man with salt-and-pepper hair and a furrowed brow.
“This is... unprecedented. Simply not possible for all these warheads to malfunction simultaneously. I’m certain of one thing: those nuclear devices weren’t functional before they were launched.”
The bartender shook his head, wiping down the counter. “World's gone mad,” he muttered to no one in particular.
**************
William Harris, the one-eyed man, had finally burned off the last of his manic energy. Now, he lay sprawled out in the field, arms crossed behind his head, staring up at the sky. The horizon stretched endlessly, the unfamiliar clouds slowly drifting across the alien heavens. His breaths were slow now, as if the weight of everything had finally left him. The only sound was the rustling of the strange, grain that swayed lazily in the breeze.
For a few peaceful moments, William did nothing but soak in the environment, savouring the quiet. After all, when you orchestrate a global crisis and step into another world, it's important to take a breath or two.
Eventually, he sighed and reached into the pocket of his tacky Hawaiian shirt. Out came a crumpled, well-worn piece of paper. He unfolded it carefully, smoothing it out against his chest as he gazed at the bulleted list scribbled in his own chaotic handwriting.
Becoming Immortal: To-Do List
* Polish my Artis until I can actually use it for useful shit
* Become the leader of an extremist organization and/or cult
* Use my Artis and organisation to take control of most of the world’s nuclear warheads
* Remember to secretly steal the warheads
* Design a ritual to harness the fear, prayers, and hopes of everybody during an apparent nuclear apocalypse
* Sacrifice my Artis to open a portal to a new world with a more malleable reality
* Remember to betray the organisation
* Retire at 25 (Woooo!!!)
* Test the "Borg Mind hypothesis " by fishing for a new Artis (make sure the Artis is Immortal-flavored)
* Plan A: Now that I’m immortal, travel the world
* Plan B: If Artis fishing fails for some reason but I am somehow still alive, use the weaker reality to find another path to immortality, then do Plan A
* Plan C: Do the whole thing over again with another world
He stared at the list for a while, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. It had taken years of meticulous planning, countless sacrifices—some metaphorical, some not—and a hell of a lot of luck, but he had pulled it off. He had actually done it.
"Retire at 25..." William spoke aloud, the words sounding almost absurd as they left his lips. It wasn’t the kind of thing someone his age, especially from his generation, would ever imagine even in the Magical World. Magic had always been real, even on Earth, though it wasn't obvious to most people. William, though, had always known he was different. He was what the magical community called a savant—someone who developed magical abilities without any bloodline or heritage, completely on their own. Not only that, but he was a particularly gifted savant. By the time he was three years old, William had already developed his Artis—a unique magical power that manifested in individuals with an innate magical affinity. For him, it was the ability to control space and time, particularly the creation of portals. Of course, none of this made any sense to a toddler. For a good part of his childhood, William thought he was schizophrenic.
It wasn’t until his teenage years that he began to realize something far stranger and far more exciting—he had superpowers. And nothing spells trouble quite like a teenager with superpowers. It didn’t take long before the magical authorities caught wind of him. They tracked him down, whisking him away to mandatory magical education, where his raw, chaotic abilities could be honed and controlled.
It was during these years that William learned the two most important facts of his life. The first: immortality was real. And the second: it was almost impossible to achieve on Earth. You see, over the last century, Earth’s reality had entered a state of stabilization. This meant that the very fabric of the world had grown increasingly resistant to large-scale magical manipulation. The once-fluid nature of magic had become rigid, fixed in place. Without a specific Artis revolving around immortality itself, becoming immortal on Earth was little more than a pipe dream.
And like most people, William was terrified of death.
The thought of his eventual end gnawed at him, so when he combined those two facts—immortality was possible, but not on Earth—he came up with what, at the time, seemed like the dumbest plan ever. Perhaps he’d read too many transmigration novels, or maybe the fear of dying pushed him into desperate creativity. If Earth’s reality was too strong to bend, why not move to a place where reality was weaker? A world where magic could be shaped with ease, where immortality might be more than just a far-off dream.
Of course, pulling off such a plan wasn’t exactly within reach. At least not at first. William quickly realized he wasn’t nearly powerful enough to achieve that on his own. But there was a core principle in modern magic, one that people often overlooked: any human with magical potential can cast a spell, they just lack the sharpness of will to make it effective. But if you could piggyback on the collective will of many people, you could amplify that spell's power by orders of magnitude.
It was then that his plan truly began to take shape. If he could get enough people to channel their will into one singular purpose, he could perform feats no individual could ever hope to achieve. Eventually, that led to the idea that if the entire world—every terrified soul—was casting a spell for him, he could do practically anything.
Enter the extremist cult. A few fanatical followers, some intricate rituals, and a global nuclear scare later, William had precisely what he needed. As the world held its breath in terror, his cultists focused their willpower not on escaping death themselves, but on helping him escape his own eventual demise. By harnessing that overwhelming surge of intent, he’d done the impossible—he’d opened a portal to a new world, a place where reality was malleable, where the rules of life and death could be bent.
William couldn't tell why but he felt like he had to justify his decisions to some picky omniscient observers, although it was probably just trying to justify his decisions to himself.... probably.
[Right now, you're probably wondering why I didn’t just try to reform a new Artis back on Earth. Well, there are a couple of reasons.
First of all, it’s really hard to get rid of an Artis once it’s formed. It’s not something you can just break off and throw away. The only reason I managed to do it was by leveraging a combination of sacrificial magic and the massive weight of willpower generated from the ritual. Even then, it was a close call. Second, there’s about a fifty-fifty chance you’ll die when trying to discard your Artis. You see, an Artis isn’t just a magical tool; it’s almost like a piece of your soul. Losing it can mean losing yourself entirely.
But the third—and most important—reason is rooted in magical theory. Without diving too deep into the technicalities, everyone’s will exerts a force on the world, similar to gravity. If you could zoom out far enough, you’d see that all this bending of reality creates one massive gravity well of consciousness. And, long story short, the collective consciousness of Earth—made up of both wizards and mundane humans—already knew of my existence.
See, my Artis was related to controlling space. If I had tried to break my Artis and reform it while still on Earth, the collective will of the planet would have likely reshaped it into something still connected to space. There was a slim chance I could’ve reshaped it into something like immortality, but repeatedly flipping a coin where a 50% chance leads to death doesn’t seem like the best strategy when you’re trying to live forever.
That’s why I came to a new world. Here, magic is more malleable, and the most critical factor is that no other conscious beings have seen me manipulate space or even use magic. Because of that, the collective consciousness of this world has no preconceived notions of what I should or shouldn’t be capable of. In theory, I should be able to develop an Artis tied to immortality—some variety of it at least.
The way Artises form is usually a subconscious response to intense stimuli from a magically inclined person. To put it simply, let’s say your life depends on pulling a lever on the other side of the room. If you have the right magical predisposition and you're in the perfect emotional state for an awakening, you could develop an Artis centred around telekinesis, teleportation, or any number of powers that would let you pull that lever.
That’s essentially how my original Artis formed. I didn’t choose to control space—it just happened when my mind and magic aligned in the right way during a stressful moment. Now, having shed my previous Artis, I’m in a position to experience that magical rebirth once again.
So what’s the plan? Simple. All I have to do now is create another drastic emotional experience. All I have to do… is attempt suicide.]
William stood in the field, stripped of his clothes, carefully piling them. He left everything except for a small piece of plastic explosives and its accompanying detonator and made sure he was a good hundred meters from the pile. The day was still and quiet, save for the occasional whisper of wind rustling through the tall red stalks around him. He’d always had a strange fondness for Hawaiian shirts, and this one was no exception—vibrant with shades of teal and orange that reminded him of tropical vacations he’d never had the time to take. He didn’t want to ruin it with blood.
He looked at the small pile of explosives with a mixture of dread and determination. His mind raced through the scenario, double-checking his plan. He had chosen this method because it was the most certain—there wouldn’t be a half-dead William hobbling around hoping for the wrong kind of miracle. If everything went right, this would trigger his subconscious desire to survive at any cost, and with a bit of luck, he’d be reborn with some powerful form of immortality.
He put the plastic explosives in his mouth, the weight of it unnatural on his tongue, and gripped the detonator tightly. Hesitation clawed at him. Of course, he hesitated—he wasn’t some sort of Shonen protagonist. But William had always been full of confidence in his actions. Some people might’ve called it arrogance, but he’d always considered himself incredibly humble. He wasn’t the kind of person to back down when he was already halfway there especially not when his life was at stake. If he wanted to live forever, this was the only way.
He closed his eyes, steadying his breath. His thumb hovered over the detonator button, a final tremor of doubt writhing in his gut before he pressed down.
Nothing.
No boom. No click. Not even a muffled thud.
Everything just… stopped.
It wasn’t blackness, or void, or any of the other things people described when imagining death. There were no dreams, no distant echoes of an afterlife. It was true nothingness. Not even the concept of nothingness. The best way to explain it would be to imagine your life before you were born. It was as if he had ceased to be.
When the experience ended, when existence snapped back into place, the first thing William noticed was brightness. Blinding, overwhelming light. He blinked, expecting to shield his eyes with his hand—but the sensation was off. He realized, then, with a jolt of disbelief, that he could see out of both eyes.
The second thing he noticed was the plants. The same red field surrounded him, but something was wrong. The plants had grown, towering above him, five meters tall, at least. Or... no, that wasn’t right.
William was no fool. He realized with an unsettling clarity that it wasn’t the plants that had grown.
He had shrunk.
Panic flickered through him as he scrambled to make sense of his surroundings. The vibrant field stretched on endlessly, now a towering forest of crimson stalks, swaying lazily in the breeze. His thoughts raced—he was definitely, 100%... a baby.
His tiny hands flailed in the air as he lay in a small circle of ash, the remnants of what must’ve been his former body. The light from the nearby star—sunrise or sunset, he couldn’t tell—cast long shadows over him. Hours must have passed since his… explosion. Midday had long since faded.
William took a moment, his baby-sized mind struggling to comprehend the sheer absurdity of the situation.
[Well, fuck,] he thought.[ I didn’t plan for this.]