One, two, three, four - and then he had lost count of how many times he had taken his first breath.

By now, Maximilian was no longer sure if he had lived hundreds, or even thousands of lives, or a single, interminable existence.

Even the hours passed more slowly when there was infinity to mark them.

During that expanded time, he had learned the profound meaning of suffering and had experienced every shade of joy that the human being is allowed to feel; he had met thousands of eyes and shaken countless hands, girded abundant hips, hit enemy cheeks; and, in the long run, he was convinced that his life had become the perfect intersection between billions and billions of circles, of infinitesimal points, of repeated and parallel lives that had touched him in every possible way and that had allowed him to decline every single emotion in ways that not even he could have imagined.

He had not yet had the opportunity to realise the infinity in which he had found himself clinging and was already beginning to believe that his story would be interminable, an immortal and invincible life. And he hadn't been wrong. But even at the height of his success and fame, he had wanted nothing more than to rest, to die at least for a while. Or have a more real life. Or, again, experience something more.

Of all the uncertainties he was imbued with, he was sure of only one thing: from the moment of his first cry until his umpteenth beginning, his lifeline, his safe port, had been only one.

Now he experienced a warm and welcoming feeling again, one that tasted of darkness and love, his death and rebirth. And again, he wondered if the curtain on his life was about to close for the last time. Was this his end, the consciousness-annihilating embrace? How long could a human being continue to take breaths without giving up, moment by moment, a part of himself?

Life had a cost.

Finally, shrouded in darkness, he hoped he would no longer have to pay it.

Yet, this time too, we had to wake up. Leave the darkness, say goodbye to temporary oblivion and dive into the real world. One more time.

The cold hit his face violently; the lungs filled with air, ready to explode with a desperate cry. A script he was used to.

Thud

His cheeks had slammed into something - earth - and blades of grass unexpectedly filled his palate.

Something had gone not as usual.

He did not hear his own screams pass through his throat nor experienced hands touching his body.

Where was he?

His right hand reached out in search of a large maternal hand ready to welcome him. With the left, he tried to grab a friendly finger. But there was no woman beside him to look at him softly.

What was going on?

He put his hands on his face several times, rubbed his still sealed eyes, found neither the slimy skin nor the wrinkles of a newborn.

What was going on?

Where was he?

And where was -

Paola?

Slowly he opened his eyes. Initially, the light hurt him, then he shielded his eyes, kept opening them little by little. When he finally could see clearly around him, he realised he was not alone. At least a dozen people were lying on a green and wild meadow. They seemed to have been thrown violently from above towards the hard ground. He counted them better. There were twelve of them. With him, thirteen.

They were all sore and struggled to get on their feet, except one.

It seemed that, unlike everyone else, he had reacted to the fall, rolling over and crouching. He looked around with distrust, scrutinised everything around him but, more than anything else, Maximilian was struck by the fact that his hand was resting on his side in search of a weapon that was no longer there. A sword.

That was enough to rekindle Maximilian's brain. After that, everything returned to its place, his face lost all traces of emotion, and all the expressive grooves flattened, leaving room for a calm, but not measured, or rather non-measurable, profile.

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Calm is the ocean, too, when the wind does not blow, but no one would describe it as measured. The ocean, even a calm one, would remain an invincible titan.

And this is not the story of a calm and measured person, but of a titan who feels the first sparks of madness burn in his veins like hundreds of pyres. In whatever world he was in, it did not matter who was in front of him and who would accompany him; it did not matter whether this was reality or a dream, how it changed or how it would try to bend those who seemed travellers; a breath of wind it would be enough to cause a storm.

Not far from the group of sore people, Maximilian saw a rural village. Few houses, maybe about fifty, give or take. Judging by the walls, they were built somewhat recently but were now quite run down. On the other hand, the blocks seemed well squared and aligned with each other, making it clear that, if some technology had not been used, those houses had been built by very well-paying people.

He looked more carefully...

No, those irregular walls were a clear sign that each of those dwellings had been built with a disproportionate force by men accustomed to fatigue.

Maximilian stood up and shrugged.

First, it was necessary to understand how he got to that place.

"Teleportation?" he murmured.

No. Maximilian was quite certain that he was not in the same timeline that he had inhabited until a few minutes earlier.

"Then it could be... time travel?"

At the thought, he turned to action and began to measure the place where he had appeared in quick steps.

Everyone tried to sit or get up on their legs, sore, stunned and incredulous. Only the man who had tried to grab his missing sword, staggering slightly, had got back on his feet and carefully analysed everything that happened before his eyes.

The mysterious man kept his distance from the others, yet never strayed too far. It was easy to see that his distrust did not exceed prudence. His dark eyes, framed by thick eyebrows and shining black curls, lit up in amazement unexpectedly. He stopped and put his hand on the thick beard, in his face darkening again.

Maximilian carefully observed the tense muscles under the bronze and Mediterranean skin and his back covered by a light tunic. What a peculiar man.

It wasn't the time to look at people manically; there were more important things to think about.

"If it was a matter of time travel, I should be able to..."

Maximilian tried to recall a primordial energy to himself. In its reality – it could not rule out that it was in a dream or another dimension – it would receive a fragile response initially, which would be consolidated within a few minutes.

"WO", he heard a kind of explosion hit his chest and saw his body rise from the ground as if a giant had just catapulted him back ten meters with a blow. He felt his ribs crack and the taste of blood in his mouth.

"Bollocks, what a bang," he murmured. But he did not let himself be thrown on the ground as when he arrived.

He landed with unnatural grace, not caring at all about the pain he felt in his chest or the burns that had instantly formed on his arms. But, of course, no one saw him balance so smoothly. Otherwise, one would hear the sound of dull amazement.1 Instead, they were all too busy wondering what was going on to pay attention to a guy who had just been thrown to the ground by an invisible force.

He narrowed his eyes and looked at the environment that surrounded him. He carefully observed the space between the green grass and the sky, the space between the trunks of trees not far away and the ones between the brick houses, between the streets. Wherever it turned, each object was permeated by an unknown but familiar energy: every space was filled with vortexes of power.

It was not a coherent idea to reach his brain, but the understanding of that phenomenon manifested itself through a smile, tears and then an awkward sneer.

His heart started beating as thunder in the sky.

He knew what he had just seen meant. -Everything was so great. He wouldn't have waited for a second longer. Maybe he wasn't even right, but he didn't care. He just needed to confirm something. Just one.

And the heart kept thundering with imperious power while his mind was articulating impatient words, turning sensations into images.

Not even the strange rustle that had repeatedly caressed his psyche and, perhaps, not even his ears could distract him.

What a great day, Maximilian thought, wearing a big smile. A day of interruptions, but also a new beginning. How much he had longed for a new life, something that would give him his wife back one last time and could make him happy until the end of his days. This time, for real.

"WHAT'S GOING ON?" Finally, someone started asking questions. That cry was followed by others. Men and women, now all standing, were beginning to wonder where they were, why they were there and with whom. One girl wept, another had eyes that looked lost and at the same time enthusiastic – how it was possible to be frightened and curious at the same time no one could understand, except for Maximilian.

There were other exclamations of amazement and fear. Maximilian looked up at the village and noticed three columns of thick smoke rising from the houses.

So many things to think about, but that's not what mattered. It was the time of the last interruption, the last thing before -

He made a couple of vast strides towards the Mediterranean-looking man, who looked at him suspiciously. He could already feel electricity travelling through his body and couldn't wait to put his experiment in place.

If only he was right...

"Oi tan one, come on, we've got stuff to do!" he said to the man, without even caring about the answer.

"Tan?" replied the other astonished, "I am Athenian, not tan."

And this is the beginning of the story of how a Londoner with unorthodox ways began an adventure full of Necromancy and unfunny jokes – and often racist ones too, how he bent destiny before he even arrived in a new world and how he would bend it again, for better or worse, countless times.