No matter how many times he died, it still hurt. The pain diminished with each time, but he had thought by now he would be so accustomed to dying that he wouldn’t even flinch when facing death.

He had been there, time and time again.

It was always painful. He wasn’t fortunate enough to grow old and slip away in a hospital or be given medicine that slowly put him out of his misery. Nor was he shown any mercy on the battlefield by those who considered themselves his enemies.

Slow and agonizing. Death, it seemed, had a recurring theme for him.

His first demise occurred in the jungle. He didn't remember much from those days, but it undoubtedly laid the foundation for who he was.

They were a small tribe who lived among the trees in humble huts with rags as clothes. With no technology or industrialization, they ventured into the harsh wilderness with no shoes and wooden spears to find food.

Farming was challenging when the skies constantly poured thick, warm raindrops. Without dependable crops, they had no choice but to hunt for survival. Many men journeyed into the dense foliage, and it seemed like every time, someone never returned.

Children often died young. The rain forest was merciless, and even a small insect could leave an adult on death's door. If a child escaped the perils of feral predators and venomous insects, they would perish from weakness if their parents couldn't provide for them.

He was not weak. Orphaned shortly after birth, he had no choice but to become strong in order to survive. The tribe stayed together for protection, but it wasn't a family in the traditional sense. Everyone struggled, so his plight meant nothing to those around him. No one pitied him.

So, he hunted. He followed the adults and learned their ways. He mastered wielding a spear and bow with precision, listening for prey among the constant hum of the jungle, and running and leaping across uneven, wet ground without losing stride.

Their language was rudimentary, but they called him The Hunter. He was just a boy entering young adulthood, but he was no doubt the deadliest human in the jungle.

Yet, none of that mattered to him. The tribe and the gods they worshiped paled in comparison to the thrill of the hunt. His only goal in life was to become an apex predator.

He wanted to be the king of the jungle. One day, the jungle sent him his final challenge.

People rarely interacted with him, so when an older woman of the tribe came to him on her hands and knees and begged him to find her son, he felt compelled to help. He didn’t get to hunt humans often, and tracking the man would be the closest he got.

A few missteps in such a lush jungle could easily make someone so lost that they could never find their way back. Finding the man among endless trees and brush was impossible for anyone other than him.

After an hour, he smelled the scent of blood. Reaching a mangled corpse, The Hunter knew he had found his target.

The man had deep, violent scars tearing down his chest and his throat was ripped out. His eyes were still open, frozen in terror despite every other inch of him looking lifeless.

The wounds and the scent only meant one thing. The Hunter’s lips curled into a wicked smile.

Only one beast could create such wounds.

A jaguar, massive and lethal, materialized from the shadows. The beast's eyes locked onto The Hunter, its gaze a chilling mix of curiosity and malice. The jaguar's lithe muscles rippled beneath its glossy coat as it stalked closer, preparing to pounce.

The Hunter crouched low, his heart pounding as adrenaline coursed through his veins.

This was it. An apex predator. The undisputed king of the jungle. It was the one beast he had yet to kill. The last test in order to be the strongest.

His bow and stone-tipped spear were at the ready, and his senses were attuned to every rustle and movement around him. The oppressive heat and humidity of the rainforest seemed to fade away as he focused on his target.

As the jaguar lunged, The Hunter dodged to the side with lightning speed, barely avoiding the deadly swipe of the beast's claws. He rolled and sprang back to his feet. The jaguar snarled, frustrated at the near miss, and circled its prey, looking for another opening.

The Hunter's heart raced, his breaths short and rapid. He had never faced such a formidable opponent. He knew he had to keep his wits about him, or this battle would be his last.

The jaguar pounced again, this time closing the distance with incredible swiftness. The Hunter barely had time to react, letting an arrow fly just as the beast's claws grazed his arm. The arrow struck true, sinking into the jaguar's shoulder. The feline roared in pain and fury, but its relentless assault continued.

Blood seeped from The Hunter's wound, but he pushed the pain aside, focusing on the battle at hand. He wielded his spear with precision, stabbing at the jaguar as it lunged at him repeatedly. The two danced a deadly dance, each trying to outmaneuver the other.

The jungle seemed to hold its breath, as if it were watching this battle for supremacy with anticipation.

The jaguar was faster and stronger. With each clash, The Hunter's wounds multiplied. His breath grew ragged, and his body screamed in agony.

It was a losing battle from the start, but he refused to submit. His whole life was a losing battle, and he knew from experience that anything could happen.

He just had to risk it all. He wanted to win even if it killed him.

In a final, desperate effort, The Hunter feigned weakness, falling to his knees and luring the jaguar into a false sense of security. The beast lunged forward for the kill, aiming its jaws filled with wicked teeth towards his neck.

At the last moment, The Hunter sidestepped. The jaguar’s mouth drove into his shoulder, stabbing its fangs deep into his body.

It was the opening he needed.

The Hunter drove his spear deep into the jaguar's side. A pained roar filled the air, and the beast collapsed, its life slowly ebbing away.

The Hunter stood over the jaguar, panting heavily and clutching his injuries. He had won, but the cost was high. His body trembled from the exertion, and he knew that he needed to tend to his wounds soon. The rainforest remained silent, as if acknowledging the new king of the jungle.

With a mix of pain and triumph etched on his face, The Hunter limped away, leaving the lifeless jaguar behind.

He had finally done it. The Hunter let out a triumphant scream, letting the jungle hear the roar of a new apex predator.

The Hunter collapsed, succumbing to his injuries and feeling the life slip away from him.

He did not know what death was, or what to expect. He knew things died, but that was as regular as life in his world and wasn’t anything he lamented or questioned.

The only question he had was if it was normal to wake up in the body of a child after death?

He was no longer in the jungle, but instead in a town he could never even begin to fathom. It had stone roads and developed houses. People wore tunic and sandals. It was a town a part of the Pax Romana Empire, and he was but another forgotten orphan.

This new world was still not kind. People still struggled with famine and predators. The main predators in this world were other humans who united to pillage and raze those who lived under different flags.

Nobody could give a damn about an orphan like him, so he grew up doing what he did best - fight and hunt.

His talents caught the eye of a passing group of soldiers. He had no direction or purpose, but he was given one in the army.

In the jungle, one could only measure themselves up against animals. In this world there was a constant challenge. Other armies had a variety of weapons and tactics they employed, making each battle more challenging than any hunt could be.

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Spears, swords, shields, and armor. It was different from the jungle, but the message was still the same - kill or be killed.

He fought as a legionary in the army, following orders without question. He didn't join the army for honor or kinship, but simply because fighting was all he knew how to do. He killed many and obtained the special title of Venator, a hunter among hunters. He enjoyed the title, as it meant he was talented at his job.

His desire to win had become twisted, transforming into an insatiable thirst for victory. He viewed the battlefield as his hunting ground, and his enemies as prey to be slaughtered. With each kill, he felt a perverse sense of satisfaction, as if proving his worth as the apex predator among humans.

His fellow soldiers were wary of him, sensing the darkness that lurked within his soul. They saw his ruthlessness and unbridled ferocity as both an asset and a curse. The Venator was a force to be reckoned with, but the twisted nature of his relentless pursuit of victory left many uneasy.

On the battlefield, the Venator was a terror, striking fear into the hearts of his enemies. His warped desire to win had consumed him, turning him into a living embodiment of death and destruction. After a battle he would silently wait for another battle, alone and alienated by the people around him.

It was the night before a battle that would decide the fate of the Empire. Across the river lay the enemy camp, a large army clearly confident as they laughed and partied around grand campfires. Their boisterous noise carried far, even though they were too far to be seen.

They thought it would be an easy victory. Meanwhile, their opponents silently prepared for dawn, gearing up for a fight to the death.

A single scream woke the Venator up, and it soon turned into many.

"Ambush!" someone yelled.

Without even donning his armor, the Venator rushed out of their tent and surveyed the area.

The enemy had tricked them. The bright fires and loud partying were simply an illusion, a ploy to make them think they were safe. Using the darkness as cover, the enemy flanked around and attacked them from all sides.

The sounds of clashing steel and anguished screams filled the air, the acrid smell of blood hanging heavy. The Venator fought like a beast, driven by an insatiable hunger for victory. He moved through the battlefield with a fearsome grace, cutting down enemies with brutal efficiency. His eyes were cold and merciless, the eyes of a killer who knew no fear.

But the enemy was too numerous, and his fellow soldiers were unprepared for such a vicious assault. They fought bravely, but one by one, they fell. The Venator, drenched in blood and gore, continued to fight, a whirlwind of death and destruction. He fought until his sword arm grew heavy and his breath ragged.

Finally, surrounded by the bodies of both friends and foes, the Venator faced his end. A group of enemy soldiers closed in, their spears and swords gleaming with the promise of death. Despite the overwhelming odds, he stood defiant, refusing to give in to despair.

As the enemy charged, the Venator fought with the ferocity of a cornered animal, but he could not defy fate. He was struck multiple times, his body succumbing to the relentless onslaught. Blood poured from his wounds, and his vision began to fade.

With his final breath, the Venator let out a guttural roar, a challenge to Death itself. And then, he was gone. His body lay crumpled on the blood-soaked earth.

When he woke up again, he felt like a haze had left his mind.

The third world was far different from the previous two. It seemed like no two worlds were the same on a fundamental level.

This time it was a land called England in the midst of a technological revolution. Machines that defied the laws of nature were commonplace, powered by steam and clockwork. But this was not a world without danger - creatures of the night roamed the streets, preying on the unwary. Werewolves, vampires, and wraiths lurked in the shadows, their existence denied by the ignorant and the fearful.

Once again alone and orphaned, he honed his skills as a fighter. But this time, he was given an opportunity to not just destroy, but to understand. A small school gave him and a handful of orphans the chance to learn how to read and write. He was given a chance to learn how to properly speak to others. How to count and properly use money. It was something he had never bothered to do in his last life.

As soon as he felt himself start to like his days at school was when tragedy struck.

He had been caught trying to steal food and had spent the night in jail. When he came back he found that a group of lycanthropes had attacked the school and slaughtered everyone inside.

It sparked something inside of him. He felt a tightness in his heart. He didn’t understand what it was, or why he felt it at that moment. All he knew was that when looked at the ruined school, or even when he thought about it, that it filled him with a deep sense of emptiness that he had never felt before.

He hated that feeling. He never wanted to feel that way again. He shoved those feelings deep into the recesses of his mind and walked away without ever looking back.

Alone once more, he continued his studies however he could manage. This time, he focused his research on the supernatural and the technology that had arisen to combat it.

Over a decade later, he had made it to adulthood in this life and had finally educated himself. A small part of him thought about living a life without violence, but he couldn't escape his own nature and became a hunter of the supernatural.

It all started with a slaver trying to kidnap an orphan. The child was most likely going to be sold to a cult and sacrificed, a common occurrence at the time. He couldn't let it happen and intervened, destroying the cult and the slavers.

From there, he continued to fight shapeshifters, ghosts, and humans alike. He used his intelligence and cunning to outmaneuver his foes, striking from the shadows and setting traps to catch them off guard.

He was not a righteous man, he was obsessive and cold with no desire to save or improve the world around him.

The sight of the ruined school haunted him. Those emotions made him feel weak. He cast aside as many emotions as he could because he refused to be vulnerable to anyone. He was a machine who had no higher purpose than to destroy its enemies.

His death was not a glorious one. He had been fighting a royal vampire, the upper echelon of a species that had been decimating the human population. He had no desire to fight it, but fate brought them together on a train. He had no choice but to isolate himself with the vampire in a separate train car to protect the innocent passengers.

The battle was a losing one from the start. His mana was weak, and his technology was not advanced enough to defeat the vampire. However, he was resourceful and fought the creature with every ounce of his strength and intellect. He tried everything to no avail, and there was no way to escape.

The vampire traversed through the shadows and bit his neck, leaving a seed inside him.

The vampire was arrogant, thinking that he would survive the transformation process just because she willed it. Most people did not survive turning into a vampire, and he was no exception. He died in agony, writhing in pain as his body rejected the change

In his fourth life, he tried to be different. He lived in a modern society called Earth, where physics and science were more valued than magic or supernatural technology, but he was an orphan once again.

This world had plenty of battles to fight, but most conflicts were dealt with through diplomacy. Without a cause or guide to direct him into battle, he grew lost and debated what he wanted in life. It seemed like others didn’t have the chance to wake up again like he had. Was it a blessing or a curse?

Was fighting until death truly the only way to live? Was there more to the world than just killing? If there was, then the least he could do was spend a life trying to figure it out.

He decided to study hard and live a life without violence, and eventually became a lawyer after getting into a good school. The idea was to get an easy job at a nice corporation, but he couldn’t fight his nature and became a defense attorney instead.

As a defense attorney, he often found himself standing up for those who were unable to defend themselves. It was a challenge, but he relished in the thrill of the fight and the satisfaction of emerging victorious in the courtroom. He wasn't driven by a sense of justice, but rather the satisfaction of winning.

His desire to fight, however, made it difficult for him to connect with others on a deeper level. Accustomed to suppressing his emotions, he couldn't form meaningful relationships with anyone. Despite his success, he remained isolated and alone.

Money was a mere afterthought, a means to an end. Winning was everything to him, even if it meant resorting to bending the truth or exploiting loopholes in the system. But as time went on, he found himself battling against the very corporations he once sought to join. He wanted to win against the very top of his world - the ones who never lost.

One day, while driving on the highway, a black truck suddenly veered into the back of his car, causing him to lose control. His car crashed into another innocent sedan and they went flying through the banister and off a cliff.

When he regained consciousness he was still in the same body. In pain and weak, but alive. The car caught fire and the heat was scathing, but at this stage of his many lives, pain was the closest thing he had to a friend and it barely bothered him.

Crawling out of the car, he realized he was in bad shape. The best way to increase his chances of survival was to find somewhere safe and not overexert his damaged body.

Glancing at the other car, he saw the silhouette of the other driver. It was a girl around his age - completely unconscious.

The accident was anything but accidental. It was shrewd and horrible that they would get a bystander involved in their quarrel with him, but it didn’t matter anymore. Winning was what mattered, and they did what they had to do.

His fists clenched.

Dragging his battered body towards the other car, he barely managed to pull the driver out. Every single inch of his body hurt, and his vision blurred and darkened, but he still managed to get the girl away from the crash.

Thankfully, she seemed in good enough condition to survive. As he looked at her, a strange emotion stirred within him, one he couldn't quite comprehend.

Adjusting his tie, the lawyer took one last breath before collapsing.

When he opened his eyes again, he was an infant, no more than a year old. He looked around and saw that he was in a crib. Across the room was another crib with a baby around the same age.

The other child was floating in the air with a brilliantly bright aura around it.

Was that normal? It did not seem to bother his roommate, as the kid happily waved its arm and absorbed the aura.

He was very much confused for a few reasons.

One of which was clearly the floating, magical baby not even a few feet away from him. The other reason was that it didn’t seem like he was in an orphanage.

It looked like a nursery you would see at a home.

It took a few moments for his brain to finally put the pieces together.

Did this mean… he has a family?