Chapter 0 - Final Chance

“Once a child forged to kill.”

They had no name for him in this poor excuse of a life.

Only a code, stitched into sterile fabric and whispered behind mirrored glass:
ε – Epsilon. Fifth in the sequence. First to survive though “survive” was generous.
He existed not as a boy, but as an experiment. A machine molded to kill.

Epsilon the masterpiece, raised beneath white lights and cold steel, his lullabies the scrape of scalpels and the hum of electric restraints. Muscles hardened under pressure and threat, mind sharpened through impossible games. They said he was brilliant. Exceptional.

But even brilliance fractures in isolation.
On the night before his thirteenth birthday, when the doctors called him perfect, Epsilon smiled as he went to sleep with flames flickering in his eyes.

By dawn, he was dead.
Or so he thought.

——

“Then, a boy who stole a crown”

A world without science, without mercy.

He was born into filth and hunger, but not ignorance. Knowledge clung to him like frostbite

By three, he reinvented fire.
By five, gravity.
By seven, nation.
At eight, they called him a miracle.
By nine, a god.

He led wars as if he was born for it —because he was.

And on the eve of thirteen, charging at the head of his army, blades from his most trusted commander tore through royal tyrannical silk.

As his lifeblood soaked the battlefield and cheers filled the air, he wondered:

Why does it always end like this?
Alone. Unloved. Unmourned.

——

A voice echoed, “One last chance. Make the most of it”

The next moment before Epsilon could draw a breath to say a single word he heard another gentler voice.

“He’s beautiful, Harold. We’ll call him Erven.”
Epsilon was confused, then stunned.
“Erven Calder, what a beautiful name my beloved wife.”
Epsilon realised what he believed to be impossible. He had been reincarnated for a second time.

Erven watched as his father did the most incredible parlour trick, manifesting fire balls and juggling it, gleaming at Erven, desperately trying to extract a smile from his newborn pride and joy.

“This time, I’ll be different. No throne. No machine. No hate.” He thought to himself ignorant of his ridiculous father, “The days of Epsilon are gone. Now, I’m Erven.”

And for the first time in three lives, he thought:

“This time… I’ll be different.
No throne. No machine. No hate.
The days of Epsilon are over.
Now, I’m Erven.”

Erven Calder—the boy who had once surpassed all rivals, slain all challengers, and ruled as a god—wore an expression he never believed he could.

Erven smiled.