In the bustling heart of New York City, where honking taxis and flickering neon signs painted the night, Michael sat in his dim apartment, a solitary figure in a world that had long forgotten him. The room was shrouded in darkness, its only illumination the faint glow of his smartphone, casting ghostly shadows across his weathered face. At sixty, Michael’s white, unkempt hair framed brown eyes that held a quiet wisdom, his wrinkles mapping a life of hardship and resilience. He was immersed in his favorite novel, The Beginning After the End, its tale of reincarnation and magic a refuge from his lonely reality.
Orphaned at thirteen after a car accident stole his parents, Michael had faced a world that offered little kindness. The shock of their loss had paralyzed him for years, but his parents’ modest inheritance allowed him to complete his education. His sharp mind and determination earned him respect, yet love remained elusive. He had dreamed of a wife, a family, but by the time he considered an arranged marriage, he was too old for most suitors. Those who showed interest sought his wealth, not his heart, so he chose solitude. “Man, this novel just hits the spot,†he muttered, his voice rough with disuse, “especially after what that bastard did to me.â€
Today had been his unluckiest day. For over thirty years, Michael had poured his soul into one of New York’s top companies, steering it through crises and triumphs. But his boss’s son, Ethan, a spoiled predator, had harassed a married colleague, Sarah, with relentless pursuit. When Ethan’s advances turned to harassment, no one dared interveneâ€"except Michael. His sense of justice, forged in years of standing alone, wouldn’t let him stay silent. The consequence was brutal: a pink slip and a curt dismissal. “Well, karma’s going to catch up to them one day,†he said, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. His savings ensured a lavish retirement, so he felt no panic, only a weary acceptance.
He leaned back in his creaky armchair, the fabric worn from countless nights of reading. At sixty, he craved a new chapter. “Hmm, maybe I should travel a bit,†he mused, picturing distant lands where the air wasn’t choked with city smog. “See some of the world, maybe find a woman interested in this old man.†The thought sparked a flicker of hope, a rare warmth in his chest. He chuckled softly. “Never thought life would move so fast. One moment you’re a child with innocence and curiosity, the next you’re an old man who knows the world and its people to their very roots.â€
The harsh reality of humanity had been a bitter lesson. As a boy, he’d believed in kindness, but life taught him betrayal and greed. Yet, he’d endured, carving a place for himself. The novel’s world of Dicathen, with its mana-infused air and towering kingdoms, felt more alive than his own. In Dicathen, Sapin’s cobblestone streets bustled with mages, while the Beast Glades teemed with creatures born of magic. The Triad Councilâ€"Sapin, Elenoir, and Darvâ€"governed uneasily, unaware of Alacrya’s distant threat. Michael longed for such a world, where power and purpose intertwined.
“Yeah, that sounds good,†he said, his voice softening. “I’ll travel. Maybe these few years I have left will be interesting.†He turned off his phone, the screen’s light fading, and settled into his chair. Exhaustion pulled at him, and he drifted to sleep, unaware that his heart, strained by decades of stress, was faltering. A sharp pain jolted him awake, a crushing weight in his chest. He gasped, clutching his shirt, but darkness swallowed him. Michael’s story ended thereâ€"or so it seemed.
Unbeknownst to him, his soul was bound for Dicathen, a land where mana crackled in the air and ancient Asuras watched from Epheotus. In Sapin’s Ashber Town, a rural outpost near the Beast Glades, a new life awaited. The town’s wooden homes, fortified with mana runes, stood against the wilds’ dangers. Merchants traded beast cores, and children dreamed of Xyrus Academy, where mages honed their cores. Michael’s death was not an end, but a doorway to a destiny that would shake the gods themselves.
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