It was supposed to be just another day.
Shan Abhay leaned against the window of seat 22A, earbuds in, half-lost in the soft hum of 80s and 90s musics. The plane vibrated with a low, steady rhythm beneath him—Kuala Lumpur to New York. A simple trip. Another work-related excursion with promises of tight schedules and cramped hotel rooms.
Outside, clouds floated like ancient ghosts. Inside, everything was quiet. Comfortable. Normal.
He glanced down the aisle. Children tugged at their parents, an elderly couple shared biscuits, and a businessman scrolled through slides on his tablet. One of the stewardesses passed by, offering him a smile as she handed out packaged juice.
Shan gave a polite nod and tucked the packet into the seat pocket. He wasn't thirsty. He just wanted to sleep.
Years of discipline weighed in his bones—early morning drills, weapon conditioning, grappling in sweaty underground gyms. He had learned to handle a sword before most knew how to throw a punch. Guns, too. And hand-to-hand. He never fought for sport. He fought because the world never gave him a choice.
He'd trained for a war that never came. He never thought it would arrive in the sky.
Ding.
The seatbelt light blinked again. Somewhere behind him, a child laughed.
Then—
A sudden, guttural shout ripped through the cabin.
Three men sprang from the rear rows. Black jackets. Emotionless eyes. One carried a sidearm—military issue, clean and confident in his grip. Another gripped a hunting knife, glinting under the cabin lights. The third held a thick duffel close to his chest, a wire snaking from it to his palm.
"Everyone remain seated!" the man with the gun barked, his accent thick and alien to most onboard. "You move, you die."
Screams. The aisle descended into chaos. One of the hijackers struck a flight attendant across the face when she reached for the intercom. Passengers cowered. Some froze in disbelief. Others began to cry.
Shan's instincts kicked in.
He shrank low in his seat, eyes locked on the attackers. He watched how they moved. How the gunman stood straight-backed with military precision. How the bomber kept his grip firm, expression unreadable.
They weren't amateurs.
And they weren't here for money.
One of them shouted something in a foreign language—brief, clipped syllables—and the others repositioned with machine-like coordination.
Execution squad. This isn't a bluff.
Shan clenched his jaw. He calculated risks. Three opponents. One gun. One knife. One bomb.
He had no weapon. No backup. And yet…
His muscles twitched with a purpose honed by years of training. He could get close. Take down at least one.
Then—
The bomber looked toward a crying child two rows down.
His finger moved toward the trigger.
Now.
Shan lunged from his seat, crashing into the bomber with the full weight of his body. The two of them went down hard, struggling over the trigger.
"GO!" Shan roared to the passengers.
The gunman turned and fired—missed.
Shan didn't have time. The bomber thrashed beneath him. Shan locked his arms around the man's body, pressing him into the ground with every ounce of strength he had.
There was a single second of resistance.
Then—
Click.
He felt the heat before he saw the light.
And then nothing.
---
Was it worth it?
That question echoed in the void where Shan drifted. No floor. No ceiling. Only an endless black.
He felt nothing. No pain. No sound. Only memory.
The chaos. The fire. The choice.
He hadn't hesitated.
"Was it worth it?" he asked aloud, voice strange in the silence.
The shadows stirred.
From the darkness, a shape emerged—cloaked and towering, a scythe in its bony hand. Its face was hidden beneath a hood, but its presence spoke louder than any scream.
"Thy soul echoes with doubt, yet thy heart knew peace," the figure said.
Shan looked up. "You're Death?"
The figure didn't answer directly. It simply nodded.
"You died without purpose," Death said, "and yet, your final breath was not for yourself."
Shan snorted. "That's how you define meaningless?"
"You lived like a shadow," Death continued. "Unseen. Unheard. But in your final moment, you chose light for others."
Death twirled a coin—one side gold, the other a black void.
"You are offered two paths," Death said. "Eternal peace… or rebirth, in a world far from this one."
Shan's life rewound behind his eyes—quiet classrooms where he was ignored, locker rooms where fists met silence, office days filled with deadlines and loneliness. He had trained, learned, fought—but always in the dark.
This time, he wanted the world to see him.
"I choose rebirth," he said.
The coin vanished.
Death raised his scythe, and the void cracked like glass.
---
The first sound of his new life was crying.
His own.
Air rushed into tiny lungs. The world was cold, loud, bright. A woman's face loomed above him—bruised and bloody, but her eyes were wide with awe and heartbreak.
"My little miracle," she whispered, sobbing. "I'm so sorry… I couldn't protect you."
Before he could process it, riders approached—armored, armed.
"There she is!" a voice barked.
A man dismounted, furious. "You tried to steal my bloodline and hide it?"
The woman—Blake—cradled the baby closer, defiant.
"You'd murder your own son because of your clan's laws?"
Will Ruthwilfer stepped forward coldly. "A mistake. One that ends now."
He looked at the crying child with contempt.
"No talent. No worth."
He turned away.
"Finish this."
The shadows of a new world fell once more.
But this time, they would not consume him.
This time… the boy reborn would rise.
Prologue — End