In the infinite black of the void, two figures floated like stars in a forgotten sky. The only light came from a swirling golden field behind one of them, its surface alive with ancient symbols that pulsed like heartbeats. The emptiness stretched forever, cold and silent, like the dark before a Diwali lamp is lit. It was a place where time and space felt like distant memories.
One figure was a young man, mid-twenties, with the sharp features of mixed Asian and American heritage. His name was Shiv, but he wasn't flesh and blood anymore. His body was translucent, a ghostly outline shimmering in the void. He was a soul, untethered, drifting in a place no living person should ever see.
The other was an old man, his long white hair spilling over robes torn and singed, as if he'd just walked out of a war. His face, lined with the weight of centuries, carried a flicker of regret in his deep-set eyes. He looked at Shiv, and his voice, heavy with power, broke the silence.
"I'm sorry, child," the old man said, his words echoing like a temple bell. "My battle with a… malevolent force went astray. A stray blast struck your world, and it cost you your life. You're no longer in your reality. We're in the void between universes."
Shiv's translucent face flickered with surprise, but it faded fast, replaced by a calm that surprised even him.
Dead? The word hung in his mind, heavy but not crushing. He'd always thought death would be loud—screams, pain, darkness. But this? It was quiet, almost peaceful. The old man's words felt true, like a fact he'd known all along.
"I see," Shiv said, his voice steady, like he was commenting on the weather.
He didn't scream. He didn't cry. Maybe he was in shock, or maybe a part of him had always felt like his life—a grind of warehouse shifts, lonely nights, and flickering screens—was just a warm-up for something bigger. He'd lost his parents young, felt the sting of their absence, and learned to keep moving. Now, floating in this cosmic nowhere, he felt… ready.
"So," Shiv said after a moment, his ghostly eyes narrowing, "will you reincarnate me into another world?"
The old man tilted his head, his white hair catching the golden light. "Why another world, child? I can send you back to your own. Rewind time, erase this accident. You could live as if nothing happened."
Shiv shook his head, a spark of defiance in his spectral form. "No. I want a new world. One I know. And, if you can, I want to choose who I become."
The old man's brow furrowed, his eyes searching Shiv's face. "Are you sure? Your life wasn't perfect, but it was yours."
"I'm sure," Shiv said, his voice firm. A flicker of excitement danced in his chest, like the thrill of a new movie trailer. He'd spent his life grabbing what he could—small joys, fleeting dreams. This was his chance to grab something massive.
The old man sighed, a sound like wind through ancient trees. "Very well. Since your soul is being transplanted, I'll grant your request. And because your death was my mistake, I'll give you three gifts, within my power, to shape your new life."
Shiv's mind raced. He'd read enough stories—comics, novels, fanfics—to know how this worked. Reincarnation as a protagonist was the dream: plot armor, epic battles, a destiny to rule. He'd planned to pick a chosen one, someone fated to win, and ride that wave to the top. But three extra gifts? That was a game-changer. His heart, or whatever passed for it now, thumped with possibility.
"First," the old man said, pulling Shiv from his thoughts, "where do you want to go? The multiverse is vast. Worlds beyond your imagination wait."
Shiv took a moment, his translucent form steady despite the void's pull. He pushed aside visions of swords and dragons, of galaxies and gods. One world stood out, one he'd binged on before his death: a universe of heroes, villains, and chaos. "I want the Marvel Cinematic Universe," he said. "And I want to be reborn as Superman. As Clark Kent."
"The Marvel Universe? It's a place of madness—gods bleed, worlds burn. And Superman? He's not of that reality. You'd be an outsider, a force they can't predict."
"I know," Shiv said, a grin tugging at his ghostly lips. "That's why I want it. I'm not here to save the world. I'm a selfish guy who wants a life worth living. My old life taught me one thing: hesitate, and you lose."
His mind flashed to his past—the warmth of his parents' laughter, gone too soon; the ache of their funeral; the endless days hauling boxes in a warehouse; the nights in a cramped room, losing himself in Marvel movies and comics. He'd learned life wasn't fair. You had to take what you wanted—power, joy, love. Especially love. He wanted it all: adventure, strength, and, yeah, the girls. A life where he could have everything.
The old man studied him, then nodded. "Very well, Clark Kent you'll be. And your three gifts?"
Shiv didn't hesitate. "First, I want to travel the multiverse. To move between realities as easily as stepping through a door."
"Second, I want a universe of my own. A personal world where I'm the king—where I can shape reality, store anything, and build my legacy. It has to be mine, forever, so no one can take it."
"And third," he said, his voice steady, "I want the potential to become a god. Not just a hero, but a true divine being, able to break every limit through my own work."
The old man's eyes gleamed, as if intrigued. "Bold choices. And the artifact to hold these powers—what form?"
"A ring," Shiv said instantly. Simple, powerful, his.
The old man raised a hand, his torn robes swaying. "If you're certain, Shiv, then let it be done."
Shiv braced himself, his translucent form tingling with anticipation. The old man's hand moved, and a blinding light swallowed Shiv whole. It wasn't pain, but it was… strange, like his soul was being stretched, reshaped.
While Shiv reeled, the old man worked. He reached into the void, his fingers tearing a rift in the fabric of reality. A vortex of raw energy swirled, chaotic and wild, like a monsoon storm trapped in a bottle. The old man shaped it, his hands steady, until it became a shimmering gateway, stable and glowing with promise.
Shiv's vision cleared, his ghostly form steady again. The old man tossed him a gleaming ring, its surface etched with faint, alien symbols. "This is your artifact" he said. "It holds your gifts. Now, I'll send you to your new world."
Shiv caught the ring, its weight surprising in his spectral hand. He looked at the old man, a flicker of gratitude in his eyes. "Thank you," he said. "For giving me… everything I asked for."
The old man's lips curved into a wry smile. "Don't thank me yet, . Your death was my error, a cosmic misstep. And the Marvel Universe? It's a crucible. Power like yours will draw eyes—heroes, monsters, gods. Be ready."
Shiv nodded, the ring warm against his ghostly fingers. He wasn't afraid. He'd spent his life chasing scraps of happiness. Now, as Clark Kent, he'd chase everything: strength, love, a legacy across worlds. He thought of the life ahead—flying under a yellow sun, facing threats like Thanos or Loki, building a family of partners, allies, and more.
A golden aura wrapped around him, warm and alive. The light grew brighter, fiercer, until it consumed him. In a flash, he was gone, hurtling toward the MCU, toward a life as Clark Kent, the Superman who'd rewrite the stars.
The old man watched until the last spark of Clark's soul vanished. He lingered a moment, his eyes on the gateway, then dissolved into the void. The golden field flickered, its ancient symbols fading, leaving only silence in the infinite black.