Martel DaCosta had never believed in gods...not really. Not in the worship-every-Sunday sense, not in the blood-for-power fantasy tropes either. Sure, he read about them. Hell, he'd consumed every line of Percy Jackson, argued online over Hades Game vs Lore Olympus, and devoured enough anime to debate whether Gilgamesh could beat Anos Voldigoad in a fair fight. But belief? Nah. He was a technician, a man of machines and manuals, someone who appreciated the clean hum of an engine and the quiet life of potted plants on his windowsill.
It was ironic, then, that he died because of something as chaotic as a truck tire explosion.
It happened on a day like any other. A delivery truck speeding too fast. Tires worn thin like a bad decision. One moment, Martel was humming an old indie tune under his breath, thinking about whether to rewatch Mushoku Tensei, and the next—
BANG.
The tire blew.
The truck swerved.
And Martel... didn't move in time.
There were no dramatic slow-mo screams, no music, no final regrets. Just a sharp crack of bone, the flash of white light, and then—nothing.
When Martel opened his eyes again, he wasn't on a hospital bed, or floating in some cheesy heaven.
He was in a void.
Pitch black.
Not the absence of light—the absence of existence.
No floor, no sky, no walls, no direction. Just a drifting, heavy silence.
He blinked.
Then blinked again.
"…well, shit," he muttered. "Truck-kun strikes again."
A beat passed.
He chuckled. "I can't believe that's how I go. Twenty-three years old, barely made it through the rent hike, didn't finish rewatching Jujutsu Kaisen, and this is my afterlife?"
His voice echoed oddly, not in space, but inside himself. As if the void consumed his words rather than carried them.
Martel folded his arms across his chest (or tried to, he had no body here—just awareness). "Okay. This better not be some reincarnation game where I come back as a slime or a vending machine. I'm not cut out for harem chaos."
And that's when the presence came.
It wasn't light. It wasn't from. It was awareness — so vast, so ancient, that it made time itself feel like a toddler playing with stones.
It was like staring into something older than the gods.
"You jest well... Martel DaCosta."
The voice vibrated through him, resonating across memory, bloodline, and something deeper—soulstuff.
"You float now in the place that was before all places.
I am Chaos.
Khaos.
The Gap.
The Womb of the First Silence."
Martel didn't flinch. (Not that he had eyelids or skin to flinch with.)
"…Khaos? As in the primordial Chaos from Greek myth?"
"Correct."
"…not gonna lie, your voice is terrifying. Like Morgan Freeman dipped in thunder and despair."
"I shall take that as praise."
The void pulsed faintly, as if laughing.
-----
"You died. Not by fate. Not by divine wrath. But by chance—
—and chance is my playground."
"I offer you something rare.
A legacy... rekindled.
Pan, god of the Wild, of Nature, of Spirits and Flocks, has faded.
Not perished. Not slain.
He let go."
Martel went quiet. "He died?"
"He returned to me. As all Primordial truths do when forgotten.
The gods call it fading. I call it completion."
A flicker of light appeared. It wasn't real light—it was memory. A sensation. A final whisper of a being that had once danced with nymphs and made forests quake.
"But Pan... left a will. Not in words. In essence. A final desire.
'Let someone else walk the Wild. Someone born from the World That Came After.'
You are chosen."
Martel blinked (again, metaphorically).
"…you want me to be Pan."
"An incarnation. Not a copy. You will retain his memories.
But you will be you.
The question is... what will you become?"
Martel took a long metaphysical breath. He drifted in the endless silence for what felt like a lifetime. Then:
"…Can I make a few requests?"
Chaos paused.
"...Speak."
-----
Martel began to pace—not physically, but mentally. The void bent to his thoughts.
"I've read enough to know Pan's domain was amazing but limited. Trees, animals, flutes... that's great. But he lacked vision. He didn't evolve. He let his domain shrink with civilization instead of adapting. Nature didn't die—it changed. Cities have wild places."
"Continue."
"I want the power of Disaster—from Seven Deadly Sins. The ability to control the growth and decay of life. I want to amplify disease, wither forests, or bloom them anew. Pan should've always been able to do that."
"That is within his possible scope. Granted."
"I also want the power set of Zagan from Magi. Biological manipulation, floral puppetry, nature-based constructs—not just controlling nature but building with it. Crafting forests like cities."
"Also within his limits.
Granted."
Martel smirked.
"And one more thing—are there fae, elves, or fairy folk outside of Odin and Oberon's courts?"
Chaos rumbled thoughtfully.
"Yes. Scattered. Lost. Forgotten by the modern gods. Unruled.
You may seek them. If you survive long enough."
Martel tilted his head.
"Good. Because I think Pan's biggest failure was fear. He saw his domains as fragile. But the Wild isn't fragile. It's chaotic, it's untamed, and it adapts or devours. He couldn't protect the Wild because he was trying to keep it small. I won't make that mistake."
There was a long silence. Then the void shook—as if the core of existence laughed.
"Then go, Martel.
Be Pan.
The one who does not fade.
The one who does not fear change.
The one who rules the Wild not by blood... but by will."
The presence receded. The void cracked.
Martel felt himself falling upward, dissolving not into nothing—but into possibility.
And then...
Darkness.
Silence.
Rebirth.
Chaos whispered one last time before sleep took it once more:
"Let us see... what kind of god you make."