First POV
People say you only live once.
I think that's a lie.
When I was alive — the first time — I lived like most people. Wake up. Code until my eyes burned. Order takeout. Sleep. Repeat.
I wasn't rich, but I was… comfortable. Comfortable enough to never think about death.
Until death started thinking about me.
ALS. Three letters. One sentence: Your muscles will stop listening to you.
It didn't happen overnight. At first, it was little things — fumbling with my coffee mug, my fingers hesitating on the keyboard, my foot catching on a perfectly flat floor. Then the weakness spread like an invisible frost, numbing and stealing.
The doctor's words were calm, rehearsed. Mine weren't. I walked out of the hospital with a death sentence folded neatly in my pocket.
Here's the thing: the moment you know the clock is ticking, all the noise in your life… goes quiet.
No more "someday I'll take a trip." No more "I'll try that later." Later stops existing.
So I sold my apartment. Emptied my savings. Booked a ticket to anywhere my legs could still take me.
And so I walked.
Stone streets in Florence, where the buildings leaned like old friends whispering secrets.
Lantern-lit alleys in Kyoto, where rain polished the cobblestones until they shone like black glass.
The wind-swept cliffs of Ireland, where the ocean roared like it wanted to swallow the world.
I felt the sun in Morocco scorch my shoulders, and the ice in Antarctica sting my cheeks until I laughed through numb lips.
Every place I went, I took a piece of it with me. Not souvenirs — moments. The smell of fresh bread from a tiny Parisian bakery. The sound of a market in Marrakesh alive with bargaining voices. The way strangers in small towns smiled without expecting anything back.
But my body was a traitor. Each step grew slower, heavier. My legs became unreliable. My hands shook when I lifted a cup. Still, I kept going.
The last place on my list was a quiet beach in New Zealand. No landmarks. No tourists. Just a strip of sand where the waves rolled in lazy and unhurried.
The horizon was so wide, it felt like the edge of the world. The wind tasted of salt and possibility.
I sat there, toes buried in the sand, breathing in the scene as though I could store it inside me. My muscles ached. My chest felt tight. I knew this was it. The end of my list. The end of my body.
And I remember thinking… If I could walk forever, I'd never stop.
And then —
Darkness.
Third POV
A boy lay sprawled in the undergrowth of a dense forest, his clothes torn, skin pale, lips slightly parted. The body was barely eighteen, the skin still warm but the spirit gone.
Then — eyelids fluttered.
A breath caught.
And Elias Cross opened his eyes.
First POV
I gasped so hard my chest burned.
For a moment, I thought I was still dying. But the air that rushed into my lungs was sharp and clean. My hands clawed at damp soil — my hands. Steady. Strong. Not the trembling, pale things I'd gotten used to seeing.
I touched my face. Smooth skin. No stubble from three days of neglect. My legs… I could feel them. I pushed myself upright, heart hammering. No cane. No wobble. Just balance.
It felt like my body had been rebuilt from scratch, every muscle answering without hesitation. I wanted to laugh, scream, and run all at once. My pulse wasn't the weak thud of a dying man — it was the drumbeat of life.
Then… the memories hit.
Not mine — his.
They came in bursts, jagged and raw. A nameless boy, no parents, growing up on scraps. His earliest memory was of staring through a bakery window, stomach hollow, watching bread disappear into other people's hands. He worked where he could — carrying crates, cleaning floors, hauling water.
His world was small: dirt roads, market stalls, distant mountains. He'd heard whispers of sects — places where powerful people could crush stone with their bare hands or leap over rooftops — but he'd never seen them. That kind of life was too far away, like a story told to keep children quiet at night.
And just before he died? Pain in his chest. A stumble in the forest. Cold.
It wasn't much, but it was enough. Enough to tell me this wasn't Earth.
The air itself felt sharper, colors deeper. I'd never believed in magic, qi, cultivation — any of that. But here, the possibility hummed under my skin like a secret I'd always known.
I should've been afraid.
Instead, I felt like a kid standing before an unopened treasure chest.
I tilted my head back, staring through the canopy. The sky here… it wasn't the same blue as Earth. It was brighter, richer, like it had been painted fresh that morning. I clenched my fists, testing the strength in my arms, then took a step.
My step turned into a walk. My walk became a jog. The forest was alive with birdsong and the rustle of unseen creatures. Every sound, every scent was intoxicating.
Third POV
The trees gave way to rolling fields. A dirt road wound toward a small walled town in the distance, its gates standing open. Elias walked without hurry, savoring each step like a man tasting food after starving.
Too absorbed to notice, he never saw the shadow following him.
By the time he reached the gate, the watchers were already in place.
A rough hand clamped down on his shoulder. He turned — too slow. A blow caught him behind the ear, sending the world into a blur.
The last thing he saw before darkness swallowed him was the emblem stitched into the attacker's robe: the fanged wolf of the Iron Fang Sect.
First POV
When I woke again, the first thing I felt wasn't pain — it was the weight. Heavy, cold iron around my wrists.
Chains.