The rain fell—a rhythmic tapping against the windowpanes that pulled Aryan Spencer back from the veil of sleep. His mind feels buried under leagues of heavy. A dull throb pulsed behind his eyes, the kind of ache born from a slumber far too long and far too deep. When his eyelids finally fluttered open, he found a darkness so absolute it felt heavy.
He sat up with a start, the silk sheets rustling like a warning. Above him, the skeletal silhouettes of golden chandeliers hung from a vaulted ceiling, their crystals catching the grey light of the storm. The air was thick with the scent of sandalwood and old money. Marble floors stretched out from the mahogany bedposts, while heavy velvet curtains stifled the world beyond. Everything about the room screamed of a suffocating wealth.
Before he could draw a breath to call out, the world split open. A white-hot spike of agony driven into his skull forced a gasp from his lungs. He clutched his temples, fingers sinking into dark hair as a torrent of foreign memories surged into his mind. It was a film strip played at a thousand times its natural speed, searing itself into his grey matter.
Aryan Spencer. The name belonged to the boy whose body he now inhabited. A lonely life unfolded: an orphan adopted by a titan of industry, a grandfather who had molded him into an heir with the cold precision of a clockmaker. And then, the crushing silence of a week ago—the old man's death. The descent into the amber glow of whiskey bottles. The loneliness that had eventually snuffed out the original Aryan's soul, leaving a vacuum for a stranger to fill.
As the pain ebbed, the final piece of the puzzle clicked into place. This was a world he recognized from the fictions of his past. He knew the name Tony Stark as a headline, and as a billionaire. He knew Captain America wasn't a myth, but a ghost frozen in the ice of history.
It was 2008. The fuse of the world was about to be lit. Aryan exhaled, his breathing steadying. In this life, he was a ghost in a machine—an MIT graduate with a mind for code and a heart for solitude. At twenty-four, he presided over Umbrella, a software giant that was too clean, too quiet, and far too successful to stay beneath the radar.
Knock. Knock.
"Master Aryan," a voice drifted through the heavy oak door—impeccably British. "Breakfast is served in the morning room."
"Coming," Aryan replied.
He stood, testing his new limbs. There was no grief for his old life. He had built an empire once, only to watch the wolves of Wall Street tear it apart. He had died at twenty-five, drowning in the wreckage of his own ambition. But here, in a world of gods and celestial horrors, the rules were different.
The air suddenly shimmered. A translucent pane of light, drifted into his vision.
[Welcome to the True Creative System]
The knowledge flowed like cool water. He saw a dimension of grey fog where his word was law—a personal sanctuary where he was omnipresent and omnipotent. The catch, however, was as old as time.
Money.
The system demanded tribute. Gold or cold, hard currency could be transmuted into the power of gods. Epsilon-level gifts were a pittance, but the power to stand among the Omega? That carried a ten-billion-dollar price tag.
Aryan let out a bitter laugh. "Even in a world of magic, the ledger must balance."
After going through the system interface, everything felt absurdly expensive. In the end, he finally found something he could actually use—and with that decision, he made his first move. He watched as fifteen million dollars vanished from his account. In exchange for the Perfect Super Soldier Serum, a surge of heat erupted in his marrow. His bones sang; his muscles knit themselves into something denser, something perfect. When he finally looked into the mirror, a stranger looked back—a man with eyes like polished sapphires and a physique carved from marble.
The day passed in a blur of corporate artifice. While he was reviewing the company documents in his office at Umbrella, there was a knock on the door. The door opened, and someone walked in
"Good morning, sir. The quarterly projection notes are on your desk."
Aryan's pulse skipped. The woman standing there was professional. Sharon Carter. Agent 13. SHIELD was already at his doorstep. Why were the spies watching a software CEO?
That evening, behind locked doors, Aryan decided to stop being the prey. He closed his eyes and let his consciousness slip out of the physical world and into the grey.
He stood amidst an endless sea of rolling fog—a primordial place. A vast amount of knowledge flowed into my mind about my dimension. To help it grow, I would eventually need to consume other dimensions, but for now, it was a blank canvas. Through this dimension, He could grant others the powers he had purchased from the system. He remembered a story from his previous life—a tale of a fool who sat atop a throne of high sequences. A predatory smile touched his lips.
"Let's give them a myth to believe in," he whispered.
With a sweep of his hand. Titanic stone pillars erupted from the fog, supporting a dome that blotted out the void. A long table of mottled stone appeared, flanked by high-backed chairs that looked as though they had waited a thousand years. At the head of the hall, a throne rose, bathed in ethereal light.
Sefirah Castle.
He sat upon the cold stone, looking over his silent kingdom. He would invite the souls of heroes and villains. He would be the merchant of miracles in a world that was about to scream for them.
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