[2023 AD, Chelsea, New York City]
"Peace, No War! Peace, No War!"
The chants outside John's small, dimly lit apartment, dragging him out of his restless sleep.
The muffled shouts of protesters reverberated through the thin walls, their voices a constant reminder of the chaos outside.
"What kind of bullshit is it this time?"
John muttered under his breath, his voice groggy, one eye barely open as he propped himself up on an elbow, massaging his weary eye lids.
Protests like this had become a staple of life in the heart of New York City. Over the past year, they'd grown in size and frequency, as global tensions spiraled into uncertainty.
Around the world, nations quarreled endlessly—over what, exactly?
Resources.
For over a decade, disputes over dwindling supplies had escalated into full-blown conflicts. The tipping point came fast, the unrest spreading like wildfire.
Governments toppled, one after another, plunging entire regions into dystopian chaos—a level of collapse unseen in the history of humankind.
Even this country, once a global superpower, had not been spared. Once the stabilizing force of the world, its own walls had crumbled as the end times drew closer, an unstoppable tide battering at its gates.
The room carried the weight of sorrow, its faded wallpaper curling at the edges like a forgotten memory.
From the streets below, the noise of protesters seeped through the cracks, an unrelenting reminder of the life John couldn't outrun—no matter how many walls he tried to put between himself and the world.
Another day had arrived, dragging with it the same suffocating desolation and the slow-creeping anxiety that gnawed at him from the inside out.
The world outside was hell, but John's life? That was hell in its purest form.
Since the unrest began, his job had been one of many casualties. Laid off, discarded, forgotten. Unemployment in a city like this was a death sentence—a slow, bitter decay where hope unraveled with each passing day.
"Let hell break loose for all I care," John muttered under his breath.
The bed creaked loudly as he swung his legs over the edge, finally forcing himself to stand. His body felt heavy, as if weighed down by the very air in the room. He shuffled toward the bathroom, his steps sluggish, ready to face another day that promised no more than the last.
In this world—no, in this life—John was always alone.
No family to lean on. Well, technically, he had a family, but not the kind anyone would envy. They weren't warm or supportive—just a cold, distant presence that had always left him feeling lukewarm at best.
And friends? They were long gone, one by one disappearing as the world became increasingly unpredictable. The instability that had uprooted his life had claimed theirs too, leaving nothing behind but fading memories.
John had long accepted the harsh, unyielding reality of life. It was cruel, indifferent, and merciless. But he never complained. He never rebelled. To him, railing against something so vast, so insurmountable, was a battle already lost. Why fight a tide you can't hope to stop?
On the dusty bookshelf in the corner of his apartment stood the relics of his abandoned dreams. A stack of books, untouched for years, and a framed certificate, its once-proud lettering now faded. Those were the remnants of a path he had once believed in—dreams, pain, and achievements all shelved away like forgotten artifacts of another life.
Every day had been a struggle. Every moment, a fight against a future that shackled him like a slave.
For years, John braved the harshness of the world alone. He worked tirelessly—earning a degree, graduating, and stepping into the role of what society might have once called "a valuable citizen." He built himself up, one brick at a time, hoping to construct something that resembled stability.
But it was all for nothing. Life had other plans.
As the saying goes, "Life hits you hardest when you least expect it." And for John, the blows came one after another. Trying to live a decent life in a world falling apart was like building a house on sand; it didn't matter how carefully you laid the foundation. The moment the winds picked up, everything collapsed, reduced to the very dust it stood upon.
Despite having living parents, John had grown up feeling as though he didn't. Neglected and forgotten, he had come to terms with the fact that he was no different from an orphan. There was no love, no support—just the gnawing absence of it.
And so, he struck out on his own, chasing that ever-elusive "American Dream." He had given it his all, clinging to the hope that his hard work might lead to something meaningful, something better.
But now? What dream? What future?
The world was dying, and John could feel it in every breath, in every passing second. Time would be the only judge of whether all his effort had been in vain. But deep down, he already knew the answer.
As John sat lost in thought, the weight of everything he'd endured pressed down on him, heavier than ever. He'd spent years clawing and fighting just to stay afloat, and yet here he was—exactly where he started, as if his life were running in circles. The numbness he'd come to rely on crept in again, dulling the edges of his despair.
His eyes wandered to the bookshelf, where the thick dust coated forgotten volumes—just like the dreams he had shelved long ago. Unable to look at them for long, he tilted his head back, staring blankly at the cracked ceiling.
A faint scent of mildew hung in the air, the unspoken language of neglect. Even the apartment seemed to sigh with him, its walls sagging under the weight of weariness, sharing his exhaustion.
Freshly washed but no less tired, John shuffled out of the bathroom and into the kitchen. If it could even be called a kitchen—it was more like a cramped corner with a sink, a stove, and clutter. Crumbs from old meals and a small pile of unwashed dishes greeted him like unwelcome reminders of his dwindling resources.
Food was scarce, as always. It had been days since he last ate properly, but what could he do? Jobless, broke, hopeless—he had little choice but to endure. His stomach growled loudly, the sound like distant thunder in the quiet room.
If only he could swallow the whole world, maybe that would fix things. The thought was ridiculous, but hunger had a way of making absurdity feel logical.
"Another day, another life to live," John muttered, his voice flat and hollow. The words felt more like an old chant than anything meaningful—a ritual performed without faith.
He caught his reflection in the cracked mirror above the sink. The face staring back at him looked like a stranger. His hollow eyes, dark with fatigue, spoke volumes: they told the story of a man who had long since lost his purpose.
He turned away from the mirror and drifted back into his routine, though "routine" was a generous word for it. Life, to him, had become little more than empty motions. He powered up his computer and sat in front of the flickering screen.
The screen offered no solace, only a fragile barrier between him and the reality he couldn't escape. He scrolled aimlessly through the internet, letting the endless stream of information wash over him.
The protests outside raged against war, against destruction, against the chaos swallowing the world whole. But inside, John faced a quieter, more insidious battle—a battle fought within the walls of his mind, a battle no picket sign or chant could fix.
When the computer finally booted, he did what he always did: scoured news articles about the state of the world.
"What's the world come to…?" he muttered, skimming the headlines. He read about failing governments, natural disasters, and rising conflict.
With a tired sigh, he leaned back in his chair. "Then again… who am I to complain?"
The world outside mirrored his own turmoil—both had unraveled into madness. And really, how could he be surprised anymore?
Hours passed as he scrolled, his interest in the news fading into numb apathy. He started browsing for something—anything—to fill the time. Eventually, he stumbled upon something that caught his attention.
A game.
"Hmm… this looks interesting," he murmured, clicking on it.
The game was called Imperium. The description was simple: "Be the Emperor that changes the fate of a dying empire."
"That's it?" John frowned. The tagline was bare-bones, almost lazy. Intrigued, he scrolled further down, reading the reviews.
They were a train wreck—overwhelmingly negative. No wonder it hadn't appeared on any recommendation lists. And yet, somehow, here it was, buried in the algorithm, waiting for someone like him to stumble across it.
He skimmed the reviews, his lips twitching in faint amusement:
-"So hard it made my 'little brother' cry. What the hell is wrong with this game? It's unplayable!"
-"What kind of crap is this? Full of bugs and broken mechanics. Did the dev give up on life and decide to torture the rest of us?"
-"The world's really ending, huh? Even the devs are putting out their suicide notes disguised as games."
-"Why is there no character customization? Why am I stuck being the idiot emperor of some garbage empire?"
John let out a low chuckle despite himself. The bitterness in the reviews was oddly entertaining. It felt like the reviewers were speaking directly to him, their complaints echoing his own frustrations with life.
"A broken game for a broken world," he muttered under his breath. The absurdity of it all wasn't lost on him.
Still, there was something about it that intrigued him. Perhaps it was the sheer hopelessness of the premise—leading a dying empire sounded depressingly familiar. Or maybe it was the simple promise in its tagline: "Be the Emperor that changes the fate of a dying empire."
A faint glimmer of curiosity stirred in his chest, and for the first time in a long time, he felt the slightest pull of interest.
"Changing fate, huh?" he chuckled weakly, the sound barely audible over the hum of his computer.
"Might as well try to be an Emperor than a bum in this godforsaken world."
Without hesitation, John clicked the download button. It wasn't a decision so much as an impulse—a way to pass the time. The site hosting the game was sketchy, riddled with pop-ups and warnings, but he didn't care. Pirating the game didn't bother him in the slightest. What choice did he have? No job, no money—legal entertainment was a luxury he couldn't afford.
As the download bar crept closer to completion, he stared blankly at the screen, his chin resting on his hand. A trickle away from 100%, the progress bar stuttered, and then—
CRASH.
The sound shattered the stillness of his apartment, making him jump in his seat. His heart raced, and he whipped his head around, searching for the source of the noise.
"What the hell—"
BOOM.
The explosion tore through the room, ripping apart reality itself. The force of it sent him hurtling backward, his body crashing to the floor. He didn't have time to scream, to process, to feel. The world around him dissolved in an instant, swallowed by an overwhelming void.
And then—silence.
Floating.
Nothingness.
John found himself adrift in an endless expanse of darkness, weightless and untethered, like a ghost cut loose from the world of the living. There were no walls, no ceiling, no light—just an infinite black canvas that stretched in all directions.
Confusion rippled through him, but it was muted, distant. His mind felt sluggish, dulled by the suddenness of it all. Gone were the faint sounds of the city—the hum of protests, the distant sirens, the chatter of life. They had been replaced by an eerie calmness that enveloped him completely.
The bustling chaos of the world he had known was gone, extinguished in a single instant. In its place was the quiet vastness of nothing.
He drifted, directionless, his thoughts scattering like ashes in the wind. The explosion had erased everything: his apartment, his computer, his meager existence. Whatever small flame of life he had left had been snuffed out, leaving only this—this empty void.
It was as if the universe itself had swallowed him whole, erasing every trace of the man he used to be.
For the first time, John felt his own insignificance, a speck of dust lost in the endless expanse of the cosmos. He had always suspected his life meant nothing, but now the truth of it pressed down on him like a weightless gravity.
Was this the end?
He floated in the void, his mind spinning, yet oddly detached. There was no pain, no panic—only a surreal sense of resignation. What was there to mourn? His life had been hollow, a string of meaningless days tied together by fleeting moments of hope that had long since burned out.
This, he realized, was the culmination of everything he had cultivated: nothing.
The thought didn't spark anger or regret, just a dull acceptance.
He couldn't remember how or why he had died—it didn't matter. Whether it was an accident or something more deliberate, the outcome was the same. He was dead. He knew it instinctively. There was no denying it, not when surrounded by this infinite blackness.
John hovered in the silence, suspended in desolation. The void pressed against him, yet it didn't feel suffocating—it felt final.
"If there's a God," he muttered into the emptiness, his voice barely a whisper, "send me to hell. Or… wherever I deserve to be."
The words hung in the air, unanswered.
Resignation. That's all he had left. He had given up long before this moment, and now that it had come, what else was there to feel?
He closed his eyes—not that it made a difference in the endless dark—and let himself drift.
As John drifted aimlessly through the endless void, his formless existence felt weightless, empty. Yet something began to shift. A force—unseen and unrelenting—grabbed hold of him, dragging him forward against his will.
The sensation was bizarre, like searing agony without actual pain, an ache that existed beyond his physical body. He gritted what might have been his ethereal teeth, a reflex born of the life he'd left behind. Then, just as suddenly as it had started, the "pain" subsided, leaving only silence.
In the distance, a faint flicker of light appeared. It shimmered, fragile at first, but grew steadily brighter, larger. It was moving toward him—or was he moving toward it? John couldn't tell. The darkness peeled away like curtains drawn back on a stage, revealing the brilliance of the light. It swelled until it threatened to consume him entirely.
Curiosity mingled with confusion as the light began to shift, taking on an almost mesmerizing form. He couldn't describe it—there was no shape, no figure, but something about it radiated presence. Then, from within the glow, a voice emerged.
"Alas, a poor soul wandering in this empty space of nothingness…"
The voice was soothing, melodic, and reverberated through the now-bright void. Though John no longer had a body, his senses seemed sharper, more attuned. Somehow, his mind—or whatever he had left of it—felt connected to the presence that spoke.
"Who are you? Are you God?" John tried to scream, but no sound escaped his lips. Strangely, though, he could feel his thoughts projecting outward, as if the voice could hear him without the need for words.
"In sorrow and despair, you arrive," the voice replied, ignoring John's question. Its tone wasn't dismissive but knowing, almost sympathetic. "Death without understanding, life without purpose… such is your plight."
The voice paused, as if weighing its next words carefully.
"You do not know why you are here, do you? Something is missing, something you seek, even if you do not realize it. I came to offer you… an opportunity."
John's skepticism flared. The voice's tone reminded him of a merchant peddling cheap goods to a desperate passerby. His frustration boiled over.
"What is that supposed to mean?" he snapped, his thoughts sharp and angry.
"Better yet, if you're really God or whatever you claim to be, just send me to Hell. Or erase me completely—end this whole farce! I'd rather be nothing than live another life in a world no different from hell on Earth."
His words carried a strange conviction, a resolve he hadn't realized he possessed. It was almost ironic—he had lacked this kind of certainty in life, yet here in death, he was resolute. But perhaps that's what death did: stripped away the pretenses, leaving only the raw truth of what you'd always carried inside.
John's ethereal form trembled, though he had no physical body to shake. He could still feel his heart—or the memory of it—pounding in his chest, erratic and wild. His mind raced, struggling to comprehend the situation or the being that now addressed him.
"I understand your pain," the voice said, calm and unwavering. "I have been watching you all this time."
"If you really understand me," John began, his anger bubbling, "why haven't you done any—"
The voice interrupted him, its words cutting through his thoughts like a blade.
"You have been given opportunities," it said firmly. "You possess qualities that could serve a higher purpose. The world you knew is but one of countless possibilities. You see only despair because you refuse to look beyond it."
The cryptic explanation left John more frustrated than before. Emotions churned within him, chaotic and unnamed. He couldn't describe what he was feeling—words felt inadequate, as if this existence defied the limits of language.
His whole life, he had believed himself insignificant, a footnote in a cruel, uncaring world. Yet now, here he was, being told he had potential. A purpose.
"I can offer you a chance," the voice continued, softer now. "A chance to begin anew. To shape a different path. Because, despite what you believe, you are deserving of this gift."
John hesitated. A part of him wanted to scream, to lash out, to reject everything this being was saying. But deep down—buried beneath years of cynicism and hopelessness—something stirred. A tiny spark. A longing for change, for something better. Maybe it had always been there, even when he'd tried to bury it.
"Why me?" he whispered into the void, his thoughts trembling.
The voice didn't answer directly. Its final words were fragmented, as if fading even as it spoke:
"Use it well… this chance… and… find… hope… gain…"
The light began to shift, pulsing with energy. The presence began to recede, its form unraveling like smoke in the wind.
"Wait—what does that mean?" John's thoughts screamed after it, but it was too late. The voice was gone.
Left alone once more, John's frustration bubbled to the surface, but there was nowhere to direct it. He hovered in the glowing void, his anger giving way to resignation.
"Fine," he muttered bitterly. "Let's see this life you want me to live so badly."
The light around him grew blinding, wrapping him in its warmth. For the first time, he didn't resist. Cautiously, he let himself be engulfed by it, a small flicker of hope sparking within him despite his reservations.
If this was a new beginning, he would face it—begrudgingly, perhaps, but he would face it nonetheless.
The darkness ebbed away, and the light swallowed him whole.
--------------
As consciousness slowly returned to him, John was immediately struck by a strange, alien sensation. It wasn't just the unfamiliarity of his surroundings—it was his very being that felt foreign.
He could sense his arms and legs moving, but they were weak, uncoordinated, and clumsy. He felt like a newborn.
Because he was one.
His eyes remained tightly shut, denying him the gift of sight, but his other senses were gradually awakening. Voices murmured all around him, accompanied by the shuffling of footsteps and the rhythmic sounds of breathing. A faint but fragrant scent wafted through the air, and soft hands gently lifted his frail, newborn body.
"Waaawaaawaaa!"
John tried to speak, to demand an explanation, but all that escaped his lips were nonsensical cries. The absurdity of it hit him immediately: he couldn't form words because his mouth, his vocal cords, his entire body—they were that of a baby.
What the hell is going on?!
Even without the gift of sight, John sensed something significant was happening. The atmosphere buzzed with an energy he couldn't ignore.
Through his confusion, joyous cries rose around him, a crescendo of celebration that filled the room as if marking the arrival of someone monumental.
"Did I… get born into some kind of nobility or something?" John's thoughts raced as he tried to process what little he could comprehend.
Then came the voices—exuberant, powerful, and strange.
"Δόξα τω Θεώ και τη Ευλογημένη Παρθένο Μαρία. Ένα παιδί γεννήθηκε σε εμάς· ένα αγόρι. Ένα αγόρι γεννήθηκε σε πορφύρα, από τον Βασιλέα μας. Ένα αγόρι γεννήθηκε. Ένας διάδοχος για τον αυτοκρατορικό θρόνο του Ρωμαϊκού Αυτοκρατορικού."
The words were utterly foreign to him, flowing like a melody he couldn't decipher. But even without understanding their meaning, he could feel their gravity. The reverence in the voices, the cadence of the language—it spoke of significance, of destiny.
"What language is this?" John wondered.
His confusion only deepened as the realization struck him like a lightning bolt. Fragments of knowledge he hadn't possessed before—details, dates, and names—flooded his mind.
"John VIII Palaiologos? THE John VIII Palaiologos?"
The name resonated within him, sparking both recognition and disbelief. He could hardly believe it. Yet, the memories embedded themselves into his thoughts with unnerving certainty.
He wasn't just anyone. He had been reborn as John VIII Palaiologos, a pivotal figure from history. Born on December 17, 1392, in Constantinople, the capital of the Byzantine Empire. The son of Emperor Manuel II Palaiologos and Empress Helena Dragas.
The significance of his new identity sent a shiver through him. He was the heir to the throne of the crumbling Eastern Roman Empire, a man who had been fated to inherit a dying world beset by the rising threat of the Ottoman Empire.
The weight of this realization pressed down on him like an iron crown. In his previous life, he had been powerless and inconsequential, a nobody in a decaying world. Now, he had been given the chance to rewrite history itself. But could he bear the burden of an empire teetering on the brink of collapse?
Gentle hands carried him away from the jubilant crowd, giving him a moment of solitude. He longed to open his eyes, to see the faces of those celebrating his birth, but his newborn body denied him even that.
"This makes sense," John thought, "newborns can't see clearly right after birth. But still… how ridiculous is this?"
A faint chuckle escaped his mind, though his tiny body only emitted a small coo in response.
"Hahaha… This is way different from all those reincarnation novels I read. Experiencing it myself? It's actually… depressing."
John let the thoughts swirl in his head as he tried to make sense of it all. The celebration, the foreign language, the fragments of historical knowledge—it all pointed to one unbelievable truth.
Was this a dream? Was it real? Was the entity from the void truly God?
The memory of that voice, cryptic and otherworldly, sent a shiver down his spine. If it was God, what had He planned for him?
"Did I really die in New York? And now… I'm this?"
The questions came faster than he could process them, a chaotic storm swirling in his tiny mind. Yet, amidst the confusion, a strange sense of hope flickered.
This wasn't just a new life—it was a second chance.
In his past life, John had felt trapped by the weight of circumstances beyond his control. But here? He was reborn as an emperor, someone who held the power to shape the world. This time, he wouldn't let despair or failure consume him.
"The Byzantine Empire is dying, huh?" he thought, his tiny fists clenching instinctively. "Fine. Let's change that."
He swore to himself, silently and fiercely, as the hands carrying him gently placed him down.
"This time, I won't squander my chance. I'll become the emperor this empire needs. I'll rewrite its destiny."
Though his body was frail, his determination burned brighter than ever. He had been given a chance to defy fate itself, and he wouldn't waste it.
Thus began the journey of John VIII Palaiologos, a man reborn into history. His path would be fraught with trials, as he faced insurmountable challenges and carried the weight of a dying empire.
But for now, he remained a newborn, listening to the echoes of celebration and determination in his tiny heart. His odyssey had only just begun.