The world burned. But this time, it wasn't his fault.
In his past life, the mercenary had been a man of action—an agent of chaos. Blood spilled at his command, enemies vanquished at the tip of a blade, always for the highest bidder, never for justice. Power, wealth, and survival had been his only concerns. Yet, as his body lay shattered in the aftermath of his final job, his heart pumping its last in a cold, unforgiving world, he thought perhaps it had been worth it. He had been the one in control, after all.
But now, as his mind snapped back into focus, he was no longer the man he used to be.
The first thing he noticed was the pain. Not the bone-deep ache of a mercenary's life, but a gnawing, invasive force that struck at his core. It felt like his very essence was being tugged on by invisible strings. The second thing was the unfamiliar weight of his own body.
He stood up, but the surroundings were wrong. A metallic gleam surrounded him, strange equipment, flashing lights, and futuristic tech stretching out into the unknown. He tried to gather his bearings, but the only thing that greeted him was the sound of a voice.
"Welcome to your new life, Mercenary."
The voice was ethereal, calm, but powerfully resonant. It seemed to echo from all around him, yet there was no visible source. It was like the voice of the universe itself, speaking directly to his soul.
"You have been reborn," it continued. "And you will serve a new purpose. The karma of your past actions demands it."
Karma. He had heard of it—had dismissed it, used it as a justification for his violent choices. It was a concept for the weak, the ones who couldn't seize power. But now, it hung over him like a shadow he couldn't outrun.
"You possess the combined powers of two great heroes from this world."
He blinked as his vision sharpened, and he saw what the voice meant. His arms rippled with muscle, strength coursing through him like a flood. He flexed his fingers and saw his hands, now larger, more solid—his body, now more resilient than humanly possible, screamed with the energy of raw potential. And the power… It was beyond anything he'd known, even in his former life.
"The powers of Mark Grayson and Kon-El, two beings whose might rival the gods themselves. You will use these gifts for the betterment of this world—or face the consequences of your actions."
He looked down at his chest, his breath quickening. The costume was unfamiliar, but the logo, the S emblem, glinted like a beacon. He recognized it—the symbol of a hero.
"I never asked for this," he grumbled to the disembodied voice, the same cynical attitude he had carried into every battle. "I was fine with the way things were. Power is about survival, not heroics."
"That may have been your belief before," the voice intoned. "But no longer. The balance has shifted, and now you must walk the path of redemption. Your actions will either lift you to heroism or drag you into a new hell. The choice is no longer yours to make."
He growled, frustrated. "So, I'm being forced into this? Forced to be a hero?"
"Not forced, but guided." The voice softened, almost pitying. "You may choose to resist, but the more you fight the pull of your karma, the more the consequences will weigh on you. The universe will correct your wrongs through your actions."
His fists clenched as his frustration mounted. It didn't matter that he was stronger than anyone in the world—he had no control over this. He felt the tug on his soul again, like an invisible leash around his neck. His anger surged, but with it, he knew—he couldn't escape. Not unless he wanted to fall into something worse than what he had been before.
"This world is full of threats," the voice continued. "You will encounter them soon enough. Protect those in need, and you may find peace. Fail, and you will be judged."
He stepped forward, his boots leaving indents in the metal floor beneath him. As he glanced around, a voice broke through his thoughts—a loud, commanding voice, alerting him to an incoming attack.
"Another one... already?" he muttered, eyeing the monitors flickering to life, showing a massive, hulking figure in the distance, moving with a terrifying velocity. "Fine," he said, his jaw tightening. "Let's see how much heroism I can muster."
The man who had been a mercenary, ruthless and calculating, now stood at the precipice of a new life—forced into a role of heroism by forces he couldn't control. The weight of the S symbol on his chest felt heavier with each passing second.
And so, the reluctant hero would begin his journey, fighting not just enemies, but the very fate that had been thrust upon him.