Akshran thought he'd control his death
The room was suffocating in its sterility—white walls, harsh fluorescent light, the faint, medicinal stench that clung to every surface. His arms strained against the leather restraints that cut into his wrists, but there was no escape. The metallic clang of the steel door echoed behind him, locking out whatever freedom existed beyond it. He could almost laugh at the absurdity.
They had him.
His breath was shallow, more out of exhaustion than fear. He had prepared for this moment, rehearsed every possible outcome in his mind, every move they might make. But now that it was happening, the futility of it all hit harder than any interrogation room ever could.
The glass panel on his left reflected his weary face—a face he barely recognized. Dark circles under his eyes, bruises on his cheekbones, the bloodshot whites betraying sleepless nights and endless questioning. He felt less like a criminal mastermind and more like an old dog waiting for the inevitable.
His ears picked up the faint murmur of voices behind the glass. Observers, studying him, deciding his fate. They had been watching him for days, waiting for him to break, to confess. It was almost amusing. What could he possibly confess to them that would make any difference? Akshran had no secrets left to give.
The door clicked open, the hinges groaning as if sharing in his resignation. Detective Greer strode in with that familiar look of smug satisfaction etched on his weathered face. Greer, who had spent his career chasing Akshran through every shadowy corner of the law, who had sacrificed his family, his health—everything—just to bring him down.
"Not so clever now, are you?" Greer sneered, circling the table slowly. "All those years pulling strings, playing your games. And here you are."
Akshran said nothing. His eyes followed Greer's slow movements, but his mind was elsewhere. They thought they had him, that they'd won. But they didn't know the truth—no one did.
"You were always one step ahead," Greer continued, leaning over the table, his breath hot and acrid. "You thought you could get away with it all. Thought you could outsmart everyone, even me."
Akshran's lips twitched, but the smile never formed. If only Greer knew. There were no games left. No more schemes, no more strings. Only this—cold, sterile inevitability.
Greer took something from his coat pocket, and Akshran's eyes locked on it. A small, sleek syringe filled with a thick, black liquid. It glistened ominously in the artificial light, and the room seemed to grow colder.
"This… is mercy," Greer said softly, holding the syringe between his fingers like a final judgment. "A quick end. Cleaner than what you deserve. But it's what the higher-ups want. No public trial, no media circus. Just silence. You'll disappear, just like that."
Akshran's heart raced, not from fear, but from the sudden realization that this was it. All the plans, all the contingencies, everything he had done—it led to this. A needle. An end. His pulse hammered in his ears, louder than Greer's words. He could feel the sweat running down his spine, the icy chill of impending death crawling across his skin.
Greer didn't wait for a response. He plunged the needle into Akshran's arm, the liquid burning as it flooded his veins. It was a sensation unlike anything Akshran had ever experienced. Fire. It raced through him, hot and consuming, spreading like molten lead from his arm to his chest, up to his throat. His breath hitched, and his muscles tensed against the restraints.
For a brief moment, panic clawed at him. Not fear—Akshran had faced death before—but something deeper, more primal. The loss of power.
His vision blurred. The room tilted, spinning wildly as the light above him flickered erratically, its harsh glare fading in and out like the last gasps of life. His chest tightened, each breath more shallow than the last, his lungs refusing to cooperate. Akshran gritted his teeth, refusing to give Greer the satisfaction of seeing him suffer.
But it was no use. His body was betraying him.
Greer's face swam before him, the edges of the detective's smirk fading into a distorted mess. Akshran tried to focus, tried to hold on to one last shred of clarity. But the darkness was creeping in from the edges of his vision, relentless and suffocating.
His hands twitched. His throat closed. The fire in his veins turned to ice.
'This is how it ends,' he thought. After everything.
As Akshran lay in his final moments, he thought, 'I dedicated my life to controlling every outcome—yet, somehow, I missed the one that mattered most.'
Each breath came with a stab of agony, each heartbeat a crushing weight. Death, it seemed, was not a gentle drifting away but a slow, relentless tearing. His chest burned, his vision dimmed, and his body betrayed him in the final act. A sharp, twisted grin might have passed over Greer's face if he were to watch—along with the smirks of many others who would delight in knowing Akshran was finally gone.
The faint spark of a question flickered in his mind, 'If given another chance… could I reach it?' But he dismissed it, as quickly as it came. 'Another life? A second chance? That mercy would never be offered to someone like me.'
"AKSHRAN!"
The voice echoed in his mind, loud and insistent, cutting through the fog of his thoughts like a sudden clap of thunder.
Akshran's eyes cracked open, his head leaden and the world around him a blur. Thoughts swirled sluggishly, grasping for clarity. 'Am I dead?' The question echoed faintly before doubt crept in. 'No… this isn't death.' The unfamiliar weight of the air told him otherwise.
His hands caught his attention first. They seemed smaller, less familiar. 'This isn't my body.' The thought came sharply as he studied them. He shifted his gaze and took in the room around him.
It was a classroom. Wooden desks arranged in neat rows, faint sunlight spilling in through the windows, and a chalkboard at the front. A woman stood before him, glaring, her posture rigid with annoyance.
"Get out of this class right now, Akshran!" she shouted, her voice carrying the unmistakable authority of a teacher who had run out of patience.
Her hair, stark white and tied neatly, framed a face that looked like it belonged to someone much younger. Her sharp gray eyes were locked onto him, her expression severe. Though her appearance might have drawn attention from anyone else, Akshran didn't care.
The other students were watching him, some barely suppressing their laughter while others whispered loudly enough for him to hear. "What a loser," someone said, a smirk audible in their voice. The words rolled off him. His mind was elsewhere, racing to process what had just happened.
Memories—strange and fragmented—poured into him. His thoughts split into two distinct streams, one belonging to a life he had lived for 29 years and another to this unfamiliar world of a teenager. He separated them with an efficiency that even he found surprising, sorting through the confusion in moments.
Then something strange caught his eye. Small, almost invisible spheres of light floated toward him, shimmering faintly before merging with his skin.
'What are these?' he wondered, though the answer wasn't immediately clear. What he did know was that with every orb that entered his body, he felt stronger, sharper.
'So, I'm Akshran. Twenty-nine in my old life, and sixteen now,' he thought, piecing it together. His focus was broken by the sound of movement—his teacher stepping toward him. She raised her hand, and before he even realized what was happening, he ducked.
The room fell silent.
"What?" a student whispered, the disbelief palpable.
"He dodged Miss Seraphina's slap?" another voice said, tinged with shock.
The victory, if it could be called that, was short-lived. Seraphina grabbed him firmly and, with a strength that seemed impossible for her size, hauled him toward the door and pushed him out into the hallway before he could react.
Now standing outside the classroom, Akshran steadied himself, his heart still racing. He could hear the muffled laughter of his classmates through the closed door.
'Seraphina White. A strict teacher.' The name came to him from the teenager's memories. 'She already didn't like him—lazy and inattentive, a troublemaker. And now I've stepped into his mess.'
He shook his head, leaning against the wall as he tried to take stock of his situation. His hands still trembled slightly from the encounter with Seraphina's strength, but his thoughts were already shifting elsewhere. 'What kind of world is this? And how did I get here?'
The name of the planet floated unbidden into his mind—Elpium. It settled there, strange yet familiar, as if whispered from a half-forgotten dream.
The memories of this body rose like smoke from a dying fire, faint and fragmented, but persistent. He saw a small, bustling village, its name etched into his consciousness: Greenfield. Rows of simple wooden houses dotted the northern landscape, surrounded by rolling hills and the constant chatter of farmers. A young boy ran barefoot through the muddy paths, laughter echoing as he chased a flock of startled chickens.
'This boy's name is Akshran too?' he thought, a chill crawling up his spine. 'That's no coincidence. Something's amiss.'
Flashes of a world unlike anything he had known burst into focus. Crystalline rivers that shimmered with unnatural hues. Towering mountains where lightning split the sky in vibrant colors. And everywhere—magic, alive and thrumming through the air like the low hum of a tuning fork.
Resonance, the word seemed to hum in his thoughts. He could feel it, a pulse in his veins, like a second heartbeat. Images of swirling lights and shadowy figures filled his mind, illusions manifested into reality. This magic was his—a power to deceive the eyes and shape perception.
The memory of another's voice drifted to him, clear as if spoken beside him: "Resonance is the magic you are most aligned with. The one that echoes within you."
In this world, strength was defined by stages, and the name of one's Resonance was a badge of honor. Most were at the Adept Stage, the second of nine stages, where magical power began to take shape. And this boy—this Akshran—was already ahead of his peers, sitting comfortably in the middle of Stage 2 while others struggled to climb past the early steps.
Another scene unfolded. He saw himself—or rather, this body—standing in a grand hall, parchment in hand, as results were announced. Whispers filled the room like the rustling of dry leaves. Rank 28. He barely scraped into Class S, the elite circle reserved for only the top 30. Cheers erupted from some, envious glares from others.
'This kid's a prodigy,' Akshran thought, a slow smirk creeping across his face. 'Perfect written tests, physical scores to match. The boy learned in days what others couldn't in months.'
His musings were interrupted when a figure brushed past him, a senior with red-rimmed eyes and a heavy step. The air around the person shimmered, and a dark, swirling orb followed closely, pulsing like a living thing. As the orb neared Akshran, it lunged, colliding with him like a crashing wave.
A surge of alien emotions struck him—humiliation, heartbreak, and anger. Images flashed before his eyes: a rejected confession, mocking laughter from a crowd of peers, and the sharp sting of shame. Akshran clenched his fists as the memories burned their way into his mind.
'They're not mine. These are his memories,' he realized, steadying himself. Yet, as quickly as they came, they faded, leaving behind something unexpected.
Power.
It coursed through him, unrelenting, sharpening his senses and making his body feel alive in a way it hadn't moments before. His eyes widened as the realization struck. 'These orbs—they hold strength. And I can absorb them.'
His mind reeled with the possibilities. With each orb, he could grow stronger. 'One man's trash, another man's treasure,' he thought, a sly grin playing at his lips.
The hour passed like sand slipping through an hourglass. The classroom door creaked open, and Seraphina White stepped out, her gaze slicing toward him like a blade. She didn't need to say a word; the cold fury in her eyes was enough.
When she disappeared down the hallway, Akshran walked back into the room. Conversations hushed. Heads turned. Eyes followed him, brimming with disdain and mockery. The unspoken judgment in their stares was louder than any words.
But Akshran simply shrugged it off, slipping into his seat. 'Let them talk. The dogs may bark, but the caravan moves on.'
The corner of his lips twitched into a smirk. There were bigger things to think about. Much bigger.