'Hmm… Let me fix one more thing for you,' Octavian mused, his golden eyes glowing faintly as they pierced the boundaries of space and time like a kid poking holes in cling wrap. Yeah, bro could casually shatter universal laws just by looking at them.
With a single, elegant snap of his fingers, time rewound in the timeline where his past self—his "filthy monkey version," as he preferred to call it—was fumbling about.
The TVA squad, with their pompous attitudes and tragic lack of survival instincts, vanished like they'd never existed. Everything reset to a moment before their humiliating entrance.
"This should do," Octavian murmured, his voice smooth and unbothered, as a faint smile played on his lips. It was the kind of smile that could send chills down spines—equal parts angelic and utterly diabolical.
He leaned back, his glowing golden eyes lazily observing the chaos unfolding far below.
'Hmm… who would win? Green potato or the god of flickering lights?' Octavian thought, watching two towering figures clashing in a battle that could level mountains. Thor, the so-called god of thunder, and Hulk, the indestructible green rage monster, were going at it like rival siblings fighting over the last slice of pizza.
Despite the impressive spectacle, Octavian looked… bored. The kind of bored you get after binge-watching an entire series only to realize the ending was spoiled for you.
This was a cosmic grudge match, something that could make Endgame look like toddlers squabbling over foam swords, yet Octavian barely cared.
Why?
Because he already knew who'd win.
"How do I know?" he mused aloud, as if anyone could hear his private thoughts(Yeah, He knows about you) .
"Let's just say I'm stuck in that cliché where being faster than light means all you find is darkness." His tone was nonchalant as he said those words.
Back to Where We Left Off
Time had rewound, and Octavian, now back in his younger, less-refined form, stood in the dimly lit room.
He'd just stripped his uncle—a.k.a. "the fatass botty of the town"—of his stolen peasant robes. Now fully clothed in ill-fitting rags, Octavian looked every bit the part of a rogue who didn't give a damn.
His expression screamed indifference, as if daring the universe to question his fashion choices.
As Octavian reached for the door, ready to leave the dim, dusty room behind, an unexpected sensation gripped his mind. It was as if someone had swung a sledgehammer of information straight at his brain.
'What the hell are these memories?' Octavian thought, his sharp golden eyes narrowing slightly as an overwhelming flood of images, concepts, and theories about teleportation forced their way into his mind.
It was like a cosmic data dump, and he was the unlucky hard drive getting overloaded.
He didn't flinch.
Unlike those pussy protagonists who lose their composure during mind-blowing revelations, Octavian stood perfectly still.
His face remained as blank and composed as a statue, betraying none of the mental chaos within. Not because he was immune to surprise, but because, frankly, he had no idea how else to react.
'Should I scream? No, that's too basic. Act confused? Too human. I'll just...' His internal dialogue paused as he settled on his go-to: acting superior.
It was like his default build in reaction.
With his signature calm, borderline smug expression, Octavian waited out the storm of memories. It was like someone was cramming an entire encyclopedia of advanced science, metaphysics, and philosophical musings into his head—and doing it with the subtlety of a bulldozer.
By the time the deluge of information finally stopped, Octavian didn't feel overwhelmed. If anything, he looked mildly inconvenienced, like someone who had just sat through an unreasonably long seminar.
For a few moments, he simply stood there, processing what had just happened. His mind worked like a supercomputer, sifting through the flood of memories, analyzing each piece of information, and categorizing it neatly in the vast library of his intellect.
'What caused this?' he wondered, his thoughts razor-sharp. Was it some leftover effect of breaking through time and space earlier? A side effect of his sudden awakening into this world?
Octavian's lips curled into a faint smirk as he crossed his arms and tilted his head slightly.
He was already thinking of more than thousand theories on what could have caused this but I won't show that to you since that literally all of the chapter without any progress.
"Fuck this… I'll deal with it later," Octavian muttered, his tone carrying the weight of someone far too irritated for a being only a minute old.
The annoyance was so palpable, one might think he was about to burn down a town just for existing within his vicinity.
But here's the thing about Octavian—he was a master of playing the long game, even if no one else knew the rules yet.
Sure, you might think he genuinely didn't care about the sudden influx of teleportation theories and complex data that had just invaded his mind. But you'd be wrong, baka. He cared, alright. He cared deeply.
It wasn't the information itself that annoyed him—it was the mystery of who had sent it. Whoever it was clearly wanted a reaction.
That much was obvious to Octavian, the guy who could see through a plot faster than a speed-reader at a book fair.
'What's the best way to handle this?' Octavian mused as he walked with a deliberate calm. Simple: refuse to give them what they want.
If someone wanted him to act, he wouldn't. If they wanted him intrigued, he'd feign boredom. It was a classic move from his mental playbook.
Force their hand. Make them so desperate for his attention that they'd have no choice but to reveal themselves.
'They're going to hate this,' Octavian thought, smirking slightly. He was basically speedrunning a masterclass in psychological manipulation.
As he wandered through the peasant house he'd "acquired," he took a moment to inspect his surroundings. The walls were plain, the furniture minimal, and the space itself barely qualified as livable. Yet, there was a charm to it.
'Not bad for a couple of monkeys,' he thought, briefly glancing around. The house was so small, it took him all of five seconds to walk from one end to the other.
The front door—if you could even call the rickety piece of wood a door—creaked as he shoved it open, stepping outside with zero regard for how the sunlight hit his golden eyes.
The world outside greeted him with a fresh, earthy scent and the quiet hum of a peasant town. Octavian glanced around, his sharp gaze scanning the area like a predator sizing up its next meal.
'This place is dull. I'll fix that soon enough,' he thought, the faintest trace of a devil-may-care smirk playing on his lips.
For now, though, he had bigger plans. Step one: force the mysterious sender to make their move. Step two: find a way to turn whatever nonsense they threw at him into fuel for his own rise.
But here's the kicker—there was no mysterious sender. Nope. The whole ordeal was a direct result of Octavian's mind being an absolute menace to logic and reality.
Even when time had been stopped, reversed, and twisted like a pretzel, his terrifying intellect had somehow managed to send back all the research he himself had done on teleportation in the future.
It was his mind's way of saying, "Don't worry, bro. I got you." Truly, the ultimate homie we all want but don't deserve.
As Octavian began his reluctant stroll along the muddy village road, his irritation only grew. Each step caked his feet in sticky, brown filth, a far cry from the regal treatment he imagined he deserved.
And why? Because John, the bootless wonder, hadn't been thoughtful enough to have a pair of shoes worth looting.
'I hate this mud. Goddamn it,' Octavian thought bitterly, lifting his foot with disdain as another glob of muck clung stubbornly to his skin. He sighed, glancing down at his bare feet, now unrecognizable beneath layers of grime.
Scanning his surroundings, his sharp golden eyes took in the dismal state of the village. Everything was dirty. The buildings leaned awkwardly, their walls stained with years of neglect.
The people shuffled about in clothes so worn and tattered they looked like patchwork quilts of misery.
The roads were little more than glorified mud pits, and the air carried the distinct aroma of unwashed humanity.
'Don't these monkeys ever clean anything?' Octavian wondered, a mix of disgust and genuine disbelief flashing across his face.
The sheer filth of the place made him question if these people could even be classified as monkeys.
They were less than that—some kind of sub-monkey species that had somehow managed to crawl its way into existence.
A child ran past him, barefoot and covered in mud, giggling as if this life of squalor was something to enjoy. Octavian stared at the kid with an expression that could kill a god. 'They're content with this? Unbelievable.'
As Octavian strolled through the streets, his sharp eyes taking in the so-called "great" human society for the first time, he couldn't help but internally mock its mediocrity.
The people, the buildings, the stench—everything screamed of incompetence and decay. Yet, he kept walking, his expression indifferent, radiating an air of superiority.
Then, as he passed a dingy alley, he suddenly felt a tug on his arm. Before he could react, he was pulled into the shadows.
"Hey, handsome—"
The voice was sultry, but the scene wasn't. A woman, a prostitute, stood before him, her outfit scandalously revealing for the era.
Her exposed shoulder alone was enough to have the puritans clutching their pearls. I mean She was clearly a whore! BOOHOO
Clearly, she was out here trying to drum up some business—and maybe a little shaboinking on the side.
But before she could finish her flirtatious greeting, Octavian's body reacted instinctively.
BANG!
Without thinking, his fist connected with her face, sending her flying several meters away like a ragdoll. She landed with a thud, unconscious, sprawled in the muck of the alley.
"Who gave you permission to touch me?" Octavian muttered, his tone cold and cutting as he flexed his fingers, brushing off the imaginary filth of her touch.
It wasn't even deliberate. His body, always adapting to protect its superior vessel, had acted on pure reflex. The blow wasn't personal—it was just nature reminding the world of its place beneath him.
(Author's Note: New Mahoraga in the making, perhaps?)
Meanwhile, on the other side of the town...
"Brianna! Slow down, will you?!" one of three women called out, her voice exasperated as she tried to catch up with the energetic blonde ahead of her.
The woman in question, Brianna, was practically skipping through the streets, her long, shiny blonde hair catching the sunlight like a golden halo. Her fair, smooth skin glowed, and her face was the picture of mischief and excitement.
"Come on, you slowpokes! I need my beer!" Brianna yelled back, her voice brimming with impatience. "It's been three weeks! THREE WEEKS! You know how much I love my beer!"
Her companions groaned, clearly used to this routine. Brianna's obsession with beer was legendary among their little group, and while they admired her spirit, they didn't share her enthusiasm for sprinting to the tavern.
If you're reading this, you might already be familiar with Brianna—or at least the woman she'll become. Because in the future, this excitable, beer-loving troublemaker will go down in history as none other than...
The Ancient One.
{A/N: Bonus chapter is here! Just need to upload three more chapters and be done for this week.
And yeah, here's the character's image: Flakito_Mio
Octavian
Brianna
John
Charles
Octavian's mother}