The room was dimly lit, the faint glow of the bedside lamp casting long shadows on the walls. Alexander Thorsell sat in his old leather chair, the creaking sound of the worn-out cushions echoing softly in the quiet of the night. His hands, once steady enough to pull a trigger with deadly precision, now trembled as he reached for the glass of whiskey on the table beside him. He barely managed to bring it to his lips, the amber liquid burning his throat as he took a slow sip.
A sigh escaped his lips as he gazed at the photograph resting beside the glass. It was an old picture, worn around the edges, but the faces remained clear—his wife, the love of his life, and his three children, smiling up at him from a time long past. His chest ached, not from the years of battle wounds or the strain of command, but from the knowledge that this was the last time he would look upon them.
The end had come.
Alex had fought many battles, seen countless men fall, and survived where others had perished. But time was an enemy that even he could not defeat. His body, once a machine of war, had withered with age, his strength fading into nothing more than a memory. His long blond hair had turned gray years ago, his beard now unruly and unkempt, a reflection of the years that had passed him by.
His breath grew shallow. His fingers, weak and frail, released the glass, sending it tumbling to the floor where it shattered into a thousand pieces. He didn't hear the sound, didn't feel the sting of the cold as his body slumped forward. Darkness crept into the edges of his vision, and for the first time in years, he was afraid.
Then, nothing.
An abyss stretched out before him, endless and void of light. He was floating, weightless, his body no longer bound by pain or exhaustion. A voice echoed through the darkness, deep and resonant, carrying with it a presence that sent a shiver down his non-existent spine.
"You have lived well, warrior."
Alex turned—or at least, he thought he did. A figure materialized before him, cloaked in shadow yet unmistakably present. There was no face, no defining features, only a deep, endless void where a being should have been.
"Who... who are you?" Thorsell asked, his voice steadier than he expected.
"I am Death," the entity answered simply. "And you stand at the threshold of what comes next."
Alex felt an odd sense of peace wash over him. He had always believed that when his time came, it would be the end. Yet here he was, speaking to Death itself.
"So this is it? The afterlife?" he questioned.
Death chuckled, the sound reverberating through the abyss. "Not quite. You have lived a life of war, of victory and loss, of honor and regret. But I offer you something more."
Alex narrowed his eyes. "More?"
"A chance to be reborn," Death said. "A new world. A new fate. You would retain your memories, your experiences, everything that made you who you are. And in return, you may choose three gifts—wishes, if you will—to aid you in your next life."
A long silence followed. Alex had lived long enough to know that opportunities like this did not come without cost. Yet, the idea of another chance—of youth, of strength, of power—was enticing.
"What's the catch?" he asked warily.
"Only that you make your choices wisely. Your new world is one of blood and fire, where strength and cunning dictate survival. You may rise to greatness, or you may fall as countless others have before you. The path you walk will be yours alone."
Thorsell exhaled slowly, then nodded. "Three wishes, then. Alright."
Death loomed closer, its presence overwhelming. "Speak, and it shall be done."
He had lived as a warrior, a general, a strategist. If he was to be reborn, he would not squander the opportunity. He thought carefully before answering.
"First, I want unparalleled physical strength—far beyond that of any normal man. Enough to be feared in battle and unmatched in war."
Death inclined its shadowed form slightly. "Granted."
"Second, I want the potential to become the greatest swordsman who has ever lived. A natural talent for combat, but also the discipline to master it."
"Granted."
Alex hesitated, considering his final choice. Power, he had learned, was not only measured by strength of arms. It was measured by the mind.
"My third wish… I want a mind as sharp as my sword. The intelligence to outmaneuver any enemy, to think and plan on a level beyond the greatest tacticians."
For the first time, Death paused. Then, slowly, it spoke. "A warrior's might, a master's skill, and a mind to rival the greatest of kings. You choose well."
A cold wind rushed around him, the abyss swirling with unseen energy. Alex felt his very essence shift, his body reforming, his soul being pulled toward something new.
"Your new life begins now. May you carve your legend into the annals of history."
The darkness swallowed him whole.
And then, he was reborn.