Light filtered through the curtains, casting soft golden streaks across the floor and walls. Kumasi's morning sun had a way of making everything feel warm and real—too real.
I lay still, half-wrapped in my bedsheet, eyes fixed on the ceiling fan as it spun in lazy circles above me. The room was quiet now—eerily quiet. No cosmic echoes. No distant screams. Just the hum of the fan and the faint sounds of a normal Saturday outside my window.
And yet… I couldn't bring myself to move.
Me. The so-called Champion. The one who faced down horrors older than stars, who stared into the eyes of madness and didn't blink. Now I lay frozen in my bed, not by fear of death or battle—but by the absurd, creeping thought that all of this might not be real.
What if it's a trick?
What if I'm still out there somewhere—bleeding, screaming, lost in some war across some broken dimension—and this is just a fantasy my mind made to survive?
I'd seen too many things. Lived through too many twisted illusions. Fought entities that rewrote reality just by existing. So how was I supposed to believe this—this still, perfect bedroom—was real?
I swallowed hard, my throat dry. There were no wounds on my body. No armor. No weight of a blade in my hand. Just me, skinny and fourteen again, wearing a stretched-out T-shirt, lying in a bed that smelled like detergent and old sweat.
This shouldn't be possible. None of this should exist anymore. Not after what I saw. Not after what I did.
And yet it did. Somehow.
I breathed out through my nose, the air shaky. I wasn't scared of monsters. I wasn't scared of death.
I was scared that this peace wasn't real.
Then I heard it, a voice I'd not heard in years, though it groggy with the morning it was still as I remembered
"Alex, I'll be going out to the market soon, don't forget to sweep the hall and also eat "
My breath got caught in my throat . My heart pretty much stopped beating.
I didn't move. Couldn't. For a moment, I just lay there, heart pounding louder than it ever had in battle.
This can't be real. It can't be this real.
I clenched the bedsheet tight in my fist, the texture grounding me. I'd heard her voice in dreams before—hundreds of times during those ten years of war. But this? This wasn't a dream. I could hear the shuffle of her slippers against the tile. The subtle clink of her handbag as she moved through the hallway.
It's real. It's really her.
My chest tightened. Not with grief. Not with relief either. Something else entirely. Something that tasted like fear and hope mixed together.
I heard her footsteps coming closer. She paused just outside my door.
There's rice on the stove," she said. "I'll be back in the afternoon."
The door to the outside creaked open, then shut.
And just like that, silence.
Real, heavy silence.
I didn't even notice the tears at first. But they came, hot and slow, trailing down my face before I could even breathe out. My throat clenched. My hands trembled in the sheets.
It's her. That was her voice. That was real.
Wasn't it? I questioned myself
"If this is a fucking illusion," I muttered, voice cracking, "someone's dead."
Not a threat.
A promise. A promise of death and eternal suffering .
I rose slowly, peeling the sheet from my body like it weighed a hundred pounds. My bare feet touched the cold floor, and the chill jolted through me. Good. It made me feel present.
Each step toward the door was measured. I reached for the handle—hesitated—then gripped it tighter. My fingers shook as I pushed it open. The hinges creaked gently, as always.
And the world didn't crumble.
No smoke. No void. No warped, screaming flesh-beast bursting through reality to reveal the farce. Just… the hallway. Bright with morning light, smelling faintly of disinfectant and cooked rice.
I stepped out and scanned the living room. The couch was still sagging on one side. The fan still buzzed with its slight wobble. Her slippers were by the door, her handbag gone.
I made my way through the rest of the house in silence, like I was sweeping for traps. I opened every cupboard, checked every window, even pulled back the curtain in the bathroom like it was a horror movie.
Nothing. Just life.
No gods. No elderitch entities.
There was just the life of a mother and son in an unfair world.
I stood still in the hallway, hand on the wall to steady myself.
Then, finally, I exhaled. Long. Shaky.
My heart was still racing, but at least it was racing in a world that obeyed physics. After a few minutes, the adrenaline dulled into something like calm.
I went back to my room, sat at the edge of my bed, and ran a hand through my hair. It was thicker again—how it used to be before I started losing chunks of it from spell feedback and void exposure.
A bitter laugh escaped me.
Ten years of fighting gods, and this—checking my own kitchen for monsters—this is what breaks me.
But at least I know everything is real. Now I have to move on to more pressing matters.
"System," I called out, barely more than a whisper.
Instantly, a dark blue interface bloomed into existence across my vision—smooth, seamless, and unmistakably real. The glowing envelope from earlier, the one stamped with that ridiculous god's seal, still hovered in the center.
I didn't even hesitate this time. I waved it away like swatting a fly, the message folding in on itself before disappearing into the corner of the UI.
I've had enough of him. I already read his half-hearted goodbye. That chapter's closed.
I took a deep breath and leaned forward, elbows resting on my knees as I faced the interface.
"I've read one too many webnovels to not ask this," I muttered under my breath. "Even if I don't remember all of them, I know how this usually goes."
I cleared my throat and raised my voice slightly.
"System… what is your directive?"
The screen pulsed gently—like it was waking up.
Then, a response appeared. Elegant white text typed itself across the interface with a soft mechanical sound:
[To serve the Former Champion.]
Simple. Precise. No fanfare.
I narrowed my eyes at the phrasing.
Not 'user.' Not 'host.' Not even 'Master.'
'Former Champion.' It's still acknowledging what I was, not who I am.
"Okay," I said, settling back slightly. "Then… what can you do?"
This time, the system responded faster—less dramatic, more efficient:
⸻
[SYSTEM CAPABILITIES OVERVIEW]
• Status Monitor: View physical condition, mental state, and remaining essence reserves
• Skill Log: Catalogue of retained combat skills, knowledge, and optional seals
• Memory Playback: Rewatch or store moments from Champion Era (Warning: May induce emotional destabilization)
• Inventory: (Currently empty)
• Asset Tracker: Live updates of owned assets and financial flows
• Communications Interface: For private communication with approved personnel
• Administrative Access: Full control over company operations, branches, and personnel
• Reality Anchor: (Classified)
⸻
I blinked.
Reality Anchor? The hell is that?
Before I could speak, a tooltip popped up next to the term:
[Reality Anchor]: A failsafe installed by the deity to ensure host's continued existence within baseline Earth parameters. Not to be tampered with. Seriously. Don't.]
"Isn't there more information you can give me about what it actually does"
The screen went blank, for a couple of seconds it stayed that way until the system responded again
[It has been decided by the creator that, the champion does not have the status to command that information]
…Nice to know he still doesn't trust me.
Ignoring what I just heard, I scrolled through the rest slowly. It was sleek, minimalist, and responsive—like a high-end OS designed for one person. Everything was built around me, from the color scheme to the layout,
not just me as I am now—but me as the person who walked through fire and shadow for a decade. This system wasn't some helpful tutorial or glorified Alexa.
It was a weaponized assistant, molded by necessity and war.
I paused at the Skill Log tab, hesitating before tapping it open.
A list unfurled like an ancient scroll. Each entry bore a name, a rank, and a small icon—some glowing red, others dimmed out.
Dimmed means sealed… still there, but inactive .
There were dozens of them. From martial arts and survival tactics to arcane knowledge that had no place in a sane world, some I still remember others were gained from a darker path. Languages not meant for human tongues, and yet that forbidden knowledge lay with me. Some I'd recognize others had been forgotten from the stress of war and lack of use.
I let the list roll to a stop and sat in silence for a few seconds, staring at the sealed icons.
I'm not going to need half of these ever again. Hell, most of them shouldn't exist in most universes
My gaze fell on one skill in particular:
[Voidstride – Active (Sealed)]
Rank: S+
Effect: Bend space within five meters to "step" through reality. Momentum is retained. Warning: Causes spatial warping.]
I tapped on it. The screen blinked.
[Do you wish to unseal this ability temporarily? Duration: 5 seconds.]
I hesitated.
Then nodded.
"Yes."
A jolt ran through me—not pain, just… pressure. Like something long locked away had been allowed to stretch its limbs.
The room dimmed at the edges, warping faintly like heat waves off asphalt. For a second, the air itself hummed in my ears. My pupils adjusted automatically. My hands flexed on instinct, checking for balance.
Five seconds. Let's see if I still have it.
I took a single step forward—and vanished.
Not into smoke. Not into light.
It was like blinking, but for the whole body.
I reappeared instantly, halfway across the room, next to my wardrobe. The space I had vacated rippled subtly before settling like nothing happened.
No dizziness. No recoil.
Still got it.
The seal re-engaged immediately, and the pressure faded. My body felt lighter somehow. I hadn't realized how much I missed feeling this… sharp.
Then I laughed out loud in pure joy
System show me my stats, when they are not sealed
SYSTEM STATUS – UNSEALED]
Name: Jason Adjie Afriyie
Age: 14 (Chronological: 24)
Title: Champion of the Multiverse (Retired)
Race: Human+ (Temporally Altered)
Affiliation: None
Net Worth: ¢187,632,000 (GHS) / $124,000,000 USD
Authority Level: Supreme (Local Reality)
⸻
[CORE ATTRIBUTES]
• Strength: 99,999,999
• Dexterity: 99,999,999
• Vitality: 999,999 / 999,999
• Perception: 88,890,000
• Mental Fortitude: ∞
• Luck: ???
• Charm: Debatable
⸻
[SKILLS – ACTIVE]
• Voidstride (Short-range space warping. Momentum retained. Sealed unless authorized.)
• Abyssal Memory (Recall any memory—even corrupted ones—from across timelines and realities.)
• Stasis Edge (Channel stored kinetic force into a single strike. Banned in 3 systems.)
• Chrono Thread (Anchor a moment in time. Return within 5 seconds. 10-minute cooldown.)
• The Final Word (Command-based skill usable once per day. Absolute authority over one minor law of reality. Currently sealed.)
⸻
[SKILLS – PASSIVE]
• Multiversal Language Sync (Understands and translates all known languages instinctively.)
• Combat Prediction (Analyzes intent through micro-movements. 97.8% success rate.)
• Adaptive Immunity (Immune to most Earth-based diseases and toxins. Evolved for otherworldly pathogens.)
• Emotional Suppression Protocol (Can suppress emotional responses to trauma at will. Active: ON)
⸻
Jason exhaled slowly, letting his eyes scan every stat.
Yeah. Definitely not normal.
He chuckled dryly at the Charm stat being listed as Debatable. The system always did that, even back in the Abyss. At some point, he stopped trying to fix it.
"I really did become a monster," he muttered.
He swiped the screen away slowly, and the stats vanished into pixels of faint blue light.
But not here. Here, I'm just Jason.
And for now, that was enough.
Jason's fingers trembled slightly as he wiped the fading blue glow from the system's interface. The silence of his room seemed heavier now—almost like it was waiting for something to break the stillness.
Then, without warning, his phone buzzed sharply against the bedside table. A message. Simple. Direct.
"Mr. Amartey has arrived."
The corner of his lips twitched, a ghost of a smile. The loyal shadow, the one man who could walk into his world and still command respect without a single supernatural edge. The man who kept his company—and, by extension, his entire life—steady.
Jason pushed off the bed, the sheets falling away as he stood fully upright. His reflection caught briefly in the mirror: a skinny kid, but there was something else behind his dark eyes now—a hardened calm, a quiet power.
The house still smelled faintly of rice and morning. Normal. Mundane. He could get used to that.
With a final glance at the empty doorway, he whispered, "Alright… let's see what 'normal' looks like."
⸻
Downstairs, the front door opened softly, and a tall figure stepped inside, impeccably dressed yet unassuming. Steven Amartey—Mr. Amartey—was the kind of man who didn't need to raise his voice to be heard, didn't need to flash wealth to show power. His eyes scanned the house like a hawk while his steps echoed a steady confidence.
"Good morning, Jason," Steven said smoothly, removing his shoes and placing them neatly by the door.
Jason appeared in the living room doorway, hands in his pockets. "Morning."
Steven nodded. "Your mother left for the market about an hour ago. Said to tell you to sweep the hall before you do anything else."
Jason smirked. "Classic."
Steven's expression softened just a touch, almost like an uncle's. "Are you ready for today?"
Jason looked around the quiet room and then met Steven's eyes. "I don't know. But I guess I have to start somewhere."
Steven's smile was slow and assured. "Good. Because I'm here to make sure you don't get lost along the way."
Jason stepped forward, feeling the weight of the morning settle comfortably on his shoulders. For the first time in a decade, the future didn't feel like a warzone.
Steven stepped into the living room, dropping his briefcase beside the couch without ceremony. He didn't rush—everything about him was controlled, precise, like he measured every movement before making it.
"Sit," he said, nodding toward the sofa. Jason did, the weight of the morning still settling in his chest.
Steven pulled a sleek black folder from his briefcase and opened it. Inside were neatly printed papers, graphs, and company logos Jason didn't recognize. "Your company's big. A conglomerate. We're in energy, tech, finance, real estate… A bit of everything, really. You own eighty percent of it. The rest is held by some very old money families—the kind who don't ask questions but like to keep their stakes."
Jason glanced up, nodding slowly. "Sounds messy."
Steven gave a small, dry smile. "It can be. But it's all business. No magic. No secrets. Everything's by the book, or close enough. That's why I'm here—to make sure nothing slips through the cracks."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a black card. Sliding it across the table, he said, "This is your company card. Unlimited access. No limits, no questions."
Jason picked it up, the cool plastic heavy in his hand. "Feels… real."
Steven's eyes sharpened. "Because it is. The power's in your hands now."
There was a pause, like Steven was weighing his next words carefully.
"About who you are," he said finally. "No one knows it's you behind all this. There are whispers, rumors—young owner, mystery man with deep pockets. But you control how much anyone sees."
Jason exhaled slowly. "I don't want to be known. Not yet. Maybe not ever."
Steven nodded, serious. "Good. Power's useless if you lose control over your own story."
He stood, smoothing his jacket. "Anything you want, you tell me. Consider it done."
Jason looked at the card again, then met Steven's steady gaze.
"Just… give me a chance to figure this out."
Steven's smile was almost warm. "You got it."
Jason slipped the black card into his wallet, the weight of it settling somewhere deep inside him. It wasn't just plastic—it was a key. A key to a world he hadn't expected to own, one he barely understood.
Steven's eyes flicked to the window. "Your mom's out for a few hours. If you want, I can show you around the company headquarters. Get you a feel for things before tomorrow."
Jason hesitated. He wasn't sure he was ready for that yet. The idea of stepping fully into this new life felt like standing at the edge of a vast, unknown ocean.
But then Steven's calm, steady presence reminded him there was someone here who'd handle the chaos—at least for now.
"Yeah," Jason said finally. "Let's do that."
⸻
The drive was quiet, filled only by the low hum of the city waking up. Steven's hands remained steady on the wheel, his posture rigid but relaxed, like a soldier on guard even in peace.
When they arrived, the building looked impressive but unassuming—glass and steel rising against the Kumasi skyline. Jason felt a strange thrill, like stepping into a place he'd only ever dreamed about.
Inside, Steven led him through sleek corridors, past offices humming with quiet activity. "We have divisions for energy, tech, finance, real estate, manufacturing—each run by trusted executives. Everything funnels through here, and I report directly to you. You call the shots."
Jason nodded, trying to absorb it all without feeling overwhelmed.
After the tour, they settled in a small conference room where Steven pulled out a tablet. "I'll set you up with everything—access to accounts, reports, contacts. You don't have to do this alone."
Jason looked up, meeting Steven's eyes. "Thanks."
Steven's expression softened for a moment. "You did what no one else could. You fought horrors most people can't even imagine. Now you get to decide what comes next."
Jason swallowed hard. The memories of distant battles lingered, but for the first time in years, a spark of something else flickered inside—hope. A chance to live, not just survive.
⸻
Back at home, the sun had climbed higher. Jason sat by the window, black card in hand, thinking about the god's letter—the forced appreciation, the retirement gift. A strange kind of freedom wrapped around him like a cloak.
He didn't know what the future held. But for now, the world was his.
And this time, he'd face it on his own terms.