Chapter 4: The Inheritance Wars
Thank you to all of my readers.. I am very grateful for your support and đź’•.. specially thanks to keeg , Aditya Rai, grandmaster bonk indictable 1203 MilitiicsnipeS and headshot gaming and nonamejestwitness..and also thanks to mimo 9527 for your valuable reveiws..Because of you guys I have the motivation to write .. Actually I didn't upload the chapter 4 yesterday because I was searching for a website or app where I can earn money but I can't find one because being in Bangladesh there is no suitable money making apps..I have finished my high school and preparing to go into a college.so I need a laptop but reality is hard..so I won't waste anymore of your time..ok Start reading and enjoy..
I will introduce more characters that will play a huge role later ..so don't criticize me for introducing so many characters in 1 chapter....enjoy..
Veylen wasn't the only one who transmigrated.but what was unique was that he was transmigrated by getting a chance from a god like entity..but what about others..
In anthor part of a multiverse,another soul fell with silence. He landed in metal.
Steel limbs. Cold breath. Vision filtered through a HUD that fed him names he didn't recognize—Latveria. Reed Richards. The Baxter Building.
But his thoughts were not born in this world.
He remembered a jade palace above the clouds.
A sect that prized refinement of spirit above all.
He had risen to Nascent Soul stage—and then been betrayed.
Now?
Now he stood in armor laced with glyphs he didn't understand. A name echoed from the machine around him:
"Doom online."
He did not know who Doom was.
But he knew one thing: this body had power.
And power… was enough.
---
In another part of a multiverse,In a collapsing temple of shadows, a girl blinked awake.
The air was heavy with blood and magic. Her hands sparked with red lightning.
She remembered being a disciple of the Shadow Feather Pavilion.
She had died on her wedding night—killed by her own clan.
And now she rose in a broken world, in a body of terrifying grace.
A voice in her mind whispered:
"Mutant gene activated: Wanda Maximoff."
She ignored it.
She did not know this name.
But her enemies had better learn it quickly.
---
This scenes were repeating again and again..
In a crater of ice, a man gasped for air.
His chest burned. Bones reknit around muscles that weren't his.
Claws burst from his fists.
He screamed—not from pain, but because the qi inside him was too vast to contain.
I was Sect Leader Han of the Glacial Peak…
But now he was something else.
Something shorter.
Something feral.
He did not recognize the world around him. But he could smell danger in it.
And danger had always made him stronger.
---
A boy woke up in a war.
Bullets froze midair.
His eyes glowed blue.
He remembered fleeing a fallen cultivation plane—his soul sliced in half by a vengeful immortal.
But now?
He stood in a battlefield surrounded by metal beasts and flying men.
Someone shouted:
"Cyclops, take the shot!"
He didn't know what a Cyclops was.
But the light in his skull obeyed instinct, not orders.
---
---
Somewhere deep beneath Manhattan, in a lab filled with abandoned tech, a woman rose from a vat of fluid.
Her breathing was calm. Calculated.
Her mind was not.
She remembered being a tactician in the Ninefold Palace Wars. She had led armies of cloudships. Poisoned five emperors. Died with honor.
But now, her name—according to the blinking light on the wall—was:
"Dr. Octavia."
She smiled.
"I can work with this."
---
And far beyond the stars, on a quiet moon orbiting nothing—
A soul drifted near the edge of the Dark Dimension.
It was turned away.
Swallowed.
Denied entry.
And never knew how close it came to waking the one who sleeps.
Do you think the world only supports the righteous?
It doesn't.
It never has.
When the heavens crack, when souls tear loose from the grip of death, they don't fall according to justice. They fall like rain—random, reckless, impartial.
And so they fell.
One after another.
Some into the bodies of heroes.
Some into monsters.
Some… into masks that didn't belong to them at all.
The first dark one,He had ruled nine provinces through terror.
Burned cities to light his path to immortality.
Sacrificed his own disciples for a single breakthrough in demonic cultivation.
His name had been whispered by frightened generals and drowned priests:
"The Crimson Warlord of Jiuyou."
He remembered dying—poisoned by his closest concubine, a final betrayal in a life soaked with them.
He expected nothing after.
And yet…
He awoke in a field.
Pain radiated from his chest.
His hands were bound to a metal shield painted with a red, white, and blue star.
Soldiers screamed around him. Smoke. Fire. A voice over comms yelled:
"Cap! Get up!"
He stood slowly.
"Cap…"
A strange name.
The warlord smiled.
"Captain... America," he said softly, the name tasting foreign in his mouth.
The shield felt light.
The body, strong.
The trust in others' eyes?
Delicious.
"Yes," he whispered. "I'll lead them."
---
And in Asgard…
A woman woke in a throne room of gold and thunder.
She blinked at the armor on her skin.
Crowds below roared her name.
"Mighty Thor!"
She didn't know the name.
But she knew power.
She had ruled as a Bone Empress in a dead realm, consumed her siblings to ascend, scorched her enemies into dust. In her world, power bowed to will alone.
She looked at the hammer in her hand.
"Mjölnir."
She tried to lift it.
It did not move.
She pulled again—this time with force enough to shatter bone.
Nothing.
The hammer sat in her palm, unmoved, inert, heavy like judgment.
Her fingers trembled.
The crowd didn't see.
She forced a smile.
> "Let them believe in justice," she said, coldly. "I'll wear their god's face."
But the hammer knew.
And it did not answer her.
Everything else remains unchanged.
And somewhere, tucked away from thunder and capes and masks—
a man who wanted only to disappear had finally found something to lose.
Before the name Jiang Yan was whispered in fear, it was spoken in pity.
He was born in the Outer Valleys of the Tianxu Realm—lands where qi ran weak and monsters ran free. No sect claimed the area. No clan wasted blood protecting it.
His father died before he could speak.
His mother sold herself to a poison vendor to buy him a half-worn talisman.
He survived by instinct.
And by ten, he killed a Core Formation bandit with a sharpened iron nail.
He didn't cultivate to ascend. He cultivated to live.
By fifteen, he had invented his own breathing method—Silent Flame, Black Bone.
It did not purify qi.
It did not refine spirit.
It devoured intent.
Enemies who wanted him dead often realized it only after he had stepped over their corpses.
By twenty-five, he had reached Nascent Soul stage—not in robes, but in blood-cracked armor.
They called him the Ash-Crowned Ghost.
The cultivator with no sect, no flag, no code.
But he was tired.
He was always tired.
When the woman he trusted poisoned his tea—whispering "You were never meant to win"—he didn't resist.
> "Then let it end," he said.
---
It didn't end.
He awoke in a steel room, surrounded by men with guns.
A voice yelled:
"Get down! He's not registered!"..as for why he didn't possessed any known body that's because he was strong cultivator and a unique one..so he build his body from just soul..but his energy wasn't sufficient so he took shelter in a room and was discovered.
He moved his hand.
They all passed out.
Not dead.
Just… overwhelmed.
His qi didn't belong in this world, and the air knew it.
He could feel the threads of cultivation inside himself.
Still alive.
Still sharp.
Still eager.
He looked down at his hands and said quietly,
> "No."
He reached into his core and sealed it.
Twelve chains.
Three realms.
One promise:
> Never again.
---
They detained him.
He didn't speak English.
Didn't recognize technology.
Didn't trust hospitals.
He sat in a gray cell with fluorescent lights and watched the cameras blink.
Then she walked in.
She wasn't supposed to be there that day.
Eliza Foster had a full schedule—a call with Latveria's delegation, a briefing with the Secretary of Energy, and a policy draft to finalize before midnight. But she got a call from Homeland Security:
"We picked up someone strange. No ID. No records. No fingerprints. No language match. But… ma'am, we couldn't move him. Like, physically."
She put on her coat and said nothing.
---
When she arrived at the gray containment site, she stood behind the glass and watched.
He didn't speak.
He didn't blink.
He just sat there, calm, as four armed officers tried to analyze him like a bomb that hadn't gone off.
She asked for silence.
Everyone left the room.
And she entered.
---
Their eyes met.
Just one second.
And her heartbeat—
Stopped.
Not out of fear. Not out of power.
Just—knowing.
Something beneath thought whispered in her bones:
"You've been looking for him."
He didn't move.
But she saw it in his eyes, too.
Recognition. Without memory.
Peace. Without safety.
Curiosity. Without defense.
He looked at her like she was the first quiet space he'd ever seen.
She spoke, carefully.
"Do you understand me?"
No answer.
She took a step closer.
He tensed—subtly.
Not threat. Reflex.
Her voice softened.
> "You're not from here, are you?"
He stared.
She placed a folder on the table, slid it toward him.
Blank.
"Write anything. A name."
He hesitated.
Then, slowly, wrote with the pen upside-down.
江焰
She tilted her head.
"Jiang Yan…"
He blinked.
Then nodded.
Once.
Her heart beat again.
---
She didn't release him right away.
She visited him every day for a week.
Spoke slowly. Repeated phrases.
Learned the rhythm of his silence.
And by the third day, he started writing his answers.
By the fifth, he started smiling.
By the seventh, she pulled the override papers.
"Release him to my custody."
---
They walked the Potomac that night.
No guards.
No briefings.
Just two people watching geese glide across water.
He pointed at the moon and said his first word in English:
"Same."
She smiled.
"Maybe you're not as alien as we thought."
He touched his chest, then hers.
Then tapped the air between them.
"Same," he said again.
They didn't plan it.
There was no proposal, no ring, no kneeling.
Just a long moment on a park bench after dusk, the wind tangled in her scarf and the quiet between them heavier than usual.
He said, almost apologetically,
> "In my world… we did not ask."
She looked at him, not blinking.
> "In mine… we ask."
A pause.
> "So ask."
He took her hand, rough and weathered from silent cultivation, and held it with the caution of a man who had broken too much in life.
> "Eliza Foster. Will you stay in this life with me?"
She didn't say yes.
She leaned her head against his shoulder and whispered,
> "Already did."
---
They married in spring.
A private ceremony.
Three people. One legal official. No cameras.
She wore a navy dress. He wore a suit too stiff on his shoulders.
There were no vows.
Just hands held. Foreheads touched.
And one long breath between them as if the world finally let them rest.
She whispered,
"You don't have to be anyone else."
He replied,
"You are the only one I've never had to kill to trust."
She didn't flinch.
She only squeezed his hand tighter.
---
They lived simply.
Mornings with tea. Nights with silence.
She taught him how to make pancakes.
He taught her how to sharpen knives with a whisper.
He did the dishes. She read aloud.
She went to work.
He waited by the window every evening.
---
Sometimes, she asked about his world.
He would answer slowly, cautiously, using metaphors and paper sketches.
Sometimes, he asked why she was never afraid.
She answered without blinking:
"Because you were already tired when I met you.
Tired men don't conquer.
They look for something worth keeping."
For a time, the world stopped asking questions.
And so did they.
Until the knock came.
Until the blood.
Until her voice, broken on the floor.