Background music: Seven Nation Army by the White Stripes.[1]
The memory of his first death returned with crystalline clarity.
After the truck hit him, the world had gone dark, but his consciousness had sharpened, floating in a void of pure awareness. Desperate and with nothing left to lose, he had done the one thing he once would have mocked: he applied the teachings of the so-called prophet. The man had been labeled a cult leader, his promises of transcendent experiences and extra-sensory perception dismissed as scams to extract money from the hopeless.
And Ren had been hopeless. The prophet's answers to the questions that had plagued him since childhood—Why pain? Why suffering? Why a God who allows it all?—were the only ropes thrown to a drowning man. He had clung to them.
Now, adrift between lives, he saw three lights in the infinite darkness: the only stars in that void. He recognized the white—heaven. The red—hell. But the blue… what was that?
Driven by a curiosity that had once built empires, he projected his will towards the blue light. The view exploded outward. The red and white lights vanished as the blue resolved into galaxies, then a star system, a planet, a continent, a country, a building, a room. Then, everything went dark again.
A lone figure stood in the blackness—tall, lean, with soulless eyes and glowing chains on its forearms. A skeletal hand appeared from above, holding a flickering flame, red with a blue core. It lowered the flame, pushing it slowly into the figure's chest.
In that state of heightened consciousness, he understood instantly. This was a transfer. A possession.
And right on cue, the moment the red part of the flame was absorbed, he acted. He reached out with his will, seized the remaining blue core, and shoved the original soul aside, taking its place.
That was how he ended up here. Staring at a stolen face in a stolen life.
Alright, time for a situation report, he thought, the corporate strategist in him taking over.
He said I am Ren Vaelthorn, a prince. I kept my first name. High societal standing means power struggles, political snakes, and relentless pressure. Headache incoming.
I am also a mortal reaper—an undead. An advantage over commoners, but a death sentence if others of my kind find out. Keeping this a secret is priority one.
The skeleton hand… that was the Soul Devourer. But he's no Grim Reaper; he's its enemy. A villainous god. Which makes me his avatar—his puppet, meant to be bent to his will.
A cold smirk touched his lips. But he remains oblivious. He doesn't know I hijacked his ritual. I am an unaccounted variable. He's powerful, but I have my ESP and the simple, explosive fact that I shouldn't be here.
The plan formed with brutal clarity. He could be meek and be crushed, or he could project strength, create mystery, and buy time. These ancient beings were often bored. He would be the most interesting toy they'd ever played with—one with teeth.
If Ren could see his own face, he would have seen the calm before the storm. His new, sharp features didn't soften his intensity like his old ones had. Now, his stone-cold expression and focused eyes reflected the full force of his calculating mind, making it clear he was ten steps ahead.
"Soul Devourer, right?" Ren began, his tone casual, probing. "If I may ask, how are you related to the Grim Reaper? You look like him, but you aren't him."
He was fishing, using the image of the skeletal hand as bait. He was met with silence. A deep, resonant silence.
A glint of triumph flickered in Ren's eyes. He knew that silence. It was the sound of a predator surprised, of a hidden card being revealed. It was the most valuable answer he could have gotten.
Strike while the iron is hot.
He turned his back on the mirror, a show of utter nonchalance, and picked up a shirt from a nearby chair. He dressed slowly, methodically. Multitasking projected control. In any world, in any negotiation, perception was everything.
"Never mind," Ren said, his voice light as he fastened a cufflink. "We'll have plenty of time for family history. Anyway, Mr. Soul Devourer, sir... do you even know how I really got into this body? Did you not notice anything... abnormal during your little reincarnation ritual?" He finished with a smirk, letting the challenge hang in the air.
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Elsewhere, in a penthouse dimly lit by slivers of sun cutting through heavy curtains, a man with hair the color of fresh snow sat. One leg was crossed over the other, a glass of amber alcohol swirling in one hand. In his other palm danced a solitary blue flame, its light casting half his face in an ethereal glow, revealing a piercing, storm-grey eye.
His expression was unreadable marble, but his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
"Who are you?" The three words were not a question. They were a warning, low and dangerous, vibrating with a power that could shatter bones.
Ren had hit the mark on many things.
But he had gotten one thing profoundly wrong.
The Soul Devourer was no formless spirit. He was a physical entity, and his aura carried the weight of a dying star. And he did not like Ren's tone one bit. This newfound variable knew too much. And the Soul Devourer was determined to extract every last secret, no matter the cost.
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Ren had just finished buttoning his collar. He picked up a necktie and began to knot it out of habit, his voice trailing off.
"I am Ren Vaelthorn, like you said, of course. But I was Ren Manhattan in my previous life. Cool coincidence I kept the name, isn't it? I think it is…"
In a few practiced steps, he was done. He slid the tie over his head and fastened it at his neck, the silk sitting perfectly against the pristine white shirt.
"But I know that's not what you're curious about. Allow me to scratch your itch…" Ren said, his tone shifting to one of casual profundity. "Tell me, do you believe in an all-powerful being that created everything in existence? I know your existence is akin to a god's. But do you believe in GOD?"
Ooh, so cool… he thought internally, a stark contrast to his outward calm. Letting him know I have someone bigger backing me. True or not, it serves the purpose. It adds to the mystery, keeps him hooked.
"No!" The answer was swift, sharp, and definitive.
Ren was about to speak, to press his advantage, when the rest of the answer came, freezing the blood in his veins.
"I don't believe in God's existence…" the voice echoed, laced with a terrifying finality. "I know of His existence."
Ren's smile widened, a mask of confidence over a sudden, primal fear. "Perfect... Well, I'll have you know I don't come from this world. I'm actually His son. One of His sons."
He had just finished proudly proclaiming his divine bluff when the world exploded.
BANG!!!
The door to his room shattered inwards, tearing clean off its hinges. It whipped past his face, the accompanying windstorm whipping his hair and tie wildly. A second, deafening BANG echoed as the door embedded itself deep into the opposite wall.
Ren's face froze mid-smirk. He swallowed hard, his heart seizing in his chest. His shirt and hair still flapped from the violent gust.
What the hell!!!!
His instincts screamed at him to move, to do something, to run. His heart hammered against his ribs, the world narrowing to a terrifying, silent tunnel. All he could hear was the frantic drumbeat of his own panic.
DUM! DUM! DUM! DUM! DUM!
From the corner of his eye, he saw it—a fist, moving at an impossible speed, aimed directly at his face. Adrenaline flooded his system, making the world seem to slow to a crawl. He was so acutely aware he could see the tiny hairs on the knuckles of the clenched hand, but his body was too slow, too human.
It was just like the headlights of the truck—a glaring announcement of death.
He tried to raise his arms, a futile, last-ditch block, but it was too late.
The impact was absolute. His face collapsed under the force. A spray of blood misted from his nose and mouth. His neck twisted with a sickening, unnatural crack. For a suspended moment, he was a broken doll, and then physics reasserted its law.
His body was launched backwards, a ragdoll in a storm, and slammed into the wall next to the newly-arrived door, embedding into the cracked plaster with a dull, final thud.
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In the distant penthouse, the Soul Devourer burst into genuine, roaring laughter, as if he had just witnessed the most comical punchline in eternity. When the fit subsided, his face smoothed back into an expressionless mask. He rose, placed the blue flame into his mouth, and swallowed, the light disappearing down his throat until it was utterly extinguished.
He closed his eyes, breathing calmly.
"The Grim Reaper was also His son, His angel of death," he murmured to the empty, dark room. "But I killed him. He didn't do anything to me back then. What makes you think He'll move the universe for you if I touched you?"
His lips curled into a smirk, revealing a sharp, pointed canine. He could see through Ren's ploy—a desperate attempt to deter him. It didn't inspire fear, only a deeper, more voracious curiosity. What could a "Son" truly do? The unsettling thought that even this interest was part of Ren's manipulation only made the game more compelling.
"But you're interesting, to say the least…" his cool voice trailed off into the darkness. "Playing mind games with me, boy?"
[1] Not necessary. Just do it for an enhanced reading experience if you wish.