Seattle, Washington. Earth-Prime (Our World). 11:47 PM.
Rain pounded against the cracked window of a run-down studio apartment in Seattle's worst neighborhood. The landlord never asked questions, and the walls were thin enough to hear your neighbor's midnight breakdown. Inside, flickering light from the TV cast shadows over a face that had seen too much, lived too long, and died zero times.
**Ethan Cross** sat on a tattered couch that smelled like regret and stale pizza, a half-empty whiskey bottle in one hand and a Deadpool comic in the other. His eyes—once sharp, soldier's eyes—were now dull from years of self-imposed isolation. His body? Still perfect. Immortal. Every scar healed in seconds. Every bullet wound closed before he felt pain. Every attempt to end his life had failed.
"Day 2,847 of being unkillable," he mumbled to no one. Or maybe to **you**. Yeah, you. The one reading this. "Still sucks."
He tossed the comic onto the cluttered coffee table, buried under pizza boxes, empty beer cans, and a framed photo he avoided looking at. Grabbing the TV remote, he focused on the screen where Ryan Reynolds in a red suit joked about chimichangas. Ethan's lips twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.
"This is the 73rd time I've watched this," he said aloud, counting on his fingers. "Or 74th? Whatever, who's counting?"
*(Narrator's note: He is. He counts everything now. It's how he stays sane. Spoiler: It's not working.)*
He took a swig of whiskey—tasted like regret, with hints of **"why am I still here?"**—and leaned back, closing his eyes. In the darkness, he saw **her**. His daughter. Lily. Five years old, with blonde pigtails and a gap-toothed smile. She used to laugh when he made pancakes shaped like dinosaurs. She called him "Dino-Daddy."
*"Dino-Daddy is dead,"* he whispered in the empty room. *"He's been dead for six years."*
The photo on the table—the one he avoided—was of them. Ethan, Sarah (his wife, with auburn hair and painter's hands), and Lily. Taken three weeks before the "accident." Before the government **erased them**. Before he became **Lazarus**. Before he became a weapon with no off-switch.
"Fuck this," he growled, standing up abruptly. The bottle slipped from his hand, shattering on the floor. Whiskey pooled around his bare feet. He didn't care. Couldn't feel it. Couldn't feel **anything**.
He walked to the window and pressed his forehead against the cold glass. Outside, Seattle's skyline glittered like broken teeth. Somewhere out there, people were living normal lives. Falling in love. Raising kids. Dying of old age like civilized humans.
"I should've been one of them," he said softly. Then, louder and angrier: "I **should've** been one of them!"
He slammed his fist into the wall. Plaster cracked. His knuckles broke. Healed instantly. He punched again. And again. And—
"**ETHAN CROSS.**"
The voice came from **everywhere and nowhere**. Deep and booming. The kind of voice that made your bones vibrate and your bladder reconsider its life choices. Ethan froze, fist mid-swing.
"Oh, what now?" he groaned, turning toward the center of the room. "Is this the part where I get abducted by aliens? Because I've got notes on how that usually goes—"
The TV exploded. Not in a metaphorical way. **Literally exploded** in a spray of sparks and molten plastic. Ethan didn't flinch. (He'd seen worse. Done worse.)
Above the smoking TV, the air **ripped open** like someone tearing a hole in reality's cheap wallpaper. Blinding golden light poured through, almost too much to handle. And standing in that light—floating, actually—was a figure in white robes, glowing with divine radiance, with a beard so majestic it could've had its own Instagram account.
"**ETHAN CROSS,**" the figure repeated, voice echoing like a stadium PA system. "**I AM ZEUS, KING OF OLYMPUS, MASTER OF LIGHTNING, FATHER OF—**"
"Yeah, yeah, I've seen *Clash of the Titans*," Ethan interrupted, waving a hand dismissively. "Get to the point, Sparky. I'm kinda in the middle of a breakdown."
Zeus blinked, clearly unaccustomed to being interrupted. "You dare—"
"Dare? Buddy, I've been tortured by the best. I've been shot, stabbed, drowned, set on fire, and forced to listen to Nickelback on repeat for 48 hours. You wanna smite me? **Get in line.**"
Zeus's eye twitched. Behind him, a woman's voice—**Hera**, probably—whispered, *"I told you this mortal was broken."*
"**SILENCE!**" Zeus boomed, then cleared his throat, lowering his voice to something more appropriate. "Ethan Cross. Lazarus. The Immortal Soldier. We have... made an error."
Ethan raised an eyebrow. "An error. You? Gods? Shocking."
Zeus gestured dramatically (because gods never do anything non-dramatically). "Earlier this evening, I was... testing my lightning. Calibrating it, if you will. A routine exercise. But one bolt—**one stray bolt**—struck your dwelling. It was meant for a tree in Central Park."
"So you **killed me**," Ethan said flatly. He looked down at his chest. No wound. No scorch mark. "Wait. I'm still here. How—"
"Your immortality saved you from **permanent** death," Zeus explained, sounding annoyed. "But the lightning... it **severed your soul** from this world. You are, technically, dead. Your body lives, but your essence is... adrift."
Ethan stared at him. Then he began laughing. Not a chuckle. A full, unhinged, **villain-in-a-Joker-movie** laugh. "Holy shit. Holy **SHIT**. You actually killed me! Do you know how long I've been **trying** to die?! Six years! Six **FUCKING YEARS**, and you just—" He wiped tears from his eyes. "Oh man, this is the best day ever."
Zeus frowned. "You are... pleased?"
"Pleased? I'm **ecstatic**! I'm free! No more nightmares, no more guilt, no more—" He paused, looking around the apartment. At the photo on the table. At the Deadpool poster on the wall. "Wait. If I'm dead, why am I still **here**?"
"Because," Zeus said, adjusting his robes like a bureaucrat preparing to deliver bad news, "we cannot allow a mortal to die by **our** error. It would set a terrible precedent. So we have decided to grant you a second chance."
Ethan's laughter faded. "A second chance."
"Yes. In another world. A better world. One where you can be a **hero**, not a weapon. Where your immortality can serve a greater purpose."
"...You're sending me to another dimension."
"Precisely! The mortals of that world call it—"
"Let me guess. DC Universe? Marvel? Something with capes and spandex?"
Zeus blinked. "How did you—"
Ethan pointed at the Deadpool poster. "I've read comics, Zeus. I know how this works. Isekai nonsense. Truck-kun. ROB." He crossed his arms. "Fine. I'll bite. What's the catch?"
"No catch," Zeus said quickly. **Too** quickly. "You will be reborn in that world with your abilities intact. Your memories. Your skills. You will be... **Kaelith**. A name befitting a warrior."
"Kaelith," Ethan repeated, testing the word. "Sounds like a goth kid's D&D character."
"**DO YOU ACCEPT OR NOT?!**" Zeus thundered, losing patience.
Ethan looked around the apartment one last time. At the broken TV. The shattered bottle. The photo he'd avoided for six years. Sarah's smile. Lily's laugh.
*"I'm sorry,"* he thought. *"I couldn't save you. But maybe... maybe I can save someone else."*
He turned back to Zeus. "One condition."
"**NAME IT.**"
"If I'm gonna be a 'hero' in this new world..." Ethan grinned—a sharp, dangerous grin that would've made Deadpool proud. "I do it **my** way. No rules. No codes. Just me, my swords, and whatever poor bastard gets in my way."
Zeus hesitated. Then nodded. "Agreed. But know this, Ethan Cross: the world you are going to is **not** kind to those who break its rules. You will face gods, demons, and monsters far worse than anything you've known."
"Good," Ethan said. "I was getting bored anyway."
Zeus raised his hand. Lightning crackled around his fingers. "Then **go**. Be reborn. Be... **Kaelith**."
The golden light exploded, consuming everything. Ethan felt his body dissolve, his soul ripped from Seattle, from Earth, from **everything**—
And then—
**THUD.**
---
**Unknown Location. Unknown Time. Darkness.**
Ethan—no, **Kaelith** now—opened his eyes. Or tried to. Everything was dark. And warm. And... squishy?
"What the—" His voice came out muffled. He tried to move, but something was **pressing down on him**. Something heavy. And soft. And—
*"Oh no."*
He pushed upward, and whatever was on top of him shifted. He heard a voice—female, startled, young:
"**AH!**"
Light flooded in as the weight lifted. Kaelith blinked, adjusting to the sudden brightness. He was lying on a cold stone floor in what looked like a **dimly lit bedroom**—walls covered in mystical symbols, candles flickering, the air thick with the scent of incense and... something else. Something **fishy**.
And standing above him, staring down in **absolute horror**, was a girl.
**Raven.**
Purple cloak. Hood pulled back. Pale skin. Violet eyes wide with shock. And her face—**oh god, her face**—was turning redder than a tomato in a sauna.
Kaelith looked down at himself. He was wearing his old tactical gear (black, armored, katanas strapped to his back). Then he looked at where he'd been lying.
*"Oh. Oh no."*
He'd been **under her**. Specifically, under her **ass**. She'd been sitting in meditation, and he'd materialized **directly beneath her**.
Silence.
Then Kaelith, still lying on the floor, looked up at her. At Raven. At the horrified, embarrassed, mortified expression on her face.
And he said the first thing that came to mind:
"...Did you fart?"
**END OF PROLOGUE.**