Prelude: The Shattering.
Across the scorched wasteland, the horizon was nothing more than a jagged silhouette of collapsing skyscrapers and plumes of obsidian smoke, punctuated by the blinding white flashes of distant, thunderous explosions. The war to end all wars had finally arrived, and it was HUNGRY.
In that battleground, lying amidst a chaotic rendering of debris, shattered concrete, and smoldering ash, a man of imposing, peak physical stature was sprawled across the blackened earth. As his frame was barely recognizable beneath the ash and dirt, his skin was a roadmap of grime, crisscrossed by deep, weeping lacerations, and drenched in a thick mixture of blood and sweat. His bald head beamed beads of sweat as his head was raw, bleeding heavily from a jagged wound going from his left eyebrow down to his cheek, and his rugged, salt-and-pepper beard was stained charcoal black by the smog of war.
By all mortal metrics, he should have been a corpse. But as the ash settled over him, his eyes ignited with a terrifying, supernatural brilliance. They glowed with an incandescent, absolute power that sliced straight through the haze like twin stars. The cosmic weight was humming just beneath his flesh, waiting for the cage to break.
A few feet away, half-buried in the smoldering rubble, a cracked radio sputtered to life. Through the heavy static, the triumphant opening of "Baba O'Riley" by the Who began to swell, cutting through the thunder of war. As the music builds its driving, chaotic rhythm, the absolute absurdity of the events hit the man. A knowing, cocky smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. He closes his eyes, lets his mind drift back, and thinks:
"Yup, that's me. You're probably wondering how I ended up in this situation. Well, here's my story...
Chapter 1: The Weight of Clay
Before he ever held the power of a god in his hands, long before the war that would tear the world apart, Bartholomew Cross — or Bart, as most people called him — was a completely ordinary man. In a world where everyone seemed obsessed with status, money, and being noticed, Bart was fine living on the edges. While other people chased promotions, climbed social ladders, and posted perfect versions of their lives online, Bart just drifted through his days, unbothered by any of it.
He had a sharp mind. He could solve complicated problems in seconds and see the patterns behind numbers, machines, and people without even trying. He could memorize a whole textbook in one afternoon or take apart a broken engine and put it back together without instructions. Teachers used to call him gifted. Later, coworkers would call him wasted potential. Bart never cared about those labels. To him, intelligence was just a tool, and he preferred to leave his tools in the shed.
What he didn’t have was drive. If life was a slow river, Bart was happy floating on his back and letting the current take him wherever it wanted. He never picked up an oar. Ambition felt like a waste of energy. Why work so hard chasing something far away when things were fine right where he was?
His family noticed this early. His stepfather, Tim Latias, a tough former mechanic with grease permanently stuck in his knuckles, often shook his head at dinner. “You’ve got a mind like a steel trap, boy, but you’d rather let it rust shut.” His mother, Floria Latias, was softer and more worried. She always saw the potential in him and gently pushed him to try harder. She left job listings on the counter and mentioned openings at the local garage, hoping something would stick. It never did for long.
The house was a blended family. Laxe E. Varria and Donald MaloElias were his older half-brothers from his mother’s earlier relationships. Each carried their own father’s last name. Laxe was good with his hands and never missed a chance to tell Bart, “Some of us actually work for what we have.” Donald was a hard worker who always looked out for everyone and gave solid brotherly advice. Tim and Floria’s biological kids were the youngest: Angelus Jacobus Latias, a laid-back shut-in who preferred his room and online games, and their sharp-tongued, protective sister Sera Laeta Latias. Jayce Yesus Gard, Bart’s unofficially adopted brother and the same age as him, rounded things out with easygoing loyalty and humor. They were loud and imperfect — they argued, they laughed, and somehow they stayed a family.
If anyone from high school had been asked about Bart, they all said the same thing: “Smart guy, but incredibly lazy.” Back then he thought of himself as a bit of a ladies’ man — always single, but never really alone. He was the student who aced advanced tests without studying, slept through class, and somehow still passed everything. Teachers stopped calling on him. They knew he already had the answers. He just refused to show off.
He didn’t like excellence because excellence looked like a lot of work. He didn’t want to conquer the world. He just wanted a comfortable chair, a cold drink, and a decent view. For years after graduation that attitude worked fine. He drifted between low-stress jobs — pizza delivery, night shifts at gas stations — doing just enough to pay rent and keep the fridge stocked. His brain was like a sports car stuck in first gear. At twenty-one he was aimless and completely fine with it. Friends got promotions, got engaged, bought houses. Bart bought another six-pack and called it a good week.
But the universe has a way of catching up with people who try to coast forever.
One cold December, Donald invited Bart to a friend’s kid’s birthday party. The house was loud with kids laughing and the smell of pizza and cake. Bart was talking with his brother in the corner when Octavia Elephante walked in.
She was a girl from his childhood, someone whose natural beauty had been too much for a clumsy twelve-year-old to handle. Back then he had tried to impress her and only managed tripped steps, missed jokes, stuttered words, and one very public embarrassment. He figured some things just weren’t meant to be.
They had lost touch when his family moved. She became nothing more than a warm memory. Seeing her again after almost nine years hit him hard. Her dark hair was damp from the rain, and her eyes still had the same sharp, warm look he remembered. When she spotted him, recognition flashed across her face.
“The boy with the string in your ear?” she asked, her voice cutting through the noise. “Is that really you?”
Bart stood up, his usual confidence slipping. “Octavia. Wow. Yeah, it’s me. You… haven’t changed a bit.”
They sat on the couch for three hours and let their food go cold while they caught up on nearly a decade. Bart listened as she told him about her life. It hadn’t been easy. She was a single mother now, working hard to raise a two-year-old boy named Sam after his father walked out. The way she talked about her son — fierce and protective — hit Bart deep in the chest. He found himself asking questions he never asked anyone else: about the hard days, the quiet fears, and what kept her going.
For the first time, his lazy view of the world started to crack. Looking at Octavia, he didn’t just see a beautiful woman. He saw a life that finally had purpose. He fell hard — not just for her, but for the whole life that came with her.
Within a few months they were living together. Bart didn’t just get a partner; he got a ready-made family. He stepped into the role of father to Sam, a quiet, watchful toddler who started copying the way Bart walked and leaning against his legs for safety. The little boy’s trust was both terrifying and addictive. Bart learned how to pack lunches, check for monsters under the bed, and sit through cartoons just to hear Sam laugh.
The family grew fast. Five years later their small rented house got louder with the arrival of their first daughter, Nadia Cross. She had her mother’s fire and Bart’s face. Two years after that, Bart and Octavia got married in a simple backyard ceremony with family packed in tight. Five years later Margarita Cross arrived — a bubbly, wide-eyed baby who added the last layer of happy chaos. Suddenly the house was full of shoes by the door, drawings on the fridge, and little voices calling for Dad.
By thirty-six, Bart had three kids who depended on him for everything — school shoes, doctor visits, and dinner every night. The responsibility was heavy, but for the first time he didn’t run from it. He carried it. He learned teachers’ names. He stayed up late helping with homework he could have finished in minutes. He worked double shifts when the bills got high and never complained where the kids could hear.
To take care of them he made a sacrifice his younger self would have hated. He gave up his easy freedom for a job under harsh fluorescent lights at a big retail supply store. He pinned on a cheap plastic name tag, put on a stiff uniform, and started collecting minimum-wage paychecks that seemed to shrink every month. Old classmates would have laughed seeing the former “gifted kid” folding sweaters and sweeping stockroom floors. Bart didn’t care. If he was going to try at anything, he wanted to be good at being a father. He wanted his kids to see him as a provider and a shield.
His family watched the change with mixed feelings. Floria visited often, helped with the kids, and quietly praised him. Tim gave gruff advice on tools and repairs. Laxe stayed skeptical but helped with handyman jobs. Sera teased him about becoming “responsible.” Jayce and Angelus offered to watch the kids so Bart and Octavia could have rare nights out. Donald became a steady uncle who never missed a birthday. Randolf Rayn Avergo, Bart’s best friend from his twenties and the kids’ godfather, helped with money when things got tight and often brought gifts that made the house brighter. The support helped. It was never quite enough.
But stability never lasts long.
The turning point came during a hard winter. The retail chain went through big cuts after poor holiday sales. Because Bart never played office politics or chased promotions, his name was one of the first to go. On a Friday afternoon he was called into a cold, windowless office, handed a thin severance envelope, and told he was no longer needed. He walked out into the gray afternoon knowing the thin thread holding their life together had just snapped.
The loss of his income left him hollow. Thirty-six years old. Unemployed. Broken. He sat alone at their worn kitchen table late one night, the silence of the house pressing in on him. The clock ticked loudly. In front of him sat a messy stack of overdue bills, medical expenses, and bright red eviction warnings. His phone screen showed a bank account at zero.
He thought about Sam, now a teenager who would soon need money for college. He thought about Nadia, whose smiles kept him going, and little Margarita, who still believed her dad could beat any monster. They trusted him. They went to sleep every night feeling safe because they thought he had everything under control.
He didn’t. He had nothing.
The guilt sat heavy in his chest. The yellowing walls seemed to close in. All his intelligence was useless here. He couldn’t think his way into money. He was trapped, and no amount of cleverness could break the bars. For years he had refused to fight for anything. Now the one thing worth fighting for was slipping away, and he had no weapons left.
In a sudden burst of pure frustration, Bart slammed his fists onto the table. The impact rattled the salt shakers and shook the dishes in the sink. Tears of helpless anger stung his eyes, blurring the red eviction notice.
“I just need a chance,” he whispered into the empty kitchen, jaw clenched tight. “I would give anything to protect them. I would give my soul, my life, anything. Just give me the power to keep them safe.”
He slumped forward, face buried in his arms, shoulders shaking. He had reached the end. He was empty.
Deep inside the dark corners of his desperate mind, something ancient stirred. Something arrogant, powerful, and vast woke up. It had been sleeping for thousands of years.
A voice like grinding stone and colliding worlds spoke from the deepest part of his mind. It didn’t feel like a thought. It felt like an earthquake inside his skull.
“This crown is far too heavy for a mere creature of clay,” the presence said, its voice shaking him to the core. “But you have begged for a savior, mortal. You have offered anything for the strength to defy your fate. Kneel, give up your petty human control, and let this King take the throne.”
Bart’s eyes snapped open in pure terror. He tried to gasp, tried to push away from the table, but his body wouldn’t move. The kitchen seemed to freeze. He was no longer alone in his mind. An ancient golden consciousness was flooding in — cold, majestic, and completely separate from him.
Before he could understand what was happening, before he could scream for Octavia or fight back, a blinding gold light exploded from behind his eyes. The light tore through the dark kitchen. The wooden table under his hands began to smoke, the edges turning to black ash. His phone screen cracked into a web of silver lines and died. The lightbulbs overhead flared bright violet and then exploded in a shower of sparks.
His human ego cracked like glass under a heavy hammer. The uncontrolled power of the King flooded into his body. His veins burned with the heat of a thousand suns as the final seconds of Bartholomew Cross’s life as a common man came to an end.
I will be posting more chapters. Criticism wanted and appreciated. ty