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Smallville: Reborn Smallville: Reborn original

Smallville: Reborn

Author: MageManiac

© WebNovel

Chapter 1: Death and Rebirth

It was just another day at my second gig. At sixteen, after I'd dozed through school, I'd head straight for the joint where I scraped dishes clean. And once I'd clocked out from that godforsaken place, I'd haul my ass over to the crummy gas station for the graveyard shift. The chump change I pocketed partly bankrolled my minimalist lifestyle. Some chump change went to my school supplies, but the lion's share went toward covering the hospital bills for my adopted mother.

She'd taken me in when my real mom vanished one day, unceremoniously dropping me on her doorstep. She raised me alright, but her displeasure at having my life thrust upon her was never entirely concealed. We got by, though, until fate dealt her a shitty hand. A year ago, some drunk asshole collided with her car. She slipped into a coma, and for a few torturous months, we held on to a sliver of hope. Then, she slipped away, leaving me to grapple with a life that had just taken a turn for the worse.

The driver, not much older than me, walked into court flanked by his parents and an army of lawyers. The one attorney willing to take the case pro bono did his damnedest. He threw everything at it, but in the end, that rich prick walked free, not even a slap on the wrist. Turns out, justice could be bought and sold, just like anything else.

I was on the brink of dozing off, my eyelids drooping under the fluorescent lights when the door chimed open. Three armed robbers barged in, two of them brandishing guns. One aimed his weapon at the cashier (that's me), while the other threatened the customers to "stay the fuck back and shut the hell up!" I had the register open and was stuffing bills into a bag for the third guy. No need to shoot me, but apparently, that didn't compute for one jittery scumbag.

Maybe he thought I was too slow, or he just didn't like my damn face. Whatever the hell it was that made him want to snuff out the life of a sixteen-year-old kid just trying to make it through the damn day. The man had to be a junkie; there was no other way he could miss me at point-blank range, twice. I managed to dodge the first two bullets, but the third one got me square in the lung.

There I lay, bleeding out on the grimy floor. I hated that I was dying because these assholes couldn't grow up, get a damn job, and maybe lay off the crack. Hell, I was probably a fraction of their age, and I was working two gigs and trying to keep my grades up. Yet, I couldn't help but crack a wry grin. Life had dealt me a shit hand, but at least now, I could rest. And if there was a hell, I wanted to go there just to see these bastards get what was coming to them.

I was still hanging on, barely, when one of those morons knelt down to check if I was breathing. He'd carelessly left his gun right next to me. Unresolved rage, indignation, and an overpowering thirst for vengeance coursed through me at that moment. These wastes of oxygen probably didn't have a handful of brain cells between them, and they'd just fucking killed me.

Even if the cops nabbed them, they'd serve a few years in the can, then be back on the streets doing the same damn thing in less than a decade. As that thought crossed my mind, clarity washed over me like a tidal wave. I lunged for the gun and squeezed off a round, nailing scumbag number one as he knelt beside me. I managed to get a shot at scumbag number two just before my strength failed me.

As I frantically searched for scumbag number three, my vision blurred, doubling the pain and chaos around me. I was closing in on my target when darkness swallowed me whole. "Two out of three ain't too shabby," I mused as the abyss claimed me.

I opened my eyes to find myself in an opulent, black-and-white-themed office. It oozed luxury, and I couldn't help but wonder how the hell I ended up here. Glancing around, I realized something was off. There were no wounds, no blood staining my shirt, nothing to indicate that I'd been shot.

Just as confusion settled in, the door creaked open, revealing a striking middle-aged man. He was dressed in a sharp vest and trousers, with a gold chain dangling from one pocket—a pocket watch, a touch of class. He walked in, taking a seat behind the desk, and cast an amused, almost mirthful glance at me.

"Well? Aren't you going to take a seat?" he prompted, his gaze penetrating. I wasn't about to let anyone look down on me, no matter how bizarre the situation. So, I strode confidently toward the chair opposite him and took my place.

"I'm dead?" I stated more than asked.

"Yes, you are, in fact, very much dead," he confirmed with an air of calm, though a hint of sadness lingered in his voice.

"So... what now?" I inquired.

"Are you not curious who I am?" he asked, a tinge of puzzlement in his tone.

"Well, you're either an impartial judge for deciding where I go after death or some kind of demon ready to drag me to hell. Either way, it doesn't really change where I'm headed, and I'm not begging for forgiveness or a second chance. But sure, tell me who you are," I replied, my emotions a turbulent mix of unfairness, bitterness, and a tinge of sadness. It probably wasn't the smartest or most diplomatic response, given my circumstances, but the sheer oddity of the situation and the sadness of leaving the world with so many unfulfilled dreams had left me a bit miffed.

The man appeared taken aback by my answer, pausing before he continued, "Why do you think you'd go to hell?"

"What kind of question is that?" I retorted. "I nearly avenged myself before I kicked the bucket. Nobody would've sought justice for me after I was gone. Sure, those lowlifes would've been punished for breaking the law, but by the time I breathed my last, I'd have been nothing more than a statistic."

There was a silence that hung in the air before he posed another question, one that caught me off guard. "What if I were God, here to give you a second chance?"

I burst into laughter at the absurdity of the idea. "God? If God ever existed, he's either dead or turning a blind eye to all the atrocities happening on Earth. I wouldn't want a second chance from him. Besides, what kind of God conducts cryptic interviews with every random soul that shuffles off this mortal coil? Unless, of course, they were something special in some way. And judging by my life and death, I can tell I wasn't even on God's radar. I'm not trying to insult your intelligence, sir, but don't insult mine."

To my surprise, the man laughed even harder than I did. After he regained his composure, he said, "You're half right. I am not God, but you are getting a second chance at life."

I was shocked but kept my silence, letting him continue.

"You will have a second chance granted by me. Think of it as a 'thank you' for the amusing 'therapy session,'" he said, his voice holding a hint of glee.

I wasn't about to complain about another shot at life, so I didn't argue. His reaction, though, gave me a sense of who he might be.

With a wave of his hand, a wheel appeared before me. He gestured toward it, his tone playfully warning, "Remember, as soon as you spin that wheel, there's no going back."

"My reincarnation is going to depend on my luck? You do Know How bad my luck was the first time around don't you?" I said but he simply gestured to the wheel wordlessly. I spun the wheel, almost expecting the worst given my luck. It landed on "Smallville," a show I'd watched close to seven years ago—damn DC Universe. "See what I mean?" I said, a mixture of amusement and resignation.

He burst into laughter as if I'd just delivered a stand-up comedy routine. He waved his hand again, and the wheel displayed various races. I spotted humans, Kryptonians, Martians, Djinn, Giants, and even Imps. It finally settled between two I recognized well—both great options in their own right.

"So, which one did I get?" I asked, eager to find out what form my second chance would take.

The man remained silent for a moment, as if contemplating something. Then he spoke, "You will be both."

I nearly gaped in disbelief. Homo Magi and Tamaraneans were both formidable beings, and from what little I remembered, they were a far cry from your average superhero. I wasn't much into superheroes, but magic and Homo Magi had always piqued my interest. I guess I had been saving my luck for this moment. Coupled with the physique of Tamaraneans that could rival even a Kryptonian, this was a second chance worth fighting for.

The man got up, wearing a satisfied smile. "Alright, use this to customize how you'll look. I have things to take care of." And with that, he walked out of the office.

A screen materialized before me, akin to a character creation interface, and I got to work.

Handsome Man's POV

As I left my office, my secretary—a newly promoted Infernal demon—approached me, bubbling with curiosity. He couldn't resist asking, "My lord, may I ask why you didn't reveal your identity to the young man?" His voice was far from aged and scratchy, as he'd only served for a millennium.

I couldn't help but be amused by his curiosity. "I didn't want to overwhelm him, not that it would have made a difference," I replied with a chuckle, savoring the startled look on his scaled face.

He hesitated for a moment as we walked through the corridors but finally inquired further, "You never meet anyone after they pass. Is it presumptuous of me to ask why you're giving this one a second chance and breaking the rules you've set for yourself? It's been an eon since you've done that."

I patiently replied, my good mood lingering, "That boy... he reminds me so much of my youth."

Realization washed over the secretary's face as he absorbed my explanation.

While the boy tinkered with his new avatar, I made arrangements in preparation for his new life. I knew that a pseudo-god in this alternate reality, who referred to himself as 'The Presence,' would undoubtedly notice a soul merging into his reality. I didn't want him making life difficult for him, so I sent a succinct message into his mind, using a tone far more domineering than I typically employed—a tone reserved for the few who could hear it without perishing.

"I'm sending a soul into your reality. Make life difficult for him, and I'll make life difficult for you," I warned, disconnecting from his mind.

The Presence's POV

I had always considered myself the greatest existence to ever exist, until a minute ago. The words, "I'm sending a soul into your reality. Make life difficult for him, and I'll make life difficult for you," had been delivered in a tone so domineering, ferocious, and bloodthirsty that I felt true and absolute horror wash over me. The sheer pressure from the voice alone felt deadly.

Whoever this soul was, whoever was backing him, I wanted no part of it. I decided that the best course of action was to simply ignore it. After all, how much damage could one tiny little soul do?

Percy's POV: I spent more time than I'd like to admit creating my new body. At eighteen, I had a 6'4" frame, a ripped, tall, and athletic build, bright golden eyes, silver hair cascading to my shoulders, handsome features with a sharp jawline, high cheekbones, a cute nose, and full lips—all accompanied by a rosy porcelain complexion. I couldn't help but think, "I look like a wet dream." I didn't skimp on the...uh, equipment either. "If I can't beat my enemies, then I'll seduce 'em," I thought with a short laugh.

I had just put the finishing touches on my avatar when the man reentered the room. He asked, his charming smile in place, "All done?"

I nodded, my nerves tingling with excitement. "Yep, all finished!"

"Then we'd best send you on your way. And have fun being a kid again," he said, his voice carrying an almost gleeful and predatory undertone. I couldn't help but wonder, "No way?" I turned toward him, but before I could react, a portal swallowed me whole, and darkness enveloped me, the last thing I heard being his maniacal laughter.

Infernal POV

As the true devil's secretary, I had witnessed many great things over the short millennium I had served him. He had not interacted with a mortal soul during that time, and from what I had heard, he hadn't done so in even longer. Even as the young soul left, He continued to assist him.

He pulled up the avatar creation sheet the young man had submitted. I couldn't help but notice that the young man had done an impressive job. With administrator access, My Lord began to add more attributes, including scrying protection, mind reading and manipulation protection, enhanced adaptation and resistance, anti-cloning, and anti-sealing.

He even added a little gift before closing the screen with a sigh and a smile. "Have fun, my son," He whispered.

Questions welled up inside me, but I knew better than to press further. My Lord was perfection incarnate. He didn't make mistakes, and all he had done was undoubtedly necessary but... his son? His SON!. I could only nod in understanding, acknowledging that this was all part of his plan. "My Lord," I said unsure if the interruption from his good mood was good for my continued existence. He just looked at me sideways. "The three mortals who killed the... young master are prepped in the dungeons, apparently the one young master Perseus didn't finish off resisted arrest." He scoffed. "My son was right—oxygen thieves indeed," he said before getting up. He drew out his demonic artifact, his pocket watch. It fit in his palm perfectly, and the golden-colored hell iron chain gained size, transforming to the length of a whip growing spikes that can tear away flesh with each strike. I suppressed a gasp of excitement as my lord hadn't demonstrated a torture session for nearly 2,000 years.


CREATORS' THOUGHTS
MageManiac MageManiac

Hi, I see you've discovered my first work, Please tell me what you think about it and maybe drop some stones, thank you so much for reading and I hope you find this as fun to read as I found it fun to write, Cheers.

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