The Jade Throne crumbled. Not in a dramatic, earth-shattering explosion, but with the slow, methodical crackling of jade worn thin by millennia of unwavering pressure. The pressure was his. The Heavenly Emperor. Golden light bathed his face, obscuring the weariness etched into his ageless features. He surveyed his court, the glittering tapestries of immortal beings, each powerful, each bound to him by oath and obligation. Yet, he felt…stagnant. He watched, his face a mask of serene contemplation, as fissures widened across the pristine surface, mirroring the fissures in his own soul. Further advancement was impossible; the very fabric of the heavens seemed to resist his growth, possessed by the burning desire to break through. To reach a level of power previously unimaginable, gnawed at him.

  Eons stretched behind him, woven with battles won, empires forged, and constellations named after his victories. Millenia upon Millenia had passed since his ascension, centuries spent perfecting his control, expanding his dominion, and mastering the arcane arts. He had reached a pinnacle of power, an apex of existence. He was, for all intents and purposes, divine. His power was absolute, his will law. Yet, a gnawing emptiness echoed within his immortal soul. He had reached a plateau. He had reached the pinnacle of his cultivation, the zenith of celestial power. He commanded legions of immortal warriors, the very constellations bowed before his will, and time itself seemed to bend to his whim. Yet, he was stagnant. Divinity, he realized with a chilling certainty, was not enough.

  A gilded cage, no matter how vast, was still a prison. He was not afraid to die. He was afraid of stagnation.

  He yearned for growth, for transcendence. The risk was terrifying. Utter annihilation. Complete oblivion. But the reward… the potential for boundless power… it was too tempting to resist. The very fabric of reality pulsed with a potential he could not access, a power beyond the comprehension of even the most ancient gods. He had glimpsed it in forbidden texts, whispered about in hushed tones by forgotten deities. It was the power of true Creation, the ability to reshape reality according to his will, not merely manipulate its surface.

  The ancient prophecies spoke of a power beyond ascension, a realm of pure chaotic potential accessible only through… reincarnation. A concept the Heavenly Emperor had always dismissed as a quaint folk tale. But the whispers had grown louder, gnawing at his ambition. The Throne, a symbol of absolute authority, was now mocking him, a testament to his limitations.

  “It seems,” he murmured to the ethereal emptiness of his court, the echoes of his words the only reply, “that a new path is required.” He closed his eyes. The jade shattered completely. The Heavenly Emperor was no more.

  The sensation was akin to being ripped apart and reassembled by a hurricane made of shadows. The Heavenly Emperor, or what was left of him, found himself tumbling through a suffocating darkness. The brilliant celestial energy that had defined him was muted, flickering like a dying ember against the encroaching gloom. He was in the underworld, the realm of forgotten souls and lingering regrets. The air was thick with the scent of decay and the mournful cries of those lost between worlds. He could feel them, the countless spirits adrift, their hopes and memories dissolving into the miasma.

  The Heavenly Emperor, even stripped of his divine form, retained a core of his celestial essence. A spark of pure will. He focused, drawing upon that spark to coalesce the swirling shadows around him, forming a wraith-like body. It was a crude imitation of his former glory, but it was enough. His descent was not unnoticed. The denizens of the underworld, monstrous shades of their former selves, were drawn to the lingering scent of divinity like moths to a flame. Grotesque figures, twisted by torment and regret, emerged from the shadows, their eyes burning with a ravenous hunger.

  He met them with a cold fury. He was the Heavenly Emperor. He had commanded armies that could crush mountains and extinguish stars. These pathetic remnants posed no threat. He unleashed the simmering celestial energy within him in controlled bursts, incinerating the shades with bolts of pure light. Each victory was a step forward, each fallen foe a stepping stone on his path.

  He encountered familiar faces amongst the damned. Generals who had betrayed him, courtiers who had plotted his downfall, sorcerers who had dared to challenge his authority. They were shadows now, stripped of their power, their ambitions reduced to whimpers of fear. He savored their terror, but he didn't linger. He had a purpose, a destiny that transcended petty vengeance. He pressed onward, his spectral form cutting through the endless legions of the underworld, each battle honing his diminished powers, each victory fueling his unwavering resolve.

  The air grew heavy, charged with a palpable sense of finality. The cacophony of the underworld faded, replaced by an eerie silence. Before him lay a river, a swirling vortex of black water that seemed to absorb all light and sound. A bridge of bone stretched across the abyss, guarded by a gaunt figure shrouded in tattered rags.

  "The living do not belong here," they rasped, his voice a dry whisper carried on the wind.

  "I am not living," Caius replied, his voice a chilling echo. "I am seeking rebirth."

  The gaunt figure remained impassive. He pointed with a skeletal finger to the river. "All who cross must shed their burdens. Their memories, their identities, their very essence. The water cleanses… and prepares."

  They watched as souls, pale and translucent, were herded onto the bridge. He saw them hesitate, fear etched on their faces. But the pull of the river was too strong. One by one, they plunged into the churning depths. As they entered the river, their ethereal forms shimmered and distorted. Colors bled away, memories flickered like dying stars, and their identities dissolved into the swirling darkness. They emerged on the other side, mere wisps of light, devoid of memory, ready for their next life.

  Approaching the edge of the river. He could feel its pull, the insidious attempt to unravel the very fabric of his being. He hesitated. This was it. The ultimate test. To surrender everything he was, everything he had ever been, for the chance at something more. He took a deep breath and plunged into the depths. The water was like liquid ice, burning and freezing at the same time. The river clawed at his essence, trying to unravel his memories, his power, his very identity. But something was different.

  He felt the river's pull, but it wasn't working. His soul, his sprite, was too dense, too saturated with celestial energy. The river could not cleanse him. He was too powerful, too stubborn. Instead of being dissolved, he was being pushed down, deeper and deeper into the abyss. The pressure mounted, threatening to crush him. But he refused to yield. He was the Heavenly Emperor. He had faced challenges far greater than this.

  He fought against the current, pushing himself further into the depths of the river, beyond the reach of the cleansing waters. He felt a strange pull, a magnetic force drawing him towards the unknown. The darkness began to dissipate. He emerged into a realm of breathtaking wonder. A vast, star-strewn expanse, stretching infinitely in all directions. He was floating in the cosmic ocean, surrounded by countless points of light, each representing a soul preparing for rebirth.

  They blinked in and out of existence, each flash a fleeting glimpse of their past lives. Emperors, beggars, warriors, lovers, all fading away as they were drawn towards the swirling nebulae of creation. Then, the lights began to fade, the swirling nebulae grew distant. Everything was dissolving into a formless void. He felt himself being pulled, compressed, reduced to a single point. The stars vanished. The nebulae dissolved. He was alone, adrift in a sea of nothingness. All that remained was a tiny point of light, a single, pulsating spark of life.

  He was a single-celled fertilized egg.

  For a moment, panic threatened to overwhelm him. He, the Heavenly Emperor, reduced to this? A microscopic speck of potential? Was this the ultimate humiliation? Then, a slow smile spread across the microscopic landscape that was his nascent being.

  "I can work with this," he thought, his voice a whisper in the void.

  The cellular division began. A flurry of activity in the infinitesimal universe he now inhabited. He felt… nothing. No grand surge of power, no celestial resonance, just a primal urge to… replicate. He focused, channeling the remnants of his divine will, not to command, but to guide. He would observe, learn, and subtly influence the process. He would not be a passive passenger this time.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  He noticed anomalies. Minute, almost imperceptible deviations from the natural order of cellular growth. These were not errors; they were deliberate, orchestrated by an outside force. A subtle, insidious interference. A wave of cold fury, unfamiliar in its intensity, washed over him. He, the Heavenly Emperor, was being toyed with by some unknown entity. He would not stand for it. But he was powerless, trapped within the confines of his nascent form. Patience, he reminded himself. Observation. Understanding.

  He focused his awareness, pushing against the limitations of his cellular prison. He reached out, a tendril of his consciousness extending beyond the confines of the egg, probing the dark abyss around him. He encountered… resistance. A shimmering barrier, woven from strands of ethereal energy, pulsed around him, dampening his senses, preventing him from truly perceiving his surroundings. The barrier was familiar. He had encountered similar constructs in his battles against rogue deities and rebellious spirits. This was a ward, a protective shield designed to contain… something. Or someone. In this case, him.

  He intensified his probing, testing the ward's defenses. It was strong, expertly crafted, but not impenetrable. He detected weaknesses, subtle flaws in its design, ripples in its energy field. He would exploit them. But not yet. He needed more information. Who had placed this ward? And why?

  The cellular division continued, inexorable, driven by forces beyond his immediate control. He was becoming more complex, more intricate. He could feel the emergence of rudimentary organs, the beginnings of a nervous system. The whispers of the void grew louder, echoing within his nascent consciousness. He began to sift through the chaotic symphony of sensations, searching for clues. He detected the rhythmic pulse of a larger entity, a warm, comforting presence. His… mother? He focused on the subtle undercurrents, the faint whispers that hinted at the truth. He heard fragmented thoughts, fleeting emotions, filtered through the protective barrier. Fear. Anxiety. Hope. And something else… a deep, abiding sorrow. His mother was suffering.

  He felt a surge of protectiveness, an instinct he had never experienced before. He pushed against the barrier, trying to reach out to her, to offer comfort, to alleviate her pain. But the ward held firm, isolating him within his cellular prison. He redoubled his efforts, hammering against the ward with his will, searching for a weakness, a crack, anything he could exploit. The energy barrier shimmered and pulsed, resisting his assault. He could feel the strain, the tension building within its ethereal structure.

  And then, just as he was about to break through, everything went dark. A searing pain ripped through his nascent form, followed by an all-consuming wave of unconsciousness. The whispers faded. The ward vanished. The warmth disappeared. He was alone, adrift in a sea of nothingness, once more. He had lost. For the first time in millennia, the Heavenly Emperor had been defeated. And he didn't even know who his enemy was.

  He drifted, suspended in the void, waiting for the return of consciousness, wondering if he would ever escape this prison. He knew one thing for certain: the stakes were higher than he could have possibly conceived. When consciousness flickered back, it was a fragile thing, like a dying ember struggling to catch. The pain was gone, replaced by a dull ache that resonated through his nascent nervous system. He was no longer suspended in the void. He could feel the warmth again, the rhythmic pulse of his mother's life force.

  But something was different. The ward was gone, yes, but in its place was something far more insidious: a binding. A subtle web of energy, woven directly into his cellular structure, limiting his movement, suppressing his abilities. It was more than just containment; it was control. Someone was attempting to manipulate him, to puppet his development. He tried to flex his will, to break free from the binding, but his efforts were futile. The energy strands were too deeply ingrained, too intertwined with his own essence. He was trapped, a prisoner within his own body. He focused his senses, trying to identify the source of the binding. He followed the energy threads back, tracing their connection like a spiderweb leading to its center. They emanated not from an external source, but from within himself. From his…soul?

  The realization struck him like a physical blow. The binding wasn't an external construct; it was an internal corruption, a twisting of his own divine essence. Someone had tampered with his soul during the reincarnation process, planting a seed of control that had now taken root. He raged against the injustice, the audacity of it all. He, the Heavenly Emperor, reduced to a pawn in someone else's game? He would not allow it. He would fight. He would resist. He would unravel this conspiracy, even if it meant destroying himself in the process.

  He started small, focusing his will on a single cell, attempting to disrupt the flow of energy through the binding's threads. It was a slow, arduous process, like chipping away at a mountain with a toothpick. But he persisted, driven by a burning desire for freedom. He worked tirelessly, day and night, pushing against the limitations of his cellular prison. He learned to manipulate the energy within his cells, to reroute the flow, to create pockets of resistance. He was like a revolutionary, operating in the shadows, building an army one cell at a time.

  As he grew, as his body developed, so too did his understanding of the binding. He discovered its weaknesses, its vulnerabilities. He learned how to mask his efforts, to hide his rebellion from his captor. He also learned more about his mother. He felt her joy, her sorrow, her hopes and fears. He felt her love for him, a pure, unconditional love that resonated with him in a way he had never experienced before. This wasn't the detached benevolence he had offered his subjects as the Heavenly Emperor. This was something deeper, more personal.

  He realized that his fight for freedom was not just about himself. It was about protecting his mother, about ensuring her happiness. He would not allow anyone to harm her, to use her as a pawn in their twisted game. He continued his clandestine rebellion, building his strength, gathering his resources. He knew that the time would come when he would have to confront his captor. And when that time came, he would be ready. He would unleash the full force of his reclaimed power, and he would show them what it meant to trifle with the Heavenly Emperor.

  ... Another failure. The Heavenly Emperor, the Celestial Paragon, the Unchallenged Master of the Heavens, was once again ripped from the nascent life that was supposed to be his glorious reincarnation. The pain was a dull throb, a phantom echo of the crushing force, the twisting magic, each death unique in its cruelty, life snatched away before a single breath could fill its lungs.

  Time and again, some meddling fool, from a sorceress evidently desperate to prevent some prophesied 'bane' from being born, to some power-hungry tyrant or some misguided prophet, had snuffed out the flame of his new life.

  His first attempt landed him in the womb of a viper-esque demoness who, upon realizing the divine spark within her, panicked, sealed him and then terminated the pregnancy with a particularly potent venom. "Too much trouble," she hissed, unaware she’d just aborted the most powerful being in the cosmos.

  Round two wasn't much better. He found himself nestled in the ovum of a particularly ambitious, but ultimately incompetent, elven sorceress. She envisioned a son who would rule all the forests, a master of both magic and diplomacy. Unfortunately, she tripped over a root while chanting a particularly complex growth spell, and the resulting surge of wild magic… well, let’s just say the emperor became fertilizer.

  He cycled through realms and races. A barbarian queen, a sentient mushroom, a sentient rock which was surprisingly peaceful, until a geological survey team rudely blasted him out of existence. Each time, he felt the nascent divinity choked out, snuffed by accident, malice, or sheer, comical incompetence. He couldn't choose his destination. The threads of fate, usually so pliable in his hands, felt tangled and frayed. It was as if the very act of him trying to reincarnate was an anomaly the universe was desperately trying to correct.

  This time, the void yawned, deeper and darker than before. He felt a tug unlike any he'd experienced, a wrench away from the familiar currents of magic and celestial energy. He screamed, a silent, internal scream that ripped through the fabric of his being, as he was flung into the unknown.

  When he blinked, he wasn't surrounded by the comforting warmth of a mother's womb. He was in a sterile, brightly lit room. Machines beeped and whirred. Giant, blurry figures loomed. He felt strangely… weak.

  Then came the slap. He cried.

  The doctors declared him a healthy baby boy. His parents, Sarah and David Miller, were overjoyed. They named him Ethan.

  Ethan Miller grew up in a world utterly devoid of magic. There were no elves, no demons, no gods battling for dominion. Just concrete, steel, and the incessant hum of technology. He lived in a small suburban town, went to school, played baseball (badly), and dreamed of becoming an astronaut.

  He was, by all accounts, perfectly ordinary. And it terrified him.

  The memories of his previous life, fragments of power and glory, were now just disjointed dreams, dismissed by his parents as "a vivid imagination." He'd occasionally catch himself instinctively manipulating energies that simply weren't there, leaving him frustrated and confused. He’d try to heal a scraped knee with celestial energy and end up just rubbing it harder.

  As he grew older, the memories faded further, replaced by the mundane realities of Earth life: homework, video games, awkward dates. He felt a gnawing emptiness, a sense of profound loss he couldn't explain. He knew, deep down, that he was something more, that he was destined for something greater. But here, on this insignificant blue planet, surrounded by magicless humans, he was nothing but… Ethan Miller.