1 A New World: Book 1 Prologue

The bullet whizzed by Colonel Anthony McKay's left ear, missing his head by mere inches as he dived behind the brick wall that separated the kitchen from the living room. Two more shots followed next, both leaving holes in his cover but failing to fully penetrate it. Panting for breath, he gripped the pistol tightly.

It all happened so fast.

One minute he was lazing on the couch with his dog Donut, watching the evening news. Retirement had been a long time coming and, after dedicating most of his life to the army, he planned on enjoying however many years he had left.

Then out of the blue, Donut's ears perked up and he darted towards the entrance, growling and barking as he turned a corner. Out of McKay's field of view, someone kicked open the door, two shots sounded out, and then Donut cried in pain.

Not stopping to think, McKay pulled his pistol from the holster and slid the safety off. His late wife Patty used to call him paranoid for always carrying his gun around, but better safe than sorry, he argued. It took him decades, but it finally paid out.

A black man with a buzzcut and a green cap leaned over the corner. He shot at him, barely missing as McKay not so much ducked as he threw himself to the floor. The bullets pierced through the couch where he had been sitting, blowing out pieces of the pillow's white stuffing. The old colonel returned fire through the couch, aiming at the man's general direction while dashing towards the kitchen.

More shots. Bullets left fresh holes in the wall, and the sound of glass shattering pointed to at least one finding the television screen. None of them found him, though, and he managed to reach the kitchen.

"Who are you?" Anthony yelled out. "Why are you doing this?" The sound of an empty magazine clattering over the floor was the only response he received. Kneeling by the side of the doorway, he pressed the release on his pistol and pulled out the magazine, counting three bullets through the witness holes before pushing it back in. Plus the one still in the chamber, he only had less than half-a-clip left.

Anthony heard another clatter, heavier this time and also much closer to himself. He glanced to the side. A thick, green pipe rolled over the floor into the kitchen, large holes perforated over its length revealing the metallic charge inside. His heart sank to his stomach, and he immediately covered his ears and closed his eyes.

The flashbang blast shook Anthony's entire body, and he felt like he had just gone deaf. The sudden flash of light went through his closed eyelids, almost blinding him. Trembling hands almost lost their grip on the pistol, and he had trouble even looking straight.

He couldn't sit there waiting to recover though, for he knew what would come next. Barely standing straight, McKay leaned to the side and shot wildly at the man running towards him, the close distance helping offset his impaired aiming.

Still, the first two shots missed by far, one of them opening one more hole in the couch. The man returned fire, and McKay felt a sudden pressure in his chest, almost like a punch. The Colonel kept pressing the trigger. The third shot blew a hole through the holster on the man's hip, and the last one hit him right in the gut. Just as well, because he felt another punch to his arm, making him drop the now empty weapon.

Wide-eyed, the intruder stopped. His knees buckled, and he keeled over.

Only then did McKay chest and arm start hurting, as if his body was slowly realizing he had been shot. He found it hard to breathe, and even trying to stand up made him light-headed.

Lying on the living room floor across from him was a man he had never seen before, McKay was sure of that. His vision began to go dark, and it took him more and more effort to breathe. As he lay there on his kitchen floor, staring at his would-be-assassin, one question refused to leave his mind.

"Wh–" He coughed, the taste of metal filling his mouth. "Why…"

***

Timelord Chronos lay his back down on the desolate moon, bushy hair and beard as gray as its surface. To his side, a tall scythe made of a long piece of gnarled wood with a rusty blade at the end. Above him was the vast expanse of space peppered with the shine of countless distant stars and a single blue little planet nearby.

That was a fascinating discovery from a few centuries ago, and a secret he has kept to himself ever since. An uncharted world populated by billions of humans, all of them untouched by the Laws, all of them uncultivated.

In theory, such a thing shouldn't be possible. Cultivation was essential for progress. Without it, no creature was capable of ever developing rational thinking and evolving. In practice, however, here there was a planet full of such impossibilities. The product of billions of years of random chance, they lived their lives unaware of how extraordinary their simple existence was. Of how precious said lives were.

Chronos sighed. In a flash he was sitting down, both legs crossed and the ancient scythe atop his lap. Before becoming the Timelord, he once had a family, if one could call it that. A wife he never loved, three children he couldn't bring himself to care for, in a homeworld he left behind. Only after abandoning the mortal realm and ascending to immortality did he meet Ananke, his one and true love.

She gave him twelve beautiful daughters and then gave up her life in combat against the Godking's minions. Chronos managed to protect their girls from further conflict, but not from the very power he mastered: time.

One by one, they all succumbed to the ennui, the pervasive rot that ate at every immortal's soul. Arctus, his youngest, was the latest victim. Now, completely alone in the universe, Chronos struggled to find a reason to care about anything. His family was gone. His cultivation had been stagnated for centuries.

Maybe he should follow his daughter's example and throw himself inside a black hole to end it all. Or maybe he should go to the front lines and fight until his body and soul were destroyed, taking out as many sovereign powers as possible along the way. At least then his death could have some meanin–

There was a subtle change in the Laws coming from the planet, something so minuscule that not even he would have noticed in a normal world. A faint spark lit up in someone, signaling the first step on the road to cultivation. There were some worlds so attuned to the Laws that babies were already born on the cultivation path. This world was the complete opposite, and even this first step would require a prodigy the likes of which he had never seen.

Such a thing should have been impossible.

Another thing that should have been impossible.

This small, seemingly inconsequential world was much more than met the eye. Maybe uncovering its secrets could be a good use of his time. Suddenly Chronos was on his feet, and the next moment he disappeared as if never there.

***

His body felt weak. The gunshot wound didn't stop bleeding, and he couldn't feel his legs. He had seen this sort of injury before during his tours of duty, though it was the first time experiencing it himself. In the distance, he could hear police sirens, likely called by a neighbor who heard the shots. The smart thing to do would be to lay still and try to survive.

Then again, John wasn't bleeding on the floor and possibly paralyzed from the waist down for doing the smart thing. He was there with a goal. A goal he was committed to see to the end, even if it killed him.

John was left orphaned as a child after his parents died in a car accident. Lucas, his little brother, was the only family he had left. They always stuck together, so it was no surprise that, when John enrolled in the army, Lucas decided to follow suit.

That's what ultimately led to his death. Ambushed during a patrol, he and his squad were all killed after the commanding officer took too long to send reinforcements.

In the kitchen, the rotten bastard who let his brother die lay with his face up, chest barely moving. Maybe he'd die before help arrived. Maybe not. John had to make sure. The pistol had fallen somewhere under the couch, and he didn't have the time to search for it.

Bloodied hands and forearms left their mark on the hardwood as he dragged himself through the floor. The distance that could once be covered in a few steps had become an exhausting journey. The more he moved, the more he bled, bringing him closer and closer to a hemorrhagic shock. The exhaustion was like a thousand invisible hands holding him down, trying to make him submit. He wouldn't.

John forced through the pain until he couldn't feel it anymore, just like his legs. Each pull was punctuated by a memory flashing through his mind. Lucas standing proud in his blue service uniform during his graduation from basic training. The happiness in his little brother's voice as he talked about his promotion to sergeant. The gloom in the captain's voice as he notified John about Lucas' death.

With each flash, he pulled harder. The anger lit a fire inside him that burned the invisible hands away and, before realizing it, he had closed the distance. No sooner had he reached McKay did John's hands wrapped around the colonel's neck.

The old man, only half conscious by now, woke up with a startle. Legs kicked empty air. Weak hands tried to loosen the grip around his own neck, clawed at John'sarms, and punched his face.

To no avail.

The more he struggled, the tighter the hands strangling him became. Bloodshot eyes rolled so far in their sockets that the irises disappeared. Kicking turned into twitching, and his white skin turned a shade of purple.

John hated the man. If not for him, his brother might still be alive. If not for him, then John might not have lost everything. Hatred fueled his anger until it finally reached a boiling point.

And then something snapped.

McKay head hanged lifelessly, a ghastly expression forever etched on his face.

It was done.

His single goal achieved, John collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut. The sirens were closer now, and he didn't care what happened next. With the fire extinguished, the hands returned to weigh him down. They pressed on his chest, and suddenly his lungs couldn't pull in fresh air. His own arms were as good as glued to the kitchen tiles. His eyelids dropped down, and everything turned dark…

"What a waste," a wizened voice rang out.

The next instant, John found himself back on his feet despite not feeling his legs, eyes wide open. An old man stood in front of him, hair and beard forming a disheveled gray mane that fell down to his bare chest. His face was clear of any blemishes other than the wrinkles that looked chiseled. Staring at his dark eyes felt like gazing into the boundless void of space and realizing one's own insignificance.

"God?" the words escaped his lips.

The man raised an eyebrow and laughed, seemingly not caring for the dead body behind him. "Wrong, child. I am Chronos, a Lord." The words themselves sounded foreign, but their meaning was as clear as day in John's mind. "These are different things, though they might as well be one and the same to you." He pressed a hand against John's wound, but there was no pain.

Chronos tilted his head down, and John noticed the long rusty blade of an old scythe peeking from behind his mane as if strapped to his back. "Such interesting weapons." Pinched between two of his fingers was a deformed piece of metal the size of a pebble and coated red. A bullet. "I wish to study it more in-depth, but that can wait."

The dark eyes turned back to him, and John felt himself being stripped bare. Every secret, action, and thought of his was an open book under this gaze.

"It is quite an achievement to stumble on the path of cultivation," he said, and John was even more confused. Why was he talking about farming? "It's a pity you'll die before reaping its benefits. Even if I saved you, you would just be left stuck in this barren world."

John never saw Chronos move, but the next instant there was a finger pressing on his forehead.

"So consider this my gift to you." Darkness engulfed the room until Chronos was the only thing left in the world. "With your talent, you might lead the fulfilling life you never had. Or maybe you'll die before ever being born. Either way, I wish you luck." He winked out of existence, and John's consciousness disappeared.