Douluo Dalu: Journey of Apocalypse

The last thing Sara remembered was the blinding glare of headlights—the thunderous roar of a truck hurtling toward her, tires screeching, metal groaning as if the world itself cried out in protest. Time slowed to a crawl, stretching the moment with cruel clarity. 

Her breath caught, her muscles locked, and then—

Nothing.

When she opened her eyes, there was no pain. No sound. Just… white. An endless, all-consuming void, untouched by sky or ground, as if existence had been wiped clean.

And yet—

Far ahead, absurd in its mundanity, stood a solitary desk. Or rather, it barely stood, buried beneath a mountain of paperwork—towering stacks of documents leaning precariously, forming jagged peaks of bureaucracy. Pages rustled, not from any breeze, but from the sheer weight of their own significance.

Behind the paper fortress sat a young man—or at least, he looked young. His skin was a rich mocha, his face smooth, early twenties at most. But his eyes…

They shimmered with ancient weariness, depths older than civilization. Older than time. Older than the Great Wall of China, which suddenly felt like a weekend DIY project in comparison.

His gaze met Sara's, and he smiled like an old friend expecting her arrival.

"Oya oya," he sighed, brushing aside stray papers before summoning a thick, worn folder from thin air. "Looks like Truck-kun's delivered another soul straight to my desk."

Sara blinked, the memory of the crash still fresh yet impossibly distant. Her mouth opened—but only a faint exhale escaped.

She wasn't in New York anymore. Or on Earth, for that matter.

The man flipped open the folder, scanning its contents with detached amusement. Names, dates, deeds—they flickered behind his eyes like a sped-up film reel.

"Sara Jeln," he recited, voice warm yet clinical. "Born December 17th, 1993, Brooklyn. Middle child—classic forgotten sibling energy." A smirk. "Fiercely independent, always proving yourself, yeah?"

His finger trailed down the page.

"Undergrad in U.S. History, Master's in World History, PhD in Race Studies. Scholar with a warrior's edge." A low whistle. "Used the Marine Corps PLC program to fund school? Smart. Let the Department of Defense bankroll the rest under 'mission-critical knowledge.' Clever loophole."

He leaned back, tapping the folder like a judge weighing evidence.

"Twenty years of service. Made Colonel. Then traded camo for cardigans—NYU, 

dissertations, lecture halls." Thwap. The folder closed with finality.

Sara stared. Her entire life, reduced to a bullet-point summary.

"What is this place?" Her voice was brittle in the void.

The man laced his fingers, grinning. "Ah. The question."

He said it like they both already knew the answer.

"You died," he clarified, breezy. "And I? I decide where you go next."

Before she could protest, his gaze flickered—left, right—scanning invisible threads of fate. Alternate lives. Unwritten worlds. Universes folded between his fingertips.

Then—click—recognition.

"Ahh." He plucked something unseen from the air, twisting the whiteness around them 

like warped glass. A shimmering fragment of reality pulsed in his grip.

"This timeline's got… let's call it Douluo Dalu vibes. Spirit power, soul beasts, cultivation—the works." His smirk sharpened. "Could use some excitement. So I'm dropping you in."

Sara stiffened. "Just like that? On a whim?"

"Whim?" He scoffed. "I'm multiversal HR. Your profile screams 'Main Character Energy.' Grit, strategy, a PhD in dissecting power structures?" A shrug. "You'll either fit right in or 

burn it all down. Either way—"

The void shuddered. Papers fluttered as an unfelt wind surged around her.

"—it'll be fun."

He gave a lazy two-finger salute.

"Good luck, Colonel. Or should I say… The Apocalypse Douluo?"

Then—light. Collapse.

And the world rewrote itself around her.