Prologue: You Will (Not) Live

Beep, Beep, beep.

The same sound over and over every day.

my spirit whittled down over time.

The pipes attached to my arms and the fact that if I crane my head down slightly, I can see my own heart beating constantly remind me of the fact that any time I have left is... insignificant. A doctor has entered my room, a regular occurrence, although not quite a happy one.

"Hello Singula, how are you feeling today?" They spoke, yet it took a second for it to register in my ears. My unfocused eyes slowly met with theirs. I suppose I should be using my time wisely, try and cure something or read a book or something, but I can't quite do that, since I can no longer move my arms, haven't since I was... 13?

"Bad, same as yesterday, probably the same as a tomorrow." I practically ripped my lips apart to say that, I wetted my lips as they spoke again, false pity in their eyes.

"Singula, you will live, i'm sure of it, just give the doctors a bit more time and i'm sure they'll come up with a cure to your disease." They nervously put their hands on my shriveled frame and smiled, though it seemed a bit too wide to me, as if something hid behind those good intentions. as I shifted my gaze to the picture on the table to my right. A woman with her child. I hated that damn photo. I hated them, I hated this hospital, I hated this nurse, I hated the hand life had dealt me, I hated it, yet... why am I crying?

Oh.

right.

That was my mother in the photo, and that child was me. Before we took that idiotic vacation.

My mind sank into that day with vivid detail.

April 23rd, 2010.

A rainy day in the amazon.

A 11 year old Singula was running around the camp with rampant curiosity, asking questions to the archeologists there... it seemed to be every second he had something new to ask them; His hair and the ground were wet, and that lead to his downfall, literally. He had tripped and fallen into a bush housing an old syringe. Once he pulled himself up and got himself looked at, the archeologists dated it to the late 60's to early 70's. They ended the day early and got on the very next flight to America. Once they got home and to a hospital he got diagnosed with an "Unknown disease." He hated the look on that smug doctors face. He saw him as they were walking out, talking with his friends and counting the money his parents paid him upfront. That was the first day he could remember feeling true rage.

His mind slowly focused back onto the present, into his hospital bed. Except... he wasn't in the bed anymore, he was being lifted into a wheelchair, with all his systems carried along with him, this was strange, normally he would simply be sat in his bed all day, either listening to an audiobook or the tv that the doctors had on for an hour.

"He's awake." A man out of sight said to the nurse that was getting the wheelchair ready. In his mind, Singula was simply watching his life play out. He had long ago resigned himself to simply watch and let his miserable life play out. A long time ago, he had found himself immersed in online novels, particularly of the reincarnation variety. Ah... how many times had he dreamed to be one of those protagonists? A system to call his own, unparalleled power, and the ability to decide the fate of everyone on a whim. All just a fairy tale. Something to keep him distracted; distracted he was indeed, else he would have been able to save his own life.

He hadn't noticed, but he was plummeting down the stairs at a remarkable speed. What he did notice though, was the dastardly smiles of the nurse and the man who pushed him down those stairs. Hate was all that he felt in that moment, a hate that clouded his mind, a hate that destroyed his rational ability to think. A hate that was recognized by god himself, in his heaven. The first sign that even though god was in his heaven, all was not right with the world.

Singula's hate was pure, an unbridled hate for everything in the world, everything good, everything evil, and everything in between those extremes. At the moment of his death, when his brain splattered across the stark white floor, and his skull fractured into small pieces, time seemed to freeze in it's tracks as something reached out. Something... strange. Not God, not the Devil, nor was it of this universe. It spoke to him, yet it had no mouth, it touched him, yet had no hands, it saw him, yet had no eyes.

"Do you want revenge? Do you wish to strike everyone and everything down, and burn the planet to the ground for its sins against everyone, how it destroys relationships? Strike Humanity down, Singula. Strike them down and claim your place among the stars, take my hand, Singula." It spoke in a strange tone, as if millions of voiced were overlapping each other.

The words It spoke hit deep within his soul; They rung true. He could not answer physically, but in his soul, his shattered, darkened soul, those words rang true, and he desperately clawed towards a hand he could not see, a hand he could not feel, but a hand he knew was there.

Eventually, after what to him felt like eons, but must have only been seconds, He gripped that hand. It felt... unnaturally smooth and soft, like silk given life. In his shock he almost let go, yet it grabbed and pulled him towards something. He couldn't see it, He couldn't see anymore, not in the traditional sense anyway.

He was pulled through a hole, a rip in this dimension, a rip in space and time. Singula fell. It felt... unbearable, his stomach churned and his soul felt light and false, yet there was no howling wind to accompany the drop and no end to it, either.

All around him, just an endless darkness stretched on for eternity. He hit the ground hard. He felt scrambled in some sense, like an egg that had just been dropped into the pan, but he felt no pain. He was able to move his body freely. He scrambled to his feet, and tried to look around, but all there was in the darkness he found himself in was a gigantic spear. It had to be 2, no at least 3 hundred feet tall. All he could make of it was the shaft, but it was red, a dark, crimson red. He slowly began moving toward it.

Every step he took felt foreign, something he had forgotten, yet kept locked in his memory. With every single step, he could see memories from his life flash before him, but that didn't matter, it couldn't matter now. Inside singula's mind, He was cheering with excitement and apprehension. He was getting the opportunity he had dreamed of all those years ago! To be reincarnated, he could already taste the power he was going to have in the future, the fun he would have! he could feel it in his soul! 

He didn't even bother to think of what might happen, nor did he bother to remember those protagonists usually saw

His fingers graced the shaft of the spear, and thousands of images snapped through his head. War, death, disease, distrust, dishonor, and lies. The things that made him hate the world, hate humanity, and hate everything about life. He gritted his teeth, and placed his hand firmly on the spears shaft. He felt something burning into his soul, and looked down at himself. He could see a symbol being burnt onto his chest. A two pronged spear overlapped by two others. As soon as it finished burning, He felt pain. An indescribable, overbearing pain, it couldn't be normal, it felt as if his flesh was being hit again and again by knives, spears, and rocks, and then people were spitting into his wounds. He fell to his knees, gritted his teeth, and screamed before finally passing out on the dark, cold floor of the void he found himself in.