Apocalypse Ascendant

Alvin Bencio stirred from his sleep, the thin, worn blanket barely offering any warmth against the morning chill. His long, sky-blue hair spilled over the edge of the small, creaky bed, shimmering faintly in the dim light that filtered through the cracked windows of the room. His ethereal appearance — tall, slim, and with the sharp, almost haunting beauty of an immortal — was in stark contrast to the decrepit surroundings.

The sky-blue color of his eyes was so pure, it looked almost unnatural, radiating a serenity that could easily fool those unfamiliar with the chaos he held within.

He had the look of a man who had seen far too much, and yet here he was, stuck in a broken-down orphanage on the edge of some backwater town. His memories were clear, sharper than the morning breeze that tickled his skin. He was Alvin Bencio, once a semi-god-level mage, feared and revered in his own world. A man who had battled gods, slain demons, and carved his name into the annals of history as the Seventh Miracle. A name that sent tremors across realms.

But that life was gone. Snuffed out in a cataclysmic explosion of his own making — an experiment gone wrong, an attempt to bend conflicting magics that should never have met. He had thought himself untouchable. He had thought wrong.

And now, he was here.

With a groan, Alvin stood and stretched his tall frame, his body adjusting easily to the pull of gravity in this world. He cast a glance at the dusty mirror by the wall, catching a glimpse of his new face. The previous owner of this body had been young, much too young to be in charge of an orphanage, but fate had a strange sense of humor. Alvin ran a hand through his hair, smoothing it out before making his way downstairs.

The wooden floorboards creaked under his steps as he descended the old staircase, the sound echoing in the quiet morning air. The orphanage was in a state of disrepair. The walls were peeling, the furniture mismatched and broken, and the air was thick with the scent of mildew.

Yet, for some inexplicable reason, Alvin had come to appreciate this place. It had been a week since his soul had fused with this body, and though the thought of raising ten children in a crumbling orphanage amidst an impending apocalypse wasn't exactly his idea of a peaceful retirement, he found himself strangely attached to these tiny, vulnerable creatures.

He paused at the foot of the stairs and called out, his voice sharp and commanding, "Oi! If you lot aren't down here in two minutes for breakfast, I swear I'll come upstairs and break every one of your legs myself!"

There was a brief moment of silence, then the rapid pattering of small feet echoed through the halls. The children, dressed in mismatched, worn-out clothes, came running down the stairs, wide-eyed and breathless. Some tripped over their feet in their rush, and Alvin watched them with a faint smirk playing on his lips.

The children ranged from three to eight years old — six boys and four girls — all of them skinny, with clothes that hung loose on their small frames. They looked up at him with a mixture of fear and admiration, their faces pale but eager. He noted their dirty faces and messy hair, a stark contrast to his own pristine appearance. Despite the rough state they were in, Alvin felt a strange warmth bloom in his chest. He'd never admit it aloud, but these weak little rabbits had grown on him.

"I see you're all still alive," Alvin said dryly, raising an eyebrow as he crossed his arms. "That's a surprise. I was certain I'd lose at least one of you to hunger or stupidity by now."

The children exchanged nervous glances before one of the braver boys, a small, five-year-old named Leo, piped up. "M-Master Alvin, we're... we're sorry we took so long. We were... trying to clean up."

Alvin snorted. "Clean? With what? Your hopes and dreams? Sit down before I decide to reconsider my breakfast offer."

They scrambled to their places at the worn wooden table, their movements frantic but disciplined. Though they were clearly afraid of his sharp tongue and cutting threats, there was a longing in their eyes, a deep-seated need for approval, for affection — something Alvin knew all too well. He recognized it because he had once been like them, long ago before the world had hardened him.

As he began ladling out a meager portion of porridge, he allowed his mind to wander. In his past life, he had never considered raising children. He'd had disciples, of course — warriors and mages under his tutelage, eager to learn and conquer. But these children were different. They were fragile, untrained, and in a world like this, destined to be devoured if not properly guided.

Yet, Alvin wasn't one to ignore destiny. The fact that his soul had been pulled into this world, a world teetering on the edge of its Third Evolution, was no coincidence. He had seen the signs, felt the energy of the world as it shifted.

The impending zombie apocalypse was just the beginning — a disaster meant to force all species on the planet to evolve, to become something stronger, deadlier. In his previous life, Alvin had touched the laws of magic, bent them to his will, and it was those same laws that had now tethered him to this world.

"Master Alvin?" a small voice interrupted his thoughts.

It was Lily, the quietest of the bunch. She was no older than five, with large brown eyes that always seemed too full of sorrow for someone her age. Alvin softened, just slightly.

"What is it?" he asked, still stirring the porridge.

"Are we... are we going to be okay? When... when the bad things come?" She fidgeted, her hands clasping the edge of the table.

Alvin remembered that he had told the children that bad things were going to come soon in the world...

He set the ladle down and turned to face the group, his face set in a calm, almost bored expression.

"Listen up, all of you," he began, his voice firm but not unkind. "This world is about to get a whole lot uglier. You've felt it, haven't you? The energy in the air, the tension. Something bad is coming, and no, I won't lie to you. It's going to be dangerous. Very dangerous. But..." He paused, his eyes sweeping over their worried faces, lingering on each one for a moment. "You're with me now. And if you listen to what I say, if you follow my instructions, you'll survive. Not because of some miraculous awakening of superpowers or dumb luck, but because I'm going to teach you how to make your own miracles."

The children looked at him with wide eyes, their fear momentarily replaced by curiosity.

"But, Master Alvin," one of the older boys, Tomas, hesitated, "We are children and so weak..."

Alvin allowed himself a small, almost imperceptible smile. "From now on, we're going to do things differently. No more waiting for the world to decide if you're worthy of power. We're going to take it. You're going to learn magic. Real magic. The kind that doesn't rely on evolution or bloodlines. The kind that will keep you alive when the world burns."

There was a collective intake of breath from the children as they processed his words. The idea of learning magic, something that seemed so far removed from their reality, sparked a glimmer of hope in their eyes.

And as Alvin watched them, something shifted inside him. Maybe it was the fatherly instincts he never knew he had. Maybe it was the weight of his long, lonely existence. Or maybe it was just that in a world like this, he finally had something worth protecting.

Either way, these children were his now.