My name was Caelum Vance.
My life had always been easy—or at least, the one before this was. Everything I attempted, every skill I picked up, every challenge that crossed my path came to me with an almost unnatural ease. People called me a genius. Some even went as far as to hail me as a god. I despised it.
Perhaps it was my achievements that led them to see me that way. I had accomplished feats that others deemed impossible. I had designed systems that reshaped entire industries, solved problems that had plagued humanity for centuries, and developed technology so advanced that it blurred the line between science fiction and reality.
Among my greatest creations was an artificial intelligence system so sophisticated, so intuitive, that it could think, learn, and evolve beyond the constraints of its programming. It was a breakthrough that redefined what it meant to be intelligent. But even that paled in comparison to my other innovation—nanotechnology. These microscopic machines revolutionized medicine, becoming the ultimate weapon against disease. Cancer, infections, degenerative conditions—none of them stood a chance. Life expectancy soared, and for the first time in history, humanity had the means to conquer its greatest biological threats.
And yet, despite all of this, I felt empty.
For all my intelligence, all my accomplishments, there was one skill I could never master—perhaps the most important one of all. It wasn't engineering, physics, or programming. It wasn't strategy or problem-solving. No, the one thing that had eluded me my entire life was something far simpler, yet infinitely more complex.
People.
I lacked social skills, that effortless ability to connect with others, to understand and be understood. Relationships were a puzzle I could never quite solve, a language I could never fully grasp. I had spent years studying equations, perfecting algorithms, and bending the laws of nature to my will, but I had never been able to figure out how to truly belong.
And without that—without a sense of purpose beyond my work—what was I, really?
A genius? A god?
No.
I was just a man. A hollow, lonely man standing at the peak of human achievement, looking down at a world that saw me as something more than I could ever feel myself to be.
And that was the greatest tragedy of all.
So, as a coping mechanism for my ineptitude in the most basic of social skills, I buried myself in the world of fiction. Stories became my refuge, a place where emotions were clear, motives were defined, and relationships—though complicated—were ultimately understandable. Unlike the real world, where human interactions felt like an impossible equation with infinite variables, fiction had a structure, a pattern. I could lose myself in the pages of a book, the frames of an anime, the dialogue of a well-written film, and for a little while, forget that I was alone.
Among the many stories that captivated me, one stood out above the rest—Naruto. The concept of chakra fascinated me, a force that existed within all living beings, capable of shaping the world itself. I envied the way the characters wielded their power, how they trained, struggled, and triumphed, bound together by friendships forged in battle. I found myself yearning for that kind of connection, that kind of purpose. It was ridiculous, of course. The Naruto world was riddled with danger—tailed beasts that could annihilate entire villages with a single roar, jutsu so powerful they could end a life in an instant. And yet, despite the risks, I longed for a reality where strength wasn't just measured by intelligence, but by bonds, determination, and sheer willpower. In their world, solitude was an obstacle to overcome, not a permanent state of being.
But Naruto wasn't my only obsession. I devoured anything that could transport me away from my own existence. The sprawling mythos of Marvel, where heroes wrestled with their own flaws and still found a way to make a difference. The music that became the soundtrack to my isolation, each lyric and melody filling the silence I couldn't escape. Percy Jackson, with its tales of demigods caught between two worlds, resonated with me in a way I couldn't quite explain. Perhaps I saw myself in them—outsiders, misfits, people who never truly fit in but still carved out a place for themselves. I clung to these stories, not just for entertainment, but for solace, for understanding.
Because in the end, fictional characters were easier to understand than real people. They were consistent. Their actions made sense in the grand scheme of their arcs. And most of all, they could never look at me with judgment, never expect me to be something more than I was. In their world, I could simply exist.
And that was enough. At least, for a time.
Of course, with great innovation came great resistance. My inventions, my so-called "genius," had earned me just as many enemies as admirers. Not everyone saw me as a savior of humanity. In fact, many saw me as their ruin. My nanotechnology had rendered countless medical treatments, supplements, and even entire industries obsolete. Insurance companies, pharmaceutical giants, and private healthcare corporations—once untouchable titans of the modern world—crumbled under the weight of my advancements. There was simply no need for their overpriced drugs, their subscription-based treatment plans, or their bureaucratic gatekeeping when a single microscopic machine could repair cells, eliminate disease, and extend human life with unparalleled efficiency.
I hadn't set out to destroy them. In my mind, I was simply pushing the boundaries of what was possible, eager to impress, to be acknowledged. I was young, naïve, and desperate for connection. I thought that by reshaping the world, I could carve out a place for myself in it. But I had underestimated the power of those who thrived on the suffering of others. I had taken away their control, their wealth, their very relevance—and they hated me for it.
That hatred finally caught up to me.
I lay on the cold, sterile floor, my breath ragged, my blood pooling beneath me in slow, widening circles. The pain was sharp, but distant, as if my body had already started to shut down. My vision wavered, the overhead lights blurring into hazy halos.
Above me stood the man responsible—his hands trembling, his eyes wide with fear and guilt. A former employee, perhaps. Someone whose entire livelihood had vanished the moment my technology rendered his skills—and his company—obsolete. A man who had lost everything and, in his desperation, sought revenge.
Probably a laid-off worker who got in way over his head, I mused bitterly.
I wanted to laugh, but the coppery taste of blood filled my mouth instead.
It was almost poetic, really. The very thing that had driven me—the need to impress, to be accepted—had led me here, bleeding out on the floor of an unfamiliar building, far from any medical facility. I had been on a tour, presenting my latest breakthrough in artificial intelligence, when the attack happened. No security team, no emergency medical response, no last-minute salvation.
This was it.
Death wasn't some distant inevitability anymore. It was here. Now.
And I had never felt so alone.
I wouldn't know how to describe it exactly, but it was as if my soul had been submerged in a vast salt bath—weightless, unburdened. A strange serenity washed over me, numbing the pain, quieting the fear. Slowly, I felt myself rising, drifting effortlessly toward the surface, as though the heaviness of existence had finally lifted.
And then, I broke through.
There was no struggle, no gasp for air—just the sensation of emerging into something new, something unknown. The world I had known faded beneath me, like the rippling surface of a pond swallowing the past. For a fleeting moment, I thought I had entered the afterlife.
But as I looked around, I realized—this was something else entirely.
I was in… a class?
Dozens of eyes stared at me, their gazes filled with confusion, curiosity, and barely contained amusement. I could hear the snickers, the whispered jokes passed between students, and it didn't take me long to realize why. I must have gasped when I arrived, desperate for oxygen, as if I had been drowning moments before.
My vision refocused, and I took in my surroundings—rows of wooden desks, a blackboard at the front, the chatter of children barely paying attention to their instructor. A classroom. But not just any classroom.
Something felt… off.
I glanced down at my hands—small, too small. Panic tightened in my chest as I took in my short fingers, my scrawny frame, the tanned skin that felt both foreign and familiar. My heart pounded as my eyes traveled lower. Bright. Too bright. I was wearing an orange jumpsuit.
Wait… no. Not just any orange jumpsuit.
My breath hitched. My fingers trembled as they brushed against the fabric, my mind scrambling to process what I was seeing.
This wasn't just any classroom.
This wasn't just anybody.
Somehow, impossibly… I was him.
Well… I got my wish
A/N: Hi. This is technically my 3rd attempt at fanfiction. But I was 11 when I made those so I hardly count them.
I have big plans for this story. And I have gotten way better at writing.
Anyways see ya next chapter hopefully!