Devil sword Sparda (DMC) in DC

Liam lay sprawled amidst the ruins of Metropolis, his body broken, impaled by jagged

metal rods that jutted through his torso like cruel, twisted fangs. Blood pooled beneath

him, warmth seeping away with every agonizing second. Pain wracked his body, sharp

and unrelenting, but even worse was the bitter taste of irony on his tongue. Of all the

ways to die—again—this was how it ended? He let out a choked, humorless laugh,

coughing up blood as he stared at the darkened sky above. 

"Just my fucking luck," he muttered, voice laced with pain and resentment. 

As his vision blurred, memories of his past life surfaced, unbidden and unwelcome. 

He hadn't been anyone special. Just another useless shut-in rotting away in a tiny

studio apartment, drowning in a sea of unread notifications and unfinished dreams. His

life had been an endless loop of waking up, eating instant noodles, and burying himself

in the worlds of DC Comics, living vicariously through the pages of heroism he could

never replicate. Superman, Batman—their stories captivated him. He admired them,

envied them, wished he could be like them. But in the end, admiration was all he had.

Change required effort, and effort was something he had always lacked. 

Friends? None. 

Family? A pair of exhausted parents who had long since washed their hands of him,

tossing him out like yesterday's trash. 

Love life? Nonexistent. The closest he ever got was parasocial attachments to fictional

women and the occasional degenerate session browsing Rule 34. 

That was, in fact, how he died. 

Heart attack. Mid-stroke. To Raven from the Teen Titans.

The absurdity of it still made him want to laugh, even now. He had lived alone, never

spoke to neighbors, never made real connections. No one even found his body until

days later, when the smell became unbearable. His legacy? A forgotten corpse in a

dimly lit apartment filled with crusty tissues and unfinished NSFW novels he wrote for a

living—cheap, smutty fiction catering to people just like him. 

And then, just as he faded into nothingness, there was light. 

A bright, all-consuming glow that beckoned him forward, pulling him from the abyss. He

followed it instinctively, not thinking, not questioning. It felt like an escape, a second

chance—until the unbearable pressure, the blinding pain, the muffled voices screaming,

and then

A hospital room. A woman's agonized cries. A wet, suffocating darkness giving way to

cold, sterile air. 

Reincarnation. 

A new life. A new body. A fresh start. 

And now, here he was, skewered like a pig in the ruins of Metropolis, about to die for the

second time.

Joy surged through me the moment I realized the truth—I had been reincarnated. As an

unapologetic isekai fan, I had spent years fantasizing about this exact scenario. The

thrill of being reborn In a new world, the endless possibilities, the hope that maybe, just

maybe, I'd unlock some overpowered ability and rise above the mediocrity that had

defined my previous life.

But as the minutes passed, my excitement waned.

No system notifications. No hidden powers awakening. No divine being whispering in

my ear about my grand destiny. Just the cold, unremarkable reality of infancy. My tiny

body wriggled helplessly in my mother's arms, my muscles weak, my cries pathetic. It

was too early to judge, of course, but part of me had already begun to brace for

disappointment.

Still, I was alive. That counted for something.

The woman holding me—my mother—was beautiful. Dark, wavy hair framed her face,

and despite the exhaustion in her eyes, she carried an air of confidence, of knowing her

worth. But as I looked around the hospital room, one thing stood out.

There was no father in sight.

She cradled me, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead before whispering a name that

would define this new existence.

"Liam."

Liam. A weird name. Not bad, but not exactly what I would have chosen. Hopefully, it

wouldn't get me bullied. Then again, I was in a completely new world, so who knew

what passed for a normal name here?

Leaving the hospital in her arms, my newborn eyes struggled to adjust to the light of my

new life. And then I saw it.

A massive building with a goddamn planet on top.

My breath hitched—or it would have, if I had proper control over my lungs yet.

The Daily Planet.

There was no mistaking it. That iconic structure, standing tall against the skyline—it was

real. I wasn't just in some random fantasy world.

I was in Metropolis.

This was it. This was destiny. I had been reborn in the DC Universe, the world of

heroes, the world I had admired for so long. All my dreams were coming true.

Or so I thought.

The truth was far less glamorous. The reason I never saw my father in that hospital

room? It wasn't because he had died heroically or disappeared under mysterious

circumstances. No, it was much simpler than that.

My mother was an escort.

A high-end one, sure—exclusive to the city's wealthiest men, the kind who could afford

discretion. But in the end, she was still a prostitute, and I was nothing more than an

inconvenience that had come from one of her more lucrative arrangements.

My father? None other than the goddamn Mayor of Metropolis.

She had tried to use me to blackmail him, and for a time, it worked. I had a comfortable

childhood—financially, at least. My mother always had money, always came home with

expensive jewelry and designer dresses. But she was never really home.

She was too busy on her knees.

As I grew older, I came to understand exactly what that meant.

The Mayor never acknowledged me, never wanted anything to do with me. I was a

problem he had been forced to tolerate. And, as all problems eventually do, I became

too much to handle.

It happened when I was six.

The first day of school was supposed to be a milestone, the start of something new.

Instead, it was the beginning of the end. My mother, drunk on her own arrogance, had

pushed too far, demanding more, thinking she had more power than she did.

The Mayor finally had enough.

One night, a man came to our apartment. No words. No warnings. Just a silenced

gunshot in the dark.

My mother died instantly.

I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I just stood there, small and silent, staring at the lifeless

body of the woman who had brought me into this world but never truly been my mother.

The authorities swept in, cleaned up the mess, and I was dumped into the system. An

orphan, unwanted, disposable.

And that's when my life really went to hell.

Because secrets never stay buried.

The truth about my mother's profession spread like wildfire, and the other kids? They

made sure I never forgot it.

I refused to break.

Life had done its best to crush me, to grind me down into nothing, but I wouldn't let it. If

there was one thing I learned from all those years reading comics, it was that tragedy

didn't define a person—what they did with it did. Bruce lost his parents and became the

Batman. Clark was the last of his kind and became the world's greatest hero. Hell, even

Jason Todd crawled out of a goddamn grave and made something of himself.

So what if I was the bastard son of a corrupt mayor and a prostitute? So what if I was

dumped into an orphanage, ridiculed, and treated like filth? This was just my origin

story. The suffering, the pain, the loneliness—it was all part of the journey.

One day, when I stood at the top, when I became a hero, when people looked at me

with admiration instead of disgust—this would be the story that inspired them.

"See that guy? He came from nothing, from the gutter, and now he's saving lives."

Yeah. That sounded nice.

Of course, that didn't make the present any easier. The orphanage was a hellhole. Kids

could be cruel, and when they smelled weakness, they attacked like a pack of wild

dogs. And me? I was an easy target. No parents. No friends. Just a past they could

weaponize.

"Hey, Liam, does being the son of a whore make you one too?"

"Maybe we should check—just drop to your knees like your mom!"

Laughter. Jeers. Fists. Kicks.

Every day was the same.

But I endured.

I trained. I read. I learned.

They wanted me to break, to snap, to fight back in a way that would justify their abuse.

But I wasn't some mindless thug. I had read enough comics, watched enough movies to

know how this worked. Revenge was easy. Patience was harder.

One day, I'd leave this place. One day, I'd rise above all of them.

I was in Metropolis, goddamn it. The city of Superman. The place where miracles

happened.

And I would become one of them.