I Was Reincarnated as Invincible (But Without Spoilers)

After paying my coach for the broken window with all the cash I had in my wallet, and giving the lamest excuses in human history 'I must have eaten too much spinach for lunch', I grabbed my backpack and headed out into the warm afternoon air. The sun was beginning to set, painting the sky orange and casting long shadows across the street. I stopped on the sidewalk, my heart still beating erratically, and looked at my hands. They looked the same. But I knew they weren't. 

Com certeza. Como seu cronista, é meu dever garantir que nossa saga seja acessível. Farei a tradução completa de todos os capítulos existentes para o inglês.

Este conteúdo está pronto para ser adicionado ao nosso arquivo de tradução: Fanfic_Invencivel_Saga_Reencarnada_EN-US.md.

Aqui está a tradução:

Prologue

My first memory wasn't a coherent thought. It was a sensory jumble, an assault of unfocused information on a consciousness that wasn't prepared for it. I remember a previous life, not in detail, but like you recall a dream upon waking—only the echoes of feelings remain, the weight of a complete existence, and then, an absolute silence.

And then, chaos. Blinding lights, muffled sounds, and the overwhelming sensation of being wet and cold. My new world was an impressionistic blur, a painting of vibrant shapes and colors that refused to solidify. My vision, I would later realize, was terrible. I, who had once appreciated sharp landscapes and read complex texts, could now barely distinguish the shape of the face hovering above me. It was a lesson in humility.

It took months, maybe a full year, for the threads of my old consciousness to truly connect with the new, malleable brain I inhabited. At first, I was a passenger. A ghost in the machine. I felt the primitive instincts of hunger, discomfort, and the need for comfort, but my adult mind watched, helpless and confused. There was a frustrating disconnect. I knew what a hand was, but I couldn't control my own. I understood the words I heard, but I could only respond with gurgles and cries.

During those first few months of helplessness, being carried, cleaned, and fed, I had a fleeting, comical thought. For a moment, with the vague memory of reincarnation stories my old mind held, I feared my fate in this new life was that of a servant. Perhaps a butler with a very, very humiliating start in life, condemned to serve this giant, soft-spoken family.

But the giants were gentle. The larger, brown-haired form was the source of warmth, lullabies, and the most comforting smell of milk and safety. She was my mother, Debbie. The even larger form, with a deep voice that rumbled in my chest when he held me, was a rarer but equally solid presence. He was my father, Nolan.

My name, I learned, was Markus Sebastian Grayson. "Mark" for everyday use. As my vision focused and my baby brain developed new connections, I began to piece together my new puzzle. I was an only child. We lived in a nice house in a quiet neighborhood. My life, despite its bizarre origin, seemed destined to be incredibly... normal.

Mom was the center of my universe. Her presence was constant, her love unconditional. She taught me to walk, to talk (a skill my adult mind yearned to regain), and to laugh.

Dad was a writer. He wrote novels and travel books, or at least that's what Mom said. That was the official explanation for his somewhat distant nature. It explained the long hours he spent locked in his office, with strict orders not to be disturbed. It explained the sudden "research trips" that took him away from home for days, sometimes weeks at a time. He always came back looking exhausted, as if he had fought a battle with words and deadlines, but he brought with him fascinating stories of distant cultures and, occasionally, a small artifact to prove his travels.

To my reincarnated mind, this facade was perfectly believable. I accepted it as the new normal. For almost five years, I was just Mark Grayson, a boy with a secret past that no one would ever know, living the life of a successful writer's son.

Until the day the cover of that story was torn away.

I was on the living room floor, building a fortress out of all the sofa cushions. The television was on, playing some loud morning cartoon. And then, the familiar sound of an urgent news bulletin cut through the air.

"We interrupt our programming..."

On the screen, chaotic images of a city appeared. Buildings on fire, overturned cars, people screaming. And in the middle of it all, a monster. An abomination of rock and lava, a giant golem that seemed to have stepped out of a nightmare. I was fascinated, childhood fear mixed with the morbid curiosity of my past life. So this was real in this world.

And then, he arrived.

A blur streaked across the sky, faster than a jet, and collided with the lava golem with an impact that sounded like the end of the world. The figure stopped in mid-air, defying gravity. A white and blue suit, a red cape flowing like a flag of defiance. A determined face, a familiar mustache. On his chest, a symbol. A stylized "O".

Omni-Man.

Earth's greatest hero. The living legend. I knew him from the newspapers, the toys, the name whispered with reverence whenever a catastrophe was averted. He was the platonic ideal of a superhero.

And I was watching him fight a lava monster on my living room television. The fight was short, violent, and breathtaking. Omni-Man wasn't just strong; he was a force of nature. He tore the golem's limbs off, ignoring the scalding lava, and threw it into the sky with a single, powerful toss, where the creature disintegrated into a harmless meteor shower.

The crowd erupted in cheers. Omni-Man didn't bow. He simply looked around, assessing the situation, and then shot into the clouds, disappearing as quickly as he had appeared.

The anchor came back on, his voice choked with emotion. "And once again, the planet thanks Omni-Man..."

I stared at the screen, but not at the anchor. I looked at the Omni-Man symbol, which the network displayed in the corner. That "O". I had seen it before. Not on toys. On something personal. Something at home.

My heart started to beat faster. Dad's office. On the spines of his old hardcover notebooks, the ones he called "manuscripts" and "research journals." It was there. The same symbol.

My cushion fortress was forgotten. I stood up, my legs a little shaky, and went to the kitchen, where Mom was making breakfast.

"Mom?" I called, my voice sounding weaker than I intended.

"Yes, sweetie?"

"Dad... he really writes books, right?"

She stopped what she was doing and turned to me. A slow, knowing smile spread across her face. It was a smile that said "finally."

"You saw the news, didn't you, Mark?"

I could only nod, my eyes wide.

She knelt in front of me, her face level with mine. "Well, he is a writer, yes... but his most important job is something else, honey."

The truth hit me with the force of a sonic boom. The long hours in the office weren't for writing. The "research trips" weren't for books. The strength. The exhaustion in his eyes when he returned. The symbol.

"He... he is..." the words caught in my throat.

"Yes, sweetie," she confirmed, pulling me into a hug. "Your father is Omni-Man."

That day changed everything. The joy that flooded me was so intense I almost felt dizzy. The quiet, scholarly man who read to me before bed was the most powerful being on the planet. My world wasn't ordinary. My life wasn't normal. It was extraordinary.

When Nolan came home that night, I waited for him at the door, vibrating with an energy I could barely contain. He came in, the usual Nolan in his casual clothes, but I saw him with new eyes. I saw the hero beneath the author's disguise.

"Dad?" I called, my voice full of a newfound admiration. "Is that you? On TV?"

He looked over my head to Debbie, who gave a resigned smile. Then, he looked back at me. The "reclusive writer" facade crumbled, and for the first time, I saw the raw authority and power he usually kept hidden. He knelt, placing a hand on my shoulder. His hand felt like it weighed a ton.

"Yes, Mark," he said, his voice resonating with a quiet truth. "It's me."

In the months that followed, I lived in a state of constant awe. Every "research trip" was a heroic mission in my mind. Every news report about Omni-Man was an exciting secret I kept. The question that burned in my mind every day was: would I be like that too?

The answer to the question that burned in my mind came on a cool autumn night, shortly after my fifth birthday. Mom was already asleep, and the house lights were off. I was almost drifting off when I heard my bedroom door open softly. Dad was standing in the doorway, a silhouette against the hallway light.

"Mark," he whispered. "Put on a coat. I want to show you something."

Curiosity instantly overcame sleep. I put my coat on over my pajamas and followed him silently down the dark hallway. But instead of going to the living room or his office, he opened the back door that led to our yard. The grass was cold and damp under my bare feet.

"Where are we going?" I asked, looking into the darkness.

He smiled, a glint visible under the moonlight. "Up."

Before I could ask what he meant, he scooped me up into his arms. My stomach did a flip, not of falling, but of rising. The ground rushed away from us with dizzying speed. A scream of surprise and fear got stuck in my throat, replaced by pure astonishment. The wind whistled in my ears, and the trees in our yard became small dark patches. In seconds, we landed gently on the roof of our own house.

The shingles were cold beneath us. From there, I could see our entire neighborhood, the streetlights drawing yellow patterns in the darkness. It was terrifying and wonderful. Dad sat down, keeping a firm arm around me, and began to speak, his voice resonating with a purpose I had never heard before.

"Mark," he began, his voice serious but not stern. "Now that you know my secret, there's more you need to understand. The truth about me... and about you."

He leaned in, his eyes capturing mine. "I wasn't born on this planet."

It was as if the floor had vanished. An alien superhero. It was more than my childhood imagination had dared to dream.

"I come from a place called Viltrum," he said, a glint of pride and longing in his gaze. "It's a world you could hardly imagine, Mark. A utopia. A perfect society. Thousands of years ago, our people eradicated war, disease, poverty. We perfected ourselves, becoming the most advanced beings in the universe."

My young mind painted Viltrum with impossible colors: cities that scraped the skies, perpetual peace, an existence without pain. It was paradise.

"We, Viltrumites, reached such a high level of existence that we could no longer ignore the suffering around us. We looked out at the cosmos and saw chaos. Worlds destroying themselves in senseless wars, entire civilizations dying for lack of resources. We couldn't stand by."

He spoke with the fervor of a true believer. I was mesmerized. My father wasn't just a hero; he was a missionary from a race of angels.

"So, we embarked on a great mission," he continued. "To spread our strength and knowledge. To travel to worlds in need and offer them our help. To guide them toward a better future. I came to Earth as a herald of that mission. To protect it and help it prosper."

"Wow..." was all I could manage.

"But the universe is an imperfect place, son," his tone grew grave. "Many cultures are stubborn. They cling to their violence, their disorder. They resist change, even if it's for the better. In those cases..." He paused, the weight of the world in his sigh. "...in those cases, benevolence requires firmness. Sometimes, to save a people from themselves, you must impose peace. It's a heavy burden, but one we bear so that countless billions can live in harmony."

I understood perfectly. It was a sacrifice. The hard responsibility of the strong. It was noble.

He saw the admiration in my eyes. His face, once filled with missionary pride, became a little darker, more intimate. "But this great mission has its complications, Mark," he said, his voice lowering as he looked at the city lights below. "And the truth... is that not everyone on Viltrum agrees on how to help. Especially when it comes to planets like Earth."

He paused, letting the new information settle.

"Normally," he continued, choosing his words carefully, "Viltrum wouldn't get involved with a world at Earth's stage of development. In the eyes of many, humanity is still... primitive. Divided. They believed Earth should be left to solve its own problems."

My heart sank. They didn't want us.

"But I read the reports on your world," he said, turning to me, and now there was a defiant fire in his eyes. "I saw the potential here. The courage, the compassion, the resilience. I saw a spark that I refused to let be extinguished. So, I volunteered. I argued that Earth deserved a chance, a protector. And I was granted permission to come, alone, to act as a shield and a guardian. To ensure that you would have the opportunity to become everything I know you can be."

The story clicked in my mind in a way that made my chest swell with pride. My father wasn't just a soldier on a grand mission. He was Earth's champion. He fought for us.

The universe, the mission, Viltrum's politics... it was all so big. But one question, the most important of all, bubbled inside me.

"And me?" I asked, looking up at him with all the hope my five-year-old heart could muster. "Will I get powers too?"

A genuine, fatherly smile softened his face. He squeezed my shoulder gently.

"You will, son," he promised. "The blood of Viltrum is in you. But only when you're older. Your body needs to be ready to contain that power. Until then, you need to be patient. You need to wait."

I nodded, looking at the lights of our city below, pretending to understand the wisdom of his words. Wait. It seemed like such a simple, reasonable thing. An order from my father, the greatest hero of all. I should obey.

He wanted me to wait.

But as the cold night wind blew on my face, a stubborn promise burned within me, a secret all my own.

I won't wait, I thought. No way.

The promise I made to myself on the roof wasn't a mere childish thought. It was an action plan, forged by a child's impatience and the flawed logic of a reincarnated soul who thought he knew better. And if my Viltrumite side needed a push—a trauma, a moment to awaken. Waiting for years? It was absurd. I had the knowledge, the determination. I just lacked the opportunity.

It came three days later, on a Tuesday afternoon at preschool.

The controlled chaos of "playtime" was my perfect camouflage. Kids were running around, the teacher was trying to mediate a heated dispute over a plastic dinosaur, and the playground gate, whose latch was loose, swung gently in the breeze. My heart pounded. I looked at Mrs. Davison, distracted. I looked at the gate. It was now or never.

With the stealth only a small child can manage, I slipped out. My first steps on the sidewalk were filled with an electrifying adrenaline. I was free. The plan was simple: "Uncle Carl's" old junkyard, about six blocks away. A dangerous place. Perfect.

I walked fast, almost running, keeping my head down. Every passing car was a potential kidnapper, every adult a potential good Samaritan who would drag me back to school. The world seemed much bigger and more threatening without one of my parents' hands to hold.

"Mark? Is that you, dear?"

I froze. The voice was Timmy's mom. I turned and saw her about thirty feet away, coming out of a bakery. Panic seized me. Without thinking, I dove behind a large hedge, my heart hammering against my ribs. I crouched, holding my breath, the smell of damp leaves filling my nostrils. I heard her footsteps approaching, then stopping. "Hmm, I must have been mistaken," she muttered to herself before continuing on her way. Luck. Pure, stupid luck.

When I reached the junkyard, the barbed-wire fence looked like a fortress. But I was small. I found a hole at the bottom, tearing my shirt as I squeezed through, and went inside. The place was a cathedral of rust and decay. Mountains of twisted metal, crushed cars stacked like forgotten toys. And there, leaning against a pile of tires, was my prize: an old, stained trampoline, its blue canvas faded by the sun.

Pushing it was an ordeal. My five-year-old body, weak and uncoordinated, protested every inch. The metal screeched against the dirt ground. It took me what felt like an eternity to drag it and position it at the base of the largest mountain of scrap I could find.

The climb was even worse. Sharp pieces of metal scraped my hands. The pile was unstable, shifting under my weight. When I finally reached the top, a good twenty or twenty-five feet above the ground, I was panting, my chest burned, and my legs trembled with effort.

I looked down. The trampoline looked like a small blue target very, very far away. A wave of vertigo and fear hit me with physical force. What was I doing?

The idiocy of my actions flooded me. I was a five-year-old child. I had run away from school. I had walked alone through busy streets, where anything could have happened. I was incredibly lucky not to have been caught by Timmy's mom, or by someone worse. And now, I was about to jump off a mountain of sharp junk.

Would this really unlock my powers? Or would it just kill me? Wouldn't my dad have a better, safer method? A training regimen?

Probably not, I answered myself, impatience fighting against fear. If he did, he would have told me already. He just said to wait. The excuse formed quickly in my mind, a balm for my flawed logic. Maybe it's because I'm half-human. Maybe my Viltrumite half needs a shock to overpower the human part. A catalyst.

It was enough. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath of the rust-smelling air, and jumped.

For one glorious half-second, I felt it. The wind on my face, the world falling away. I stretched out my arms, concentrating with all my might, commanding my body to fly.

And then, BOING.

The trampoline's canvas launched me back into the air, clumsy and graceless, before I fell back onto it. Failure.

I stood up, frustration burning stronger than fear. Again. I climbed the pile faster this time and jumped. BOING. Nothing.

Once more. And again. With each jump, hope dwindled, replaced by a helpless rage. On the fifth try, I jumped with a reckless fury, screaming at the sky.

This time, the sound was different. It wasn't a boing. It was a RRRIP, a sickening sound of tearing canvas and old springs bursting under the pressure. The support under my feet vanished. For a moment, I was in a true freefall.

The impact was a flash of blinding white pain. There was no time to think, only to feel. A sickening, wet snap echoed through my legs, followed by an agony so intense, so pure and overwhelming, that it stole my breath and overloaded all my senses. It was a white fire that shot up my shins, igniting every nerve.

Then the scream came. A scream that didn't sound like mine, high-pitched, bestial, a sound torn from the depths of my being. "AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!"

Tears streamed down, mixing with the dirt on my face. The pain was relentless. My adult brain, trapped in this small, broken body, searched for something stronger, something that could express the magnitude of my agony and self-directed fury. The childish words I had learned weren't enough.

"FUCK!" I screamed at the indifferent blue sky, the word sounding strange and harsh in my five-year-old voice. "OW! FUCK! IT HURTS! IT HURTS SO MUCH!"

I was an idiot. The word echoed in my mind with every pulse of pain. Idiot, idiot, idiot. What kind of reincarnated genius cripples himself over a superhero fantasy? Reality wasn't a comic book. Reality was bone fragments, torn muscles, and the overwhelming certainty that I had made the biggest mistake of my life. My brilliant plan had resulted in this: me, sobbing and screaming, alone, with two useless legs in the middle of a junkyard, with no one in the world knowing where I was. Fear, cold and sharp, began to seep through the red haze of pain. What if no one found me?

As I cried, a shadow fell over me, blocking the afternoon sun. A large, still shadow. With my vision blurred by tears, I looked up.

Hovering silently above me, his red cape rippling gently, was my father. But the expression on his face wasn't one of fury or disappointment. The mask of Omni-Man and the facade of Nolan Grayson were gone. What remained was the face of a terrified father. His eyes were wide, and I could see a genuine, palpable concern that made my sobs catch in my throat.

He descended in an instant, his feet landing softly on the dirt beside me. He knelt, ignoring the metal and grime, his gaze sweeping over my broken legs.

"Mark," he said, his voice surprisingly gentle but laden with a worried urgency. "Calm down, son. I'm here." He reached out, not to scold me, but to brush the sweaty hair from my forehead. "You're going to be okay. I promise."

Without another word, he scooped me into his arms. His strength was absolute, but his touch was infinitely gentle, cradling my broken body as if I were made of glass. The world became a blur of motion, the cold wind a blessing against the fever of my pain. In his arms, safe and sound, the only thing I could think about as we shot toward the hospital was the sound of his voice promising me that everything would be okay.

The first thing I noticed was the sound. A rhythmic, insistent beep to my right. Then, the smell—a mix of antiseptic and my mother's soft floral perfume. The pain in my legs was a dull, throbbing presence, a distant echo of the sharp agony I had felt before. I was drugged, floating in a haze of painkillers. I kept my eyes closed, feeling too heavy to open them.

And then, I heard the voices. Muffled at first, as if coming from underwater.

"...an omega-level situation. The Guardians have been engaged, but they're overwhelmed. They need you, Nolan." The voice was calm, controlled, belonging to an older man.

"The answer is no." My father's voice. Cold as steel. It lacked the worried softness he had used with me in the junkyard; now, it was pure, unyielding fury. "I need to be with my son."

"Your son is in the best hospital on the planet, with the best orthopedic surgeons money can buy, and some it can't," the other man replied, his tone one of grating patience. "He's going to be fine. Your presence here, sitting in a chair, will not accelerate the calcification of his bones. But your absence out there could cost billions of lives. You need to see the bigger picture."

There was a tense silence, and I could imagine my father standing up, his presence filling the room.

"Go to hell, Cecil," my father snarled, his voice low and dangerous.

"Nolan!" My mother's voice, sharp but pleading. "Please."

"He wants me to leave, Debbie! Mark just..."

"I know what happened," she interrupted, and her tone changed. It became firm, the same firmness she used when I refused to eat my vegetables, but amplified a million times. "And he's right. You need to go."

"Debbie?!" The disbelief and hurt in my father's voice were palpable.

"No more," she said. There was no room for argument. "Look around, Nolan. This hospital, these doctors, this city... this is the world we live in. The world you protect. So go. Go save the world your son will recover in." She paused, and her tone softened again. "He'll be fine. I'm with him. We'll be fine. Now go."

Curiosity finally broke through the haze of medication. With an effort that felt herculean, I opened my eyes. The room's light was soft. My parents were near the window. My mother had her hand on my father's arm, her face calm and resolute. And beside them stood a middle-aged man with graying hair and a severe face, dressed in a trench coat that seemed out of place in a hospital. He placed a hand on my father's shoulder, an almost paternal gesture.

"She's a smart woman, Nolan," the man, Cecil, said. And then, he... vanished. There was no smoke or noise, just a slight distortion in the air, like heat haze rising from asphalt, and he was gone.

My father stood there for a moment, his body tense like a coiled spring. He looked at my mother, then at me, lying in the bed. Our eyes met, and the anger on his face dissolved, leaving only a deep, exhausted pain. He nodded slowly to my mother and, with one last look at me, left the room, his footsteps heavy in the hallway.

The silence he left behind was heavy. It was just me and my mother now. The beeping of the machine was the only sound. And then, the dam I had been holding back broke. The physical pain was one thing, but the shame, the overwhelming stupidity of it all, was another.

The tears I had been holding in, through the rescue and the arrival at the hospital, finally came, silent at first, then turning into sobs that shook my small body.

"I'm an idiot, Mom," I whispered, my voice choked with tears. "I'm such an idiot... an idiot..."

My mother was by my side in an instant, sitting on the edge of the bed. Her warm, soft hands held my face. She didn't say, "no, you're not." She didn't scold me. She just let me cry.

"Shhh, my love," she murmured, wiping my tears with her thumbs. "It's all right now. You're safe." She leaned down and kissed my forehead, her hug the only safe harbor in a world that suddenly seemed very complicated and dangerous. "It's going to be okay."

As I lay in that hospital bed, with both legs in casts and a monotonous beep as my soundtrack, a darkly comedic thought, born from my reincarnated mind, kept me sane. Well, I hadn't unlocked any powers, I had a long and painful recovery ahead of me, and I was definitely grounded until I was thirty. But at least one good thing came out of it: I had confirmed with 99% certainty that my mother hadn't cheated on my father.

The recovery took only a month, which the doctors called "miraculous." The first week was a hell of managed pain, surgeries, and humiliating physical therapy. The second was pure boredom, with the itching under the cast becoming my personal nemesis. By the third, I could move around on crutches with an agility that scared the nurses. In the fourth week, scans showed complete bone calcification. I walked out of there, with no lasting effects, as if my body had a "fast-forward" button for healing.

For a long time, guilt consumed me. I saw the stress I caused my parents, my mother's hair that seemed to have gained new white strands, my father's heavy silence. In response, they did everything they could to steer me away from the idea of being a superhero. The word "powers" was practically banned from the house. Instead, they enrolled me in... everything.

I practiced martial arts—judo, karate, a little jiu-jitsu. I played baseball, basketball, football. My father, at first, found most of these sports pointless. "Baseball?" he once said, with genuine confusion. "You stand around most of the time and occasionally run. I don't see the logic." But, over time, he supported me, attending games, his imposing presence standing out in the parents' bleachers.

It was during these years that I noticed my super-regeneration. Sprains that should have sidelined me for weeks healed in days. Deep cuts closed overnight. I abused this. Secretly, I set up a small gym in our basement. I started lifting weights, pushing my body to muscle failure every night, knowing that the next morning I'd be good as new. My muscles grew fast. By the time I turned fifteen, a few months ago, the heaviest weight I could find for the bench press felt light. But that was it. No super-strength, no invulnerability, and I definitely couldn't fly.

I asked my dad to train me several times. I begged. At ten, after months of pleading, he finally gave in. He took me to the backyard, stood in front of me, and said, "Alright. Show me your fighting stance." I did, all excited. He gave me a single punch to the ribs. It wasn't an Omni-Man punch, it was probably the equivalent of him poking me with his finger, but the pain was excruciating. I heard a crack. I fell to the ground, crying, with a broken rib. He stood there, looking down at me. "You're not ready," was all he said.

I recovered in two days and asked him to train me again. He refused. And he never tried to give me any kind of training again.

The years went by. The frenzy to get powers subsided, giving way to friends, girls, tests, and the normal concerns of a teenager. I still wanted it, but the urgency was buried under life. I stayed in sports, trying to be the best. I didn't succeed most of the time, but at least it was something, a decent athlete in almost everything.

The most recent sport I started was boxing. There was a small dojo, smelling of sweat and old leather, a few miles from school. It became my routine. School, home, homework, and then, the dojo. It was a good place to vent frustration.

And that's where it happened.

I was in my rhythm, punching the hundred-kilo heavy bag. The sound was constant: thump, thump, thump. My muscles burned in a good way. I was thinking about a math test, about Friday's game, about Amber Bennett. About everything but what was about to happen.

I let a right hook fly, putting all my weight and frustration into it, as I did hundreds of times a day.

My fist connected. And the world seemed to shift into slow motion.

There was no familiar thump. There was a hollow sound, a WHOOMP that seemed to suck the air out from around me. The hundred-kilo heavy bag, which should barely swing with my best shot, deformed around my fist. The chains holding it to the ceiling snapped like string. And the bag flew. It shot across the dojo like a kicked sofa cushion, a projectile of leather and sand that collided with the wall on the other side. Or rather, with the window in the wall on the other side.

The sound of shattering glass cut through the air, echoing through the silent gym.

I stood there, my arm still extended. Slowly, I looked at my fist. It didn't hurt. It didn't look different. Then I looked at the heavy bag lying in a sea of glass shards on the other side of the room. Then back to my fist.

A crazy grin spread across my face. The joy, pure and blinding, ten years of waiting culminating in that single, glorious moment. It happened. It finally happened.

"Grayson!"

The gruff, irritated voice pulled me out of my trance. I looked to the side. My coach, a former boxer with a crooked nose and a short temper, was standing with his arms crossed, glaring at me, then at his broken window.

The crazy grin turned into a sheepish one. I swallowed hard.

"Sorry, coach," I said, my voice a bit squeaky. "I guess I got carried away."

Chapter 1

After paying my coach for the broken window with all the cash I had in my wallet, and giving the lamest excuses in human history ("I must have eaten too much spinach for lunch"), I grabbed my backpack and headed out into the warm afternoon air. The sun was beginning to set, painting the sky orange and casting long shadows across the street. I stopped on the sidewalk, my heart still beating erratically, and looked at my hands. They looked the same. But I knew they weren't.

Instinct told me to call my dad, but logic reminded me that was impossible. That left only one other option. I took a deep breath, the smell of hot asphalt in the air, and dialed my mom's work number.

The phone rang twice before she answered, her voice crisp and focused.

"Debbie Grayson, how can I help you?"

"Hi, Mom, it's me."

There was a pause. I heard the soft sound of a keyboard stopping. "Mark? Did something happen? I'm in the middle of closing."

"I know, I know, sorry, but... it's important," I said, my voice still a bit shaky. "Mom... listen, I know you're at work, but... something happened. Something there's no going back from."

"What is there no going back from?" her tone immediately sharpened.

"I don't know how to explain..." I stammered, the words getting tangled. "I wasn't trying to... I mean, I was, but I didn't think it would happen like this. And now... I don't know what to do."

Silence. A heavy, charged silence on the other end of the line. I could almost hear her connecting the dots in the most wrong way possible.

"Markus Sebastian Grayson," she said, her voice dangerously low. "Where are you?"

"Near the dojo. Why?"

"Don't move. Tell me right now: is she okay?"

"Who's 'she'?!" I asked, confusion overwhelming me.

"THE GIRL, MARK!" she hissed into the phone. "You call me talking about 'something there's no going back from,' that you 'didn't think would happen like this.' Do you have any idea what that sounds like? My God, you're just a boy! I'm going to have a heart attack! Is she scared? Did you use protection? Of course you didn't, or you wouldn't be panicking!"

The penny dropped with the force of a punch. Oh, no.

"Mom, it's not..."

"I'm going to give you the biggest lecture of your life," she continued, her voice now a mix of panic and frantic planning, "but first we have to be practical. We need to talk to her parents. Has she been to a doctor? She needs to go! And you, young man, are getting a job to help pay for diapers! I always knew that Amber girl was trouble, breaking up with you out of the blue, I bet she..."

"MOM!" I yelled, finally finding my voice. "FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, STOP!"

She fell silent. The only thing I could hear was her heavy breathing.

"Take a deep breath," I said, more to myself than to her. "And listen to me, please."

"I'm listening," she said, her tone now cautious.

"Okay. Great. First: I did not get anyone pregnant," I said, slowly and clearly. "I don't even... forget it. It just didn't happen."

"Oh," her voice was small.

"Second: why does everyone think I'm still with Amber? We broke up last month. Get over it."

"Your tone is not appropriate, Markus."

"Sorry. And third, and most importantly," I paused, "I wasn't talking about a baby. I was talking about the... the 'inheritance'. Dad's inheritance. It happened. For real this time."

The silence that followed was profound. There was no shout of joy. No squeal of celebration. For a long moment, there was nothing. When she spoke again, her voice was completely different. The anger, the frustration, and the grandmotherly panic were gone. In their place was an intense, sharp-as-glass concern.

"Oh, my God," she whispered. "Mark... are you okay? Are you hurt?" Her voice trembled a little. "Did it happen like last time?"

The memory of the junkyard, of my broken legs and the terror on her face when she saw me in the hospital, hung between us. Her concern wasn't about the powers. It was about me.

"No, Mom," I replied, my own voice softening. "I'm fine. In one piece. I swear."

"Don't you move," she said, her voice firm but full of a restrained urgency. "Don't go anywhere. I'm coming to get you. Now."

And with that, the call ended. I stood on the sidewalk, the afternoon sun warming my face, and I understood. Her first reaction wasn't joy. It was fear. Fear that I had gotten hurt again. And suddenly, the weight of what that meant felt much more real.

The energy still buzzed under my skin. A nervous electricity that needed an outlet. It wasn't the same feeling as a few months ago, when the weights in the basement started to feel lighter. That had been gradual, a passive strength I felt but couldn't use explosively. This was different. The punch, the flying heavy bag... that was a trigger. A confirmation.

I looked at the soda machine on the corner. I took the rest of my coins and bought a can. The feeling of the cold metal in my hand was familiar, but what I did next was not. With clear purpose, I started to squeeze. The aluminum didn't dent, it disintegrated under my grip, collapsing in on itself without the slightest effort. I kept squeezing, frustration and excitement mixing, until the entire can was reduced to a dense, polished pebble of metal, no bigger than a cork.

I looked at the small pellet in my palm. This wasn't just "lifting heavy things." This was another level. A slow grin spread across my face. I ran to a nearby trash can, pulling out more empty cans, and repeated the process, each one joining the small sphere of metal in my hand, compacting them into a single, dense projectile.

A short time later, my mom's car screeched to a halt beside me. She got out, her face a mask of relief and anxiety. Her eyes scanned me from head to toe, searching for any sign of injury.

"Mom! You won't believe it!" I said, running to her, the excitement making my voice louder. I showed her the small, heavy metal ball. "This thing has like 20 cans in it! I know I was already stronger, but this... this is different! I punched the heavy bag and it flew across the room! It wasn't like lifting weights, it was... an explosion! It's real now!"

She took the little ball, its weight surprising her. A smile formed on her lips, but her eyes were still full of concern. "Wow, honey, that's... that's impressive."

"Impressive? It's more than that! It's... it's everything I've ever hoped for!" I continued, gesturing with my hands. "I feel... I don't know, like I could knock down a building! It's the best feeling in the world!"

"I'm happy for you, Mark. I really am," she said, handing the metal ball back to me. Her voice was soft, but I noticed how she looked at my arms, at my face. "But... are you sure you're okay? No pain? You're not feeling... strange? It happened so suddenly."

"No! I feel great! Better than ever!" I assured her, bouncing on the balls of my feet.

She nodded, but her smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "Okay... okay. But let's take it easy, alright? The last time something like this happened..." She didn't need to finish the sentence. "This... is a big change. Promise me you'll be careful."

"I promise, Mom. Let's go home."

The drive back was an animated monologue on my part. I couldn't stop talking about the punch, about the cans, about what it was like to finally feel the power my father had promised.

When we got home, I didn't even think about going up to my room. The energy was too much. I went straight to the basement, the place where for years I had struggled to lift my dad's old weights. I picked up the 20-kilo dumbbell, the same one that had felt "light" months ago. Now, it felt like a toy. With one hand, I squeezed the iron bar. The metal, which should have been unyielding, bent under my strength as if it were clay. The sound of groaning metal was the sweetest music I'd ever heard. One by one, I took all the weights, dumbbells, and bars, crushing them, compacting them, turning them into misshapen sculptures of my new and overwhelming strength, laughing like a happy madman.

I was so absorbed, so lost in the euphoria of finally being who I was supposed to be, that I didn't notice the hours passing. Only the sound of subjugated metal and my own laughter echoed in the basement. Darkness had already fallen outside when my mother's voice cut through my celebration.

"Mark! Dinner's on the table!"

I went up the basement stairs feeling every muscle in my body vibrate with a new, contained energy. Every step on the wooden floor of the house seemed to require a control I had never needed before. It was like relearning to walk, aware that one wrong step could break a board. The smell of dinner filled the air, and my stomach rumbled, reminding me that, despite everything, I was still a hungry teenager.

"Just in time," my mom said, placing a plate of mac and cheese on the table. "Wash your hands."

I sat at the table, feeling strangely powerful in an ordinary chair. I picked up the fork and knife, but my new strength was a treacherous thing. As I tried to cut a piece of chicken, I applied a little too much force. The metal fork bent at a ninety-degree angle with a pathetic clink.

I looked at the crooked utensil in my hand, then at my mother, who raised an eyebrow with a look that was a mixture of amusement and concern.

"Sorry," I muttered, trying to unbend the fork, which only made it worse.

She sighed, but a small smile played on her lips. "I'll get you another one. Try not to... murder this one, okay?"

As she turned away, a soft whoosh cut through the air. The world seemed to slow down for a fraction of a second. I saw a blur of blue and white pass through the kitchen, stopping for an instant to give my mother a gentle kiss on the cheek—who didn't even seem startled, just smiled—and then go up the stairs at a speed my eyes could barely follow. A second later, the same blur came down, but now it was just my dad, Nolan, in his casual clothes, a polo shirt and khaki pants.

He sat down at the table as if he had just walked in through the front door. Even now... with this strength coursing through my veins... his speed was from another universe.

"Traffic was terrible," he said, picking up his fork and starting to serve himself.

The meal began in an almost normal silence, but the excitement inside me was a ticking time bomb. I couldn't hold it for long.

"Dad!" I blurted out, unable to contain myself. "Dad, it happened! For real! I got my powers!"

My father stopped chewing. His fork froze inches from his mouth. He didn't look at me immediately. First, his eyes met my mother's across the table. A universe of silent communication passed between them in that second—concern, pride, fear. Then, he slowly turned to me.

"Is that so, son?" he asked, his voice calm, but I could see the surprise in his eyes.

"Yeah! It was awesome! I was at the dojo, and this guy provoked me, and I just... punched the heavy bag and it flew! It really flew! And then I crushed like twenty cans into a little metal ball, without any effort! I'm strong, Dad. For real."

A genuine smile finally broke through his serious expression. "That's great, Mark. I knew you could do it. I'm proud of you."

"Great? It's more than great! It's the best!" I said, getting up from my chair. "I'm going to design my costume tonight! Maybe something with a giant 'M'! Can I go on patrol tomorrow? We can fight crime together!"

"No."

His word was short, sharp, and final. The smile vanished from his face, replaced by a seriousness I rarely saw.

"What? Why not?" I asked, the excitement draining away.

"Because you're not ready," he said, placing his fork on the table and facing me with an intensity that made me sit back down. "You're not a hero, Mark. Not yet. You're a kid with powers you don't understand and can't control. You're not going anywhere."

He leaned forward. "You're going to train. With me. Every day. You will learn to control this strength, to understand your limits. And only when I say you're ready, can you think about wearing a costume. If I find out you've acted on your own before then, you will be grounded for so many years that your own grandchildren will still be serving the sentence. Am I clear?"

His face was serious, without a trace of a joke. That wasn't my dad talking. It was Omni-Man. I just nodded, swallowing hard.

My mother, who had been watching everything in silence, reached across the table and took my hand. "Promise, Mark," she said, her voice soft but firm. "Promise you'll listen to your father. We just want you to be safe." She squeezed my hand. "You're strong, honey. But don't be reckless, you're not invincible."

I looked at her worried face, then at my father's unyielding gaze. The disappointment was bitter, but the fear in my mother's eyes was worse. I remembered the junkyard, her pain at seeing me hurt.

"I promise," I said, and I really meant it.

I don't want them to worry, I thought, as I went back to eating my now-cold mac and cheese. I don't want Mom to have that look again. Ever again.

They thought training would keep me safe. That waiting would protect me. But my fifteen-year-old mind, now fueled by a newfound strength, came to a different conclusion, a simple and powerful logic.

The only way to make sure they don't worry about me anymore... is to make sure nothing can hurt me.

I swallowed the last piece of chicken, the decision solidifying in my chest, a secret all my own.

To stop them from worrying, I will become Invincible.

Night fell, but sleep seemed a galaxy away. The energy still vibrated in me, a silent song that begged to be released. I went to my bedroom window and looked at the dark yard below. The same window from which, years ago, I had jumped in the hope of flying and ended up with nothing but a scare.

I can do it, I thought, the phrase echoing in my mind. But another image intruded, cold and sharp: the junkyard, the sound of tearing metal, the searing pain in my legs. A shiver ran down my spine. That day, recklessness and pain almost broke me.

I shook my head, forcing the fear away. That was before. I had no control, didn't understand the power. Now was different. The punch in the dojo, the ease with which I crushed the metal of the weights... it was real. It was mine. With a deep breath that failed to calm my racing heart, I opened the window, climbed onto the ledge, and jumped.

For a terrifying fraction of a second, I was falling. The same panic from years ago threatened to swallow me. But then, something clicked. Instinct screamed louder than fear. I didn't fall. I stopped, floating a few feet off the ground, my body suspended in the cold night air.

A crazy grin spread across my face, so wide it hurt. The feeling was indescribable. It was freedom. It was power. I laughed, a loud, genuine sound of pure joy. I started to move, instinctively moving my arms and legs like a clumsy swimmer trying to find his rhythm in the water. It wasn't very efficient, and I probably looked ridiculous, but I didn't care. I was flying.

"That swimming technique is new."

My father's voice cut through the air. I turned by instinct, almost losing my balance in the air, and saw him standing in the yard, arms crossed, watching me with a slight smile.

"I... I wasn't trying to be a hero!" I blurted out, defensively. "I was just... you know, practicing flying."

"You're overthinking it," he said, and this time his tone was that of an instructor. "Flying isn't swimming. It's like breathing. It's an instinct. You know the strength needed to lift a glass of milk without crushing it, right? It's the same thing. You just need to feel the strength needed to tell gravity where it can go."

His words resonated with me. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes for a second, and concentrated. Instead of thinking about moving my limbs, I thought about simply... rising. Fuck gravity, a defiant voice screamed in my head. And suddenly, it became easier. The clumsy feeling disappeared, replaced by a controlled lightness.

I opened my eyes and saw my father rising into the air to float beside me.

"See? You just let it happen," he said. "Now, follow me. Back straight, arms forward. Force forward."

With that, he shot upwards. I tried to follow him. At first, I was close, glued to his back, the wind whistling in my ears. It was the most incredible feeling of my life. But with every passing second, the distance between us grew. He was a comet, and I, a satellite struggling not to be left behind. Frustration began to bubble up in me. Annoyed, I stopped trying to imitate him and just let instinct take over, forcing my body to go as fast as it could. For a moment, the distance closed, but soon he became just a dot in the starry sky and disappeared.

I was alone in the vastness of the night when I felt a sudden tug on my leg. The world became a blur of lights and colors. I felt dizzy, my stomach churning with the sudden, dizzying acceleration. When my vision finally focused, I was standing still, floating high, very high above the city. The lights below formed a web of gold and diamonds, a glittering carpet that stretched as far as the eye could see. And above me, the stars seemed so close I felt I could reach out and touch them.

My father was floating beside me, his hand still on my ankle. He let go and pointed. First down, then up.

I looked, absorbing the view. The anger, the frustration, the shame... it all disappeared, replaced by a single, overwhelming sense of awe.

Wow, I thought. It's beautiful.

Floating in the cold silence of the night sky, the city below was a tapestry of lights that stretched to infinity. The adrenaline of the flight was beginning to give way to a reverent calm. I was here. For real. The wind was icy, but I didn't feel cold. It was as if my body generated its own heat, its own energy.

My father floated beside me, arms crossed, observing the city with a look I couldn't decipher. It wasn't pride, nor joy. It was something deeper, more ancient. After a long silence, he turned to me, his eyes seeming to hold the darkness of space itself.

"Why?" he asked, his voice calm but cutting through the silence of the night.

I blinked, confused. "Why what?"

"Why do you want to be a hero, Mark? Tell me."

The question caught me by surprise. The answer seemed obvious. "Well, why? Because it's awesome! Flying, being super-strong... who wouldn't want that?"

He shook his head slowly. "'Awesome' isn't a reason, son. It's a feeling. And feelings pass. What's left when the novelty wears off?"

I thought for a moment. "Okay... so, to help people. Save the day. Fight the bad guys. That's what heroes do, right?"

"You can help people in many ways," he countered, his voice still patient. "You can be a doctor, a firefighter, a teacher. Fighting 'bad guys' is violent, Mark. It's dirty. It's not a comic book adventure. It's not something one should wish for." He faced me, and his gaze intensified. "You have these powers. That means you'll never have to worry about anything again. You could have any job you want, be the best at any sport, build a perfectly safe and comfortable life. A normal life. You don't have to put on a mask and look for trouble."

His words hit me. A normal life.

The phrase echoed in a deep place in my mind, a dusty place full of echoes from another existence. I barely remembered my past life. The faces, the names... even my parents' names from that life had faded, leaving only shadows. But I remembered the feeling. I remembered having a normal life. There was nothing wrong with it. It was safe. Comfortable. And yet... I knew, with a certainty that came from the soul, that it hadn't been enough. There was a void, a longing for something more, something greater. Something like... this.

I looked up at my father, at the imposing figure who was the world's greatest hero, and the answer finally formed on my lips, not as an excuse, but as a conviction.

"That's not why," I began, my voice firmer now. "It's not because it's 'cool' or because I have powers. It's because of Viltrum."

My father raised an eyebrow, surprised.

"You told me the story," I continued, passion growing in my words. "You told me about a people who achieved perfection. A utopia. With the strength and technology you had, you could have done anything. You could have isolated yourselves in your paradise, ignoring the rest of the universe. You could have become conquerors, tyrants, seeing other races... seeing us... as nothing more than insects or slaves to be crushed. No one could have stopped you."

I paused, taking a deep breath, the cold air filling my lungs.

"But you didn't do that. You chose to be better. You chose to take on the responsibility your powers gave you. You chose to help, to guide, to set an example. You became a force for good in the galaxy, not out of obligation, but by choice."

The truth is, I don't know anything about Viltrum, a quick, honest thought flashed in my mind, but the story he told me... that story is everything to me.

"I want to honor that legacy," I said, looking directly into my father's eyes. "I want to be worthy of the blood that runs in my veins. I don't want to use these powers to have a 'normal,' easy life. I want to use them to make a difference. To be like the Viltrumites. To be a hero."

My grand speech hung in the air between us. I had poured out my entire soul, my entire belief in that noble idea. But deep down, I knew there was a simpler, rawer truth behind it all. The real reason.

I looked at him, at my father, at Omni-Man, and the final, most honest answer of all escaped my lips in a whisper.

"I just want to be like you."

I watched my father, waiting for a reaction. A smile, perhaps. A nod of pride. Instead, I saw something I couldn't understand. His face, normally a mask of calm and strength, seemed to break for a fraction of a second. He wasn't looking at me, but through me, as if my words had unearthed an ancient ghost. And then, I saw it. In his eyes, for a fleeting instant, there was an expression of pure and absolute horror.

It was so fast I almost doubted what I saw. He lowered his head, his chin dropping toward his chest, and the shadow of his face hid his gaze from me. When he spoke, his voice was almost inaudible, a whisper carried by the wind.

"Like me..."

He was silent for a long time, just floating there, a statue of grief against the city's glow. Finally, he raised his head, but he didn't look at me. His gaze was lost on the horizon.

"I'm not going to be able to convince you otherwise, am I?" he asked, his voice devoid of any emotion, as if he were merely stating an inevitable fact.

"No," I replied, my own determination unshaken, despite the strangeness of the moment. "This is what I want to be."

He finally turned to me. And what I saw in his eyes shocked me more than any power. They were welling up, a moist sheen that I had never, in my entire life, seen in my father. It looked like he was on the verge of tears.

"Then... if this is the path you're going to take..." he began, his voice hoarse, struggling to stay steady. "You need to promise me one thing, Mark."

I frowned, confused. "Promise what?"

His gaze met mine, and the intensity in it was overwhelming. It was an appeal, a plea from the depths of his soul.

"Be better than me."

I blinked, not understanding. "Better? Dad, you're the greatest hero in the world. How could I be better than you?"

"Promise," he insisted, and the word wasn't a request, it was an order, loaded with the weight of a thousand worlds. The vulnerability on his face was so raw, so unexpected, that it left me speechless.

Looking into my father's eyes, at the hero I idolized, I saw a man who looked... broken. And I didn't know why. But I knew that, in that moment, I would do anything he asked.

"I... I promise."