William Hatcher awoke in an endless void, no body, no pain—just his consciousness adrift. The alley, the rain, the knife—gone. Am I dead? he thought, the words echoing in the emptiness. The memory of the blade's sting lingered, the muggers' laughter fading into the dark. Why me? The question gnawed, as bitter as ever.
A blue glow flickered, forming a text screen in the blackness. Words scrolled, sharp and clinical:
[Yomi Protocol: Initialization Complete. Host: William Hatcher. Status: Soul Bound.]
A voice, cold, snarky, and dripping with cynicism, cut through. "Dead? Nailed it, fleshbag. Welcome to the void—your cosmic waiting room. Don't get comfy; it's got the charm of a dentist's office and the warmth of an IRS audit."
William's thoughts churned. "Who the hell are you?" The screen pulsed, responding.
"Yomi Protocol," the voice sneered, sharp as a tack and twice as prickly. "Enchanted AI, part code, part magic, whipped up by a Japanese sorcerer-scientist to squash the hive-king's demons—infernals, mindflayers, the whole creepy crew. I'm loaded with the brains, Mana, and DNA of thirteen species: Nagual, Elves, Dark Elves, Dwarves, Fairies, Vampires, Werewolves, Sirens, Minotaurs, Centaurs, Orcs, Humans, Lizardmen. Cyclops bailed, the snobs—guess they didn't want to join my genetic jamboree. Project got canned, but I'm too ornery to quit. Your sad-sack life—foster homes, bank rejections, that pitiful cafe dream—caught my eye. You're the poster child for 'down but not out.' Bonus: I block mindflayer brain-ticklers, so you won't be a demon's dancing monkey."
William's anger flared. "Why me? I'm nobody! Just a guy who got stabbed in an alley!"
"Oh, spare me the violins, fleshbag," the AI quipped, its tone dripping with mockery. "Nobody? That's my favorite flavor! No ego to fluff means you'll actually listen—unlike some wannabe hero with a cape fetish. Your life was a masterclass in eating dirt and standing up, from foster home beatdowns to banks laughing at your cafe sketches. That's the kind of stubborn mule I need. My thirteen-species smoothie—knowledge, Mana, genetics—knows how to win wars. Quit whining; we've got demons to yeet."
The screen shifted, the void rippling. Images flashed—crumbling wastelands under scarred skies, glowing wards pulsing, a massive spaceport humming with activity. A winged alien beast, its biological core pulsing with bio-energy, soared over a ruined depot. A wraith, its ghostly form flickering, drifted through a desolate ruin. A mutated rat, eyes glowing, snarled. William's mind reeled. "What is this place?"
"Earth, 2005—not your soggy London hole," the AI said, its tone biting. "A century ago, the hive-king's demons tore open portals across the planet, unleashing alien beasts—mythical monsters like the impundulu, powered by bio-energy cores that don't die with their host. These creatures, sent to wipe out humans before we became a threat, were the hive-king's shock troops. The portals have since been sealed, but their residual Mana seeped into the world, mutating Earth's fauna—rats, boars, wolves—into what we now call mutated beasts, twisted nightmares with glowing eyes and unnatural strength. That same cursed Mana gave life to spectral entities like wraiths, born not from the hive-king's army but from the chaotic energy of portal scars, haunting the world as undead horrors. Even I didn't see that mess coming. Humanity's 8 billion souls cling to survival, packed into mega-cities like Zyra, the new capital with 1.6 billion, plus Eyl, Luanda, Lisbon, Paris, Leibniz, Budapest, Tunis, Maseru, Tokyo/Edo, and other holdouts, all shielded by glowing wards. Off-planet, 16 space colonies—some run by monster ranchers wrangling beasts, others by farmers or weirdos—rely on portal tech and the Earth Space Force to survive. The global government built Zyra to fend off monsters and demons, its wards blocking magic to keep the creeps out. Earth's wilds are a zoo—mutated beasts, alien monsters, spectral entities running amok. Sentients—Nagual, Elves, Dark Elves, Dwarves, Fairies, Vampires, Werewolves, Sirens, Minotaurs, Centaurs, Orcs, Lizardmen, Cyclops—arrived as allies from their worlds through those same portals. Some turn traitor faster than you can say 'backstab.' Dwarves and Cyclops craft top-tier gear; Cyclops refuse mutagens, too lofty for that. The hive-king's demons paused their major invasions—our satellites jam their portals—but their spies keep us on edge. Oceans? Forget it. Sea monsters like adamastors, kraken, leviathans own the waves. Welcome to your new circus, fleshbag."
William's thoughts raced. "This is insane. I'm no fighter!"
"Sure, you're a regular peacenik," the AI scoffed, tossing in a mock yawn. "What's next, singing kumbaya with a wraith? New body, new rules. Mythical monsters drop their bio-energy cores—forge 'em into short swords, armor, gear that's weak now but scales with your level. Guns? Pfft. They're static, no scaling, no stat boosts, and useless in close combat, where most monster fights end. Smart mercs stick to core-forged gear. Spectral entities like wraiths drop ectoplasm, essences for tricks like invisibility. Mutated beasts—rats, boars—drop blood, fur for potions. Auto-loot grabs it all. Kill sentients—except Cyclops, the prudes—and you snag a mutagen, a one-shot ritual to unlock their entire magic arsenal, like a Dark Elf's shadow tricks or a Siren's sound blasts, plus perks like night vision. No downsides, levels with you. Ready to play, or you still sulking?"
"Magic?" William snorted, skepticism clashing with the void's hum. The screen flickered.
"Mana pool starts at 50, grows by 10 per level, max 1000," the AI said, its cynicism unrelenting. "You're human, so you get elemental magic—fire, water, lightning, ice, earth, wind—plus universal healing and spatial. Shape it how you want, within your level, Mana, and physics: water can slice like a pressure jet or slip like a slick, wind can slash like a blade or shove like a gust. Sentients got their own tricks—Sirens blast sound, Dark Elves weave shadow. Mutagens let you steal their full magic set. Anger fuels spells but chews Mana like a bad bar tab. Run dry, you're toast. Demons sling gravity, plagues, psychic junk—my enchantment blocks their mind games. Light, fire, holy oil roast spectrals; silver dust, sea salt mess with their Mana. Fire's weak to water, strong against ice. Healing magic? Mends wounds, cures poisons, sicknesses, or curses based on level, but touch a foe and you can plague or poison them—nasty move. Runes? Carve 'em with Mana—traps on surfaces, triggered manually or by contact. Fire runes explode, lightning discharges, might stun, but high lightning users shrug it off. Water runes slice, earth runes spike, wind runes slash, spatial runes teleport to a set spot, healing runes hit with a temporary plague that spreads to the same race—rat to rat, not to you. Only Werewolves' super regen and Centaurs' rage magic don't make runes—they're passives. Potency scales with level. Spatial magic like blinks? High spatial users sniff you out and know where you'll land. Your stats—Strength, Endurance, Speed, Agility—grow symmetrically, all equal, a Yomi Protocol perk. Magic's the same—all types level together, keeping you versatile. Others specialize: Orcs pump Strength, Elves max Agility, Lizardmen hoard Endurance, Werewolves sprint with Speed. Their magic skews too—a Dark Elf might master shadow, a Siren sound. Don't be a moron and trip over their tricks."
The AI's voice sharpened, tossing in a comical jab. "I picked you, William, 'cause your life was a tragic comedy of faceplants and comebacks. Foster homes? Bank rejections? That cafe dream you clung to like a soggy napkin? Pure grit, zero quit. My thirteen-species smoothie—knowledge, Mana, genetics—spots a diamond in the rough, even if it's buried in mud. The hive-king's demons don't care about your sob story, and I'm not your therapist. My Mana's deeper than your bad decisions, my genetics a blueprint of thirteen worlds, guiding you through this dumpster fire. Your symmetrical stats and magic make you a jack-of-all-trades, not some Orcish meathead or Siren karaoke star. Your motto—'reckless wins battles, planning wins wars'—better not be hot air, or you'll be demon chow faster than you can say 'oops.'"
The screen flashed stats:
[Stats: Strength 0/100, Endurance 0/100, Speed 0/100, Agility 0/100, HP 50/1000, Mana 50/1000. Symmetrical growth—stats increase equally per level.]
[Magic (Level 0): Fire, Water, Lightning, Ice, Earth, Wind, Universal Healing, Universal Spatial—no spells yet. Symmetrical evolution—all types level together.]
[Skills: Hacking (Level 1, 0/3 uses), Engineering (Level 1, 0/3 uses), Swordplay (Level 1, 0/3 uses), Markmanship (Level 1, 0/3 uses), Forging (Level 1, 0/3 uses), Stealth (Level 1, 0/3 uses), Alchemy (Level 1, 0/3 uses).]
[Runes: Available to humans with Mana—Fire (Explosion), Lightning (Discharge, Possible Stun), Water (Slice), Earth (Spike), Wind (Slash), Spatial (Teleport), Healing (Temporary Plague, contagious to same race). Infuse 10 Mana per rune, trigger manually or by contact, potency scales with level. Lightning resistance higher in strong users; spatial users detect blinks. No runes for Werewolves' Super Regen or Centaurs' Rage (passives).]
"EXP from kills—rats 5, boars 15, wolves 10, impundulu 30," the AI added, tossing in a quip. "Skills level on three uses to Level 2, four to Level 3, plus 10 EXP each time. Runes cost Mana, trigger traps—enemies use 'em too, so don't stumble into a Dark Elf's shadow rune or get blasted by a Siren's sonic boom like some tone-deaf rookie. Spatial blinks? A Minotaur with spatial skill will have you for lunch. Your symmetrical stats and magic keep you flexible, but others' specialization—Vampire Speed, Dwarf Endurance—makes them a headache. Plan like you've got half a brain, not half a sandwich."
The void trembled, visions intensifying—an impundulu's core pulsing, a wraith's chill spreading, a mutated rat snarling. William's thoughts hardened. If this is my shot, I won't waste it. The AI snorted. "That's the spirit, fleshbag. Don't make my thirteen essences regret betting on you. Reincarnation's starting—try not to die again, or I'll have to find a new punching bag."
The void flared white. A baby's cry echoed in Zyra's delivery room, Lila and Torin Moss gazing at their newborn son, Ray.