Narrator's POV:
"A thousand years ago, when empires were carved with iron and ambition, Philip II of Macedon found himself seated beside a traveler whose origins were lost to the wind itself."
"The man carried no banner, no insignia, no sign of allegiance… yet his gaze held the depth of centuries."
As their caravan moved through the rough spine of the Balkans, beneath a sky littered with distant fire, the unknown traveler spoke softly, as though revealing a secret that even the stars had tried to guard.
"This world is not alone," he said.
"It is merely a grain of sand in an unending desert."
"Beyond it lie countless realms — nearly infinite — scattered across a cosmos that cannot fit inside human thought."
Philip leaned back, his fingers resting on the hilt of his sword.
His eyes drifted toward his lands — Macedonia, Greece, the blood-soaked soil of ambition — a kingdom he had bent with war and will.
From its cradle of civilization to its furthest trembling borders, everything he saw had been taken by his hand.
And he laughed.
Not because it was humorous…
but because it was unbearable.
"Stranger," he said, his voice heavy with conquest and regret,
"You speak of infinite worlds beyond the heavens… yet I struggle to rule even one without resistance."
"Aren't your words… insulting?"
The stranger studied him, not with pity, but with understanding older than pity.
"You laugh because you fear the scale of it," he replied softly.
"Belief is easiest when reality feels small."
He lifted his gaze to the stars.
"Then let me give you something smaller… something shaped like a man."
Philip remained silent.
"You will have a son," the stranger said.
"His name will be Alexander."
"He will carry your hunger further than you ever dared imagine."
"He will stain the earth with his footsteps and make the world seem conquered."
The air felt heavier.
"Every glory a mortal can touch will pass through his hands."
"And when he is gone, his name will remain long after kingdoms turn to dust."
Philip stared at him in disbelief, then burst into laughter again, louder this time.
"You are a good storyteller," he said.
Amused, he tossed the stranger a pouch heavy with gold.
"For your visions," Philip continued. "They entertained a tired king."
The stranger caught it with ease and gave him a faint smile — not of thanks, but of knowing.
.....
"Forty years passed like a long exhale of history."
Philip II laid on the cold floor, his chest pierced by a dagger.
His breath came shallow, ragged… the weight of a life heavy with conquest pressing against his bleeding heart.
"He stared at the ceiling, but he wasn't seeing stone anymore."
"He was seeing stars."
"Endless."
"Indifferent."
"Unmoved."
"His thoughts drifted back to that nameless traveler."
"To the impossible words that once sounded like jest."
"To the silence he had misunderstood."
A faint breath escaped his lips, carrying more truth than his wars ever had.
"Perhaps…" he whispered, "…ruling a world was never the victory..."
His eyes fluttered shut.
"…when so many exist untouched by us."
...
———
"Beyond this doorway," Czar said, gesturing toward the newly formed red portal pulsing beside him, "lie infinite branches of time… and infinite versions of the worlds you think you understand."
His voice was steady, but the air around him vibrated with meaning.
Young Oliver stared at the portal—then at the man who claimed to be him.
He couldn't reconcile the two images.
Czar's features mirrored his own, yet everything about him looked refined, sharpened, elevated.
Same purple-black hair.
Same red eyes.
Same bone structure.
But Czar wasn't pale like Oliver. His skin held warmth, health, power.
His frame was broader, chest defined beneath his suit, arms and shoulders shaped by years of strength Oliver had never earned.
Even the beard gave him a gravity Oliver could never fake.
He looked like what Oliver always imagined he could become… if the world didn't keep watering him down.
Oliver's thoughts spiraled, drowning out Czar's words.
'He's who I want to be.'
'No, he's what I would be.'
'Forget Reed. Forget Tina. If I become this… no one can deny me anything.'
Czar continued speaking, unaware—or unconcerned—that Oliver was losing himself in fantasies.
"There are eras," he said, "where entire civilizations speak my name in reverence."
"There are planets," he added, "that built temples in my honor."
The words should have sounded absurd.
Instead, they sounded possible.
Oliver's heart pounded. His eyes stayed glued to the older version of himself, trying to map every inch of what he would eventually become.
But then the tone changed.
"But none of that came freely," Czar said.
"I've endured loss."
The single word snapped Oliver out of his trance.
Czar's expression darkened—not with regret, but with memory.
"I've been defeated," he continued. "Broken."
"Betrayed."
"And far too often, I had to claw my way up from the ashes."
He looked directly at Oliver then—really looked.
"I can spare you that pain," he said quietly.
"I can spare you the wasted years."
A spark of red light moved through his left hand as he extended it forward.
"Join me," Czar said, his voice deepening.
"Claim the secrets of the cosmos with your own hands."
The hand opened fully, inviting, commanding.
"Join me…" he finished, "…and become."
The last word echoed—unfinished, yet complete enough to shake Oliver's breath loose.
And Oliver didn't hesitate.
He reached out and gripped Czar's hand with his own, the decision bursting out of him with reckless certainty.
"Alright," he said, breath steady despite the storm inside him. "Let's go."
Czar's smile widened—confident, knowing, almost triumphant.
He turned toward the red portal, pulling Oliver with him as its swirling surface expanded, swallowing the ruined chamber in a crimson glow.
The moment Oliver stepped through, heat and cold and weightlessness folded over him all at once.
His heart thundered, not from fear, but anticipation.
'If I had known then what Czar would eventually do to me… would I have taken that step anyway?
Perhaps.
A desperate man doesn't ask where the water comes from.
A starving man cannot question the hand that offers bread.
And a man dying of hunger must eat—even if the food is poisoned.'