Ali never saw the truck. One moment, he was standing at the corner, contemplating the inefficient design of the traffic light system; the next, there was only the cold, sharp shock of total cessation. He was used to failure and disappointment, but this—this was the most complete failure of all.

  Then, there was light.

  It wasn't blinding, but rather like the soft warmth of a high-quality lamp. Standing before him was a figure who radiated an impossible feeling of serene kindness, draped in robes that shifted between the colors of the deepest sea and the hottest desert sun.

  The figure smiled, a warm gesture that immediately calmed the frantic programmer's mind.

  "Hello, Ali. You must be flustered right now," the figure said, his voice a comforting cadence. "But don't be worried. I'm here to give you another chance to live your dreams. I might even give you a gift and let you keep your memories and skills intact. What do you say? Want to start your life anew?"

  Ali, the atheist who preferred facts to faith, remained stoic. He analyzed the being, the situation, and the offer. He had read countless novels about this specific scenario, a meta-joke he kept to himself. The probability of success was low, but the potential reward—the chance to pursue his dream of science without the burden of poverty—was infinite.

  "I accept the variables," Ali stated. "But my skills are in coding, languages, and physics. I was not a warrior."

  The Archangel Gabriel chuckled gently. "That is the gift, Ali. You will keep every skill and all your knowledge. I simply promise they will be translated and upgraded to suit the new world's magical reality. Your languages become linguistic mastery; your coding becomes the primordial gloss. Go, Ali. Be well."

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  Ali closed his eyes, accepting the inevitable second-chance gamble.

  Part II: The Tiny Planet

  The next moment, Ali was in a world of overwhelming sensation. The air was thick with the scent of pine and decay, and the light was filtered green and gold. He felt incredibly vulnerable, lying exposed on a bed of dry, sharp moss. He was wearing elegant but utterly ruined silk garments—a cruel, final joke given his poverty in his first life.

  Towering around him were stalks of grass the size of young trees, and the few insects he saw were horrifically large—spotted beetles the size of his fist. His highly capable mind was instantly seized with a physical panic: He was not only surrounded by danger, but his body was hopelessly weak. He was tiny, helpless, and the sophisticated machine that was his brain had no control over its own infant shell.

  The frustration was immense. He tried to rise, tried to crawl, and failed miserably. The resulting noise was a high-pitched wail—a cry of a man who knew exactly how to solve a differential equation but couldn't even control his bladder.

  The sound instantly drew a threat. A horned rabbit, a muscled creature with a viciously curved horn, hopped into the clearing and stopped, fixing its feral gaze on the bundle of helpless pink flesh.

  Just as the rabbit prepared to charge, a shadow fell. Ali was swiftly scooped up by a pair of strong, careful arms. It was a woman with kind green eyes and light hair, her face etched with alarm.

  "It's here, Oliver! Be careful!" the woman called out.

  The Man, huge and broad-shouldered, with dark brown hair and a thick axe slung over his shoulder, moved instantly. The axe flashed—a quick, brutal strike—and the huge rabbit crumpled dead without a sound.

  The Man surveyed the dense foliage, then looked at the woman holding the crying child. "No one is around, Nora. Whoever left him fled the sound of the hunt. They won't be back for him now."

  The woman—Nora—cradled Ali tighter. "He's terrified, Oliver. Look at him, alone in this wilderness. We can't leave him, not with the monsters so close to the path."

  The Man—Oliver—stepped closer and reached out a huge, gentle finger to wipe a tear from Ali's cheek. "You're right. He's a tiny thing, but he's quiet already. He has spirit. We'll take him home, Nora."

  "We will," Nora agreed, hugging him tighter. "What should we call him, Olly? A little flower that sprung up in the mud."

  Oliver smiled, a warm, reassuring expression that made Ali feel safer than any security system. "Vivian. He looks like a Vivian."