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This chapter provides more perspective and captures the philosophy and beliefs of Edward. I tried my best to bring out the contradictions and conflict of emotions that burden him.

I didn't write a perfect mc. We humans aren't meant to be perfect after all. It is our flaws and that make us beautiful.

Edward, despite his powers and will, isn't a omnipotent and omniscient perfect being. He knows he's not perfect, he just wishes to do whatever he can to save mankind, and prepared to carry the consequences of his actions. I believe that makes him more human than anything.

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Edward POV

It's been more than 1200 years since I came to this world. A staggering amount of time, an entire millennium and then some. Even now, I still catch myself thinking how absurd that number sounds. I never imagined I would live this long.

Especially not in a world that I once dismissed as fiction—a universe of caped heroes, alien gods, and mythical realms. A world I used to consider nothing more than a fantasy. Who would ever imagine waking up one day in the DC Universe?

But fate, it seems, had other plans for me. Plans I could never have predicted or prepared for.

Over the centuries, I unlocked power beyond imagination. Strength that could level mountains, skills that could rival the mightiest beings in existence. I fought gods. I killed them. I watched empires rise and fall. I shaped civilizations, not through conquest, but by pushing events in certain directions, guiding from the shadows when I could, standing in front of storms when I had to.

Despite all my declarations that I didn't wish to rule or interfere, I was still doing exactly that. Interfering.

Some would say I was playing god. That I had appointed myself as judge, protector, and executioner. That I was deciding what was best for humanity from a throne too high for mortals to reach. And in truth… they wouldn't be entirely wrong.

Yes, I did change things. I pushed the world, little by little, in a better direction—at least, what I believed was better. I stopped wars before they began. I broke systems that were built to exploit the weak. I gave knowledge to those who could use it to uplift their people.

Even if my methods weren't always clean, even if blood stained my hands, it was always for the greater good. That was the justification I held onto.

But the more time passed, the more I felt myself being swept away with it. Time, in its relentless march, slowly wore me down. At first, I thought I was managing well. But then the years began to blur. Victories felt emptier. The joy of progress became distant.

Sometimes, at night, I would sit silently beneath the open sky and stare at the stars. Countless nights like that. No words. No movement. Just stillness and thought.

Was this truly the path I should continue walking? Was this how I wanted to spend what was left of eternity?

I tried to believe that I hadn't lost myself. I told myself I was still human at heart. But deep down, I knew that wasn't true anymore. I had outlived countless generations. I had more strength than entire nations combined. I couldn't get sick. I didn't age.

Even my voice carried an unnatural weight to it, one that made others listen, whether they wanted to or not. So even when I tried to be humble, even when I tried to blend in, they still placed me on a pedestal. Not out of admiration, but reverence. Fear, even.

At first, it flattered me. I won't lie. The respect, the awe in their eyes, it fed something inside me. I was just another nameless face in the crowd in my past life after all. But that feeling faded.

Repetition and disappointment took its place. I began to feel the weight of all their expectations, of their demands, of their mistakes. No matter how much I helped, they still found new ways to fall. To hurt each other. To destroy what they had built. I watched it happen again and again.

It was exhausting. It was heartbreaking.

And yet… it wasn't all bad.

There were still moments. Small, brilliant moments that cut through the endless gray. Acts of compassion between strangers. A mother giving up her last meal for her child. A boy standing up for someone weaker. A scientist sacrificing fame for the sake of truth.

Little things. Beautiful things. Those moments reminded me why I kept going. Why I hadn't turned my back on humanity.

They reminded me that all of this wasn't meaningless.

And then came the discovery that changed everything.

It happened after my long journey through Africa, a journey that was meant to be simple, a quiet exploration of cultures and ancient lands. But instead, it became a turning point.

The unknown spirit that had lingered within me since the beginning, the strange force that whispered in my dreams and guided my instincts, finally awakened fully.

It wasn't a demon or forgotten god. It wasn't some alien parasite or magical anomaly.

It was Adam.

The first human.

The progenitor of mankind.

That revelation hit me harder than any divine blow I had ever taken. Suddenly, all the changes I had noticed within myself began to make sense—the raw empathy I felt for humanity, the aching desire to guide them, the torment I experienced when I had to hurt them for their own good. It all aligned.

Because in the end, what is a father to do when he sees his children suffering? What does a father do when his children stumble, break, destroy—and yet still carry a flicker of the same light he once had?

How could I, knowing what I now knew, stand aside and watch them fall apart? How could I not step in, even if it meant becoming the villain in their eyes?

That was the conflict burning inside me.

Even when I faced the worst of humanity; the murderers, the tyrants, the ones who sold their souls for power—I could never shake the guilt. I would strike them down, yes. I would erase their evil from the world.

But part of me would always hesitate, always ache. Because a part of me still saw them as my children.

And what father can bear to kill his child, no matter how monstrous they've become?

It was this knowledge that finally pushed me to make a change. I couldn't keep wandering the world in search of battles. I couldn't keep reacting to disaster after disaster like some unstoppable force of judgment. I needed something else.

That's when I decided to stop the journey of aimless wandering. Almost thousand years of drifting, intervening, guiding, fighting, shaping—without direction, without rest. I was not lost, but I had no destination either.

Each civilization I passed through left an imprint on me, and I on them. But none gave me peace.

I turned east, towards the cradle of ancient wisdom. Southern Asia. The lands of sages, of teachings beyond power and pride. I wanted to understand—not just humanity, but myself. What was I becoming? What had I already become?

And so I wandered through the jungles and plains, walked barefoot along the banks of great rivers, slept beneath banyan trees under skies filled with stars.

Days passed into weeks, and weeks into months. I saw kingdoms rise and fall, monks chant in dimly lit temples, farmers till their lands in harmony with nature. There was something different here, less ambition for dominion, more longing for truth.

I let the silence of mountains and rivers wash over me. And there, in that sacred space, I finally met someone I had long wished to see.

It was in a quiet valley, near what would one day be called Lumbini, that I met him.

Buddha.

He was seated beneath a fig tree, surrounded by silence that felt sacred. No guards, no disciples, just a man wrapped in humble robes, his eyes closed, his breathing calm, yet the presence around him felt heavier than any god I had slain.

There was no power radiating from him, no magic, no aura. And yet, in that stillness, I felt the weight of a thousand truths.

He opened his eyes as I approached, as if he had been waiting.

"You've come a long way, stranger" he said with a gentle smile.

I couldn't help but smile, " Yes, it has been a rather long journey."

I sat beside him, without a word. No introductions were needed.

He was just what I expected.

He was kind. Calm. Radiant in his simplicity. We sat beneath a Bodhi tree, and we talked. Not for hours. For days. For three days and three nights, uninterrupted. No food. No water. No sleep. Just words—truthful, unburdened words.

We spoke of everything. The beginning of time, the nature of suffering, the cycles of rebirth. Of gods and men. Of violence and compassion. Of the burdens we carry and the choices we make.

He listened patiently. When I told him about the gods I had fought—Olympians, Egyptians, even the Norse—he neither condemned nor praised. He simply nodded, absorbing every word.

When I confessed how I'd shaped entire civilizations from the shadows, guided their progress, protected them from extinction, he asked no questions. But his eyes were steady, never judging.

On the third night, as the pale moonlight filtered through the tree branches, he turned to me with a quiet curiosity and asked, "If you were given the chance to do it all over again, what would you do?"

The question struck me deeper than I expected. Would I repeat the same path? Would I follow the same dreams?

I sat in silence for a long while. The memories flooded back. The battles, the cries for help, the betrayals, the innocence I tried to protect, the blood on my hands, divine and mortal alike.

I thought about the cities I helped build. The tyrants I destroyed. The knowledge I preserved. The fires I lit in the hearts of the oppressed.

I thought about the children who called me a guardian. And those who cursed my name when their empires fell, blaming me for not saving them.

Then I answered, quietly, honestly, "If I had a second chance... I would probably do the same things."

He remained silent.

"I may be playing god," I continued, "shaping and guiding humanity toward a path I think is good—but if I didn't, they would follow the same old path to destruction. I don't wish to see them destroy themselves. Not again."

His gaze didn't waver.

"And what if the humans hate you for it?" he asked softly. "What if they blame you for everything?Their mistakes and sins, claiming it's all because of you? What if they see you as a tyrant, not a savior?"

I let out a chuckle at first. Then, it turned into a quiet laugh. A helpless, tired laugh that echoed off the trees.

"I'm sure some would," I said. "And I will accept it. Their love and hate. Their praises and blames. Their hopes and their despair. I shall carry it all with me, till the day I die. Even if the entire world ends up hating me for it, I shall take it all upon me. That's my burden to bear."

I tilted my head up, gazing at the stars peeking between the leaves.

"Everyone admires the stars in the sky. Because they are unattainable and shines so brightly. Distant enough to be unattainable, beautiful enough to be worshipped. But I want to be a star, even if just a short-lived shooting star that ends up burning out eventually."

I paused, letting the silence settle between us before continuing.

"For the short time I will exist, I want to light up their path with my light, no matter how painful it might end up being. This is the path I have to walk. Not because I need to... but because no one else can."

Buddha rose slowly, placing his hand gently on my shoulder. His touch was warm yet firm, not with power, but with understanding.

He spoke with a distant, almost melancholic tone.

"Then you have achieved true enlightenment."

I turned to him with surprise. His expression was calm, his eyes soft.

"Humans search for their path and purpose their whole life," he said. "But few ever find it. And even among those few, many lack the conviction to follow it."

He nodded slowly, as if affirming something within himself.

"But you, my friend, you are prepared to carry it all on your shoulders. No matter the cost. I can't judge if you are right or wrong. But Your words and your conviction are true. So go forth... and continue your journey. I pray that one day, you may see a world beyond conflict. That you may find Nirvana."

I didn't reply. I simply smiled and nodded, my chest heavy with gratitude. I turned and walked away, the grass beneath my feet whispering farewells I would never hear again.

I never met him again.

He passed away not long after. But his words, those calm, affirming words—remained with me. Even hundreds of years later, they echoed within me like a soft prayer.

That's when I realized something else.

I couldn't keep holding their hands.

Not forever.

There comes a time in every parent's life when they must let go. I had been overprotective—always watching, always intervening. Trying to steer them from every disaster, shielding them from every mistake.

But that wasn't helping. That was enabling.

Sometimes, children need to walk on their own. Sometimes, they need to fall. To bleed. To feel pain. To learn what it means to rise again despite it.

Only then can they grow.

And I would still be there. Not as a god. Not as a ruler. But as A guardian from afar.

I have to believe in them.

And I believe one day... they'll find their own path.

And when they do, I'll be there, watching.

And just like that , I went on with my journey, which lead me a place I probably shouldn't have gone. For that was the place would later end up breaking my heart the most.