The Doppelgänger Mikaelson

After what felt like an eternity, his eyes snapped open. "First wish," he began, his voice firm. "I want a body that's strong, adaptable, and capable of reaching unimaginable heights—physically, mentally, and spiritually."

The entity's form pulsed, the void around them trembling faintly. "Granted."

Joshua felt a strange sensation ripple through him, like the whisper of a promise weaving into his very essence. He swallowed hard, his throat dry but his resolve firm.

Joshua's brow furrowed in thought, his mind sifting through the fragments of his past life and the daunting unknowns of what lay ahead. He pressed his lips into a thin line, his gaze locking onto the entity.

"For my second wish," he began, his voice measured, "I want the ability to learn and master anything—skills, knowledge, even powers—faster than anyone else, without limit or diminishing returns."

The entity stilled, its swirling form halting as if considering his request. Then, with a low hum that reverberated through the void, it replied, "Granted."

The space around Joshua shifted, and he felt a sudden clarity seep into his consciousness. It was as though his mind had become an endless expanse, ready to absorb and refine anything it encountered. He flexed his fingers—or at least the memory of them—and felt a strange sense of control, sharper and more precise than before.

A flicker of a smile crossed his lips, but it was fleeting. There was no time for celebration, not yet. He lifted his chin, his expression hardening as he prepared for the final wish.

The entity loomed closer, its presence heavy and expectant. "And your final wish?"

Joshua took a deep breath, or at least the semblance of one in this void-like state. His eyes narrowed, determination flaring within their depths. He wasn't just planning for survival—he was planning for dominance in whatever world awaited him.

"For my third wish," he said, his voice steady, "I want immunity to all forms of magic. No spell, enchantment, or magical force should be able to harm or control me once I take on my new form."

The entity remained motionless, its form radiating an otherworldly intensity. Then, after a beat of silence, it replied with an almost amused tone. "Granted."

A deep, resonant vibration spread through the void, and Joshua felt a shield-like sensation wrap around him. It was an impenetrable wall, something intrinsic that now flowed through his very essence. He clenched his fists, a subtle smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

"And now," the entity intoned, its voice carrying an ancient weight, "you must decide the world in which you will begin anew."

Joshua hesitated, his brow furrowing. A part of him wanted to be deliberate, to choose a realm where his newfound abilities would ensure his ascension. But another part, the one itching for a challenge, craved unpredictability.

"Surprise me," he said, his voice firm. "Choose a world that will test me, one where I can truly become more than I was."

The entity's form shifted, and for the first time, a sound like laughter—low, cold, and vast—filled the void. "Very well, Joshua. Or should I say...Ivar?"

Joshua's expression hardened, his jaw tightening at the name. He felt the void ripple around him, a sensation of falling yet remaining still. The darkness grew heavier, and the entity's voice echoed one last time as the void began to collapse.

"Prepare yourself, Ivar. Your new beginning awaits."

And then, with a final surge of energy, the void shattered into blinding light, pulling him into the unknown.

Present Time

The sun hung low in the sky, casting its golden rays across a sprawling field lined with ancient oaks and jagged rocks. Sweat glistened on Ivar's brow as he swung a wooden sword, its edge catching the light with each calculated strike. His grip on the hilt was firm, though his knuckles were white with exertion. His breathing came in short, labored bursts as he stepped back, his movements precise but undeniably strained.

He planted the sword into the ground with a frustrated growl, the sword sinking into the earth as he leaned against it, one hand on his knee. His chest rose and fell with each ragged breath, his muscles trembling from hours of relentless practice.

"Damn it," he muttered, his voice thick with irritation and fatigue. He straightened up, his free hand brushing back damp strands of his dark hair, his face twisted into a grimace. "I should've wished for magic... or hell, even to be a werewolf, if I knew he was sending me to this world."

His words lingered in the air as he glanced around, his sharp blue eyes scanning the horizon. The landscape seemed oddly familiar, yet not. The villages, the towering fortresses, even the people—it was all just... slightly off. He ran a hand through his hair, sighing deeply.

"This timeline," he muttered, narrowing his eyes as he rested his weight on the sword. "It's different. The people, the events—they're all here, but it's not like the show. Not exactly."

He rubbed his temples, frustration clear in the way his shoulders sagged. "Of course the entity didn't bother giving me a heads-up. Bastard."

His thoughts were interrupted by the faint sound of voices in the distance. Ivar turned his head sharply, his eyes narrowing as his body tensed. His hand instinctively reached for the hilt of his sword, gripping it tightly.

As the voices grew louder, he saw a group approaching—a mixture of familiar faces, each of them more vivid and alive than he ever could have imagined. Characters he once watched on a screen were now flesh and blood, their movements fluid and their expressions layered with emotion.

Ivar barely had time to adjust his stance when two small figures emerged from the treeline, their laughter breaking through the serene afternoon. A girl of about five, with wild auburn hair that seemed to catch the sunlight like flames, charged ahead, her steps quick and determined. Her wide grin revealed a missing tooth, and her cheeks were flushed from exertion. Her bright green eyes sparkled with mischief, and her small hands clutched a bundle of wildflowers, petals fluttering as she ran.

"Freya," Ivar muttered under his breath, straightening up, his sword still gripped tightly. His tension eased slightly at the sight of her, though his brows furrowed in mild confusion.

Trailing behind Freya was a boy, smaller and younger, his dark curls bouncing with each unsteady step. He was no more than four, his face set in a determined pout as he struggled to keep up. His arms pumped awkwardly, his tiny hands grasping a wooden toy sword that he waved around with exaggerated bravado. His deep brown eyes were wide and filled with admiration as he glanced at Freya.

"Wait up, Freya!" Finn called out, his voice high-pitched and breathless. He stumbled over a loose rock but quickly regained his footing, his toy sword clattering against his leg as he pushed himself forward.

Freya skidded to a halt just a few paces away from Ivar, her bare feet kicking up a small cloud of dust. Her grin widened as she tilted her head up at him, her expression shifting into one of mock seriousness. "You're supposed to be a mighty warrior, Ivar," she teased, her tone laced with playful sarcasm. "Why do you look like you've been fighting a bear and losing?"

Ivar's lips twitched, his usual scowl softening at her jab. "Training, not losing," he replied dryly, though there was a faint warmth in his tone.

Finn finally caught up, huffing and puffing as he came to a stop beside Freya. He leaned on his toy sword like it was a crutch, his small chest heaving. "Ivar!" he exclaimed between breaths, his voice tinged with excitement. "Were you practicing to fight the bad guys? Did you win?"

Ivar crouched down, resting an arm on his bent knee, his gaze shifting between the two. Freya's sharp wit was a constant reminder of how quick she was, while Finn's enthusiasm seemed boundless, almost contagious. He felt the corners of his mouth twitch again, threatening to betray a rare smile.

"Not yet," Ivar admitted, ruffling Finn's curls with a rough but affectionate hand. "But I will."

Freya tilted her head, scrutinizing him with a look far too mature for her age. "Maybe if you didn't train so much, you wouldn't look so grumpy all the time," she suggested, tossing a flower at him. It hit his shoulder and fell to the ground, but her triumphant smirk remained.

Finn giggled, his toy sword forgotten as he crouched down to pick up the flower. "Don't be grumpy, Ivar. Freya's right. You should smile more." He held the flower out to Ivar with both hands, his brown eyes wide and sincere.

Ivar hesitated, glancing at the flower before taking it carefully. His large hand dwarfed the delicate bloom, and he studied it for a moment before tucking it into his belt. "Maybe I'll smile after I've won my first real fight," he said, his voice softer now.

Freya crossed her arms, her nose wrinkling as she shot him a challenging look. "You better. Or else Finn and I will just keep bugging you until you do."

Ivar shook his head, the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. "You're already doing a fine job of that."

Freya's laughter rang out, light and carefree, while Finn beamed up at Ivar, his earlier exhaustion forgotten or so he thought.

"Children. Which of you is the first to pop out?"