MTL NOVEL Chapter 1: Chapter 1: The Wheel of Eternity
### Chapter 1: The Wheel of Eternity
The night Xavier Langston died was a symphony of chaos and fire, a fitting end for a man who lived larger than life itself. At thirty-two, he was the golden son of the Langston dynasty—a billionaire empire built on tech innovation, real estate, and a flair for the dramatic that made him a tabloid darling. With jet-black hair that fell in perfect waves, cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, and eyes the color of storm-tossed emeralds, Xavier was the kind of handsome that stopped traffic. He'd been dubbed "the Prince of the Modern Age" by *Forbes*, a title he wore with a smirk and a tailored Armani suit. But that night, March 12, 2023, the prince fell.
He'd been aboard his private Gulfstream G700, soaring over the Atlantic after a high-stakes meeting in London. The deal was a merger that would've cemented Langston Industries as the world's leading renewable energy titan—a $50 billion gamble. Xavier lounged in the cream-leather cabin, sipping a 1947 Cheval Blanc, his mind already plotting the next move. He didn't notice the faint tremor in the fuselage, the whisper of sabotage woven into the jet's wiring by a rival who'd rather see him burn than succeed. The first explosion ripped through the left engine, a deafening roar that shattered the wine glass in his hand. Red liquid splashed across his white shirt like blood—a grim omen. The second blast tore the plane apart midair, sending it plummeting into the icy waves below. Xavier's last thought, as flames licked his vision and the ocean rushed up to claim him, was a bitter curse: *"I'll be damned if this is how it ends."*
It wasn't.
Darkness swallowed him, cold and absolute, until a flicker of light pierced the void. He blinked—or thought he did, since he no longer had a body—and found himself standing in a vast, shimmering expanse. The air hummed with energy, and before him loomed a figure cloaked in shadow, its form shifting like smoke caught in a breeze. Two glowing eyes, golden and unblinking, fixed on him. Beside it spun a massive wheel, its surface etched with glowing runes and images—worlds, lives, possibilities. It was ancient, infinite, and terrifyingly alive.
"Xavier Langston," the entity intoned, its voice a chorus of whispers that crawled under his nonexistent skin. "Your thread has snapped, but the tapestry of fate is not done with you. I am the Weaver of Fates, and I offer you a choice: oblivion or rebirth."
Xavier's mind raced, even without a heartbeat to anchor it. Oblivion sounded boring—eternal nothingness for a man who'd conquered boardrooms and broken hearts? No thanks. "Rebirth," he said, his voice echoing in the void. "But I'm not signing up for some medieval peasant gig. Make it worth my time."
The Weaver's eyes glinted with amusement. "Very well. Spin the wheel, and your new life begins. But beware—each turn binds you deeper to my design."
Xavier stepped forward, or willed himself to, and grasped the wheel. It was cold as death, thrumming with power. He gave it a hard yank, and it spun with a screech, runes blurring into streaks of light. When it stopped, a symbol glowed: fangs dripping crimson. The Weaver's voice rumbled, "Vampire. You will walk the night, immortal and hungering. Spin again."
Xavier arched a brow—or would have, if he had one. "Vampire, huh? Fine, I can work with that. Let's see where I'm landing." He spun the wheel a second time. It whirred, slower now, and settled on an image: a quaint town square framed by oaks, a clock tower piercing the sky. "Mystic Falls," the Weaver declared. "A nexus of blood and destiny. The Vampire Diaries."
Xavier groaned internally. He'd caught a few episodes of the show during a late-night binge—his assistant had insisted it was "cultural research." Hot vampires, angsty drama, and a doppelgänger love triangle that made him roll his eyes. "Seriously? That soap opera? Fine, whatever. One more spin—give me a role worth playing."
The wheel spun a third time, creaking as it slowed. The image that emerged was a grand mansion, Italianate and brooding, with two names etched beneath: *Damon Salvatore* and *Stefan Salvatore*. The Weaver's voice was final: "You are Alexander Salvatore, eldest of the Salvatore brothers. Your bloodline is your throne. Your power will grow, but so will the stakes. The wheel has spoken."
"Hold up," Xavier snapped, his patience fraying. "Damon and Stefan? Those two blockheads? All they do is mope around, chasing Katherine and Elena like lovesick puppies! I'm supposed to be their big brother? You've got to be kidding me. I'd rather stake myself than deal with that mess."
The Weaver tilted its head, unperturbed. "Their fates are yours to shape—or shatter. The wheel does not bend to your whims. It weaves what must be."
Xavier seethed. In his past life, he'd have fired anyone who dared saddle him with such incompetent partners. Damon, the reckless smartass who'd rather drink his problems away than solve them, and Stefan, the brooding martyr who'd write poetry about his guilt if he wasn't so busy pining. And both of them, obsessed with Katherine Pierce and her doppelgänger twin, Elena Gilbert—women who'd turned them into vampires, killed their humanity, and pitted them against each other like gladiators in a tragic circus. To Xavier, it was absurd. If he'd been in their shoes, turned by some manipulative femme fatale, he wouldn't have gone crawling back. He'd have walked away, found someone worth his time, and built an empire of his own—vampire or not. Katherine and Elena were gorgeous, sure—he'd give them that. He even liked their fire, their cunning. But the way his new brothers tripped over themselves for a doppelgänger version of their killer? Pathetic.
Before he could argue further, the void shuddered. The Weaver raised a hand, and the world dissolved into light. "Your thread is rewoven. Live, Alexander. Conquer—or be consumed."
---
When Xander opened his eyes, he was no longer Xavier Langston. He was Alexander Salvatore, born 1835, eldest son of Giuseppe and Liliana Salvatore, in a sprawling estate on the outskirts of Mystic Falls, Virginia. The year was 1840, and he was five years old, staring at a wooden ceiling in a nursery that smelled of lavender and old money. His new body felt small, fragile, but his mind—sharp as ever—remained intact. Memories of skyscrapers, private jets, and paparazzi flashbulbs clashed with the rustic reality of horse-drawn carriages and candlelight. He clenched his tiny fists, already plotting. *If I'm stuck here, I'm running this show my way.*
Years blurred past, each one molding him into something extraordinary. By 1864, at twenty-nine, Xander was a vision of perfection—six-foot-two, broad-shouldered, with a face that could've graced Renaissance paintings. His hair, dark as midnight, fell in tousled waves, and those emerald eyes held a predator's gleam even before the change. He carried himself like royalty, every step a declaration of dominance. The townsfolk whispered about "the Salvatore heir," the eldest son who outshone his brothers in charm, wit, and sheer presence. Damon, at twenty-five, was a rakish soldier with a devil-may-care grin, while Stefan, seventeen, was the sensitive scholar with a poet's soul. Xander loved them, in his way—blockheads or not—but their flaws grated on him. Damon's impulsiveness, Stefan's naivety. He'd whip them into shape eventually.
Then came Katherine Pierce.
She swept into Mystic Falls like a storm, all silk gowns and sultry smiles, a vampire hiding in plain sight. Xander saw through her in an instant—those doe eyes didn't fool him. She was a player, same as him, but her game was chaos. He didn't hate her for it; he respected the hustle. When she flirted, he flirted back, matching her wit for wit, but he never fell. Damon and Stefan, though? Hook, line, and sinker. They vied for her like knights at a joust, oblivious to the fangs behind her smile. Xander warned them once, over whiskey in the parlor: "She's trouble, boys. Don't let a pretty face ruin you." They laughed him off—Damon with a smirk, Stefan with a blush. Fools.
The night of the turn was a bloodbath. Katherine's plan unraveled when Giuseppe Salvatore, their father, discovered her nature. He dosed the brothers' drinks with vervain, intending to trap her, but it backfired. Soldiers stormed the estate, Katherine was "killed" (or so they thought), and in the chaos, Xander, Damon, and Stefan were shot—bullets laced with her blood in their veins. Xander felt the change first: the searing pain, the hunger clawing at his throat, the world sharpening into predatory clarity. He woke in the quarry, dirt under his nails, his brothers groaning beside him. Katherine was gone, leaving them cursed.
"Welcome to eternity," he muttered, spitting blood. Damon grinned, already embracing it. Stefan wept, clutching his humanity. Xander just stood, dusting off his torn coat, and vowed: *I'm not playing her game—or theirs.*
Days later, he fed—cleanly, efficiently, on a willing barmaid who'd always blushed at his smile. He didn't mope like Stefan or revel like Damon. He strategized. If this was his new life, he'd rule it. Mystic Falls was a chessboard, and he was the king. But as he stared into the night, a flicker of unease stirred. The Weaver's voice echoed in his skull: *"Your power will grow."* What did that mean? And why did he feel, deep in his undead bones, that the wheel wasn't done spinning?
Somewhere, in the shadows of fate, a witch-assassin named Lyra Voss sharpened her blades, her own cursed destiny ticking closer. The game was just beginning.