Renji Kurogane: 23 Fragments of Fate and Misfortune

You know what's worse than being dead? Being half-dead. With a stiff back. No coffee. A Minecraft sheep as my emotional support animal. And a tattoo that vibrates every time I screw up — which is... often. I’m Renji Kurogane. Once a cop. Then an archaeologist. Now? Just a guy with a cosmic parasite squatting in his soul, offering universal Wi-Fi and occasional sarcasm. It all started with a cursed envelope. No sender. No return address. Just a notebook that hissed at me and a single word — Senku. One word too many. Since then? Reality’s been unraveling like a drunk god’s sweater. Timelines are glitching. Doors are opening. And somehow, I’m still the one holding the detonator. I’m not a chosen one. There’s no prophecy. No divine calling. I’m a walking bug in the system. A corrupted save file the multiverse keeps trying to delete. I’m searching for 23 fragments — ancient, cursed, possibly sentient gems that lock away something so broken, Time itself blocked it on all platforms. My mentor? A forgotten god with the ego of a cursed influencer. My spiritual guide? A sheep. A literal sheep. And yes — she judges me with every pixelated blink. This isn’t a hero’s journey. It’s not even a comeback story. It’s an existential black comedy wrapped in cosmic horror, buried under unreliable memories, and gift-wrapped by fate with duct tape and bad decisions. The universe doesn’t want to be saved. It just wants to laugh — front-row — while I fall apart. So yeah. If Deadpool, Rick Sanchez, and John Constantine had a deeply troubled child, handed him a cursed relic and a one-way ticket to Hell… You’d get me. Welcome to my story. But be careful. The Eye already noticed you. Author’s Note This story is 100% original and entirely written, directed, and emotionally overcaffeinated by me. Yes, I use tools for grammar polish and creative fine-tuning — because I like my commas functional and my metaphors mildly unhinged. But every plot twist, every relic, every scream into the void… Is handcrafted with existential dread, narrative obsession, and the kind of insomnia that makes ancient gods nervous. No AI chapters. No plagiarism. No copy-paste translations. Just me, my chaos, and a story that probably shouldn’t exist. But here we are.