Chương 3: The Note and Quincy’s New Reality
Quincy Presley-Jackson sat on the edge of the small bed, the note still clenched in his small hands. The mocking words echoed in his mind: You've been reborn as the son of Michael Jackson and Lisa Marie Presley. He had gone from being one of the most powerful crime lords in American history to… this. A child. A child of musical royalty, no less, but a child all the same.
The gravity of it all made his head spin. He looked down at his hands again, flexing the small fingers that now belonged to him. His mind, sharp and calculating as ever, quickly began to piece things together. The year was 1995, and he was five years old. His birthdate—March 14th, 1990. That made him both the son of Michael Jackson, the King of Pop, and the grandson of Elvis Presley, the King of Rock and Roll. The legacy he had been born into was immense.
But this legacy, he thought grimly, it's nothing compared to the one I built myself.
His memories as Augusto Valentini were still clear as day. He remembered the blood he'd spilled, the power he had wielded. Yet, despite that life, he wasn't some blind fool who only knew violence. His mind had always been his most powerful weapon, and it was still as sharp as ever.
His next move had to be calculated.
The note had mentioned gifts—talents, it said, of his father and grandfather. That wasn't what worried him. Quincy knew he could learn to master those. What intrigued him were the additional gifts: perfect pitch, mastery of languages, unparalleled musical abilities. His future was already written in the stars, but this time, he would write it in stone.
He felt the overwhelming rush of new memories, those of a life lived before this moment. They weren't his own, yet they were. Quincy Presley-Jackson's life up until now flashed before his eyes in pieces. He could remember his parents—Michael and Lisa Marie—loving, yet distant. His father had been on tour often, recording and performing, and his mother had been dealing with the pressures of her own legacy.
His family was wealthy, no doubt. But money wasn't enough. Quincy was no fool. Money alone didn't protect you, didn't give you true power. Control, he thought. Influence. Those were the keys to survival. And in this life, with his talents, he would control the entertainment industry itself. He would surpass even the giants who had raised him.
Quincy rose from the bed, the dizziness from the flood of memories subsiding. He moved toward the small desk in the corner of the room, where a mirror sat perched against the wall. This time, he wasn't afraid to look at his reflection.
The boy staring back at him was striking. Light brown skin, sharp features, and those piercing green eyes that seemed to see right through the world. He smiled faintly at the boy in the mirror. In a way, the child's beauty was a weapon in itself. Appearance, charm, influence—he could use it all.
But first, there was much to learn.
He had memories from his past life, yes, but he needed to understand this body and the talents it held. His mind began to race. He would explore his voice, test his singing abilities, his perfect pitch. He would need to practice his father's dance moves until they became second nature, moulding them to his own style.
He walked back to the nightstand and gently folded the note. Placing it in the drawer, he knew it would serve as a constant reminder of his mission. His life as Augusto Valentini had ended, but his ambition remained untouched. He would conquer this new world—the world of entertainment—just as he had conquered the streets of New York.
And no one, not even his own parents, would know the truth behind his eyes.
The rest of the day passed slowly as Quincy wandered through the mansion that had become his home. The place was enormous, far more extravagant than any of the homes he had known as a crime boss. It was fitting for a man like Michael Jackson, of course, but to Quincy, it felt strange. Alien.
His mother, Lisa Marie, had left early that morning for a meeting, and his father was busy in the studio, leaving Quincy alone with the household staff. None of them paid him much attention, which suited him just fine. It gave him time to think, to plan.
The first thing he needed to do was gain control over his talents. The note had promised extraordinary gifts, but Quincy knew that raw talent was only half the battle. The rest was discipline, training, and refinement. Fortunately, he had inherited something else from his previous life—unbreakable willpower.
His voice would be his first weapon.
That evening, when the mansion was quiet and his father was still away, Quincy found a private space in the music room. He stood in front of a microphone, breathing deeply, and began to sing. At first, his voice trembled—this body was new, unfamiliar—but soon the notes flowed out of him as if by instinct.
The sound was pure, flawless. The perfect pitch the note had mentioned was not an exaggeration. He could hear every note in his head before he sang it, and his voice followed seamlessly, reaching pitches he hadn't thought possible. His voice was strong, stronger than he'd anticipated, and though it echoed shades of his father's, it had its own unique resonance.
He smiled to himself, the sensation of control thrilling him. This was only the beginning.
I will master this, he thought. I will surpass them both.
In the days that followed, Quincy's training became relentless. His small body moved with a surprising grace as he practiced the iconic dance moves his father was known for. He imitated the moonwalk, spins, and fluid footwork, refining them until they felt natural. Yet, as he danced, he knew he was not merely copying his father—he was laying the foundation to become something greater.
There was no rush, he reminded himself. He had time. His father's legacy had taken years to build, and Quincy had decades ahead of him. But with his knowledge of the future, he would avoid the pitfalls and mistakes his father and grandfather had made. He would rise faster, stronger, and more powerful than either of them ever had.
I will take everything that was theirs, Quincy thought, his green eyes gleaming with resolve, and make it mine.
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