### Chapter 2: A Star in the Making
When the swirling light of the portal spat Malachi out, he didn't land on a stage under blazing lights or in a recording studio with a mic in hand. Instead, he found himself in darkness—warm, wet, and suffocatingly tight. A rhythmic thud pulsed around him, steady and primal, like a drumbeat syncing with his soul. It took a moment for his reeling mind to catch up: he was inside a womb. The Ascension System, still faintly humming in his consciousness, whispered confirmation. *Reincarnation initiated. Vessel: Justin Drew Bieber. Date: July 1, 1993. Location: Stratford, Ontario, Canada. Age: Minus six months.*
Malachi—soon to be Justin—floated in the amniotic sea, his tiny, forming body curled like a question mark. He was zero years old, technically not even born yet, and already the weight of his cosmic choices pressed against him. The year was 1993, and he was nestled in the womb of Pattie Mallette, the same mother who'd raised the real Justin Bieber in another timeline. His father, Jeremy Bieber, was out there somewhere too, though Malachi knew from the original Bieber's history that Jeremy wouldn't be a constant presence. This was Earth-Prime-7, a parallel universe, but the bones of his origin story mirrored the one he'd studied on his old Earth—only now, he'd rewrite the script with the gifts he'd spun into existence.
The date, July 1, 1993, meant he had nine months until his official debut—March 1, 1994, the day Justin Bieber would enter the world. For now, he was a fetus, a fragile spark of life tethered to Pattie's heartbeat. But Malachi wasn't just any unborn soul. The Ascension System glowed faintly in his mind, a digital ember that tracked his progress. *Beauty: Active. Singing: Dormant. Dancing: Dormant. Modeling: Dormant. Acting: Dormant. Auxiliary Traits: Wealth, Luck, Resilience—Pending Activation.* It was all there, woven into his DNA, waiting to unfurl as he grew.
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#### Inside the Womb
The sensation was bizarre—claustrophobic yet oddly comforting. Malachi couldn't see, couldn't move much beyond a twitch, but his awareness was sharper than any fetus had a right to be. The Wheel of Wishes had preserved his consciousness, letting him reflect on his journey even as his body knit itself together. He felt the faint tingle of *Beauty* taking root—his cells aligning to form a face that would one day stop traffic, a physique destined to grace magazine covers. It wasn't vanity; it was destiny, hardwired by his spins.
Pattie's voice filtered through the muffled haze, soft and melodic. She was singing—something gentle, maybe a lullaby, her tone carrying the weariness of a young woman facing an uncertain future. Malachi knew her story: 19 years old, pregnant, single, and scraping by in Stratford, a small Canadian town of brick houses and snowy winters. He couldn't communicate with her yet, but he felt a pang of gratitude. She'd be his anchor in this life, the first to hold the boy who'd become a titan.
Time in the womb stretched strangely. Days bled into weeks, marked only by the ebb and flow of Pattie's movements and the distant rumble of the outside world. Malachi's mind raced, plotting his path. The Ascension System had promised a universe where fame bent to his will, but he'd still need to *earn* it—talent alone wouldn't cut it. He'd chosen singing, dancing, modeling, and acting, but how would they manifest? Would his voice crackle with raw emotion from the start? Would his toddler steps morph into choreography? He trusted the system to guide him, but the anticipation gnawed at him.
By late 1993—around November, he guessed—his body had grown more defined. Tiny limbs kicked against the walls of his watery cocoon, and the *Dancing* trait flickered faintly, as if testing its limits. He imagined pirouettes and hip-hop grooves, moves he'd never mastered as Malachi the barista but would wield effortlessly as Justin. The system chimed: *Motor pathways enhanced. Coordination baseline elevated.* Even now, before birth, it was sculpting him into something extraordinary.
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#### The Birth: March 1, 1994
The world shifted on March 1, 1994. Pattie's contractions began in the early hours, a slow build that crescendoed into chaos. Malachi felt it—the pressure, the squeezing, the sudden rush as he was propelled toward light. His consciousness dimmed briefly, overwhelmed by the raw physicality of birth, but the Ascension System steadied him, a lifeline in the storm. *Resilience: Activating.*
He emerged at 12:56 a.m. in St. Joseph's Hospital, Stratford, a squalling bundle of potential. Pattie's exhausted sobs mixed with the nurses' murmurs as they wrapped him in a blanket. "Justin Drew Bieber," someone said, and Malachi—now truly Justin—locked the name into his soul. He was here, on Earth-Prime-7, age zero, day one.
The first thing he noticed, through bleary newborn eyes, was Pattie's face—young, tired, but radiant with love. Her dark hair framed her features, and her hands trembled as she cradled him. "My little man," she whispered, and Justin's tiny lips twitched, the ghost of a smile. *Beauty: Fully Active,* the system noted. He couldn't see himself yet, but he felt it—the symmetry of his features, the promise of a charisma that would bloom with time.
Jeremy wasn't there. Justin vaguely recalled the real Bieber's dad drifting in and out during those early years, and it seemed Earth-Prime-7 followed suit. Pattie would raise him alone for now, in a modest apartment on the edge of town. But Justin didn't mind. He had the system, the Wheel's gifts, and a universe primed for his rise.
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#### The Early Years: 1994–1999
Justin's infancy was a blur of milestones, each tinged with the supernatural edge of his chosen traits. By six months, his coos had a musical lilt, a hint of the *Singing* trait stirring. Pattie noticed, humming along as she rocked him, unaware that her son's vocal cords were already threading with golden potential. At one year, he took his first steps—wobbly, yes, but with a rhythm that made Pattie laugh. "You're a little dancer, aren't you?" she'd say, clapping as he swayed. *Dancing: Initial Activation,* the system logged.
Stratford in the mid-90s was quiet, a working-class town of 30,000 souls nestled among Ontario's fields and forests. Winters blanketed the streets in snow, and summers buzzed with mosquitoes, but Justin thrived in the simplicity. Pattie worked odd jobs—waitressing, cleaning—pouring every spare dollar into her boy. She bought him a toy drum set at age two, a battered thing from a garage sale, and Justin attacked it with glee. His tiny hands moved with uncanny precision, the *Dancing* trait bleeding into rhythm. Neighbors poked their heads out, amused by the racket. "Kid's got energy," they'd say. They had no idea.
By age three, in 1997, Justin's beauty was undeniable. Big hazel eyes, a mop of light brown hair, a smile that melted hearts—he was a magnet for attention. Pattie's friends cooed over him, snapping photos, and strangers stopped her in the grocery store to gush. "He's gonna be a star," one cashier predicted, handing him a lollipop. Justin grinned, the system purring: *Charisma: Strengthening.*
The *Modeling* trait simmered beneath the surface, too early to fully bloom but shaping his presence. He'd pose instinctively—chin tilted, eyes wide—when Pattie pulled out her old Polaroid. She'd laugh, pinning the shots to the fridge, a gallery of her golden child. Justin knew it was just the beginning. The system had promised wealth, and though their apartment was cramped and the fridge often bare, he felt luck tingling in his veins, waiting to strike.
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#### Awakening the System: 1999, Age Five
The turning point came in the summer of 1999. Justin was five, a wiry kid with scraped knees and a boundless curiosity. Pattie had enrolled him in a local talent show, a small affair at the Stratford Festival Theatre. He'd begged to sing, clutching a toy microphone for weeks, practicing in their tiny living room. She'd chosen "You Are My Sunshine," a song she'd sung to him as a baby, and sewn him a little vest from thrift-store fabric.
Backstage, amid the chaos of nervous kids and pushy parents, Justin felt the Ascension System flare to life. *Singing: Fully Active. Performance Mode Engaged.* His heart raced, but his nerves steadied, the *Resilience* trait kicking in. When his name echoed through the mic—"Justin Bieber, age five!"—he strode onto the stage, all 3 feet 10 inches of him, and opened his mouth.
The voice that poured out was pure magic. High, clear, and impossibly soulful for a child, it wrapped around the melody like a warm embrace. The crowd—maybe 200 people—fell silent, then erupted. Pattie, in the front row, wiped tears from her cheeks. Justin didn't just sing; he *moved*—a subtle sway, a bounce on his toes, the *Dancing* trait weaving through his bones. The system glowed: *Synergy Detected. Talents Aligning.*
He won first place—a cheap plastic trophy and a $50 prize—but the real victory was the spark. Word spread through Stratford: the Mallette kid had something special. A local music teacher offered free lessons. A church friend with a camcorder started filming him. Justin felt it building, the universe tilting in his favor, just as the entity had promised.
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#### The Path Ahead
By late 1999, Justin lay awake in his narrow bed, staring at the ceiling of their apartment. He was five years old, but his mind buzzed with the clarity of his old self—Malachi, the barista who'd spun the Wheel. The system whispered updates: *Wealth: Stirring. Luck: Accelerating.* He didn't know how it would unfold—YouTube didn't exist yet, Scooter Braun was years away—but he trusted the process.
Outside, snow fell over Stratford, blanketing the town in silence. Inside, Justin dreamed of stages, cameras, crowds chanting his name. Earth-Prime-7 was his canvas, and he'd paint it with every gift he'd claimed. The womb had been his cocoon; now, he was ready to fly.