What is real? What is not?
Am I living in reality? Or a peculiar reverie?
I can see the obscure, touch and feel its existence, and recognize its image. It is surreal, yet it feels absolute. This led me toward an uncertain answer, hoping it would steer me true.
Because...
This is... what I longed for...even if it was impossible…
***
Fantasy is an endless realm woven from pure imagination, a world unbound by truth or logic, where possibilities are limitless, and anything you can dream becomes a reality.
It is a beautiful sanctuary, a refuge from the harshness of reality, but nothing more than delusion, an escape that blinds you from the truth.
Yet, I yearned for the solace of beautiful lies, for they made the world feel bearable.
Imagine a story.
A magical world with skies shimmered in colors that didn't belong to any real ones. There, I stand in a blossom of daffodils and irises, in a grassland biome, tranquil from everything.
No distractions, no nothing. Just me, my magic staff, and my pet dragon named Belion setting off on a new journey.
We crossed kingdoms that rose like spires from oceans of clouds, wandered through lost civilizations etched into cliffs, and faced monsters born from the sins of forgotten gods. Wherever evil stirred, we followed. Wherever darkness grew, we pushed forward.
In a cobblestone town between crystal lakes, I met Sigmund, a swordsman with more scars than smiles. Our first meeting was cold. He treated me like deadweight, and we traded words like weapons.
But battle has a way of carving bonds where none should grow.
Through every journey — every collapsed dungeon, every ambush we narrowly escaped, even the times we plummeted midair because my dragon fell asleep while flying — we changed. He wasn't just an ally anymore. He was a brother.
And one day, we were outnumbered, a mob closing in, their faces twisted with rage, weapons raised, and eyes burning with the need to break something they didn't understand.
Sigmund looked over, blood running down his brow. There was that familiar glint in his eyes. They were not of confidence, but of trust.
It's something we didn't have at the start… but built, through every scar.
He raised his fist. "Let's end this together."
I met it with mine. No words were spoken, just a quiet understanding forged in every battle we shouldn't have survived.
The ground cracked as I called on the earth, the pillars shot upward, throwing attackers into the air. Sigmund moved in a flash through falling bodies, as every slash answered their ire.
Back to back, we fought like we'd always do.
A burst of wind tore through the battlefield. Then came the sound, a deep, echoing roar.
The sky split open.
He came.
Belion, my dragon.
Once no larger than a horse, now a creature of ancient wings and burning eyes. He crashed down like judgment itself, the tail sweeping aside the front line, and fire searing the night.
Sigmund grinned, bloodied but beaming. "Looks like someone's grown."
We climbed onto his back. As we lifted into the sky, the battle fell away beneath us, a blur of dust and fear. The wind tore past my face. I looked down, my heart raced, not from the fight, but from the strange, weightless joy of surviving together.
And in that moment, high above the ruin, we soared through the skies.
Then, in a tenebrous forest where shadowy creatures lingered beneath twisted roots and whispering leaves, we stumbled upon a starry lake. Its surface shimmered with aether, glowing faintly in that deep, dark biome.
The moment we stepped onto the water, the world shifted, and we crossed into a hidden dimension.
A village revealed itself beneath a curtain of mist. There were homes woven into ancient trees, their windows glowing with moonlight. The air was sprinkled with magic, like dust from a dream that remains unfaded.
We were greeted by a sociable elder — tall, wise, with a serene smile and eyes that never opened. He guided us through the sanctum, the living quarters, the sacred springs — every corner steeped in age-old tradition and whispered faith.
And then came one girl.
She descended into our story like a star falling to earth. An elf, with hair the color of springtime and a laugh that could warm even the coldest night. She was beautiful, but not merely in her face. There was light in her soul, light we didn't know we needed.
Our eyes met briefly, then she looked away, her breath leaving as a quiet, restrained sigh.
The elder introduced her as Eurydice, the Holy Maiden of the sanctum. But even as he spoke, she shifted subtly, as if she wanted to step out of the moment.
"She is the hope of the village," the elder declared.
"She will be the one to lead Myiedra into glory."
The crowd stirred as our names were spoken, but all eyes turned to her, not us.
And in that silence, the weight pressed down on her shoulders again. To them, Eurydice wasn't a girl.
She was a vessel, a promise, a symbol of divinity sculpted in human shape.
Later that day, on the quiet plains just beyond the village's edge, I saw her alone, perched in the branches of an old tree, arms folded, and her hair dancing in the breeze. I took a step closer, but before I could, she called out my name.
"I thought it was you," she said softly, still not looking. "Tell me, Mage… do you believe in the stars?"
I responded quietly, eyes drifting upward.
"They're fragments of ancient suns, distant from us, and always burning. Each moment, some of them die… and yet, they still shine. Even after they're gone, their light keeps traveling."
Eurydice gave a small, wistful chuckle.
"Maybe that's what I am," she murmured. "A star that everyone keeps watching."
She leaned back against the trunk, her gaze drifting upward, but her expression remained distant.
"They want me to stay. To lead. To bless. To carry their dreams, like I was born for it. But I…" Her voice thinned.
"…I just wanted to chase the stars. Not become one."
And as she closed her eyes, the wind caught her cloak, gently, like it too wished to lift her away, somewhere far beyond the treetops.
"Do stars really shine even when they die?"
...
Then.
That night, the stars vanished behind clouds.
A strange silence fell across the village. Birds stopped singing. The leaves no longer stirred. And from the depths of the tenebrous forest came a sound that shook the soul, not a roar, but a breath. It's ancient, heavy, and knowing.
Myiedra had come.
It was not a deity, nor a spirit, nor a god that the elves described. It was something older, a draconic entity of smoldering crystal and living shadow. A myth that the elves mistook for divinity.
It coiled around the altar, its body glittering with runes of forgotten tongues, and when it spoke, its voice sounded through stone and bone alike.
"Where is the vessel?"
Panic spread like fire.
Eurydice stood on the altar stone, hands bound in light, her staff stripped from her. She looked more like a lamb than a maiden — silent, shaking, eyes hollow.
I stormed through the square as Sigmund held back the frenzied crowd. The elder stood at the steps, arms raised in reverence.
"You can't be serious!" I shouted. "You're feeding her to that thing?"
"She is the hope of Myiedra," the elder said calmly. "Chosen by the stars. Blessed by lineage. Her sacrifice will preserve us."
"You mean used. She didn't choose this — you did."I turned to the crowd. "All of you did."
Some looked away. Most remained silent. No one moved.
"Eurydice isn't your offering," I growled. "She's a person. You just never cared to ask what she wanted."
Above us, Myiedra stirred again. The runes along its throat began to glow.
And still, Eurydice said nothing.Not out of fear.But because she'd given up on being heard.
She stepped forward.
I didn't think of what to do next. Yet, my body moved on its own.
The ground pulsed beneath me as I channeled every last drop of magic. Roots erupted upward, piercing through the beast's legs. It roared, but too late. Sigmund arrived like a flash of iron and fury, driving his blade through its neck.
And in that stillness after the strike, I knelt beside her.
She was trembling. Her eyes unfocused, lips parted as if unsure whether to laugh or cry.
"You came," she whispered, voice catching.
I nodded, breathless. "Always."
The light returned to her eyes slowly, blooming again, like the blossoms after the fall.
The fire had long faded. The village smoldered with the scent of ash and moss, broken by the wind's soft mourning through hollow trees.
We sat near the heart tree—what was left of it. Its bark was scorched, but some leaves still clung to its branches, stubbornly green. Eurydice sat between us, cloak draped around her shoulders, her knees pulled to her chest, her hands still glowed faintly, flickering with fragile remnants of healing light.
"I thought…" she began, her voice barely a thread, "if I died there… the stars would forget I ever lived."
Silence.
Then Sigmund, of all people, grunted. "Tch. Don't talk like that. Stars remember what the world forgets."
Eurydice looked up, surprised. I just smiled, gently, and passed her a small piece of sweetroot bread I'd been saving since the last town.
"You're not alone now," I said. "Not if you'll have us."
She looked at the bread. Then at us. Her hands trembled again, but this time not from fear.
"…You're idiots," she muttered.
But she took the bread.
And from that night forward, she never walked behind us again. Always beside.
Together, the three of us became legends.
And legends, as always, are tested.
Atop a frostbitten fortress, we were ambushed. Soldiers surrounded us, knights in tarnished armor, led by a high commander with justice twisted into cruelty.
"That's the Demon King's son!" the commander spat, "He's not human! He's a curse! Kill him, banish him!"
Steel scraped from scabbards. Arrows were notched. The knights stepped forward in unison like vultures closing in.
I couldn't move. My limbs were torn, my breath was shallow, and blood pooled beneath me. The pain had faded into numbness, but the words still cut deeper than any blade.
"He's an abomination! A sin! That man will only bring calamity!"
Sometimes, just one of those is enough to make the world turn its back on you.
Yet.
There's one girl who still stepped into the fire, unflinched.
Eurydice.
She stood over me, like a guardian carved from moonlight. Her cloak flared behind her, palms aglow with sacred light. The aura around her shimmered, soft, but defiant, like even heaven had bent to her will.
"I don't care what blood runs in his veins," she said. Her voice rang out within all the chaos. "He's our mage. He's our friend."
And those words cracked the air.
"He's the one who gave hope back to people who forgot how to dream."
No one had ever spoken for me before.
Not when they labeled me and turned their backs against me.
But here she was, standing between me and the edge of death. Not out of pity, but belief.
Then she knelt. The time stilled, the snow fell more slowly, and the noise dimmed. Even the wind held its breath.
Her hands trembled, glowing softly as they pressed against my broken chest. She leaned close, her face just above mine, eyes wide, lips parted, voice small and steady against the storm.
"No matter who you are…" she whispered, "I'll be there. Always."
It struck something deep.
Not just in the heart, but beneath it.
In the dark part of me that had accepted being unwanted. The part that had long buried any dream of being "chosen."
And in that moment.
I remembered what it felt like to matter.
A spark ignited in my blood. Slow at first, like warmth returning to frostbitten limbs.
And then.
A blast.
Magic erupted inside me, an ancient force so wild. Light surged through my veins like wildfire and thunder. My body arched, the ground beneath me glowed with shifting sigils and forgotten runes.
The pain vanished. It was burned away by something far greater.
I rose. The air went still. No word has spoken, not even a breath dared to follow.
Just silence, yet my eyes burned through them, roaring with fury.
The knights stepped back, all eyes wide, as they beheld a figure that carried the weight of a catastrophe.
Power circled me like a hurricane, my cloak flared behind me, and my staff reformed, drawn from the golden blaze.
Eurydice gasped as I lifted her onto my back.
And with eyes that no longer feared death, I walked through them. Each step was scattering the soldiers like shadows retreating from the sun.
Because I wasn't their curse.
I was their reckoning.
Together, we made it to the Demon King, the one who happened to be my father, the one who poisoned the world and made people afraid to hope.
And though it nearly broke us, we didn't fall.
Our wounds bled. Our strength waned. But when the dust cleared, it was we who still stood.
We returned to the kingdom, battered, ash-streaked, and breathless, as the castle gates groaned open, their sound like thunder splitting the skies.
Light poured through, blinding at first, but it was warm and radiant.
Then the voices rose.
"There they are!"
"They came back!"
"They did it—they defeated him! The Demon King is gone!"
The moment we stepped into the grand hall, it was like walking into a dream I had never dared to believe in.
People stood packed wall to wall, their faces lit with tears and awe. Strangers reached out to touch, to thank, and to celebrate. Flowers rained from above like blessings, and golden banners unfurled with our names stitched in light.
And for a breathless second, time stopped.
In their eyes, I wasn't an abomination. I wasn't the "son" of the Demon King.
I was someone who became their symbol of hope.
Sigmund gave me one last look — half a smile, half a farewell — then shoved me forward.
I stumbled, bracing for the fall, but I never hit the ground.
Instead, I was caught, lifted by countless hands. They were arms I didn't recognize, voices I had never heard, yet all of them cheering, laughing, crying.
And they all began to chant.
"Kizu!"
"Kizu!"
"Kizu!"
Over and over, their voices rose like waves crashing against the sky.
Some cried it out with joy, others with trembling hope. Each syllable felt like it was stitching something back together in me.
In that ocean of smiles and outstretched hands, I saw something I thought I'd never find in this world.
A place where I was wanted, needed… and never alone.
…
And just like that, another fantastical story fades.
The world altered, and the colors drained. Everything sharpened into a blank-point reality. And here I remain, standing in this endless void of illusions I can't help but cling to.
This is the solace of Fantasy. No matter how twisted, how cruel, or how far from the truth it strays…it still feels beautiful.
And somehow, just being here is…
…is enough to make me feel like living.
Be it wielding a glowing blade of justice in a galaxy where starships clash beyond the stars, or finding yourself in a world where rival academies clash with pride while love blooms quietly beneath falling petals, or even discovering a hidden power sealed within you — one that binds you to others, to pain, to purpose, and gives you strength to smile through the storm.
Or... hearing your name, spoken by voices that carry warmth, as if just being here…is enough to make life worth living.
Like that light, bearing every word from every voice, and memories that you'd never have in reality.
"You're like a star in my sky. I'm not afraid anymore, as long as you're here."
"You don't have to be perfect. Just stay. That's enough for me."
"Even if the whole world turns away… I won't. "
"Even if we end up on opposite sides... my heart will always know yours."
"No matter who you are. I'll be there, always."
I stretched out, trembling, to hold onto that light, and in that flicker, I saw them.
Eurydice, smiling as she reached for me, her hand glittered. Sigmund, standing tall with fire in his eyes, raising his fist like a promise. Behind them, the crowd called my name again and again, their voices overlapping in waves, turning into something almost musical.
I reached further, desperate, aching.
To reach their hands.
To reach the memories we had.
To reach the life that made me feel worth living.
Even if I know that it was all afantasy.
My steps fell faster, one after another. Tears slid down my face, miserably clinging to this false conception I had fed myself to escape reality.
But then.
The light began to fade, and the voices dissolved into a muffled drone. Warmth, once so vivid and close, slipped quietly from my grasp like mist through open fingers. The world I had clung to, so full of color, of meaning, of people who called my name, was crumbling into stillness.
And I wondered.
If fantasy were to become a reality, would it shackle me like the way it did?
...
...
...
I woke up with a quiet breath, my eyes opening to the dim ceiling above me.
The room was still, colorless, and cold.
And there I was, sitting upright in bed, my face slick with tears, my hand still raised in the air, reaching for a world that no longer existed.
***