Choices.
What are they, truly?
Are they just the decisions we make every day, the small things that seem unimportant but add up over time?
Or are they something deeper?
Something that defines who we are?
Choices are what make us human, they are not just about what we want in the moment or somethin trivial we reflect on the way but rather they reflect our very being...our whole nature.
Every choice we make reveals something about us. It tells the story of where we've been and where we are going.
But what happens when there are no options left to choose ? When the options vanish and we're left with only one path and one direction to follow.
Does that still reflect who we are?
Can a forced choice ever truly define us?
Or does it become something else....something that strips away our individuality?
No.
Imagine a world where you had to choose: save the one you love or the world.
Which would you pick?
Your desire for your loved one or the world in which your loved one resides.
And most of all,
What does that choice say about who you are? Is it the selfish choice, the selfless choice, or something in between?
You can't say.
Sometimes, the hardest choices reveal our true nature, the nature of our true character, we had been hiding for so long that we ourselves had forgotten about it.
Long story short, choices define us.
But when the freedom gets ripped off, it loses the opportunity to express our nature.
When a decision gets forced on, it leaves the ashes of freedom we had lost.
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In the dark atmosphere of a barren battle field where not a single drop of life remained as only the dead bodies of warriors lay on the ground.
Bodies of those who fought with bravery and faced a monster they knew they couldn't defeat. It was a battle that was not worth a single scar on the opponent.
Their fearless approach spoke of their battle; they had tried everything in their arsenal to kill a being far beyond their league.
But neither words nor courage win wars—what truly matters is absolute strength.
When strength reaches such a peak realm that even gods can't stand their ground, then what use is manipulation, strategy, or fearless resolve?
In the end, these are merely human ways of consoling themselves.
Strength speaks for itself—whether good or evil, no one can truly define their worth but the one who bears them.
And the example was right there.
In that battlefield, where the air was thick enough to suffocate and an eerie atmosphere that could send a chill, along with the sight horrible enough to force a person to vomit on the spot, a man sat casually sat atop a pile of corpses.
His body apperaed to be tall with strong and tight muscles showcasing his brute strength even through the clothes he wore.
His eyes looked calm and collected with a tint of something maniac in them. But the important thing was his presence.
His presence was cold and had spread like a plague throughout the battlefield, reminding the outcome that had already come.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Amidst this chaotic silence, only a single sound echoed throughout the area. It was the sound of an artifact seemingly placed on the neck of the figure.
The timer on the artifact let out an eerie sound, breaking the stillness of the battlefield.
From one look at the scene and one could guess that the scene before him wasn't a fight.
It was neither a war nor a battle.
Calling it that would be absurd.
It was just a massacre.
A one-sided brutality, a sight chilling enough to freeze the spine.
The reason behind that massacre just sat in his position.
The figure's face was hidden beneath a hooded black robe which was etched with ancient runes.
Tine passed as he sat there.
From his posture, body, and stillness, it was clear that...
He was waiting.
Waiting for 'him'.
He just waited, as if calling down a god himself.
And as if his 'god' had heard him, the one he was waiting for had finally arrived.
The very next moment, air began to swirl in such motions that gave shockwaves to the battlefield.
An unseen pressure swept the land, as if the world itself recognized the presence of the one approaching.
The moment he stepped onto the scorched soil, the air itself twisted.
The once still battlefield groaned as if awakened by a higher force. The crimson-stained earth trembled in silence, and the miasma hanging heavy in the air was swept aside, parting like clouds before the sun.
The hooded figure, seated at the top of the cropes also moved and reached the ground.
Using his feat, he stood tall before the person he was waiting for.
His grin began to falter not out of fear, but due to anticipation that had been sharpened to the edge of madness.
The temperature dropped to a certain degree, making the battlefield colder than ever.
The hooded figure chuckled under his breath, struggling to contain his building frenzy.
"Yes… this is it," he murmured, eyes wide with fevered joy. "The presence of the one who stands above all…"
The newcomer's eyes remained closed, as if silently assessing everything around him.
His long, dark hair was tied in a ponytail, and he appeared no older than twenty-five. Strikingly handsome, yes! But what truly mattered was his presence.
It was the aura of the strongest individual the world had ever seen.
The true absolute strength did not belong to the one seated on corpses. It belonged to this man.
He was on the level of a god.
And now, the crazed grin gracing the hooded figure's face bloomed in full madness as he gazed at the man who had finally arrived.
"Finally… You're here, Azael. You have no idea how long I've waited for you."
Azael opened his eyes for the first time. It was cold and neutral, enough to freeze someone just by looking at it.
His eyes stared, abyssal black, like twin voids that could devour anything.
His gaze piercing through the hooded man as he asked him.
"What did you do to 'her'?"
Azael's voice was ice cold as if demanding answers, not asking.
"Oh… straight to the point. Alright then, I won't waste your time." The latter replied.
Suddenly the hooded figure stared at hands which were trembling with twisted delight that he couldn't fathom.
His breath hitched with anticipation, trying to suppress the madness inside him.
Then he spoke, his voice trembling at first, then turning into a soft prayer as if talking to a God.
"You… you already know what's happened to her, don't you, Azael? And you know the way to save her. But the price… oh, the sacrifice, you can't afford it, am I right?!"
A laugh escaped his mouth, sounding broken and unstable at core.
A sound far too loud for the silence that surrounded them.
"Heh… heh… ha… hahahaha…"
Then his tone shifted, lively and theatrical as if he was hosting a grand show and Azael was the unwilling guest of honor.
"Now, you have three-no—, four choices."
He raised four fingers, counting each with childlike amusement.
"First… you kill me, slaughtering me into pieces to your heart's content and avenge the one you have always wanted to."
"Second… you save this wretched world from the mythical curse I've unleashed. Oh, yes, you already know the seal is cracking, don't you?"
"Third… you save your precious wife. The one who believed in you even when the heavens turned their back."
His voice lowered into a whisper.
"And fourth—"
He raised a finger and pointed it at Azael, trembling with manic intensity.
"—You give me 'that'. The thing I've longed for, the thing I've chased across lifetimes…"
His eyes burned like twin stars of madness beneath the hood.
"Your strength."
"The absolute strength."
"You give it to me, and I'll solve all your problems—every last one. Her, the world, revenge, oh! not that one, hehehe…except revenge; I'll make it all right. I promise."
He stepped forward slightly, his robe brushing the dead beneath him.
"Don't you see, Azael? With your power, I could rewrite fate itself. I could burn the laws of this world and forge new ones. I could erase death, command the void, reshape time. I could ascend beyond No more limits will be able to bound my power—"
"I WILL BE THE ONE AND ONLY HONOURED ONE."
His laughter rang again, this time more louder and energetic as his intentions were displayed on. His words echoed throughout the battlefield field like a curse which couldn't be lifted.
In the middle of his insane behaviour, his artifact ticking increased its intensity, this time more louder than before.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Pressure rose to a degree that touched an unknown limit as the air grew heavier than before, describeing the grave situation lay before Azael.
Azael's silence only fed the hooded figure's hysteria.
"Azael…"
"What will you do?"
"You have to decide."
"You must choose one."
"You must act now!"
"Azael… Azael…
His expression, manic beneath the hood, was like that of a psychopath savoring his twisted play.
"Azael...."
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ABOUT POVS
MC — 1ST PERSON
OTHERS — 3RD PERSON
WORLD BUILDING — BOTH