I was supposed to win.
That's what they told me. What I promised them. What I carved into every swordstroke and sleepless night leading here.
The prophecy predicted I would win a millennia before my birth.
A boy from an outer world would save Nortis from an evil of a different dimension. What a load of trash.
I was born in the Outlands of Nortis, and the evil was unlike anything history had ever seen.
Therefore, the prophecy must have been occurring. Right? That's what the people believed. That's what I believed.
They gave me a title: Sword God of Nortis. I was supposed to be the end of the war. The breath of peace.
But here I lay on a broken marble staircase, blood leaking from too many wounds to count, bones shattered beneath burned flesh, and the heavens above were quiet.
Not even the sky mourned my death.
There was no rain. No thunder. Just the soft, indifferent glow of a moon blurred by smoke… and a lone star piercing the night sky.
Wasn't it supposed to be raining? That's what happens in storybooks when the hero loses.
It was quiet now.
The kind of quiet that comes after everything worth screaming for has already gone silent.
The land around me—this was supposed to be the site of rebirth. That's what the old texts said. The Altar of Seven, where the Ancients called down light to purify the first cursed king.
The hope was that the altar would be capable of sealing the evil.
But there was no light now. No more hope.
Just ash. Smoke. Cracked stone and dead magic.
And him.
The Emperor was pacing over the ruins like a shadow crowned in steel. His silver armor stained with blood and soot. His cloak, deep crimson, trailed behind him like a severed artery.
He didn't look tired anymore. Didn't look changed. He only looked as if none of this mattered to him at all.
He circled back to the crippled soldier.
"You did well," he said, voice calm as polished glass. "Much better than I thought you would."
He walked slowly, deliberately, the world bending around his presence. He passed by what was left of the Divine Spire—reduced to a jagged stump—and kicked a charred helmet aside as if brushing away leaves.
"You really believed it," he continued. "That fate was on your side. That the world owed you a victory."
He stopped a few feet away. Looked down at me.
"But the world doesn't owe anyone anything. It's mine because I had the will to take it."
He crouched, resting his hands on his knees.
"You were a monument to hope," he said. "Hope doesn't build empires. Fear does. Power does."
His eyes gleamed like silver coins held too long in blood.
I tried to move. Nothing obeyed. My hand twitched. That was it.
He studied me like a cracked mirror.
"Look at you," he murmured. "The so-called Sword God. Now just another boy who wants to be remembered."
I coughed. It hurt. The taste of copper was thick in my mouth.
"And you will be remembered. You were right. The world will remember this day. They will remember this day as the day their savior failed them."
"You'll… burn for this," I managed.
He chuckled. "Oh, I already did. And now I've come out the other side."
He stood again, slowly.
"They said I was destined to rule. That destiny would carry me. They were wrong. I dragged destiny here, kicking and screaming. And I slit its throat."
He turned his back on me.
"And you were just in the way."
The Emperor took one last look at his supposed reaper. Only disappointment lit his face. Then he turned and left.
The sound of his footsteps faded, but their echo stayed behind.
I was alone.
The remaining mana inside me flickered like the dying ember of a once-roaring fire. I could feel it slipping. Like trying to hold water in cupped hands. And the silence—the real kind—settled in.
No more commands. No more cries of the wounded. Just… nothing.
I turned my head, slowly, to the side.
I closed my eyes once, opened, and saw her.
She was there.
Lillia.
Her body was translucent, like a ghost, and lay just a few feet away, her arm still outstretched toward me. Her fingers curled slightly in death, as if they'd been reaching for mine.
Flashbacks. This was how she looked when I found her dead, when the Emperor killed her.
Her face was still, only illuminated by moonlight. Her golden hair was streaked with soot. The scarf she always wore at her belt had been torn and burned—just a rag now, fluttering in a wind that no longer cared.
I didn't know why I was seeing her, but I didn't care. I dragged myself toward her.
Up the stairs, one at a time.
Every inch felt like tearing open a wound I didn't know I had. My elbow slipped once on blood-slick stone, and my vision flashed white with pain.
But I kept going.
I had to reach her.
My hand found hers, and it didn't pass through. It was like she was there. Her hands were cold. Rigid. The warmth had long since left her body.
"I'm sorry," my voice cracked.
It wasn't enough. A mere apology would never be enough.
"I should've never let you stay. I should've said goodbye. I should've been faster. Stronger. Smarter. Please forgive me, Lillia."
I looked into her open eyes. Still staring skyward. Like even in death, she hadn't stopped believing the ending would be different.
I reached up and gently closed them.
"I was supposed to win," I said again, quieter now. "You believed that. And I… I let you die believing a lie."
I leaned forward, forehead resting against hers. Our blood mingled between us—hers dried, mine still flowing.
A gust of wind stirred the silence.
It was then that I realized I couldn't feel my legs anymore.
The numbness had reached my waist. My life was nearly gone. No mana. No spark. Nothing.
Then my hearing went.
I lay on my back beside her and stared at the sky.
Then the rest of my body went.
No clouds. Only one star.
Just light.
Despite knowing I was dying, the only thing on my mind was her—and how bleak and unremarkable the sky looked.
It was pretty lackluster for a day that decided the fate of the planet.
A strange, enveloping warmth began to rise from within me.
The lone star grew brighter, eventually encompassing my whole view in a bright white light.
At first, I thought it was another hallucination—one final mercy.
But it wasn't.
It was memory.
It began with mine.
Flashes. Not scenes. Feelings carved into moments.
The warmth of my sister's hand before the trials. Before we were split up. The sharp crack of my master's staff during my first duel. The roar of a crowd. The silence after my first kill.
Then slower.
Lillia's laughter in the old citadel courtyard—a sound I used to think was proof that the gods hadn't abandoned us. Gods, I wanted to propose to her there.
Another memory of Arush handing me a flask before the final march, pretending his hand wasn't shaking. "Just in case," he'd said. "Just one last time."
Reim, bleeding out beside the southern wall, whispering "Don't let it be for nothing."
I see them all.
And I feel every failure rise up again like ash in my throat.
The light begins to change. It pulses brighter. Hotter.
I try to turn my head, but I don't have one anymore. I try to breathe, but breath is behind me.
The world is gone.
And yet I remain.
What is this?
What am I seeing?
The light grows louder. Not in sound — in presence. It surrounds me, pressing in from all sides.
I try to resist. Try to cling to what I was.
To Lillia. To Nortis. To the sword in my hand and the prophecy that led me here. But I'm slipping. One final thought claws its way to the surface.
In our next life, Lillia.
And I surrender myself to the light.
The light answers with silence, then it expands again.
And I see nothing.
Only a pure white.