A young boy, around thirteen, with dark grey hair and standing roughly 170 cm tall, awoke in an unfamiliar yet strangely familiar room. The air was cold, but warm sunlight poured through the window, gently touching his face.
"Where am I?" he murmured.
He stood, walking to the slightly ajar window and pushing it open. Below, a bustling market greeted him. Children darted through the crowds, teenagers bartered, and elders laughed under the midmorning sun.
Turning back to the room, now clearly lit, he examined his surroundings: a bed, a table with a candle and book, a basin of water beside it, a cupboard, wooden floor and ceiling, and wooden walls. Weapons were neatly arranged: a short sword on the wall, a longer sword with silver sheath leaning on the table, and a bow with a brown quiver and silver embroidery beside it. He recognized everything slowly
Then came footsteps and a knock.
"Young Master Arthur?" a deep voice called respectfully.
Arthur moved to the door, disabling the subtle barrier he probably had cast. He opened it.
There stood a massive man, nearly two meters tall, Middle age, sharp black eyes, broad-shouldered, with a greatsword slung across his back like a slab of iron. His black hair was cut short with streaks of gray on its root, and his sleeveless leather armor revealed scarred, disciplined arms.
"Erickson," Arthur greeted with a small nod.
"You're up," the knight replied. "Midday already. Breakfast's waiting."
"Um… Erickson?" Arthur scratched his temple.
"Yes?"
"What year is it?"
Erickson looked at him, confused, and slightly concerned. "Are you alright, Young Master?"
"Who? Me? I'm perfectly fine," Arthur replied quickly, a little too fast. "I just… I just had a weird dream. My brain's a bit scrambled right now."
Erickson's eyes softened.
'No matter how strong he acts, he's still just a child.'
"It's the 13th of Elene. Year 713."
"I see... thanks, Erickson."
"No problem. I'll wait downstairs."
Arthur gave a small nod, and the knight turned to leave.
He closed the door gently and sat on the bed. The wooden frame creaked under his weight. He stared down at his hands small, child-sized. Rough… but clean.
Not yet stained by what's to come.
He lay back on the bed and closed his eyes.
Flashback – The End of the War
The scene shifted. A battlefield. Corpses of demons, monsters, humans, and other beings littered the blood-soaked land. The sun cast a dim, red light, as if mourning what it illuminated.
In the distance, several enormous bodies lay motionless giants with smooth, hairless white skin, each bearing a different face. Nearby, lay the mangled bodies of Humans, Long eared being, short bearded man, beast and human hybrid. Scattered. Some still intact, some not so lucky
Standing atop one of the dead giants was the same boy, now a man, Arthur. A sword was buried in the chest of the celestial beneath him.
He scanned the aftermath, sat down on the giant's cold body, and laughed low, bitter, and broken.
Then, a beam of light pierced the sky not sunlight, but something purer, more radiant. From it descended a robed, glowing woman with large, resplendent wings that shimmered like crystallized sunlight. Her features were flawless, her presence divine. Eleven more figures slowly descended after her, each one different than the other. They looked like gods. But they were not. They were the Councils, now fully restored, their strength returned in the aftermath of the Celestials' defeat.
"Arthur Vargris," the lead figure spoke, her voice resonating like wind across a holy plain. "Your immeasurable bravery against the Celestials has been acknowledged. The Councils has judged your deeds, both right and wrong, and deemed you the Hero of this story. You ended their reign. For that, you are granted any wishes, any desire within our power will be fulfilled."
Arthur looked up at her, eyes hollow. "Wishes? Is that what you think I want? I don't want rewards. Look around. The world is dead. The victory was a lie. We lost"
"It was not a lie," she answered softly. "You saved the world. The Celestials are no more. And because of that, we have regained what was lost. Our strength has returned."
Arthur clenched his fists. "You say I saved it? It's a wasteland. They corrupted everything. The core itself is dying. And you… you stood by until the end. You could've helped."
"Arthur..." she said, and for the first time, pain flickered across her face. "We were born weak. Unlike the Celestials who were born from the fabric of darkness itself, we were born in the void and grew by creating. We gain power by building, by giving, not destroying. And we gave everything. Until there was nothing left to give."
"And now you have it all back. Convenient," Arthur muttered.
"Not convenient. Costly," she replied. "And now... we offer that power. To you. As part of your wishes."
Arthur stared up at them. "What's the point? There's nothing left to wish for, everyone's dead, I could last longer than the world itself!" He took the plunged sword, and slashed the head of the Celestials he's standing over. It spurts a black blood, darker than anything.
The council members were silent. After a minute of calming his rage, Arthur looked at the lead figure who is know at an eye level. Slowly descending in the mid of his rage. "Dear Arthur, I understand your anger. But we can't fix what has already happened."
"Haha, Figures" Arthur laugh at the figure with a disdain look. "But there is a way" The look on his face change to curiosity, dim but it's there.
"Another timeline still exists. The last one we created. It was never destroyed. Not by design, nor by fate. It continued, unaware of its story. But to send you there… to implant your soul and memory into a new self... will cost more than just our power."
She turned to the others. The being who was hovering over them before, has now lower themselves. None hesitated. Each showed their approval.
"We owe you more than our lives. You are the only one who succeeded. And because of that, we choose to end it, to make way for your new beginning."
Arthur opened his mouth, about to say something, but the angel raised her hand.
"This is not done out of necessity. It is done out of gratitude. Out of hope. And out of belief. Each of us will grant you our essence… our truths. You will carry them."
The eleven other figures stepped forward. One by one, they laid their hands upon his chest, his shoulders, his brow. Light filled his body, warm, heavy yet comforting, and sacred.
As they faded, the first and last remaining angel whispered:
"This is your and our last chance. Let it not be your burden, but your choice. Remember us not as the false gods you hated... but as those who believed in you."
She touched his forehead.
"Good luck, Arthur Vargris. May you create the end of the story this time. But more importantly, may you find the true meaning of your 'desire'."
Everything turned to white as she fades…