He saw...
A weapon of mass destruction rising into the sky like a divine punishment, before crashing down upon a city that never saw it coming.
He saw hollow-eyed children clinging to the corpses of their mothers, soldiers lining the streets and pulling their triggers without hesitation.
He saw men and women spitting hatred across borders of skin and tongue and creed, as if the world were a wound that never learned to heal.
He saw fortunes squandered on dice and fleeting pleasures—human intimacy sold and consumed like candy in a world that had forgotten how to feel.
He saw lives treated like games.He saw a world crumbling from the inside out.
And then, a voice. Neither kind nor cruel, but resolute.
"Now that you've seen all this... tell me.Does this world deserve to be saved?"
A boy, a teenager gasped as he awoke, lungs desperate for air.His chest heaved, drenched in sweat,as if he'd been drowning in the dream.
The boy opened his eyes to a sky so blue it almost seemed indifferent. The sun had climbed high, casting its golden weight over the land. The heat pressed down gently, softened by the breeze, but he had been spared the worst of it—he'd fallen asleep beneath the wide shadow of an old tree whose roots curled like tired fingers into the earth.
Sweat clung to his brow. He wiped it away with the sleeve of his long tunic. The fabric was damp, heavy with the heat, but under this sun, it would dry soon enough.
His name was Aaron.A boy with jet-black hair, straight and uneven, falling across his forehead. He blinked slowly, still half-lost in the echo of a dream he wished he could forget.
A voice broke through the rustling of the wind.
"Bad dream, Aaron?"
It belonged to a taller boy approaching from the edge of the field—his hair long and braided neatly down his back, the kind of style that required patience Aaron never had. His steps were steady, confident in that relaxed way only childhood friends could carry.
Garren.Aaron recognized him instantly.Garren had always been that, steady, warm, present. His childhood friend. Perhaps the only one left.
Aaron sat up and groaned softly as he stretched. His joints cracked like old branches. "You could've woken me, you know," he muttered.
Garren chuckled and dropped into a crouch beside him. "If I had, you'd just panic about the Rite. You should be thanking me."
He gave Aaron a firm pat on the shoulder, the kind that said you'll be fine without needing to say it out loud.
The Rite of Worthiness.A ritual passed down for generations.The trial that determined whether a person was worthy of becoming a Kshatriya.
A soldier. A guardian. A weapon.Chosen to fight the Enders—those unspeakable things that once tore the sky and never left.
Everyone who sought to become a Kshatriya had their own reasons.
Some craved elevation, hoping that by earning the title, they could drag their families out of the dust of Lotts District and into the polished streets of Middaryl. Some, like Garren, only wanted enough money to feed their villages, to keep the wells clean and the roofs patched through another winter.
And then there were those who joined for thrill alone—the restless ones. The children of walls and repetition, who had never seen the sky beyond the barricades, and sought danger like it was a flame calling moths. For them, the Rite was an escape from the dull prison of peace.
But Aaron…Aaron didn't know what he wanted.
He didn't believe in pretty lies like "saving the world." That kind of statement, to him, was nothing short of hypocrisy.
After all, the world had already ended—126 years ago, to be precise.
What remained was only the corpse of civilization, dressed up in protocol and power. Humanity had regressed to a time before oil and electricity. No—not quite. The nobles still enjoyed both. The lower castes were simply denied them.
Electricity became a luxury, not a right.Fuel—gasoline—had become rarer than gold, hoarded for things that mattered, like the forging of weapons from Thanatium. Ordinary folk weren't even allowed to touch it.
And so, people rode horses again.Carts replaced cars.Legends of metal machines that once moved with the press of a pedal had turned into myths—fairy tales told to wide-eyed children who laughed at the absurdity.
Garren reached out his hand.
Aaron hesitated for a moment, then accepted the gesture. Garren pulled him to his feet with a firm grip.
"We should go," Garren said, brushing dust off his cloak."They'll be starting the Rite soon."
Aaron looked at him. The sunlight caught in the braid of Garren's hair, shimmering like a thread of gold amid the shadows of the tree.
And as they began to walk, Aaron couldn't help but think:
What was that voice that he heard in his dream?
They had never seen a place like this before.
Camelot District towered before them like a dream painted in stone and glass. Unlike the wooden huts and straw roofs of Lotts, every building here was carved from polished masonry, their facades decorated with gilded signs and smooth panes of shimmering glass. The roads were paved with clean-cut stone, lined with tall, elegant street lamps that glowed faintly even beneath the midday sun. Even the carriages gleamed—lacquered, polished, pulled by horses whose manes were groomed like royalty.
Garren's eyes darted left and right, jaw slack in pure awe. "Uwoaah... This is insane! It's nothing like back home—no trees, no hay, no cows or rice fields… This place smells like... money."
"Garren," Aaron hissed, tugging at his friend's sleeve. "You're being loud. You're embarrassing us."
They weren't alone on the streets. People dressed in clean, tailored coats and robes walked past them, their footsteps sharp, their eyes colder than steel. Those eyes lingered—disgusted, condescending.
"Ugh. Commoners."
"This is why my father opposes the Rite of Worthiness."
"Someone will need to purify the streets after they're done."
Aaron lowered his gaze, jaw tight. The weight of every glance felt like a knife.
Garren, ever the optimist, approached a passing man—an older noble with a silver cane and sharp, sunken eyes.
"Excuse me, sir! Do you know where we can find Uther Castle?"
The man halted just long enough to sneer at them. He spat at the ground near Garren's boot.
"So, you're here for the Rite too?" he said, his tone laced with venom. "Tch. Find it yourself. And once you do—start preparing your trip back to the pigsty you crawled from. Fuhahaha!"
He walked off without another word, his laughter echoing behind him.
Garren's fist clenched, knuckles pale. His eyes followed the man's retreating form, but after a deep breath, his scowl faded into something closer to resignation. "I guess the rumors about nobles were true."
Aaron nodded slowly. "Rumors are often born from repeated observations. Which means, they usually aren't baseless."
Neither said much after that. The silence wasn't awkward—just heavy. The kind that came after swallowing shame.
Eventually, they arrived at a large open space—a stone plaza called Ahrung Square. In its center stood a towering monument: a jet-black obelisk crowned with brass. Inscribed on its base were words etched deep into the surface.
Garren stepped forward and read them aloud:
"On this ground, the sound of the trumpet was heard. From the sky descended the beings called Enders, sent to bring mankind to its end. They came in many forms. But humanity shall never fall. This monument stands as proof that mankind lives on—like a fire that refuses to die."
Aaron said nothing. He stared at the monument, but his thoughts wandered far beyond its stone.
A trumpet from the sky.The Enders descended.The world was supposed to end.
And yet… here they stood, one hundred and twenty-six years later.No Ender had breached Avalon in over a century.No war. No fire. Just the same walls, the same silence.
So what were they surviving from?
"Aaron?"
He blinked. Garren was looking at him.
"…Nothing," he muttered. "Just thinking."
They kept walking. Finally, someone—an old vendor with less contempt in his voice—pointed them toward the direction of Uther Castle, where the Rite of Worthiness was about to begin.
Rows of young candidates stood in neat formation at Ahrung Plaza. Amid the murmurs of nervous anticipation, a commanding voice echoed from the steps of the marble staircase leading to the castle.
"All who have come for the ritual, stand in line! Wait until your name is called!"
Garren stood among them, his body trembling slightly, though a wide grin stretched across his face. He clutched his shaking hand with the other, unsure whether the trembling was from excitement or the rush of adrenaline.
"This is it. We finally made it," he whispered, almost to himself. His eyes sparkled with hope. "You know... I heard a rumor back in the village. Anyone who passes this ritual will become a Kshatriya and live in the castle. They're not even allowed to leave—unless it's for a mission beyond the walls."
Aaron remained silent, his gaze fixed ahead, watching one candidate after another return from the plaza with downcast faces. Disappointment, frustration, tears—they were all signs of failure.
"The sword wouldn't budge from that damned stone!" one man shouted, kicking at the ground.
"Hic... Mom, Dad, everyone back home... I'm sorry..." sobbed a girl as she stumbled away.
"To hell with saving the world. That sword is broken!" yelled another, storming off.
Garren swallowed hard, his enthusiasm now mixed with tension. He turned to Aaron and spoke quietly, as if bracing himself.
"This might be goodbye, Aaron. I... I'll become a Kshatriya. I have to."
Then came the call.
"Next candidate, step forward!"
Garren looked over his shoulder, forcing a smile that barely held together.
"You've always been my friend, Aaron. I won't forget you."
And with that, he stepped forward, leaving Aaron behind, who could only exhale a long, quiet breath, unable to say what he truly felt.
Moments later…
"Next candidate, step forward."
Aaron didn't move. He was still locked in his thoughts, oblivious to the world around him.
"Hey! I'm talking to you! Move it!"
A sharp kick landed on his back. Snapped from his reverie, Aaron stumbled forward in a half-run, instinctively apologizing.
"S-sorry!"
He slowed down as he approached the center of the plaza… and there he saw Garren, still struggling to pull a sword from the stone. The blade shimmered faintly, as if forged from some rare, ancient mineral—too refined, too sacred to belong in this world.
Garren gave one final tug before falling backward in defeat. As he sat up, his eyes met Aaron's shadow looming over him.
"Oh…" he muttered, the weight of failure written across his face. He stood up, forcing a sad smile, then walked away without another word.
Aaron couldn't look at him. He turned his face away.
In front of him now stood a few figures in standard Kshatriya uniforms, all wearing blank, expressionless masks. All except one.
A bald man with a long scar running across his left eye, rendering it shut, glared at him. His bare scalp reflected the sunlight with a harsh gleam. Beside him stood a monk, draped in a long white robe, hood pulled low over his face.
"What are you waiting for? It's your turn," said the bald man.
Aaron nodded quietly and approached the sword embedded in the stone.
The monk stepped forward, voice solemn. "Welcome, young one. Will this sword choose you to become a Kshatriya? Let us begin the rite."
He raised both hands in reverence. "O All-Knowing God, if this youth before me is worthy of your blessing, let the light shine upon the sword and grant him the strength to draw it forth!"
Aaron reached out. His hands gripped the hilt gently. He closed his eyes and pulled.
And then, the voice returned.
"Now that you've seen all this... tell me.Does this world deserve to be saved?"
He didn't answer.
A soft glow bloomed from the sword—blue and steady—growing brighter as it loosened from the stone with a soft, echoing hum. Slowly, Aaron opened his eyes.
And in that moment, he saw something.
Something vast. Something beyond human understanding.
Not a monster, not a god—not even a dream. Just… a presence. An existence without shape, concept, or definition. The mind could not comprehend it, for there were no words for what it was.
The moment passed.
Aaron's vision returned to the real world. The bald man stood frozen, jaw slack. The monk stared wide-eyed, then dropped to his knees.
"G-God has granted this child the blessing… to become a Kshatriya!" the monk shouted, his voice breaking with awe.
The monk's voice echoed through the plaza, yet Aaron hardly heard it. Cheers erupted from the crowd of observers, but they reached him as if underwater—distant, muted.
He looked down at the sword in his hands.
It wasn't heavy, yet it felt like it carried the weight of a thousand lives.
The blue light still shimmered faintly along its edge, pulsing like a heartbeat.
Somewhere deep within him, he realized—this wasn't triumph.
It was a question.
A challenge.
A responsibility.
The world had chosen him… but he hadn't yet chosen the world.
As the monk continued to praise the divine will, and the bald man muttered something into a comm device, Aaron stood still beneath the blazing sun, his silhouette long and uncertain.
Behind him, Garren walked farther and farther away, disappearing into the crowd.
And in the silence between the celebration, Aaron could still hear the voice from before.
"Now that you've seen all this... tell me.Does this world deserve to be saved?"
He didn't have the answer yet.
But the sword had been drawn.
And some questions could only be answered with blood.