'Where am I?'
A thought flashed by as he opened his eyes. But it was already open... or not. He couldn't tell. He was suspended in a strange kind of weightlessness.
The sensation was foreign but also familiar. Like submerge underwater. Just floating in an endless white-gold.
'How long has it been?'
Time didn't exist here. Was it seconds? Hours? Days? Every moment stretched into the next, without rhythm, without clarity.
'Where am I going?'
Up. Down. Left. Right. None of it mattered. He couldn't tell which direction the pull was coming from, if there was even a pull at all.
'What...is happening?'
His perception warped like a dream, spinning and twirling, a whirlpool of sensation, but without any anchor to ground him. He wasn't sinking, nor was he rising. He was simply… floating.
Sometimes a warmth washed over him, soft like the sun on his skin, the kind of warmth that could make him feel whole.
Other times, a chill stung through him, cold enough to pierce what little understanding he had left. He couldn't place the feeling, couldn't even grasp what it meant. It was there—and then it was gone, fleeting, as if it had never existed at all.
'What even... am I?'
He didn't know what he was, who he was or where he was.. He could sense something deep within him, something that had been shredded, scattered into the vastness. Was he alive? Was he dead? His thoughts hung in a fog.
But he knew one thing. He was something.
And then, as if he'd been lost for eternity and finally reached the surface of a dark, quiet sea, a light pierced through the haze. Not blinding, not overwhelming—just soft, like the touch of dawn breaking through thick clouds.
Gradually, slowly, his thoughts began to shift, like sand shifting through a sieve. He could sense himself again, could feel his mind tightening around a single truth.
'Ah...'
He was… something. No, someone. A name hovered at the edge of his awareness, elusive, faint, but it was there.
The pressure of knowing who he was began to form, and with it came the weight of understanding.
'I died.'
And just like that, the pieces clicked into place. The world, or whatever this was, began to make sense again. The unfamiliar drift, the strange emptiness and his death was the reason for it all.
And yet, something about this place… something felt wrong.
The man's awareness solidified, pulling him from the drifting haze. His surroundings slowly sharpened into focus.
He was no longer weightless, floating in the void. Instead, he found himself hovering above what appeared to be a pool of black what white.
He slowly sat up and saw a room.
'Where is this place?'
A grand, yet decayed. The walls, once adorned with elaborate tapestries had peeled with age, the vibrant reds and golds faded to dull hues. Time had gnawed at the intricately carved wooden beams, leaving them warped and splintered.
It looked like a forgotten place of an ancient royal court that had long since been abandoned.
The floor around him was cracked, worn from centuries of use. In the center, a deep, circular depression stretched across the room's wide expanse at the center. He was sitting there .
What he first thought was a pool of black and white water shimmered with a strange, ethereal glow. As he looked closer, it became clear that it wasn't water at all.
A massive yin-yang symbol was etched into the stone, its black-and-white swirls glowing faintly in the dim lantern light. The air was thick, like the room had been forgotten by time and left to decay.
Lanterns hung from the ceiling, their flickering flames casting weak shadows that danced across the room.
Their glow was dim, the light seemingly fighting against the oppressive darkness that seemed to hover in every corner.
Despite the majesty of the space, there was something unsettling about it, something oppressive in the stillness.
At the far end of the room, a throne of simple wood sat on a raised platform, its design modest but undeniably regal.
Upon it sat a figure cloaked in shadows, too enigmatic to make out fully. The presence of the being was overwhelming, suffusing the room with a chilling pressure.
Every inch of him screamed power, and yet there was something deeply unsettling about it—something old and tired.
The hooded figure, though seated casually, radiated an aura that made the man's soul shudder involuntarily.
"Welcome, mortal,"
The voice said, smooth and deep, echoing with an authority that sent a shiver down his nonexistent spine.
"In the realm of the dead."
The words seemed to reverberate through him, even though he couldn't see the source of the voice. It came from everywhere and nowhere at once, the figure's presence consuming the space.
The man blinked and then froze. As if brought back to reality, His thoughts clicked together, memories flooding back with painful clarity. He wasn't just in a strange room. He was dead.
His death, the fall from the stairs, the groggy, sleepy haze. It all made sense now, though the realization left him no less unsettled.
The figure before him didn't move, but the room seemed to grow darker in its presence, the weight of eternity pressing down on him.
A brief, uncomfortable silence followed, and the man felt an overwhelming urge to speak. His voice, or what should have been his voice, was silent in his throat. He felt his words, but they weren't his but just thoughts that floated in his mind, disembodied.
'What is even happening?'
But before he could dwell further, the god spoke.
"I am Abrosis Rokna Whailheart, God of Death, ruler of Hell. I summoned you for a special purpose, mortal,"
The god said dramatically, his voice full of self-importance.
For a fleeting moment, the man almost imagined the sound of trumpets in the background, a regal music underscoring the god's words. But the feeling was fleeting, gone as quickly as it came.
The authority in the figure's tone was compelling, almost majestic yet, there was something underneath that rang false. The man felt like he was being sold a deal.
The man's mind spun in confusion.
And what would that be?
He thought, the words drifting like smoke. He felt like he spoke but their was no mouth the words can come out of.
The figure leaned forward slightly, though his face remained obscured in shadow.
"You shall be my inheritor."
'???'
The man's thoughts stumbled.
'Inheritor?'
The words didn't make sense. He couldn't even recall his name or his life clearly, but he was sure of one thing: nothing about this felt normal. A god of death... offering him his throne?
What?
The word echoed through his mind, the question seemed to resonate from him.
The figure remained seated, his posture regal but casual, as though it was all perfectly natural.
"Yes, you have heard me right. You shall be my inheritor and inherit Hell and my powers. My life is coming to an end, and according to custom, one must pass on the position of the God of Death before they naturally perish. And you... fit the criteria perfectly."
The god's words were like a calm tide, his voice steady and commanding, yet somehow inviting. There was a pitch of righteousness to it, a compelling tone that made it sound inevitable—like this was a decision beyond question.
The man could almost sense the allure of becoming something more than he was. After all, who wouldn't want to be a god?
But something didn't sit right.
A cautious skepticism filled the man. How could this be? Why him? He was just... nothing. He had been a NEET, a person who barely left his apartment before he died, no accomplishments, no importance.
But the temptation lingered, wrapping around his thoughts like a whisper.
I—I see
The man thought cautiously, the weight of the words settling over him. Despite the allure of power, something about this offer felt off. His senses, though dull, still thrummed with a quiet suspicion.
"Yes,"
Abrosis continued, his voice heavy with finality.
"I know this is much to take in, but you will learn, in time. You will take my place, rule this realm, and ensure the balance of death and rebirth is maintained."
The figure's eyes—though still hidden—seemed to pierce through the man, as if gauging his thoughts, reading his soul.
"Tell me, mortal,"
Abrosis said, a smirk creeping into his tone.
"Do you wish for the power to shape worlds? To control life and death itself?"
When the offer came the man didn't hesitate. The first thought that came was yes, and the word was out before he even understood why.
Or maybe he did understand. Deep down, buried beneath layers of ordinary human life, it had always been there like the hunger to be more, to break free from the limits of flesh, time, and fate. Every mortal had entertained it at least once, the fantasy of becoming untouchable, immortal… and godlike.
From his earliest memories to his final breath, that wish had been etched into the marrow of his soul. So when the God of Death asked the question, the answer was already written inside him. He simply spoke it aloud.
He realised that it didn't matter if he thought in side his head or spoke. In front of a god, nothing made difference. So he spoke, a way he was comfortable with.
"Yes."
The hooded figure smiled.
It wasn't a kind smile. It was the kind that felt too wide, too satisfied, like a merchant who had just closed a deal far too good for himself. The chill that ran through the man's soul was immediate, a prickling dread that whispered you've made a mistake.
'Did I make a mistake?'
But before the thought could form into anything more, Abrosis's voice rang out.
"Very well. From this moment, you are the new King of Hell."
The god extended one pale, skeletal hand. A black seal, swirling with smoke and faint, screaming whispers, tore itself from the air and shot forward like a bullet.
It struck the man's chest.
Agony exploded through him.
Not the pain of flesh, flesh could burn, bleed, and break. This was deeper, tearing into the raw essence of his existence.
His soul shredded into fragments, each piece melting and reforming in an endless cycle of destruction and creation. Over and over. Again and again.
He screamed, but there was no sound—only the silent, mind-ripping torment of being rewritten. His essence compressed, folding in on itself until it became a single, impossibly dense sphere of black and gold light. Then, like a seed, it began to grow.
Blood formed first, thick, dark, and swirling with power. The blood shaped itself into sinew, bone, and muscle. A heartbeat thundered into existence. Flesh stretched over the form, pale yet vibrant with life.
An infant.
But the air around the newborn was suffocating—ancient, absolute, and commanding. This was no ordinary child.
The body grew in moments. Limbs lengthened, shoulders broadened, muscle carved itself into perfection as if chiseled by divine hands. Short Black hair , framing a face of exquisite symmetry, sharp jawline, high cheekbones, a beauty almost cruel in its flawlessness. His eyes opened, crimson irises like pools of molten blood, steady and unblinking.
The man stared at his reflection in the polished black surface of the yin-yang below, his mouth slightly open.
"…"
No words came at first.
"Alright,"
The God of Death said, his voice breaking the silence,
"since you have become the new God of Death, I shall take my leave."
There was something strange in his tone, almost excitement. His shoulders trembled faintly as he stood from the throne, his movements brisk. He walked toward the door, the heavy robes swaying behind him.
The man realized with a strange detachment that the god looked… relieved.
When Abrosis stepped out of the chamber, the oppressive weight in the air seemed to loosen. And then a faint but unmistakable, the sound of an undignified, jubilant scream echoed from beyond the hall, the voice fading quickly into the distance until it vanished entirely.
'What just happened?'
Left alone, the man stood in the dim, flickering light of the lanterns. His new body felt strange, alien. His mind throbbed with alien knowledge, threads of power, symbols of death, laws of realms he had never known.
He tried to focus on that and closed his eyes.
Moments ago, he had been drifting in some endless current, not knowing who or what he was. Then, a throne room, the offer and then became the God of Death himself...
'...Is this even real?'
It was too much to take in. Too absurd to believe.
So he stood there, perfectly still, as if waiting for his thoughts to catch up to the reality he now inhabited.