My name is Lin.
I was born on the western edge of the Kingdom of Preservation, beneath a moon that never felt warm yet always felt close.
In the west, the wind howls like a living thing, and the sea never truly sleeps. The elders say the moon watches over us more faithfully than the sun ever could. Perhaps that is why our nights feel heavier than our days.
Our village is called West.
It sounds simple and almost plain.
But it was not always so.
Before the ascension of our god, our home bore a harsher name Cryowest , A name carved from grief , Frostbitten nights ,Monster raids , Hunger and Funerals held before sunrise so children wouldn't have to watch.
After the new god rose and blessed the land, the elders gathered in the village square.
"We have suffered enough," they said.
"Let this place have a lighter name."
"Let the children grow without carrying sorrow in a word."
So Cryowest became West.
A place where the world seems to end yet life stubbornly insists on beginning.
Our god is kind.
But he is cold.
Not cruel.
Never cruel.
He is like ice clear, reflective, beautiful, and distant. You can see yourself in him, but he will never reach back.
Ever since Lord Raka nearly died and entered eternal slumber, something within our god changed. Some say he lost a part of himself that day. Others whisper he buried it beneath duty, never to retrieve it.
Gods descended , Saints prayed,Alchemists experimented and Supreme beings interfered.
No miracle came.
Instead, policies came.
Reforms, Development,Infrastructure and Stability.
He ruled wisely.
But without warmth.
It has been almost two years since his ascension.
Back then, I was eleven years old.
Just a boy who still believed the world rewarded honesty.
My father's name was Borin.
He sold wood for a living. Every morning before dawn, I would hear the rhythmic scrape of his whetstone as he sharpened his axe.
He hummed an old song that no longer had lyrics only sound, like a memory too worn to speak.
His back bent early, not from age, but from responsibility.
Yet when he smiled at me, it felt like nothing bad could ever happen.
"Lin," he used to say, ruffling my hair, "a man's worth isn't in his strength. It's in how long he stands for the people he loves."
I believed him.
My mother, Nina, was a housewife.
She wasn't weak.
She was quiet in the way embers are quiet soft, steady, and capable of burning fiercely when needed.
She cooked, cleaned, mended clothes, and soothed quarrels with gentle words. When I had nightmares, she would sit beside me and stroke my hair until fear loosened its grip.
"When life hurts," she whispered once, pressing her forehead to mine, "remember that you are loved."
Even fever felt afraid when she touched me.
Our village head was feared by every child.
Tall. Broad. Stern.
Missing one leg.
We called him the Village's Eighth Horror.
"Don't run near the well," elders warned.
"Or the Eighth Horror will glare at you."
He never shouted.
That was worse.
Once, I gathered enough courage to ask him, "Sir… are you really a horror?"
He looked down at me with an unreadable gaze.
"No," he replied calmly. "I am what happens when you survive."
He had once been a sub-captain under our lord. During an ancient incident, he lost his leg protecting a young girl from a monster.
That girl survived.
She followed him.
She loved him.
He rejected her again and again.
"My life is already over," he said.
"You deserve better."
She stayed anyway.
She cooked for him. Cleaned for him. Waited for him.
Eventually, his heart broke before his will did.
He married her.
Every winter, when the word love appeared in conversation, their story was told again.
Their daughter was named Alva.
She was my age.
Eyes like spring thaw soft, curious, bright.
We studied together. Sat near each other. Shared dried berries and stolen sweets. When snow trapped us indoors, we drew our dreams on frost-covered windows.
"I'll marry you when we grow up," she said once, completely serious.
I laughed. "You say strange things."
She pouted. "I'm serious, Lin."
When no one was around, she called me husband.
When I called her my wife, she turned red and lightly punched my chest.
"Stop saying that," she whispered.
But she smiled.
Soon, our friends noticed.
Then our parents.
Then her parents.
The village head said no,Immediately.
"You are ordinary," he told me, staring as though weighing my bones. "Ordinary men die easily."
His wife argued.
"Let the boy try."
Alva cried.
"Father, please…"
Finally, he spoke again.
"When you turn sixteen, I will give you a task. Complete it, and I will consider you worthy."
"What task?" I asked.
"Become a junior apprentice soldier. Serve our lord, Learn to fight, Learn to survive and Learn to protect."
I agreed before fear could speak.
Before leaving, my mother held my hands tightly.
"Write to us," she said.
"I will."
"I mean every day," she whispered.
"I promise."
I trained until my body screamed.
To wield ice divinity, one had to resonate with it. Most commoners barely passed.
I resonated deeply.
Instructors stared longer than necessary.
"You're lucky," one muttered.
No.
I was desperate.
Every night, I wrote.
Dear Mother.
Dear Father.
Dear Alva.
Some nights my hands shook too much to hold the pen. Some nights I collapsed mid-sentence.
Still, I wrote.
And every morning, replies came.
Two years passed.
I returned home.
The hills were the same. The sea still roared. The wind still bit my cheeks.
At the end of the path stood my parents.
And Alva.
She ran into my arms without caring who watched.
"You came back," she whispered, trembling.
"I promised," I replied, holding her close.
The village head observed me quietly.
"You kept your word," he said.
That was his blessing.
We married in winter.
Friends laughed. Wine spilled. Songs were sung terribly.
I was happy.
Then the eastern border called.
"I'll come back," I told her.
She gripped my sleeve. "Promise?"
"I promise."
Demons attacked.
We fell into the Demonic Realm.
Time lost meaning.
To survive, we killed.
To live, we ate what we killed.
The taste never left my mouth.
My letters never reached home.
Corruption twisted us.
When our god rescued us, healers sealed the corruption—unable to remove it.
I asked about West.
No one answered.
I ran.
Gravestones.
Only gravestones.
Father.
Mother.
Alva.
My scream tore my throat raw.
I tried to die.
I tried to kill myself.
But every time, I saw illusions of them.
"If you stay alive," they whispered, "we live within you."
"If you die," they said softly, "we are forgotten."
So I lived.
As a drunk.
As a hollow man.
Our god died twelve years later.
The land fell under angelic families.
Breathing became painful.
Living became meaningless.
I rejoined the army.
I fought demons again.
Three years later, a demon's claws pierced my heart.
Even as my blood spilled, I pierced its heart too.
We fell together.
My consciousness blurred.
Then a figure appeared.
Blurry face.
Black eyes.
A smile that felt older than time.
No demons dared approach him.
"Oh, little Lin," he said warmly, amused. "Long time no see. How are you doing?"
I had no strength to reply.
"Not speaking even while dying? How arrogant. Hehehe."
He crouched beside me.
"But what if I could fulfill your wish?"
My fading consciousness trembled.
"I am a god who grants wishes," he said lightly. "But only in the next life."
"So tell me, little Lin… what is your wish?"
My lips barely moved.
"Please… help me… I will pay anything."
"Anything?" he echoed with interest.
Tears blurred my vision.
"I want to grow old with my wife and family. I want to make her happier than she ever dreamed. I want to laugh with them again… even once…"
Silence followed.
Then a soft chuckle.
"Your wish will be granted," he whispered.
"As payment, a portion of your soul will be extracted."
His smile widened.
"Hehehe. Both husband and wife have the same wish. How beautiful. How tragic."
He leaned close.
"Sleep well, little Lin."
"And in your next life… try to be happy."
My eyes closed.
And as darkness took me, the last thing I felt was regret.
Not for dying.
But for all the words I never said.
For all the years I never lived.
For the love I could not protect.
And the simple wish…
To grow old.
With her.