Are you strong because you were born blessed?
Or were you blessed because you would become strong?
Is talent the seed of strength?
Or is strength the fruit that some are simply allowed to pick without planting?
And if the answer is 'both'...
then what does that make those who have neither seed nor permission to harvest?
Perhaps... it makes them free.
Free to burn.
Free to define their own victory.
Free to die on their own terms
The echoes of those thoughts slowly vanished, replaced by the silence in the center of the crater that was still billowing hot smoke.
There, in the middle of the destruction, Vargos lay helpless.
Or more accurately... what was left of him.
Half of his right body had vanished, as if erased from existence. His right shoulder, which used to be broad and strong, was now nothing but charred flesh and protruding bone. His muscular arm was gone without a trace.
The damage spread downward, tearing away most of his ribs and exposing his chest cavity behind the torn muscles. Even his right leg—the solid pillar that supported his giant body—had disappeared.
Vargos's broken frame lay on the shattered earth, a monument of pain that refused to die.
The golden aura that previously blazed like a second sun was now gone.
Only a very thin and faint shimmer of gold remained, desperately clinging to the left side of his body. The light flickered weakly, fading in the cold night wind, just like the last embers on wood that had burned out.
Vargos's left eye—the only window to his soul left—stared straight up. His vision began to blur, but he could still see the vast sky. Thousands of stars twinkled there, staring back at him in silence, acting as witnesses to the end of the giant's life.
But then, the stars were blocked by a shadow.
A face appeared, covering the night sky.
Sylvia von Vespera.
A silver cross earring swung gently on her ear. The object caught the last glint of golden light from Vargos's body, reflecting a small, beautiful flash in the darkness.
Sylvia looked at what was left of Vargos's face and whispered softly.
"I take back everything I said about how pathetic you were..."
She leaned closer, her earring jingling faintly.
"Maybe the Vespera family will never acknowledge you.
"But I... Sylvia von Vespera, acknowledge you here and now."
Slowly, Sylvia's lips curved into a smile.
To him, it was the most beautiful smile Vargos had ever seen.
"Vargos," she whispered again, as if carving the name into his soul.
"Stand proud..."
"You are strong."
Those words were the last things he heard—a forgiveness more precious than his own life.
As the sound of Sylvia's voice faded, the light in Vargos's eyes dimmed. The faint golden glow on his body flickered one last time and then vanished, returning to the world.
His eye was now empty.
Vargos, the warrior, was dead.
***
"BELEHHH! This is truly pathetic!"
For a moment... just for a brief, fleeting moment... he had held onto a naive hope. He thought that after his second death—after all that bloody struggle, the soul-crushing pain, and that moment of "sincere" regret in his final breath—he would at least find peace in Heaven. Or, if he were truly a sinner, let him be tortured in Hell.
"This... this is even worse than hell."
Revan spat, the sound echoing hollowly in the vast, all-white room.
Somehow, he had suddenly woken up and found himself sitting on a park bench in the middle of an endless, empty void.
"It seems God is truly furious with me right now," Revan muttered bitterly.
He then turned his head slightly to the back.
There, behind him, sat a figure. A young boy—perhaps around ten years old—with jet-black hair and long bangs that obscured his face. He looked frail, hidden behind the curtain of his own hair, radiating the unmistakable aura of someone who had spent his entire life in the shadows
Revan narrowed his eyes, his voice dripping with cold disbelief.
"And also... why are you even here? Kid," Revan paused, his jaw tightening as he corrected himself. "I mean... Revan."
The boy didn't answer.
He remained as still as a statue, his small back turned squarely toward Revan in a silence that felt heavier than the world itself. He didn't move an inch, didn't even flinch, sitting there like a ghost.
"Hey! I'm talking to you!" Revan shouted in annoyance.
The boy stayed silent.
"Oh, for God's sake..." Revan hissed, grabbing his head with both hands. His fingers dug into his scalp as he groaned in pure, unadulterated frustration.
"Is this it? Is this the price? Did insulting fictional characters and groping that woman really earn me this kind of karma?"
He let out a sharp, cynical laugh.
It was beyond ridiculous. In his final moments—during his second death—Revan had truly surrendered. He had let go of his hatred, accepted his pathetic identity, and even shed tears of "sincere" regret. In his mind, that last-minute spiritual negotiation should have at least earned him a one-way ticket to a peaceful afterlife.
But instead, reality had given him the middle finger.
He was trapped in this endless, blindingly white room, sitting on a damn park bench with a kid who wouldn't even utter a single word. All that drama, all that "acceptance," and for what? To be stuck in a silent limbo with the very ghost of the past he loathed.
"Itried to be a saint in my final seconds, and this is what I get??" Revan muttered, his eyes bloodshot with irritation.
"If I knew 'repentance' would lead me to this, I would've spent my last breath cursing every single one of you instead."
He glared back at the small, motionless back of the boy.
"Hey! I'm talking to you!" Revan shouted in annoyance.
"Answer me, you little brat! Say something!"
As if the "ghost" couldn't stand to hear Revan's rambling for another second, he finally spoke.
"What are you going to do next?" the boy asked in a flat tone.
Revan felt something inside him snap. It was like a dormant volcano suddenly erupting, sending searing lava through his veins.
"What do you mean, 'what should I do next'?
Revan growled, leaning closer until he was practically breathing down the boy's neck. He was tired of being judged by a ghost of his own weakness.
"And oh, HEY! Why don't you tell me... what are YOU going to do next?"
Revan's breath was ragged, his heart hammering in a place where he shouldn't have one—pounding from the sheer force of his own outburst.
But even after all that effort, he was met with nothing but silence.
Exhausted from his own rage, Revan finally slumped back against the bench. He ran his hands aggressively through his hair, messing it up again and again in sheer frustration.
'Oh, God... I really should haven't accepted this piece of trash,' he cursed inwardly, his teeth grinding in bitter regret.
He finally realized why this strange phenomenon was happening to him. Right before the darkness swallowed him during his second death, his heart had inexplicably softened. In that fleeting moment of weakness, he had stopped resisting the presence of the "Original Revan."
He had opened a door he should have kept locked, and that pathetic boy had walked right in. It seemed that now, their souls had become one.
"Nah, I give up," Revan muttered instantly, his voice hollow
"Fuck you," he spat toward the silent boy. "Fuck you, God. Fuck you, Erison... and fuck you, Sylvia."
With those final words, the fire died out.
After that, he stopped.
All the rage, the shouting, and the effort simply evaporated. Revan slumped back, leaning his head against the wooden slats of the park bench, and chose to remain silent in the middle of that endless, white void.