Loneliness is a strange thing.
It doesn't scream.
It doesn't beg.
It just sits inside your chest… and slowly eats.
Ashmond Crues was sixteen years old.
He lived alone in a modest two-bedroom apartment on the seventh floor of a pale gray building that looked identical to every other building in the district. Not poor. Not rich. Just… comfortable.
The kind of place that tells you, You're fine.
But Ashmond wasn't fine.
He was fit.
He didn't smoke.
Didn't drink.
Didn't party.
He had no addictions.
Except silence.
His parents weren't dead.
That was the worst part.
They were alive.
One mother. Two fathers.
An arrangement he never fully understood.
He didn't live with them anymore. He hadn't for years. Not after "circumstances" — a word adults use when they don't want to explain things.
Lately though…
He missed them.
Especially his mother.
He stared at his phone on the kitchen counter.
Her last message blinked on the screen.
"Son, may God bless you."
Bless me?
For what?
Ashmond leaned back against the wall.
He had been thinking about visiting them for weeks. Standing outside their house. Ringing the bell. Seeing their faces.
But something inside him always stopped him.
Pride?
Fear?
Or the feeling that if he went… something would change forever.
Tonight, he made a decision.
"I'll go," he muttered.
He grabbed his jacket.
Outside, the city air was cool. Streetlights flickered. Cars passed. Life moved on like it always did.
Ashmond walked with hands in his pockets.
He didn't notice the car slowing behind him.
Didn't notice the window sliding down.
Didn't hear the breath being held.
The first shot felt like a punch.
The second like fire.
By the third, he couldn't feel his legs.
Six shots.
All in his back.
Ashmond collapsed onto the pavement.
The sky above him looked strangely peaceful.
His vision blurred.
Footsteps approached.
But he couldn't turn his head.
He couldn't even scream.
Warm blood pooled beneath him.
He tasted iron.
Why?
That question never left his lips.
His fingers twitched toward his phone.
His mother's message still glowed faintly.
May God bless you.
A weak laugh escaped him.
"Bless… huh?"
A tear slid down his cheek.
"I'm dying, Mom."
Darkness swallowed him.
Death is not peaceful.
It is violent in its silence.
There was no tunnel of light.
No angels.
No judgment.
Only black.
Then—
Wind.
Violent wind.
Ashmond's eyes snapped open.
He was standing.
No… not standing.
Perched.
High.
Very high.
He looked down.
His stomach dropped.
He was standing on the head of a colossal stone statue. Below him stretched a massive plaza filled with unfamiliar architecture—towers, banners, armored guards.
"This… isn't…"
His breath trembled.
"I died."
The wind howled.
Stronger.
Stronger.
His footing slipped.
For a split second, he flailed—grabbing at nothing.
Then he fell.
The ground rushed toward him.
The world turned upside down.
Stone met skull.
A sickening crack echoed.
Darkness.
Again.
Pain.
He gasped and shot upright—
In a bed.
Soft sheets.
Golden curtains.
A chandelier above him.
He was breathing.
Alive.
His hands trembled as he looked at them.
Not bruised.
Not bleeding.
Smooth.
Refined.
He rushed to the mirror across the room.
A boy stared back at him.
Same age.
Different face.
Sharp features. Pale skin. Noble clothing.
Ashmond leaned closer.
Closer.
Closer.
"This isn't me."
His heart pounded violently.
He touched his cheek.
The reflection copied him.
"This isn't me."
"You're correct."
The voice was not outside.
It was inside.
Ashmond froze.
"…Who said that?"
"I did."
The voice was calm. Ancient. Amused.
"Where are you?!"
"Within you."
Silence filled the room.
His breathing grew shallow.
"I'm hallucinating."
"You are not Ashmond Crues anymore."
The words hit like a hammer.
"…What?"
"You died."
He swallowed.
"…And this?"
"This is Varethis. The World of Desire."
His legs weakened.
He sat on the edge of the bed.
"You were reborn as James Hader. First Prince of Kollar."
"This is insane."
"You were brought here for a purpose."
He laughed shakily.
"Purpose? I just got shot."
"And blessed."
His laughter stopped.
"…What?"
"Your mother's blessing was not a prayer."
The room seemed to grow colder.
"It was a key."
Images flashed through his mind. Symbols. A vault. Endless darkness.
"You possess something unique," the voice continued.
"In this world, desire is power. Greed shapes reality. Kings rise from ambition. Monsters are born from excess."
A strange warmth pulsed in his chest.
"You carry the Infinite Vault."
A heavy silence followed.
"What does that mean?" he whispered.
"It means you can take."
"Take what?"
"Anything born from desire."
His reflection's eyes seemed darker.
"Power. Talent. Authority. Even… pieces of souls."
His breath grew steady.
Slower.
Calmer.
"And why me?"
"Because in your previous life…"
The voice paused.
"You were already greedy."
Ashmond thought about it.
He wanted his parents' attention.
He wanted answers.
He wanted more from life.
He wanted something he could never name.
The voice continued:
"You stand at a crossroads. This world rots under corrupted greed. You may become its savior… or its greatest calamity."
His reflection stared back at him.
The boy in the mirror was no longer confused.
He was thinking.
All his life, he stayed in between.
Good enough.
Normal enough.
Small enough.
Now?
He had power.
Choice.
Opportunity.
Slowly, deliberately—
He raised his hand toward the mirror.
"I was always stuck between good and bad."
His lips curved faintly.
"Not anymore."
The air in the room vibrated.
"I don't want to be a hero."
The voice remained silent.
"I don't want to be a villain either."
Something inside his chest unlocked.
A faint golden crack appeared beneath his skin.
"I choose something else."
The chandelier flickered.
Shadows stretched unnaturally across the walls.
His reflection smiled before he did.
"I choose greed."
A pulse erupted from his heart.
Deep.
Heavy.
Hungry.
And somewhere in the unseen corners of Varethis—
Something ancient opened its eyes.