I've always wondered: where do people go when they die? Heaven? Hell? Reincarnation? The afterlife? Reuniting with loved ones?
It's a question everyone has asked at least once, but my situation is different—I'm asking it from inside a coma.
I haven't moved a muscle in weeks. My last memory is of a truck, the screech of tires, and then—blackness. The doctors say I have a traumatic brain injury. I can't speak, but I can hear. And honestly, I'm exhausted. Not that I want to die, but what is there to live for? I don't have family or friends. I've always been the outcast, the one people bullied and forgot. No one has visited me. I lived with my aunt, but I can't even guess if she'd mourn me or feel relieved.
Still... I want to live. My life may not be much, but maybe—just maybe—things could turn out better someday.
The hospital room is cold, silent, except for the steady beep... beep... of the monitor. Then, suddenly, the rhythm slows. My eyes snap open for the first time in weeks. And I feel... incredible. Better than I've ever felt. The doctors must have worked a miracle.
"Nurse! Can I have some water?" I call out. No answer. The room is empty.
I swing my legs off the bed, surprised to find I can stand. My heart races with excitement—I'll probably be discharged tomorrow. But where is everyone?
I step into the hallway. People are moving in one direction, toward a door glowing with brilliant light.
"Excuse me, where's everyone going?" I ask. No one responds. They just keep walking, faces blank, eyes fixed on the radiance ahead.
Is this a dream?
Then I see him—a figure standing apart, holding a weapon. My breath catches.
"Sir... what's happening? Are you going to hurt us?"
He looks at me, calm, almost pitying.
"A soul cannot be harmed by me."
A soul?
The word echoes inside me, heavy and terrifying.
Wait.
Did I die?
---
I stepped through the bright door, and the world around me dissolved.
No hospital walls. No machines. Just a vast, endless void—yet filled with thousands of silent figures drifting upward, as though gravity no longer mattered. We floated together, carried by some unseen current toward the sky.
The journey felt endless, hours stretched into eternity, until finally we arrived.
A man stood before us, his voice echoing across the emptiness:
"Welcome, everyone, to the Bridge of the Dead."
The words struck me like ice. So it was true. I wasn't dreaming. I had died.
"You have reached the end of your lives," he continued. "Here, your fate will be decided."
Before us stood three doors, each glowing with its own aura.
• The White Door shimmered with brilliance, almost blinding.
"This door," the man said, "is for those who lived righteously, with hearts nearly pure and souls unstained. Beyond it lies Utopia—a realm of eternal joy, free from sickness, sorrow, or pain."
The crowd stirred with excitement, whispers of hope rippling through the silence. My chest tightened. I wanted that... but could I ever be worthy?
• The Black Door loomed like a shadow, its surface swallowing light.
"This door is for those who committed evil, who brought harm and cruelty into the world. Beyond it lies Purgatory—a place of punishment and torment, where each soul serves its sentence."
Fear swept through the crowd. I prayed no one would be sent there.
• The Red Door pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat.
"This door is for those who were neither pure nor wicked. It offers a second chance. You will return to Earth, reborn as someone new, stripped of all memory of this life. You will live again, with the possibility of joy, family, and love."
My heart leapt. Reincarnation. A chance to start over. To escape the loneliness that haunted me.
The man's voice grew solemn.
"But here is the truth—you do not choose. A mark will appear upon your forehead. White for Utopia. Black for Purgatory. Red for Reincarnation. The mark decides, and the doors will claim you."
Silence fell. Thousands of us stood waiting, trembling, hoping.
I closed my eyes, whispering to myself:
Please... let it be red. Please let me have another chance.
---
The crowd had vanished—screams, rejoicing, relief—all swallowed by the doors. Yet I remained, untouched, unmarked.
"Sir... I think you forgot me," I said, my voice trembling.
The gatekeeper frowned. "Impossible. This has never happened before."
Before he could speak again, a voice cut through the silence.
"There is no mistake."
A man stepped forward, dressed in a black suit and hat, elegant and composed. He removed his hat with a gesture of respect.
"Mr. Skywalker," he said, his tone smooth and deliberate. "We meet again. I have awaited your presence."
My heart lurched. Again?
"I... I don't remember meeting you," I stammered, shaking his hand.
"You wouldn't," he replied calmly. "I am Alistair. Follow me."
A portal shimmered into existence before us. Without hesitation, he stepped through. I followed, and the void collapsed behind us.
We emerged into a breathtaking city—spires of silver, streets paved with light, skies painted in hues no human eye had ever seen.
"Whoa... what is this place, Ali—CAT?!" I yelped as Alistair suddenly shifted, fur sprouting, his form shrinking into that of a sleek black cat.
"That's right," he purred. "In this realm, I take this shape most of the time. Welcome to Angelorum."
"Is this... heaven?" I asked, still dazed.
"Not heaven," Alistair corrected. "This is the Kingdom of Angels."
"Well, angels live here, so isn't that basically heaven?" I pressed.
He shook his feline head. "Not those angels. This is where the Angels of Death dwell."
"The Angels of Death?" I whispered.
"They are the ones who walk the earth, guiding souls peacefully to the Bridge when their time has come."
I swallowed hard. "Then... why am I here?"
Alistair's golden eyes gleamed. "Because you are unlike anyone else. You bear a mark placed upon you by the Angel Monarch himself—Aragorn Silverbough. You are his chosen one."
The name rang in my ears, heavy with power and mystery.
"Aragorn Silverbough... who is he?" I asked, my voice barely more than a breath.
Alistair's tail flicked, and his gaze turned skyward.
"He is the ruler of Angelorum, the Monarch of Death's Angels. The one who decides the balance between life and afterlife. And for reasons you cannot yet comprehend... he has chosen you."
---
"Can you explain, please?" I asked, my voice shaking.
Alistair's eyes gleamed. "The Angel Monarch is the leader of the Angels of Death. He commands them in their eternal war against the Soul Demons—creatures who steal human souls before their time. The Demon Lord is one of the most powerful beings in existence, a threat to both realms. Master Silverbough has searched for millions of years for the one who could stand against him. And at last... he found you. A human boy, ordinary in life, but extraordinary in blood and soul."
My stomach twisted. Why me? Out of everyone in the universe?
Alistair stepped closer. "Your soul is unlike any other. When Master Silverbough marked you, he chose you as the one destined to destroy the Demon Lord. The God of Life himself placed power within your soul."
"There must be a mistake," I whispered. "I'm only thirteen. I have no power to fight something like that. I've always been... pathetic."
Alistair's feline form tilted its head, his voice firm but kind. "You are a child, yes. But strength is not measured by age. In Angelorum, your name is already known. Kai Skywalker—the Chosen Boy. Your journey will be long, but it begins now. That is why I am here. You will train at the Angels' Institute, where heroes are forged."
I blinked, the words sinking in like a dream I couldn't wake from. "Is this real? It feels like something out of a book."
Alistair smiled, his whiskers twitching. "It is real. And it is yours. Come—we'll get you new clothes, and you'll meet those who will walk beside you."
For the first time in my life, I felt a spark of hope. I smiled back. If this was truly my destiny, then I would embrace it. I would train, I would learn, and I would become the strongest Angel of Death.