Sandep had always been a quiet man.
Not the type who watched the world with judgment or condescension—just someone who never found a place in it. From his school days to adulthood, he lingered at the edges, saying little, doing less. Not because he didn't care, but because he never believed his voice would matter.
He didn't chase dreams. He didn't fight for more. All he wanted was stability—a modest life where his bills were paid, his stomach was full, and no one expected too much of him. In a world that applauded ambition and hustle, Sandep's dream was laughably small.
But even that, it seemed, was too much to ask.
Graduation came, and the cold sting of reality followed. He had worked hard, passed his exams, kept his nose clean—but none of it mattered. His résumé was neat, his grades decent. But the world didn't care. The world cared about who you knew, not what you knew.
Sandep knew no one.
He'd spent college avoiding group projects, social events, and unnecessary conversations. While others made friends and built connections, he stayed buried in his books or alone in his room. So when the time came to call in favors or pull strings, he had nothing. No strings. No hands to pull them.
It took him years—exhausting, humiliating years—to finally land a low-tier government job. It wasn't what he had imagined. It paid the bills, barely, but it drained him. Every mistake clung to him like tar. He couldn't seem to advance, couldn't find footing. People around him played office politics, courted favor, climbed ladders. Sandep just stayed still.
Complacent. That's what they called him in performance reviews. Lacking initiative.
But the truth was worse. Sandep wasn't just complacent—he was terrified.
Terrified of failure. Terrified of conflict. Terrified of making the wrong move. He lived his life as if walking on a thin sheet of ice, afraid to step too hard in any direction. It was safer not to try.
And so, he never did.
He couldn't hold down a relationship. Women came and went, each one frustrated by his indecision, his fear, his inability to stand up for himself. By forty, he'd been through two divorces. No children. No companionship. Just long silences and longer nights.
His peers moved forward. They bought homes, traveled, raised families, launched businesses. And Sandep? He watched. Scrolling through social media feeds filled with their laughter and milestones, he felt like a ghost watching the living.
He told himself he didn't envy them.
But he did.
At forty-three, he began listening to motivational podcasts. Bought books with titles like "Unleash Your Inner Potential" and "It's Not Too Late." He highlighted paragraphs. Nodded to empty rooms. Even made a schedule once.
It lasted a week.
The self-improvement wave passed. The realization hit harder than any podcast: I wasted it. All of it.
The regret hit in waves.
He regretted not talking to people in college.
He regretted always agreeing, even when he disagreed.
He regretted never having the courage to offend.
He regretted never wanting more.
And when the regret got too loud, he turned to distraction. Cheap beer. Endless YouTube videos. Scrolling and scrolling until dawn.
That night, like many others, he sat in his one-bedroom apartment. The lights were dim. The silence was suffocating. An empty bottle sat on the table. Another beside the couch.
He watched a motivational reel—some deep voice layered over footage of wolves running through snow.
"The pain of discipline is nothing compared to the pain of regret."
He chuckled dryly. Too late for discipline, he thought. And regret…?
He lay down. The world spun just a little. He closed his eyes.
And never opened them again.
That night, he died of a heart attack.
And in the next moment, he opened his eyes—within Veldora's Soulscape.
Inside the metaphysical realm of the soul, two figures stood facing each other across a shifting plane of silver sand and lightning-filled skies.
On one side stood Veldora—the wild, reckless dragon, his spiritual form towering and draconic, with wild golden eyes and a savage grin.
On the other stood Sandep—still humanoid, still tired, hunched slightly from years of emotional weight, but with an intense glimmer in his human eyes.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
Then the lightning cracked louder.
And slowly, inevitably, their souls began to merge.
A storm was coming.
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To be continued.
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Authors Note:
Thank you for reading this chapter.
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