Leaving the morgue, clothes torn by bullet holes and soaked in blood, Cael felt the weight of the air crushing around him.
His once-white shirt, now drenched and clinging to his skin, stuck to his body like a second layer of regret. The faded coat danced in the cold dawn breeze. He looked up, slightly dizzy, as if trying to understand where the hell he was—or what this was. Still his world?
"God… Holy Mary full of grace… Buddha, thank you!"
He gasped, voice shaking between disbelief and relief. A miracle? Maybe it was.
But… miracles always come with strings attached.
And someone was going to collect on this cosmic mistake.
In the deepest cracks of space, where the veil between physical and spiritual worlds frays like cheap cloth, a third-order god began to take shape.
He was no being of light. No beacon of mercy.
He was one of many Executioners—those who corrected divine errors. He didn't come to save. He came to fix what was corrupted.
Ripping through layers of reality, he descended upon the city of Belo Horizonte, just another shadow among the stars and buildings. Towering. Predator-like. Inhuman.
In his hand: not a sword. Not a staff.
A guitar.
Not normal.
Not feathered.
Not glowing.
He came with chords.
He came with his Echo.
How long…, he wondered. How long since I last stepped here?
He floated, guitar on his back, fingers tightening around invisible strings only he could feel.
The human world always fascinated him.
Last time he met a soul from this realm… they crucified a man just for loving. For trying to understand. Faker or not, what they killed that day… was compassion.
And now, in the silence of his musings, he knew:
He wasn't here for justice.
He was here to restore what the gods had let rot.
And in a blink—he vanished.
Vanished like only someone like him could.
---
Meanwhile, Cael was just walking down the street, hands in his pockets, mind reeling from the concept of being alive after being… not.
My bike's toast… he thought, watching a bus drive by. He zipped up his jacket, trying to cover the bullet holes.
Maybe I can make some money off this?
He pulled out his phone. The screen lit his face.
Damn, still good-looking. I could totally go viral talking about how I came back from the dead.
But then… what else could he do? It was desperate, yeah. But also a golden ticket.
Then he blinked.
Wait… is this a sin? Shit. Do I have to turn religious now?
That's when it hit.
A cold shiver up his spine.
He looked up.
Someone stood at the end of the street.
Tall. Cloaked in black. Slippers and white socks.
A look.
Red hair like spilled blood.
A guitar strapped to his back.
Like a deranged lovechild of a god and a punk rocker.
"You cosplaying or what?"
Cael squinted. The classic "not judging, but judging" stare.
"Mind calling me an Uber? Buses suck. CLT-level stench, ya know?"
He flashed a sly grin, waved two fingers, turned away.
Weirdo otaku. BH really has everything.
Then—
The wind changed.
Cold.
Whistling.
Poetic.
And suddenly, he was there. Inches away.
Cael nearly screamed.
"What the hell, you—" He stumbled back, throat dry.
The black-robed man stared at him the way an artist looks at a masterpiece he'd rather smash just to admire the shards.
"Anomaly… you're fascinating..."
His voice wasn't just sound. It was vibration. Like a slow riff on the sixth string.
The aura around him burst in visceral red.
The air trembled. Like gasoline seconds before ignition.
"Pity..."
A hand rose.
Cael rubbed his eyes. Am I high? Dead? In the public health system?!
Before he could answer—
BOOM.
Not an attack.
A response.
A chord echoed from the shadows.
Not a guitar.
An acoustic.
But with the force of thunder.
There he stood—
The other one.
Spiky blond hair.
Eyes like blue flame licking your soul.
A green cloak marked with a golden infinity.
Straight out of a Hollywood-budget RPG.
In his hands:
A guitar glowing with golden fire.
Pure authority.
"Guardian? Gonna interfere with my duty?" growled the dark figure.
"Who said you could step foot in the lower realm, pest?" snapped the blond.
The dark one's guitar flickered into his hand, ready to strike.
"I'm under orders from something bigger than you, you self-righteous paladin!"
"Get lost or we'll turn this street into a goddamn celestial mosh pit!"
The blond snarled. "Echo war, bro. And it's gonna be freaking lit shoving this guitar neck up your cosmic ass!"
"You will regret this..."
"And I don't give a shit."
Meanwhile, Cael just muttered,
"What the fuck is happening? Battle of the bands? Is this The Voice: Divine Edition?"
The blond only smirked, plucked a chord—
WHAAM.
Golden flames exploded from above like a molten waterfall.
The fire kissed the asphalt, melted the concrete, bent lampposts like wax.
Cinematic.
Almost erotic in its epicness.
He panted, the raw expression of his Echo unleashed in full.
Reality itself creaked.
Streets. Buildings. Air—everything bent to his presence.
It wasn't just power.
It was presence.
Weight.
He wasn't just using a skill.
He was the skill.
A living, breathing entity pulsing with primal fire.
The myth before the myth of rebirth.
The flame before the light.
Now reborn in a green-cloaked warrior with eyes hotter than the sun.
He could summon it with a chord.
Mold it with thought.
Turn technique into art.
Art into destruction.
The rare Echo-Manifest:
Echo-Phoenix.
His eyes glowed with blue embers, skin shimmering like a collapsing star.
Cael swallowed.
"Shit..."
"Let's see if that so-called 'greater force' covers your bail when you blow up this realm, huh?" the blond taunted, smiling like a flamenco guitarist with a grudge.
"Fools!"
The dark one flinched.
His arrogance cracked.
A step back.
His aura shattered like thin glass under pressure.
The heat judged him.
Burned not just flesh, but pride.
"This isn't over..."
"You guys always gotta throw in a dramatic line, huh? Get lost," the blond sneered, like swatting a cockroach out of a living room.
The entity gave Cael one last look.
Not hatred.
But a sick curiosity.
Like a rare insect in a jar.
And then—he vanished.
Evaporated with a screech, like a string snapped off-tune.
Distorted.
Ugly.
Defeated.
Silence dropped like a curtain.
The Guardian ran a hand through his hair and cracked his neck.
"Can't stand those cloaked edgelords… it's all theater."
Then, with a lopsided grin, turned to Cael.
"But you, my dude… you're the chaos this whole mess was missing."
Cael just stood there, torn between laughing and running.
"...what the fuck…"
He sniffed his own hand.
"What kind of weed was that…?"
"You didn't smoke shit."
The blond stepped closer.
Each step made the pavement squeal, like the road itself wasn't sure it wanted to exist anymore.
"I'm the superior guardian of Sector Eight. Eliyah Ben-Ari."
He held out a hand like it was nothing.
The guitar and all that fiery aesthetic faded into golden dust.
"You died, bro. But the universe didn't sign your death cert. So now you're back. But not as a man. Not as a ghost.
You're a bug in the divine Matrix. An anomaly."
"...Huh?"
"In short? You're the main character. I'm like quality control.
And lemme tell you..."
He smirked sideways, eyes glinting with mischief.
"...I love when things go off-script."
Suddenly, the air cracked.
A portal tore open reality like a hot knife through bubble wrap.
The smell was ozone and chaos.
"What's your name, Chosen One?"
His calm was unnerving.
"...Name? Shit. Cael."
"Cael… The Nameless Thing!"
He laughed like he'd just witnessed a myth being born.
"Welcome to the In-Between, kid.
Now it's personal."
And yanked him through the portal.