The end began with a whisper too sweet for dying ears.
"I can give you a second chance." Eyes from the abyss stared, unblinking. "Start over in a world of your choosing, memories intact, and—"
"Why'd I trust—" A rattling cough sprinkled blood on his palms.
The angel's wings folded too late, wiping his raven feathers with disgust. Every movement wafted incense into the stale air; it shouldn't have been real, but it was.
No, when he appeared over his deathbed and called himself Lu, he didn't even question it.
But if his fifty years taught him something, it was to never rely on anyone.
He had nobody at the end of his life. When would someone even find his corpse? He lay abandoned in a cheap apartment with an unopened Pink Slip that the pandemic brought him.
Almost like he never existed—
Decades of overtime, doing the cursed logistics was all for naught. That's what he got for trusting people; for having friends who'd take and take and never give.
For dropping out of school, for falling in love—
He still remembered those freckles; freckles for days, and messy orange hair like fire—
When he had only begun adulthood, naive and infatuated. Before her, life was simple, his hopes high, but if someone told him they'd only date for a month—
The angel's feathers shivered, his face contorted.
Was it empathy? Was it joy? That porcelain face with eyes rolling back suggested the latter.
"You know what?" Lu whispered, leaning in closer. "I'll show you the alternative."
With a snap of his finger, a portal opened into—
Nothing. No, an endless void. No colors, no boundaries, it went on and on, and as he began to comprehend the infinite scale, his head spun.
"You didn't achieve anything noteworthy, neither good nor bad. So, you'd spend the next thousand years in purgatory, wallowing in regrets until you forget."
Those, he had plenty. Spending an eternity like that—
"Then you'd be reborn to make the same mistakes. Or—"
Lu snapped again, showing endless possibilities.
Words in the far future, civilisations of the past, technology, magic—
"You'd keep your memories, and pick one of these." His wings spread again, and shadows whirled on his deathbed, drinking away the light. "And I grant you one more wish."
"At what—"
"What's the price?" Lu finished for him when another cough wracked his body. His eyes, darker than black, flashed, then he smiled. "Don't worry about it."
It was easy for him to say—
"You want this." That wasn't even a question, the angel pacing around his bed. "I see a medieval world with magic, saving fair princesses, or— Enslaving them?"
That fleeting thought did flash through his mind.
If he'd start over, he wouldn't let corrupt bosses and bullies make him their plaything again. And hell, he could start a harem to make up for all the girls he missed, too.
He couldn't trust them after his first love, but in a new life?
"I see, classic," Lu chuckled, zeroing in on one of the worlds. "I can make it happen."
But no, that wasn't what he wanted.
Revenge. To have power. To show those people, to—
"I want... To be... In control."
The angel froze, then an eerie grin spread across his face.
"That's a lot," he said, "but I can set you on a path. Give you noble blood. So, are you ready?"
He had no time to answer.
A scream split the heavens the moment he arrived—a sound so agonizing it felt like the world itself was in pain. Pressure mounted in the darkness, threatening to crush his tiny body.
He felt more fragile and insignificant than ever before, but he wasn't alone.
"Transfers are rough," Lu spoke, tearing through reality. Memories of his old life poured through the cracks with him. "You'd think birth's better than dying, but go figure."
The pressure reached its peak, and he broke through another tear between worlds.
Blurred shapes and colors replaced the darkness.
The agonizing screams were no longer muffled, and his cries soon joined the cacophony, too. Cold air rushed into new lungs, painful and liberating at the same time.
The first breath in another world.
"Boy's strong," voices became garbled, hay's smell invading his nose. "Devil's little choirboy."
Everything seemed old. Broken. Poor.
Lu's silhouette was a sharp contrast in this ugly reality, and a second shape joined him.
"Lucifer, you meanie," she complained, messy hair like fire, and freckles for days. "You know I had a claim on his soul. You didn't steal him from the purgatory, you stole him from me."
The girl—the woman?—spread her black wings, too.
"Lilith," his guardian angel yelped, unbecoming of his earlier grace. "Now I have to remake his memories," he scoffed. "How long were you eavesdropping?"
"He was still alive on the other side," Lilith skipped closer. "Meanie, after I ruined him for you."
The newborn—he—cried even louder as painful memories flew back into his mind.
"Sorry, not sorry," Lu wrung his hands. "His suffering's too delicious to wait a thousand years."
"Me-a-ni-e," she repeated, pouting. "And what if I want to seduce him again?"
She booped the baby's nose, and the newborn forgot how to cry.
"Be my guest," he shrugged. "Wait a few years, though—"
"Whatever, I'm calling dibs if he ever makes a harem," Lilith smacked his back. "And be aware, your sister's onto you, and she's mad. Which is not my problem, but I've warned you."
Lu paled, if it was even possible with his porcelain skin.
"She's an archangel. She has better things to do than to worry about my hobbies," he claimed, his hands trembling. "It's not like she didn't send a girl to be the martyr of that world, and—"
"Not. My. Problem," Lilith repeated, and the angel pinched his nose.
"Fine, noted," he sounded frustrated. "Now get out, so I can reset his memories."
The last thing he saw was the fiery mess and a kiss she threw, then—
"Konrad, call him Konrad," a woman whispered with her last breath.
She lay in a pool of blood, soaking the straw and coating him in an iron smell. Her hands were cold and rigid; the midwife had to pry the newborn out of them.
Was that his mother? She wore rags, her face pale, and her eyes had long lost their light.
Didn't Lu promise him noble blood? He remembered most of his past life, but—
What was even his name?
"Trust the spirits, Konrad." The midwife folded the eyes of the dead.
His world was a blur. Every sound was new and strange, scents and textures telling a story he didn't understand. A stable, not a home, with straw beneath and rain battering the roof.
Then, nothing but a cracked basket and a storm-washed sky was all he could see.
Alone. Abandoned. Again.
Darkness crept in, and he shivered, powerless.
No banners flew; no noble retainers or maids lined up to pamper him.
He had only his voice, raw and wailing, and he made the most of it.
"A loud one, this basket," a woman scooped him up once the rain stopped. The stars were bright, but he didn't recognize them. "What's on this scrap, Father? Tribal script escapes me."
"Record in my ledger," the priest replied. "On autumn's first day, we sheltered Konrad Ostfeld."
So that was how his new life began.
As Konrad Ostfeld, who, in a few years, became known as the Prodigy of Haiten.