The Nameless Soul and the Golden Radiance
The end, it seems, arrives far sooner than expected.
I am dead.
The details of my death elude me, vague and unformed. It was too mundane, too abrupt, slipping past my awareness like a fleeting shadow.
I possessed no remarkable talents, no extraordinary virtues. Just another faceless soul, destined to be labeled "ordinary" by the masses—insignificant, unnoteworthy.
Or perhaps… my soul, worn dull by a life of unrelenting monotony, had rusted beyond salvation.
It feels distant, as though it happened to someone else.
Is "worthless" a word crafted solely for me?
And yet—why this pang of regret?
To live? No, I harbor no such attachment. I drifted through life without a family, without anyone to mourn me.
So why this gnawing remorse?
I had no ambitions, no dreams to chase, no objects of admiration. My heart, filled with emptiness and void, reflects that aimless existence.
Yes, I should close my eyes. That's best. It's over.
If I just… close my eyes… it ends.
But in that fleeting moment, as my eyelids begin to fall like a curtain on a quiet stage—
Thump. Something stirs within.
A strange ache, like a dull pain, surges through the cold winds raging in my chest.
Why this overwhelming sense of unfulfilled longing?
Regret? No, that's absurd. Contradictory. I, who accomplished nothing, who lived for nothing—what right do I have to feel regret?
Wrapped in the soothing embrace of death, I let my fading thoughts wander.
What do I regret? I achieved nothing.
I had no passions, no hobbies to ignite my spirit. Nothing belonged to me.
And then, like a bolt of divine revelation, it dawns on me.
I did nothing. That's my regret.
I lived, yet built nothing. I left no legacy, no mark to prove I was here. No trace in this world to hold my head high for.
I will vanish.
A nobody, fading into nothingness.
That truth burns with unbearable regret.
How foolish. To grasp the meaning of my existence only after letting go of life—what a pitiful fool I am.
I can't die.
Not yet. Not like this.
It's a selfish thought, isn't it? To realize my desires only after discarding my one and only life.
Yes, I can't die yet.
I can't die. I don't want to die. Not like this, not in this form.
This body has accomplished nothing.
This soul has burned for nothing.
A spark ignites in the smoldering core of my being.
Yes, I can't die yet.
At the very least—before I fade—at the very least…
If I don't achieve something, what was the point of living?
"Such astonishingly faint selfhood," a voice resounds. "To forge your identity only after death."
My eyes snap open at the sound. No figure appears—only the voice, echoing from nowhere.
"You could have faded quietly, spared the burden of futile anguish. Humans are such an obstinate species."
The tone is lofty, as if spoken from a perch above all creation.
"Who… are you?" I manage.
"Hm? Oh… no one in particular."
No one? With a presence this overwhelming?
Is it humility? Or self-mockery? The voice continues, weaving words.
"I'm… how shall I put it? A scoundrel who toys with souls like yours."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Exactly what it sounds like. I'm a troublesome entity, starved for amusement. That's all."
The words carry no warmth. They ring with grandeur but lack inflection, like a dispassionate broadcast.
"Forget about me. The issue is you. Your final cry of anguish drew me here."
"Me?"
"Yes, your regret, your lament—it roused me from my bored slumber. Quite the nuisance, really."
I feel a twinge of shame. Not a fiery roar or devout faith, but my wretched emotions summoned this being. I feel oddly apologetic to this unseen entity.
"Sorry," I mutter.
"Don't worry about it. Such burdens are common, save for one exception. Though, in your case, it's rather late."
"My apologies."
"No matter. Now, to the point—you've met your end. Your body and mind have perished. Your soul will soon follow."
"Normally, I'd have no reason or obligation to intervene. But a soul awakening to its ego on the brink of death? That's too rare to let scatter into nothingness."
Pure? Me? More like a worn-out phonograph, spinning complaints and regrets.
"And so, by the bond of this conversation, I've decided to subject you to the ordeal of isekai reincarnation."
…What?
"They call it a story where you're reborn as someone else, living a second life."
They call it? What's with this flippant attitude?
Who is this voice? So listless, so reckless, so utterly suspicious!
"Don't be like that. It's quite the trend, you know. My acquaintances are obsessed. 'My human became a peerless hero!' or 'My perfect heartthrob became a kingdom's prince!' It's all the rage."
What is this voice even saying?
"They say the thrill lies in granting humans powers beyond their measure, tossing them into another world, and watching them flounder. A tasteless hobby, if you ask me. How's it different from illegal dumping?"
This isn't the voice of someone involved. It's the tone of a transcendent being, toying with all creation.
And acquaintances? That means this voice…
"Well, dismissing something without trying it is no good. You don't know what you don't try, as they say."
"So, here's the deal. I'm going to use you as my isekai reincarnation toy."
What!? Hold on, what are you talking about!?
My mind reels. Isekai? Toy? What does that even mean!?
"No need for a name. Your spirit's too faint, but taking it would be troublesome. No, with a self this thin, even granting powers wouldn't do much. Hmm… let's do this."
The voice weaves on.
"■■■■■■. Become a hero and save the world."
What? A hero? Did it just say hero?
"There's a world among countless others, one teetering on the brink of incineration. As a summoned hero, you'll help save it."
"But you're far too frail. Your very existence is shaky. I could sell you to a guardian and have you serve, but you'd probably die instantly."
Such rude, ominous words from this mysterious voice.
"You lack a self. Did modern consumer culture do this to you? Your soul is so bland, it's unlikely to shine without serious effort."
"Alright, your reincarnation destination is set. The polar opposite of you—a being at the pinnacle of individuality and ego."
In an instant, the world shifts. My consciousness surges, swept away as a torrent of information streaks past like shooting stars.
"You'll be summoned as a hero to a place called Chaldea, an organization ensuring humanity's continuity. In a world facing Humanity's Incineration, with no future left."
"You'll serve as a Servant under humanity's last Master, Ritsuka Fujimaru, becoming a blade to save the world."
Save the world?
Can I… do that? Is such a fantastical feat even possible?
"With half-hearted power, there's no point in sending you. You'd just be an irrelevant speck, mere garbage."
"So, you'll be reborn as a hero among heroes—the Heroic King himself. It's the perfect vessel to refine your soul. With a fate 'crafted by the gods,' manifesting as a Servant is simple. My friend's method is easier, but it lacks growth potential."
"Wait—that's—!"
"You will forsake everything but your essence."
My consciousness fades.
"Your fate, and the world's, depends on your effort."
The voice grows distant.
"Do your best, ■■■■■■. No—"
My awareness sinks slowly—
"Heroic King Gilgamesh…"
In a space awash with azure, I close my eyes against a blinding white flash.
The light fades, and a man stands there.
Clad in golden plate armor, with spiked golden hair and crimson eyes that gaze down with cold authority.
"You… are…"
His overwhelming presence, his sheer pressure, makes standing a struggle.
Yet, from my trembling throat, I force out words.
He is the unparalleled blade to aid in the journey to save human history.
A sword, a shield, a proxy of battle.
A reflection of a Heroic Spirit etched into humanity's saga.
His name—
"Well, I wish to know."