The sky was heavy with gloom, a faint drizzle painting the city gray. An old man stood in silence, his eyes fixed on the silhouette of an abandoned hospital.
Lysander Dawnbringer.
Sixty-nine years old. No siblings. No wife. No friends. His parents were long dead. For years now, he had walked through life utterly alone.
He let out a weary sigh.
"If only… If only I had chosen to become a doctor for my family, then this hospital wouldn't have been wasted."
Once, Dawnbringer Hospital was the pride of the nation. The largest in the country, number one in reputation, home to over a hundred brilliant doctors. Now it was nothing but a graveyard. Garbage piled in its halls, trees that once flourished stood lifeless, and the once-proud building was withering, rotting away under time's cruel hand.
"If I had become a doctor… this hospital wouldn't just have been number one in the nation. It could have been the greatest in the world."
The rain fell harder. He carried no umbrella.
Turning away, Lysander walked slowly toward the gate. The sound of the storm filled the silence around him. Then, just as he stepped onto the road—
BOOM!
CRASH!
A runaway truck barreled down the street, brakes screaming uselessly. It struck him in an instant. His body was hurled across the slick pavement, tumbling until he lay in a bloody heap at the center of the road.
Ha… haha… So this is how I go. Dying here, where I was born. Perhaps this is better… better than dying alone at home.
Rain washed over him as his sight blurred. Slowly, he closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, there was nothing. No sound. No sensation. Only endless darkness.
Then—a single speck of light. It swelled, brighter and brighter, until he could finally see.
Before him stood a masked figure. A shining crown rested on its head. Six wings unfurled behind it. Pure white robes draped across its form.
An… angel? Then I really am dead.
The figure spoke, voice calm yet resonant.
"Welcome… hmm, no. That doesn't sound right. You won't find much here besides this light, so I'll simply introduce myself."
"Ahem. I am Nyx, God of All Creation. And I've come before you because I require your help."
"...A god? Not an angel?"
"Yes, a god. Do I look like an angel? Angels only have one pair of wings. They're beautiful beings, male or female, created by me. Which means I am—without question—a god."
Nyx then pulled out a sheet of paper and a pair of spectacles—despite having no need for them.
"Alright… Lysander Dawnbringer, age sixty-nine. Cause of death: struck by a truck."
He glanced up, then blinked in surprise.
"Wait—you're sixty-nine?!"
"…Yes?"
"With that build? You look younger! Honestly, you could still wrestle if you wanted."
"That's because—"
"Enough," Nyx cut him off. "I've been watching you since birth until death. I know everything about you."
Lysander froze.
"You are… exceptional. Intelligent. Gifted. In sports, in study—everything you touched, you perfected. You came close to becoming the perfect human. But you lacked one thing."
"And what is that?"
"Your heart. To perfect your skills, you sacrificed the people around you. You never had friends. You never loved. You were never loved. That is why… I will grant you a second chance. To become truly perfect."
Lysander frowned.
"You mean—you'll bring me back? Return me to the past so I can fix my mistakes?"
"No. I will revive you, yes, but not in this world."
His breath caught.
"I will send you to a world you've only read about in books. One of my creations. A world of mana. The world of Aethereal."
Nyx's voice echoed, grand and solemn, as he spoke of its history. Born billions of years ago, ruled first by monsters. Then, humans were created to stand against them. But among those monsters were the Demonoids—greater, darker, more powerful.
"And you want me… to fight them?"
"Hah? No, not exactly. A thousand years ago, a Hero was born. He gathered companions, fought the Demonoids, and sealed them. But he vanished. Dead, with his group, long ago."
"Then… you want me to find them?"
"Wrong again. That Hero has been gone for nine hundred and ninety-nine years. But before his death, he forged a domain to contain the Demonoids. His descendants have carried on his will ever since. They still live, still fight."
"...So they're immortal?"
"No. Simply mortals, but their bloodline continues. Each generation rises to replace the last."
"Then what do you want from me?"
Lysander asked, voice edged with irritation.
"I want you," Nyx said, eyes burning with light, "to become the new Hero of that world. To stand against its threats."
"What?! Didn't you just say I didn't need to save them?"
Nyx chuckled. "Control your temper. That too is part of becoming perfect. The new generation is strong, yes. But five hundred years ago, the Hero's domain collapsed. The Demonoids now press harder than ever, while outsiders foolishly try to enter. Thus, the Hero's law was revived: kill any monster that escapes… and any human who dares enter."
"Kill… humans?"
"To protect them. The domain lies within a forest—Demonoids' path into human lands. The law is a warning: enter the forest, and you die. That way, the world is spared greater bloodshed."
"…I see. So then, how will you send me? Will I just appear there and declare myself the Hero?"
"No. You will be reborn. Into the Hero's bloodline. But before that… I shall grant you a gift."
A glowing screen appeared before Lysander's eyes.
[Welcome to Aethereal]
"…A video game?"
"You may use it to adjust to your new world. It contains knowledge, skills, even experiments from your past life. Treat it as a tool. But remember—it is not a game. It is your life."
A countdown flickered on the screen.
[5]
[4]
[3]
"Huh…"
[2]
"Wait—stop! I'm not ready—!"
[1]
"Good luck in your new world. Do your best. Goodbye."
Darkness consumed him once more.
And when his eyes opened again—
"It's a boy, big brother!!"