"WHY?"
"WHY?"
"WHY?"
"HOW?"
"HOW?"
"HOW?"
The man gasped, blood trickling from his lips as a blade plunged deep into his heart.
Behind him, another hand burst through his back, gripping his beating heart with a ruthless hold. "Why did it have to be me?" he wheezed, his body shaking.
"Out of all the people who could have betrayed me, it had to be you."
"My strongest general, Zelna."
More blood splattered from his mouth as he spoke.
"Tell me, what was the purpose of this execution that even led my own dear wife to turn against me?"
He turned his head to face his wife, who had her hand buried in his chest, ready to tear out his heart. Zelna smirked, twisting the sword to inflict even more agony.
"The reason? There is no other reason because it simply doesn't exist. Our only goal was to kill you—nothing more, nothing less," Zelna replied.
"So, in other words..."
Zelna spat blood as the man's hand found its way into her chest, poised to rip out her heart and soul if he could.
"Your forty-year reign ends here Emperor Benoit. May we meet again in hell."
She knew this was her end, but as long as she could take down the merciless emperor Benoit, it would all be worth it. Sacrificing herself so the empress could rise and improve the ten kingdoms was a price she was willing to pay.
But what she saw next left her in shock; the empress had already met her fate the moment Zelna glanced down. Her head lay severed, cleanly cut off by Benoit's left hand, but in the process, his own heart was ripped from his chest.
Her final words were, "Shall death never do us part… Benoit."
Benoit crumpled to the ground, his vision fading as the weight of betrayal felt heavier than any physical pain.
"So this… is how it all ends."
""Just like the rest same cycle repeats itself always happens."
"Will this be my last?"
In a final act of defiance, he ripped Zelna's heart from her chest. , leaving three lifeless bodies sprawled on the floor in a pool of blood.
Benoit's body lay still, but his mind was anything but quiet. It floated, disconnected, caught in a space that felt like neither life nor death.
First, darkness wrapped around him, a heavy void that had no shape or sound. Yet, within that emptiness, faint glimmers began to emerge: surreal snippets of memory, warped like images in broken glass. Faces morphed into shadows, voices echoed without clarity, and the air was thick with a sense of déjà vu.
This wasn't the peaceful silence of sleep; it was the stillness of something left undone, like a dream where the dreamer knows they haven't truly woken up yet.
Then, from the endless black, a faint light flickered into existence. At first, it was just a tiny dot in the distance, but it expanded, tugging at him with an invisible force.
The light wasn't warm; it felt cold and suffocating, as if it recognized him, as if it had been waiting for him all along. Each moment pulled him closer, not with comfort, but with a sense of unavoidable fate.
Benoit floats in the darkness, unanchored and formless. For what feels like a long moment—or maybe an eternity—he exists as nothing more than a consciousness suspended in silence.
Then, slowly, something begins to stir. Sounds reach him first, faint and distorted, like they're coming from underwater: muffled voices and indistinct murmurs that swell and fade like echoes in a cavern.
Next comes a strange and alien sensation. A warm pressure envelops him, firm yet gentle, as if he's being held. His mind, shaky and fragmented, grapples with the thought. Is this death? The idea coils within him.
Perhaps these are the guides leading him toward the afterlife, a journey wrapped in whispers and comfort.
But then, something feels off. His body trembles, feeling far smaller and weaker than it should. A sharp breath rattles in his lungs, followed by a thin, high-pitched cry that he barely recognizes as his own.
Panic flickers through his mind as his vision wavers, a haze of light and blurred shapes piercing the void. The world sharpens just enough for him to realize: this isn't death. It's rebirth.
The room around him buzzes with activity. Figures move about, their faces indistinct but their voices clearer now.
A woman's voice rings out, breathless with relief and joy: "Congratulations, it's a boy!" The words hit Benoit with staggering weight. He feels arms lift him, cradling him close, the sensation of cloth and skin grounding his disoriented soul.
Tears stream down his tiny cheeks not from sorrow, but from the bewilderment of a man reborn, his past self fading into the cries of a newborn child.
The world comes back into focus, sharp and clear. A woman's breath, ragged and soft, fills the room, trembling yet tinged with relief.
Sweat beads on her brow, but her smile shines through fragile and tender, almost cracking under the weight of her joy. She holds her newborn close, as if afraid the world might try to snatch him away.
"Moanna," a voice whispers, and the name hangs in the air like sweet incense. The woman gazes down at her child, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. They are deep, gentle eyes, as if they hold the vastness of the ocean within them.
Next to her, a tall man stands with broad shoulders and a grin that seems too big for his face. His voice booms, filling the room with a wild, infectious energy. "Look at him, Moanna!" he laughs, pointing as if the baby is a miracle only he can see. "He's got your eyes! Your eyes, I swear! But the hair—ha! That's definitely mine!"
He leans in closer, puffing out his chest, and with childlike pride, he declares: "Say it! Come on, little guy—say 'Daddy!'"
Moanna shoots him a sharp look, her glare playful, though she can't quite hide the smile tugging at her lips. "Ei'sen… he just got here, you silly man. Let him breathe before you start demanding his adoration."
Ei'sen throws his head back, laughter booming like thunder in the chamber. "Aye, aye! You're right, you're right." His tone softens as he gently brushes his calloused thumb over the child's tiny fist. "But still… he'll be strong. Stronger than me, stronger than anyone."
Moanna gently hushes him, cradling the baby in her arms. "Strength can wait. Let him be small for now… let him be ours."
The warmth of their words wraps around the child like a soft blanket—something he's never known before: safety. Love. A home that feels vibrant and untouched by the shadows of death. For him, who has only experienced cruelty, this radiant feeling is both overwhelming and breathtaking.
A strange weight settles on his mind, both unfamiliar and undeniable. He feels a warmth that's soft and steady, and hears voices—gentle, urgent, full of life. Yet, his own existence feels so tiny and fragile, almost impossibly alien.
I… I'm alive?
The thought hits him like a bolt of lightning. He's here, in a body that feels warm and whole, with senses that respond and a heartbeat that's his own. The world around him is bright and strange; colors he's never truly known flood his vision, sounds he's never heard swirl around him, and yet… he is alive. Really alive.
He blinks, his small body trembling, unsure of how to navigate this new form. Each breath, each movement, feels both miraculous and terrifying. His mind races with fragmented thoughts, struggling to make sense of the impossibility of it all.
I… am here… again?
The word "again" reverberates in his mind, just as disbelieving as the first flicker of consciousness. He doesn't grasp why or how this is happening, only that the impossible has taken place: he has come back to life once more. That thought, as small and fragile as his newborn body, begins to grow in his mind—a pulse of clarity amid the confusion.
For the first time, he is aware of being. A living being, warm in the arms that cradle him, surrounded by voices that murmur care and awe. And though he can't speak, can't even fully grasp the enormity of this new existence, one truth cuts through everything else:
I am alive. I've been given another chance. I exist.
The realization sends a shiver through him, a mix of wonder and fear, as the world outside presses in: bright, strange, and waiting.