Zerath narrowed his eyes at the strange declaration. "And why," he asked slowly, his voice steady but laced with suspicion, "do you want to send me there?"
Eryon's lips curved into a simple, almost disarming smile. He reached out and patted Zerath on the shoulder with a kind of paternal familiarity. "Because," he said softly, "I like you."
Zerath remained still, his silence stretching for what felt like a long moment. At last, he drew in a deep, deliberate breath, his chest rising and falling as though he were testing the weight of those words. "I am not a good person," he admitted bluntly. His eyes did not waver. "There should be no reason for you to like me."
Eryon met his gaze without flinching, his expression calm, timeless. "Perhaps not," he said. "But I have been here since forever, and it seems I will remain here until forever ends. I have seen everything—every act cloaked in false morality, every atrocity committed in shadows. I have witnessed cruelty so vile it could blacken the stars, and I have warmed my heart with the sight of selflessness so pure it could rival the sun." His eyes softened with the weight of eternity. "I still lean toward morality, yes… but I no longer flinch at cruelty. I have accepted both as part of existence. And so, I hope… in this next chance, you will choose differently."
For the first time since their encounter began, Zerath's composure cracked—not in fear, but in amusement. A low chuckle escaped him, building into a genuine laugh that shook his shoulders. His posture relaxed, the cold edge in his demeanor softening. "You want me to do good?" he asked, as if testing the sincerity of Eryon's words.
"I hope so," Eryon replied with a gentle nod.
Zerath's smile grew sharper, his eyes glinting with a dangerous playfulness. "Well, if you want to give me another chance, then perhaps I'll try my hand at God's work." His tone carried both mockery and promise. Then, with deliberate emphasis, he added, "But don't expect me to change my nature."
Eryon threw back his head and let out a hearty laugh that reverberated through the grand hall, shaking its pillars like rolling thunder. "I expect nothing less," he said warmly. He stepped closer to Zerath, his hand rising until it rested gently atop the younger man's head. "Be a little kinder. Be a little more selfless. If you do, you may find joy where you least expect it. Even if your soul resists, even if darkness remains your nature… I still hope."
At that touch, Zerath suddenly stiffened. A strange warmth poured from Eryon's palm, seeping through his skull and into his very being. It wasn't fire, nor light—it was something beyond both. Waves of divine radiance cascaded through him, each one washing away the grime of his past. The countless burdens he had carried—guilt, rage, blood-soaked memories—were peeled back layer by layer, as though his soul were being cleansed in a sacred river. His knees almost buckled at the sheer weight of it.
When Eryon finally drew his hand away, Zerath stood trembling, his breaths shallow. "This power…" His expression darkened as he stared directly into Eryon's eyes, unblinking. "You might have made a mistake."
Eryon only chuckled, unfazed. "There is still good in you," he said simply. "I like your honesty, Zerath. That is why I have granted you a fragment of my divine authority. Whether you squander it or use it well—that is your burden to bear."
Zerath's gaze sharpened. "If you are truly a God," he pressed, "then why not change me? Twist my soul into a moral one. Brainwash me into righteousness. Why give me the choice?"
Eryon's expression shifted into something unreadable—neither smile nor frown, only silence heavy enough to crush the question itself. "Just go," he said at last, his voice carrying the tone of absolute command. "Your time here is over."
He snapped his fingers.
The sound was quiet, but it split the world apart. The white hall, the golden halo, the eternal silence—all of it vanished in an instant.
When Zerath next opened his eyes, he found himself lying on a massive bed draped in silken sheets. Above him stretched a ceiling carved with golden patterns that shimmered in the glow of crystal lamps. The room around him was grand and oppressive, decorated with golden ornaments, jeweled pillars, and the mounted heads of great beasts—each one radiating a feral aura, as though even in death they were watching him.
Zerath pushed himself up slowly, his hands brushing the fine fabric beneath him. He caught sight of a mirror across the room and, drawn as if by instinct, walked toward it.
The reflection that greeted him was not the man he had known in his past life.
In his previous life, Zerath had been a man with jet-black hair that framed his sharp face, his body tall but lean to the point of fragility. Though his figure carried a subtle elegance, it lacked presence—his thin stature had often made others underestimate him. But now, as he stood before the mirror, the man looking back at him was completely different.
His once dark hair had turned into strands of radiant gold, glimmering faintly as though kissed by sunlight. His eyes, which had previously been a dull gray, were now a piercing golden, clear and profound, like the surface of an endless ocean reflecting the heavens. His physique, too, had changed—his thin frame was gone, replaced with broad shoulders and well-defined muscles. He no longer looked frail, but perfectly balanced: strength without brutishness, elegance without weakness.
And his face… his face seemed sculpted, every line precise, every feature harmonious. It was the kind of beauty that demanded attention, a visage as though carved by the hands of a God himself. For the first time in a long time, Zerath's own reflection startled him. He almost didn't recognize himself.
He took in a deep, steadying breath, letting the air settle the storm of unfamiliar emotions within him. "Divine authority," he whispered. At those words, a faint golden glow erupted from beneath his skin, radiating outward in waves of gentle light. It enveloped him briefly, shimmering like a second skin, before cooling down and fading away. The aura disappeared, but the sensation remained—an undeniable reminder of Eryon's parting gift.
Zerath raised his head, his eyes drifting upward toward the ornate ceiling above him. The carved golden patterns seemed to watch him, glittering faintly under the crystal lamps. He stared at them for a few long seconds, as though speaking to someone far beyond them. "Let's see where you've sent me, Eryon," he murmured. His lips curved faintly, the smallest hint of warmth breaking his usual calm. "I hope you're watching. For your sake… I'll try to be good. After all, in all my years, I think you were my first true friend."
The moment he said it, memories surged like a flood—his past life, where rivers of blood flowed endlessly at his feet. The cries of the dying, the shadows of betrayal, the countless faces of those he had slain flashed vividly before his eyes. His fists tightened, his jaw clenched, but then, with practiced will, he forced those memories back into the depths of his mind.
When he looked up again, there was no sorrow in his gaze. Instead, he smiled.
Turning to the side, his eyes fell upon a neatly folded robe resting across a stand. Its color was light blue, a gentle shade unlike the black garments he had always worn in his previous life. He lifted it in his hands, running his fingers across the smooth fabric before slipping it over his new form. The robe fit perfectly, accentuating his frame without being ostentatious.
Catching sight of himself in the mirror once more, Zerath chuckled. "First time not wearing black," he said, tugging lightly at the robe's sleeve. "It looks… kinda good on me." The laughter in his voice was light, genuine—something rare for him.
He straightened, rolling his shoulders as if testing the strength of his new body. Then, without hesitation, he turned and walked toward the large double doors at the far end of the room. The beast heads mounted on the walls seemed to follow him with their lifeless eyes, a silent reminder that this was no ordinary place.
As the doors creaked open, a faint draft brushed past him, carrying with it the scent of something ancient, something unfamiliar. He stepped through, his footsteps echoing softly across polished stone.
He was not familiar with this place—its architecture, its atmosphere, even the air felt alien to him. But Zerath was no stranger to walking into unknown lands. He paused only for a moment, his eyes narrowing with curiosity.
"First, I should understand where I am," he muttered under his breath. His tone was calm, but his mind was sharp and alert. "Only then can I know what Eryon has truly given me."
And with that, Zerath set out to uncover the truth of the world he had been cast into.