The cave was quiet. Too quiet.
Noctus leaned against the damp stone wall, his breath shallow, each inhale scraping against his ribs as if his own body rejected the act of living. The darkness around him pressed like a second skin, heavy and suffocating, yet strangely comforting.
He opened his palm.
There it was—the only possession he had ever bought for himself—an old bronze pocket watch. Scratched, battered, ordinary to anyone else. But to him, it was proof that at least once in his miserable life, he had made a choice.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The sound was faint, yet it gnawed at him, burrowing deep into his skull where the cancer already ate away at his mind.
"This… this is how it ends," he whispered. His voice was hoarse, barely audible even to himself. "Not even by my choice. Fitting, I guess."
The words drifted into the silence, swallowed by stone. But memories—those he couldn't silence—came rushing in.
He never knew his mother. She died the moment he was born, her final breath exchanged for his first cry. His father, once a man of laughter and warmth, turned hollow that day. Hollow, then bitter. Bitter, then cruel. To the man who had lost his wife, Noctus wasn't a child. He was the thief who had stolen her life.
"Because of you… she's gone."
Those were the first words he remembered from his father. Not lullabies, not gentle stories, but venom.
When other children learned to walk, Noctus learned to dodge fists. When they learned to speak, he learned the silence of swallowing his pain. His father drank, gambled, raged, and every time he fell deeper into ruin, he blamed the boy who bore his wife's face in the curve of his eyes.
Yet—Noctus never hated him.
When his father stumbled home drunk, Noctus caught him before he cracked his skull on the floor. When he vomited from cheap liquor, Noctus cleaned it silently. When he wasted their meager savings on dice, Noctus skipped meals so his father wouldn't starve. Maybe, somewhere deep inside, he still wanted to be loved.
But kindness doesn't always mend broken things. Sometimes, it just gives them sharper edges to cut you with.
The beatings grew bolder, crueler, as if his father's heart hardened with each passing year. The neighbors looked away, muttering, "That poor boy," but never once extending a hand.
And then came the night when his father didn't return.
The gambling den spat out the truth the next morning: an accident. A cart, speeding down the street, his father too drunk to notice.
Noctus stood at the morgue, staring at the cold body. No tears came. Only silence.
The debts, however, remained. Every coin his father had borrowed now chained itself to Noctus's name. At sixteen, while others dreamed of futures, he was shackled to his father's sins.
School? Gone.
Friends? None.
Dreams? Useless.
All he had was work. Backbreaking, endless work. Sweeping streets. Carrying crates. Cleaning filth from gutters. He worked until his hands cracked, until his back screamed, until he collapsed into bed like a corpse each night.
And yet—it was never enough.
The debt collectors sneered. The townsfolk whispered. And the boys his age? They laughed.
He became their sport.
"Oi, debt-rat!" one of them sneered, shoving him into the mud. "How's it feel paying for your deadbeat dad, huh?"
Punches, kicks, spit on his face. He tried reasoning, tried explaining that he just wanted to live quietly. But reason holds no weight in a world that feeds on cruelty.
Day after day, bruises bloomed across his body like a second skin. Still, he endured.
Until the day an old woman found him in the alley.
She had sharp eyes and a sharper tongue, the kind who had weathered storms and refused to bend. She picked him up, scolded him for enduring silently, and dragged him—literally dragged him—to the police station.
"You'll file a complaint," she ordered. "Enough of this nonsense."
He shook his head weakly, pleading with her not to. But she didn't listen.
And for her kindness, she was punished.
The very next day, her house was declared illegal property and torn down. Her son lost his job. Her neighbors turned their backs.
It wasn't coincidence. Noctus learned the truth in whispers on the street. One of the boys who had bullied him—the cruelest of them all—was the son of a powerful politician. The complaint the old woman had forced him to file had embarrassed the family. And in their world, embarrassment was a crime punishable by ruin.
Her house? Destroyed under false charges.
Her son? Fired on fabricated accusations.
Her life? Shattered, because she dared to stand up for him.
Noctus visited her, guilt tearing at him like knives. She lay in bed, frail and coughing, her once sharp eyes clouded with despair.
When she saw him, something inside her snapped.
Her hand shook as she threw her stick at him, her voice breaking into screams.
"You… it's all because of you! My house, my son, my life—it's all ruined because of you!"
The stick clattered against his shoulder. He didn't flinch. He just stood there, silent, letting her words carve wounds deeper than any fist ever had.
When her rage burned out, the old woman froze. Her eyes widened, realizing what she had done. But by then, Noctus was gone.
He never returned.
From that day onward, he severed his ties with the world. No more pleading. No more hoping. If kindness only brought ruin, then he would offer nothing at all.
He became a machine. Wake. Work. Sleep. Repeat.
It was inevitable.
One day, as he lifted crates, his vision blurred. His legs buckled. He collapsed onto the ground.
The next he knew, he was in a hospital bed, the sterile scent burning his nose. A doctor stood over him, pity in his eyes.
"Brain cancer. Advanced stage. Weeks left, maybe less."
Noctus listened quietly, nodding once. No panic. No tears. No anger. Just… acceptance.
He left that same night. No farewells, no goodbyes. Who would care?
And so, he found himself here.
In a cave, away from the world, with only his watch for company.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
"I gave everything," he whispered to the dark. "My father. The debts. The bullies. Even the old woman who cursed me… I gave them all my time. And what did I get?"
Silence answered.
"I didn't even get to choose this ending." His voice cracked. For the first time in years, his eyes burned with unshed tears.
The ground trembled. At first, he thought it was his dizziness again. But then the rocks above cracked, dust raining down.
An earthquake. The cave groaned as its ceiling split.
Noctus closed his eyes, clutching the watch to his chest.
"Finally… peace."
The ceiling collapsed. Stone and earth rushed down like a tidal wave.
But instead of pain, warmth enveloped him. His vision twisted, gears of light turning in the void. Rivers of starlight flowed backward, collapsing into themselves.
The watch in his hand glowed, its hands spinning wildly.
And then—
A voice. Neither male nor female, echoing directly into his soul.
"Time does not end here, Noctus Ignisar."
His breath caught. The world shattered. And in the next instant—he awoke, not in death, but in another life.