I have often wondered, of late… why am I alone?
I do not despise companionship. On the contrary, I hunger for it—a friend's laugh, the warmth of another presence by the fire, even the mundane solace of shared silence. Yet people scatter from me. Not with words, but with distance, as if some unseen curse clings to my very breath.
Do they not see? I am a man, too. A soul, ragged perhaps, but no less yearning.
"Sir?"
The word cut through the murmur of the crowd.
What am I doing? What should I be doing? Where should I be going?
"Sir!"
Ah yes! I, Vaelthorin the Wanderer—breaker of hearts, though only my own—found myself perched upon a narrow wooden chair at a traveling carnival. Around me swirled color and noise: jugglers tossing flame into dusk's embrace, children shrieking in delight as enchanted wheels spun them toward the heavens, merchants hawking candied fruits glazed in starlight. The air itself trembled with laughter.
And I? I sat alone, clinging to my solitude like a man who has mistaken his shackles for ornaments.
"Please, sir. Do not move too much," the young woman before me said. A painter's board rested on her knees, her brush trembling ever so slightly. Her smile shone, bright as carnival lanterns, yet there was strain beneath it—the kind of smile crafted to endure, not to welcome.
Gods forgive me, but I could read the truth in her eyes: His face is so… strange. The ink resists him. My strokes rebel, my colors fade, as though the parchment itself rejects the burden of his likeness.
I managed a faint laugh, though my chest ached with it. To be so ill-favored that even art surrenders… what irony. What perfect cruelty.
Her brush scratched on, tracing lines that would not hold, while within me, a dam threatened to break. My eyes blurred. Just a shimmer—no sob, no gasp—but enough to betray that even in the midst of revelry, sorrow had found me.
So I sat, as commanded: still, composed, my tears retreating deep into the hollows of my soul where none might see them. Around me the carnival roared with joy, with life, with everything I had not.
And I thought, not without a bitter smile: perhaps this is the comedy of my tale. The world paints itself in color, while I am drawn in vanishing ink.
I sat still, or tried to. The chair creaked beneath me, some pitiful thing cobbled from splinter and nail, while the carnival roared around us with a joy I could never touch. Laughter, shrieks, the scent of roasted nuts and spiced wine—the world brimmed with life, and I sat apart, a shadow tethered to the noise.
"Can you please not move?" the girl before me hissed suddenly, her voice like a lash. Her smile remained for the onlookers, but her eyes burned sharp. "You're disturbing my focus."
I froze at once, my throat tight, and simply nodded.
Ah… so this is it. My place. My fate. To be scolded like a child even while I sit in silence. Sigh… what life I am.
But then came the thought. Her voice in my mind, unbidden, naked.
If it were not for the money, I would not waste my brush on this man. Ugly, wretched face… what misery to stare upon it. What misery to paint it. Gods curse the path that brought me here.
Her hand kept moving, her lips curved in that brittle smile, but her heart spat venom with every stroke.
And I heard it all. I always hear it all.
I might have wept, had I not grown so accustomed to it. Instead, a hollow laugh stirred somewhere deep inside, though it never broke free. Because she was right. Of course she was right.
Were it not for this damned skill—this divine joke the gods named "mind-reading"—I might still believe her smile. I might still believe in people, in kindness. But no. No smile can fool me, no gentle word can hide the thought behind it. And thus I am cursed to know what all men think but never say.
So I sit. A man unloved, unbefriended, a blight in every room. And I nod, and I smile, as though I am not unraveling.
By the heavens, what comedy this is. To be granted a gift that strips away every comfort, every illusion, every lie that might have let me live.
Truly, the gods are jester-kings, and I am their fool.
This skill is not mine to begin with. I never sought it, never begged the heavens for it. And yet it clings to me, unrelenting, always awake — a curse that refuses to sleep. It activates on its own, without mercy, and every stray thought bleeds into me whether I wish it or not. That, more than anything, has made life… unbearable.
I looked up at the sky, so bright and carefree above the carnival, mocking me with its joy. Children ran past, their laughter sharp as bells. The painter girl snapped at me again, voice rising like a whip:
"Don't move! Stay still, please!"
Her little nose wrinkled in anger, her face tightened—and gods help me, even in her fury she looked… cute. I almost smiled, almost forgot the venom I had just heard leaking from her thoughts. Almost.
But memory is a cruel companion. My mind dragged me back, as it always does, to the labyrinth of Fur. I had descended its depths with a blade in hand, heart trembling yet burning with resolve. And there he was—Tusk, the Fenrir. The strongest foe I had ever faced. Not for his size, though he was vast as a hill, nor for his fangs, sharp as spears, but for his command of the elements. Fire and ice, storm and earth—all bent to his howl.
I remember the clash. The air alive with heat and frost, the ground splitting beneath us. I remember thinking I would die, that my bones would scatter in that dungeon and never be found.
But I won. Somehow, through luck, through desperation, through madness, I won.
And yet… in victory, my curse was born.
I staggered back to the village, bleeding, half-delirious. Then it struck—my head spun, my vision burned like molten iron was poured into my skull. I screamed until my throat gave out. And when the pain subsided… the voices came. Not voices of gods or spirits, no. The voices of men. Their thoughts. Their truths.
Since that day, I have never known silence.
The girl's brush scratched across the parchment again. Her smile remained for the crowd, but her mind was a torrent: Ugly man. Wretched work. If not for money, I would never endure this task.
And I sat, as still as she demanded, as if carved from stone.
Inside, my heart gave a weary sigh.
Ah, this is my life. A jest of the gods. To fell a beast of legends, only to be slain slowly, endlessly, by the minds of men.
To be honest, slaying the Fenrir was nothing glorious. It was survival—nothing more. And yet… in that survival, the world was spared. The beast would have brought fire and ruin, would have drowned kingdoms in storms and shadows. I struck it down. I saved them all.
But the world never knew.
No cheers, no songs, not even a whisper of my deed. They went on as though nothing had changed—as though the skies had not cleared, the earth had not stilled. That was the Fenrir's final cruelty: not death, but erasure. It left me with the curse of being forgotten. And perhaps I told myself it was nothing, that I was strong enough to bear it. That strength alone would fill the hollow.
I lied to myself.
"Done!" the girl chirped at last, her voice snapping me back to the present. Her smile bloomed bright—brighter, in truth, than the sunset spilling over the festival tents. For a moment, just a breath, I wanted to believe that smile belonged to me. But I am not meant for such things. Not her smile, not anyone's.
Because the instant her eyes met mine, her joy soured. Her lips faltered. The radiance bled from her face. She turned the canvas toward me not with pride, but disdain, and with the flick of her wrist, she tossed it into my lap.
"Pay up, sir."
Her left hand stretched forward, open, demanding.
I studied her then, her gaze crawling over me like I was a beggar unworthy of standing in her shadow. I let a faint smile escape, fragile as glass. And that alone twisted her expression into disgust.
"Don't tell me you're going to run away without paying?" she sneered, voice loud enough for passersby to glance our way.
Ah. So this is the stage the gods set for me: savior of the world, forgotten by all, bartered like a nuisance at a carnival.
And I, fool that I am, smiled still.
So I did the only thing I could think of.
I showed her my face.
Not the weary frown I usually wore, not the mask of solitude. No—I gave her the smile I had once seen reflected in clear waters long ago. Handsome, they used to call it. Elegant. The most beautiful thing in my world, and perhaps the last weapon left to me. I thought… if I smiled, perhaps I could pull at the thread of her sympathy. Perhaps, just once, I could be seen as something other than a burden.
But her disgust was unflinching.
Her lips curled, her gaze turned to ice. And then, with a voice devoid of care, she muttered, flat as a dying flame:
"Yeah, we crashing."
Before I could even grasp the meaning, she screamed. A sharp, piercing shriek that split the carnival's cheer in half and pointed every wandering eye straight at me. Fingers rose. Faces turned.
Ah, shit—
I panicked. My hand darted to my pouch, and silver coins spilled from it, clattering against her palm, the table, the ground. I threw them like a man warding off spirits, desperate to be rid of the moment. Then I turned and fled, my cry of sorrow tearing out of me raw and broken.
I shoved through the crowd—children stumbling, merchants cursing, mothers clutching their little ones. Confusion swirled, anger rose, and still I ran, their mutters following me like hounds.
And then… silence.
I found myself inside a restaurant, chest heaving, sweat soaking my brow. Lantern light flickered across puzzled faces, and the scent of roasted meat filled the air.
I stared around me, bewildered, despair pressing against my ribs.
"This is not where I wished to go!" I hissed under my breath. "By the gods, not this!"
But there was no undoing it. No escape yet.
For now, I had to hide.
That was my first priority.
I glanced around the restaurant, searching for a quiet corner to disappear into. Instead, I found every set of eyes—patrons, staff, even a boy scrubbing the floor—fixed on me with barely restrained fury.
Why? Why are they glaring like that? What sin have I committed against them? I only ran, I only hid!
Mom… I want to go home, I whimpered deep inside, a child's cry buried in a man's chest.
Then came the sound. A heavy stomp, distant at first, echoing through the chamber. Another. Louder. Closer. The very tables quivered, plates rattling with each step. My heart lurched.
Wait. It's coming here. Towards me!
I turned, breath caught in my throat, and there it was: a towering figure in an apron, shoulders like stone walls, moving with grim certainty.
A huge man—no, wait. By the name of the god… that's a woman!
Panic clawed at me. My thoughts spun, wild and desperate. Evaporate! Yes, I'll evaporate! My body shimmered, dissolving into vapor, scattering into the rafters. But fate is cruel. A cloud cannot stay a cloud in a room full of breath and smoke. Within seconds, I reformed, slumped in my chair once more, every eye still locked on me.
And then she was upon me.
I looked up into her shadow, heart hammering, and summoned every ounce of pitiful charm I could muster. My lips trembled, words spilling awkward and small:
"I… I'm sorr—"
I did not finish.
A hand like iron closed around me. The floor vanished beneath my feet, my body flailing in the air like a caught fish. I rattled and kicked, waving my limbs in silent protest, but her grip did not loosen.
Then, without warning, the blow came. A slap—clean, and merciless—that echoed louder than the stomp before it.
I hung there, stunned, cheek blazing red, my voice a broken whimper.
"…I'm sorry… woof."
Without realizing it, I was already kneeling on the floor—both knees pressed into the wooden boards, arms folded tightly against my thighs like a schoolboy awaiting punishment. I sat properly, head bowed, while the towering woman loomed above me with pride and anger mingling in her stare.
Gods preserve me… why must you look at me like that? For heaven's sake, please—look anywhere but me!
Then, before either of us could move, the ground shuddered.
The tables rattled, mugs tipped, patrons shrieked. The very air trembled with a deep groan, as though the earth itself were tired of bearing our weight. Panic spread instantly—even to her.
Yes, even her! The apron-clad giantess who slapped me without hesitation—she stumbled back, eyes wide, face pale as if she had spotted… cockroaches.
…Wait. She had.
I felt it first: a soft, wriggling rub against my bare foot. I froze, slowly lowering my gaze—only to find them. Dozens. No, hundreds. Cockroaches. Crawling, swarming, writhing at my feet.
"Great heaven—there really are cockroaches?!"
My scream cracked the air. I bolted, shoving through chairs and bodies alike, crashing out into the open streets as the world heaved beneath me.
But it was not mere insects.
The earth roared, splitting stones, swallowing carts. The shaking grew, thunderous, and I stumbled, falling hard onto my hands. From behind me, I heard it again—the stomp. She was chasing me still, apron flapping like a war banner.
And then, I saw it.
To the west, where the great city stood proud, the ground erupted. A tower—massive, black, and full of terror—tore its way skyward, rising like a claw from the abyss. Ominous, jagged, alive with power.
Shapes spilled forth from its shadow. First, small and many—crawling, skittering. Then larger, hulking, winged. The air itself seemed to curdle.
Monsters.
All kinds, all shapes, too many to name. And then—I froze, blood draining from my face. Among them I saw it. A great beast with fur of midnight, eyes like burning coals, and fangs that gleamed like steel.
A Fenrir.
No. It's more than one.
And behind them came others, even greater—titans whose very forms made the Fenrir look like pups. Creatures whose presence alone cracked the air with despair.
My chest tightened, my vision spun.
"…What… what are those things?" I whispered.
But the answer was already clawing at my gut.
The world was ending—and somehow, gods help me, I was still the fool kneeling on the floor of it.
Without thinking straight, I raised my hands.
Toward the tower. Toward the swarm. Toward the doom spilling from the west.
A spell. One I had sworn never to touch again. One that should remain buried with the labyrinth, with the Fenrir, with the blood I spilled that day.
But this time… this time, it was for humanity.
The air thickened as mana erupted from me. Circles bloomed across my hands, intricate and endless, crawling up my fingers until every inch of skin was etched in light. I felt my body strain, my veins boiling, my chest threatening to tear apart. My insides twisted—lungs seared, bones cracked, flesh burned from within.
And then, the light came.
From my eyes, my mouth, my nose, from every fragile hole the gods had placed in this wretched body, pure azure radiance poured forth. I was hollowed out and filled with fire. I was a man no longer, but a beacon screaming against the dark.
"AAAAAAHHHHHHH!"
The pain ripped through me, but still I held it, still I fed the spell. My body shook, on the brink of shattering.
Above, the heavens split.
A meteor, vast as a moon, descended from the void.
It burned brighter than the sun, wrapped in runes, tearing the sky asunder as it fell toward the earth. The air screamed with it, the ground quaked in terror, the monsters howled as shadows fled before its fire.
"It's all right…" I gasped between screams, my voice breaking. "It's all right if some are lost… if I am lost. So long as the world endures. Forgive me… forgive me, my villagers…"
Then the world ended in light.
The meteor struck.
The explosion bloomed, swallowing horizon and tower alike, fire and ash rolling across the land like a new dawn.
And I fell, emptied, broken, praying that somewhere in that inferno, salvation outweighed the sacrifice.
Suddenly, light.
Not the blaze of the meteor, not the fire of destruction—no, this was different. This was the light you see when your eyes are closed tight, yet something burns just beyond your lids. Gentle, insistent.
Wait… I can open my eyes?
I blinked, my head heavy, and lifted it slowly. Gone was the battlefield, gone the ash and ruin. Instead… silk. Gold-thread curtains swayed in the breeze. Crystal chandeliers gleamed above me. I lay upon a bed far too fine for the likes of me, the sheets softer than clouds.
And all around—maids.
Dozens of them, clad in black and white, hovering at the edges of the chamber. Their eyes were wide, their faces pale, as though they stood in the presence of some demon.
They were staring at me.
Scared of me.
"What… is this?" My voice rasped, foreign even to my own ears. I pushed myself upright, my hands trembling against the velvet sheets.
Then I saw it.
To my left, a mirror stood tall in its gilded frame. I turned my head, slow as if the world itself might shatter with the motion, and what I saw froze my breath.
The reflection staring back… but it was not mine.
Not the ragged wanderer, not the forgotten fool with weary eyes and hollow cheeks. This face was sharp, radiant, touched with something divine.
Hair like polished silver spilled across my shoulders. My skin glowed faintly, traced with veins of light. And my eyes—gods, my eyes blazed bright, as though the meteor itself had chosen to dwell inside them.
Handsome? No. This was beyond. Terrifyingly beautiful.
I touched my cheek, and the reflection touched back.
And the maids shrank farther away.
"…Oh, gods," I whispered, dread and disbelief tangling in my throat. "What have I become?"