.Vael's life, if summarized in three words, was: Notebook, Pen, and Isolation.
He had spent all thirty years of his life sequestered in a small apartment above a laundromat in a sprawling North American city. To the outside world, he was an unsuccessful writer, primarily known for the occasional profound line of romantic poetry he would drop on obscure online forums. But his true sanctuary lay in the thick, leather-bound diary tucked away beneath his mattress.
This morning was dedicated, as always, to his craft. The chilly February air, the scent of stale coffee, and a new thought flowing with unnatural ease through his fingers. Vael was meticulously etching the opening lines of his latest poem. He had foregone sleep for this moment, driven by the elusive idea of perfect love.
"They say, her lips are molded not from common words, but the hidden nectar of paradise; The mere contemplation makes the tired soul tremble, and a singular gaze brings hurried time to a gentle halt."
He smiled, satisfied with the lyrical quality, and set the fountain pen down. What magnificent lines! Anyone reading that would immediately assume the poet possessed a lover—a muse—of divine, otherworldly perfection. But the stark truth was that Vael had never so much as held a girl's hand with intent, let alone received or given a kiss. His love existed solely in the ink of his journal. His longing was a theoretical construct, deeper than any lived experience, and his passion ripened only in fantasy. This was his defining irony: to write with the emotional depth of a seasoned paramour yet remain utterly untouched by reality.
"They'll probably think I'm breaking up with a secret girlfriend again, just to get this kind of raw emotion," Vael muttered to himself, letting out a small, self-mocking laugh.
He needed eggs and bread from the corner market before the rush hour began. He closed the diary, inhaled its unique, comforting scent (a blend of old paper and dried ink), and carefully shoved it back into its hiding spot.
As he walked along the narrow, rain-slicked sidewalk, his mind was utterly preoccupied with the next stanza. In his imagination, he was still painting the image of that mythical woman—the one composed of fire and starlight—that he had never met. His focus was so absolute, so divorced from his surroundings, that he failed to register the blaring alarm or the approaching mechanical terror.
A sudden, deafening horn blare. A terrifyingly fast, municipal dump truck, moving far too quickly for the residential zone. Vael's eyes snapped open in sheer terror, but his body's panic reaction was too slow to matter. The next instant brought a massive, skull-jarring impact, a brief, incandescent spike of agony, and then, only absolute, profound silence.
When consciousness sluggishly returned, Vael's first, logical thought was that he must be in a hospital Emergency Room. But this place bore no resemblance to sterile white walls. Everything around him shimmered with pure gold and pristine white light. The floor felt like polished, cold silver, and the ceiling was not a sky, but a fusion of thousands of swirling galaxies and stars.
And facing him...
Sat a being who radiated an unbelievable, ancient calm. His eyes held the knowledge of the entire universe, and his face bore the unending exhaustion of eons of cosmic stewardship. He wore simple, linen robes, but his power made the very space reverberate softly.
"Welcome, Vael," the being said in a deep, comforting voice that sounded like wind chimes played underwater. "The fact that you are here means the legendary Truck-Kun has executed his duty flawlessly once again."
Vael was completely bewildered. "Truck-Kun? Who... what is that? And where exactly am I? Did I... actually die?"
The being smiled, a gentle upturn of his lips. "Yes, you are deceased. And I... you may refer to me as the Architect, or simply God. I am the Guardian and Controller of this adjacent realm, a fractured world named Aethel."
God Aethel took a heavy, melancholic breath. "Vael, your diary... your verses, they reached me even here. Poem: Unfinished Love, Undimmed Light... what incredible, heartbreaking writing! It is extraordinary."
Vael's mind spun with disbelief. "My diary? You... you had access to my private, embarrassing poetry?"
"I didn't just read it, I experienced it. And that, Vael, is what compelled me to bring you here," Aethel said, his sadness palpable. "My world, Aethel, is utterly drained by endless war, bloodshed, and savage power struggles. The men have only learned to lift the sword and the women, though far stronger, have only learned to survive with ruthless, emotional isolation. Love, romance, tenderness... all of it has vanished. No one has penned a true poem in a thousand years."
God looked straight into Vael's soul. "Your poetry holds a magic, Vael, a power that no sword can wield. I want you to go to Aethel. Spread love there. You must become a peace emissary, disguised as a poet."
Vael started to laugh, a strained, desperate sound. "Me? A peace emissary? God, I have only known love in my imagination for thirty years. In reality, I once set off a fire alarm trying to boil water. And those people there are warriors? They will simply brutally murder me!"
Aethel's eyes twinkled with a flicker of cosmic mischief. "That's precisely why your objective must be suitably magnificent, Vael, to ensure your motivation is absolute."
The God raised a single index finger. "You will be transferred to Aethel. Your poetry will be infused with divine, mind-altering power, capable of touching the deepest, most shielded parts of their hearts. And your target is this: to acquire more than 100 wives. Not through deception or force, but through genuine, heartfelt connection and the sheer might of your poetry. The more wives you gain, the more love and peace will permeate this scarred world. Each wife will be a catalyst for change. If you succeed, the world will be healed."
Vael's mind was in total, catastrophic chaos. One Hundred Wives? The man who was too shy to order a latte in person!
"And what if I... fail this impossible task?" Vael asked, his voice barely a whisper.
"Then your soul will be forced to wander forever in that war-torn realm, bound to the land you failed to save. And my world will remain plagued by unending conflict." Aethel's face was solemn. "Now go, Vael. Conquer the world not with muscle, but with metaphor. Your verses have been blessed with divine enchantment. Use it to survive and to thrive."
Aethel closed his eyes. The next moment, Vael saw a blinding, white light again, followed by the terrifying sensation of being yanked and spun through an endless tunnel.
When Vael's eyes snapped open, he immediately smelled damp earth and pine needles. The soil was uncomfortably close to his nose. He coughed and brushed the dirt from his face. He was in a deep, ancient forest. The air was impossibly cold, and the trees were colossal and alien, casting long, strange shadows. A small leather satchel was slung across his back, containing only his diary and his beloved pen.
"One hundred wives? That's more women than I've spoken to collectively in my entire life! And I can't even successfully make instant oatmeal..." Vael whined softly, pushing himself up.
Just then, he heard the crunch of heavy boots and the sound of shifting leaves.
A glistening, razor-sharp sword blade suddenly came to rest flat against his throat. Holding the sword was a tall, commanding woman. Her long hair was the striking color of raging flame, and her eyes possessed the cold, unyielding resolve of a hardened frontline warrior. She was clad head-to-toe in shining, intricate metal armour.
"Identify yourself, stranger," the woman demanded in a voice that cracked like breaking ice. There was not a milligram of tenderness in her tone.
Vael froze. The words of God boomed in his mind: Teach her 'Love'. 100 Wives.
Comedy Moment: Vael's eyelids flapped rapidly, trying to compute the impossibility of the situation. He felt as if he had brought a wilting daisy to a battle instead of a weapon.
Vael suppressed the wave of pure, abject panic and desperately tried to embody the Poet of Aethel.
"I... I am Vael," he stuttered, his voice betraying him. Then, a sudden jolt of the divine power surged through his veins. He attempted to lay the poetic foundation.
"I have descended from a realm where even the vast sky bows in reverence before the uncharted depth of your eyes."
The Warrior Lady's fiery eyebrows slammed together. "Empty words! If you are a spy for the Eastern Clans, I will dissect you right here and now!"
Vael realized his first potential conquest was about to end his life. He swiftly abandoned his conversational approach and grabbed his diary and pen from his satchel.
"Wait! Do not kill me!" Vael frantically grasped the pen and began writing on the edge of his leather cover with furious, desperate intensity. All the power of his newly blessed poetry was focused into this single, life-or-death moment