Silence reigned within the dynasty of the Great Macedonian Kingdom.
The grand palace stood vast and unmoving beneath a dim and heavy sky, its marble halls echoing with the quiet steps of servants who no longer dared to speak. Once, these corridors had been filled with music, laughter, and the proud voices of warriors returning from conquest — now they carried only the whispers of fear and prayer. The entire court seemed to breathe in mourning. Curtains of black silk veiled the windows, as though the palace itself sought to shut out the world's light. The scent of incense clung to the air — a futile attempt to mask the bitter smell of sickness spreading from the eastern wing, where the King's brother lay confined.
And of course, there was a reason — a great one — for such a vast kingdom to drown in grief. The brother of the King had fallen ill with a disease no physician could name. Days turned to months, and months to years, and the people had begun to whisper that even the gods had turned their gaze away from the house of Macedon.
That night, his condition began to worsen. Fortunately, the King's brother didn't care as much as the rest of the family. Even though he was in pain, he just wanted to die peacefully in his bed.
Peacefully?
The word felt foreign.
A large crowd had gathered around his bed, all looking anxious, as if he truly mattered, as if he were someone important. As the King's brother, what had he really accomplished? At that moment, he didn't dwell on it much, for his death was very near and he knew there was no escaping it — nor did he wish to. His mind was no longer troubled. The people around him whispered quietly among themselves, while the King stood at the front of the crowd, watching over his brother's side.
The King could no longer hide his worry and finally spoke.
"My brother… you don't look well. Please, say something. I know you wish to escape your pain, but stay with us. Endure, just a little longer."
The King's brother had grown weaker, yet he managed to whisper a reply.
"My life was never peaceful to begin with… so let me, at least, die peacefully. I don't want to endure anymore. I just want to close my eyes and—"
His voice faltered. The King tried to hold back his tears, unwilling to interrupt him.
His words were cut short. People rushed closer; some wept loudly, others silently. The King fell to his knees, crying out to his fading brother. Even if Baal could no longer speak, he could still hear the sorrow trembling in his brother's voice.
"MY BROTHER, PLEASE— STAY WITH US!"
The King clung to him, shaking.
"BAAL… DON'T DO THIS TO US!"
"BAAL!!"
Even in his final moments, Baal was lost in dark thoughts.
Baal? Right… My name was Baal, wasn't it? At the same time, it was the name he hated hearing the most. It had been nothing but an empty life.
Baal had completely detached from the real world. He could feel his soul leaving his body, and how his body was left behind. He couldn't hear the people around him anymore.
Baal was completely dead.
Suddenly, his eyes opened, and he was standing. The first thing he saw was a massive palace on top of a distant mountain. Looking around, he was certain he wasn't in Macedonia anymore. The city was filled with buildings he had never seen before — tall, tower-like, colorful, and not made of wood. The streets twisted between them, lined with structures that gleamed under the sun, their rooftops intricate, almost impossibly detailed.
Baal had woken up in a Victorian-style city, unlike any place he had known.
Am I dead?