It was dark.
Not the gentle darkness of nightfall, but the absolute void left behind after annihilation.
Planets drifted in shattered fragments. Galaxies lay scattered like broken glass across the endless black. Whatever faint light remained flickered weakly, as though hope itself refused to surrender.
On one of the ruined planets, beneath a mountain of jagged stone, a young man lay crushed and dying.
He could not move. He could barely breathe.
Yet he was still alive.
He had never imagined his life would end like this.
His dark green hair was matted with crimson—his own blood, most likely. He stared up at the sky where an atmosphere no longer existed to soften the stars. His entire life flashed before him in vivid, merciless fragments.
He remembered childhood afternoons spent sneaking into golden fields with his friends. The sharp rebukes of his rude father. The tired, gentle smile of his caring mother. The endless fights with his annoying little sister. The soft face of his lovely wife and the bright laughter of his cute son.
They were all safe now, somewhere in Lumenia—the only place that had not been destroyed, at least according to the last intelligence he had received.
A weak smile crept across his bloodied lips. It was a happy smile, yet it hid a lifetime of regret. He was proud he had fought in this war and contributed, even if only a little. He felt a quiet happiness knowing his family and the coming generation could live in peace. But beneath it lay the deeper ache of not being able to return as he had promised.
With the last of his strength, he dragged his right hand free from beneath the boulder and raised it toward the sky, fingers straining as if he could seize the stars themselves. In a voice no louder than a whisper—audible only to him—he spoke his final words.
"Long live… Lumenia."
His eyes lost all luster. His hand fell back to the ground.
The life of a loving father, a caring brother, a grateful son, and a cheerful husband ended there.
He was, in truth, one of the lucky ones. Many others had died so suddenly they never even realized it; their bodies now floated silently through the ruined universe. Others had suffered long, gruesome deaths, their blood painting entire planets. The war had been merciless.
At the center of the universe, the surviving figures gathered in small, wary clusters, floating around a colossal horizontal golden sphere. Three immense golden ropes stretched outward from it, vanishing into the distance where even sight failed.
Every living being stared at the sphere with fear and alertness. Golden specks poured from its surface like glittering snow, raining down in a surreal celebration none of them felt. The survivors panted, sweat-slicked and exhausted, weapons and bodies still trembling from the battle.
Gradually the golden specks settled. The mists inside the sphere calmed. Then the sphere itself, along with its three ropes, faded away like a dying dream. Only then did the tension in the air begin to ease.
From the southeast group, a tall young man with gleaming Egyptian-blue hair and sky-blue eyes raised his right arm. His voice rang out, calm yet commanding.
"Now that 'He' is dead, shall we consider this war over? If any of you wish to continue fighting, I will oblige. But know this: the only outcome will be the death of us all—and the end of the universe itself. Choose wisely."
The southeast group glowed with an almost ethereal beauty. Their skin was pale and luminous, adorned with wings of every color. Even injured, they looked like perfect beings stepped out of a divine painting—angels descended from some forgotten heaven.
A black-winged angel turned to the blue-eyed man and answered, "We have suffered far too many casualties. We have no desire to fight any longer."
To the northeast, a group armed with battered Gundams, mechas, and advanced weaponry waited. A man with black hair and light-purple eyes climbed out of his damaged machine, purple lightning crackling across his skin as black cubes orbited him. His expression was thunderous.
"I also have no wish to continue this war," he declared. "It seems we are all in agreem—"
He stopped mid-sentence. The other two groups froze as well. Their eyes widened in unison.
The golden sphere had reformed.
Terror swept across every face.
Inside the sphere, the golden specks swirled faster, coalescing into three distinct flames—each burning a different color.
The leftmost flame was pale blue, shimmering with white motes. The central flame burned bright gold, flecked with white particles. The rightmost flickered light purple, violet sparks dancing along its edges.
From the first group, a beautiful woman with long dark-purple hair and matching eyes raised her hand, fingers poised to flick the flames into oblivion. A crazed smile curved her lips.
The blue-eyed man signaled her to stop. She looked visibly annoyed, but before either could speak, the pale-blue flame surged upward. It formed a protective wall that sealed off the southwest, cutting the universe in two. The golden flame followed, creating a barrier around the north and south. The light-purple flame completed the division, sealing the northeast. In an instant, the three factions were separated into their own isolated regions.
A strange calm washed over them. Their bodies felt stronger. Wounds began to close rapidly. Pain faded. Even their exhaustion lifted—except for the deepest injuries, which remained.
Confused but unwilling to question the miracle, the leader of the third group ordered one of his men to test the barrier. The soldier crossed the purple wall into the blue region. The moment he did, a crushing pressure slammed onto his back. His healing faltered. He raised his weapon and fired a purple energy bolt; the shot was noticeably weaker. Realizing the danger, he retreated at once. The instant he returned to his own region, the oppressive weight vanished and relief flooded him.
The black-winged angel let out a low laugh. "It seems 'He' left us one final gift—to stop us from fighting until the next time."
From above, fresh golden specks of dust began to fall. They drifted down across planets, galaxies, and every living being, breathing new life into the ruined cosmos. Most were absorbed. A few drifted untouched, left stranded in the void.
The three groups sent envoys to negotiate the return of their fallen soldiers. Every warrior had fought to the end for their faction. Giving them proper burials and respectful funerals was the very least they could do.
All other diplomatic matters were left to the envoys.
The blue-haired man finally exhaled in relief and prepared to return to Lumenia. Only then did he notice one of his own was missing.
"Where is Eric?" he whispered.
He scanned the area and spotted him at the very edge of the blue wall, staring down into the place where the golden sphere had once floated.
Eric had pink hair and rose-pink eyes. He wore a skin-tight pink bodysuit fitted with a built-in tool belt, gloves, and boots. He hovered there, gazing into the abyss as though the void itself were staring back.
He slipped his left hand into his pocket, pulled out a single unabsorbed golden speck, and studied it with quiet intensity. It looked no different from ordinary glitter, yet something about it felt… wrong. He sighed, then flicked the speck downward. He watched it fall into the darkness until its light was swallowed completely.
A tap on his left shoulder made him turn. The blue-haired man stood there, smiling gently.
"Hey, Eric. No time to stare into the void. Let's head back to Lumenia. You still have plenty of plans to make."
Eric brushed the hand from his shoulder with a soft, gentle smile of his own.
"You're right, Sashiro. We should go."
He paused, glanced once more into the darkness, then looked back at his friend.
"What will you do once we return?" he asked.
Sashiro rested his left hand on his chin, thinking for a moment.
"I'll help Adrian rebuild Lumenia. Get married. Have children. Build a family. Grow old. And die quietly after hiding my inheritance."
Eric's smile widened, warm and sincere.
"I hope to do the same."
…
In a rented apartment in the Khamovniki District of Moscow, Russia, the night was cold and rainy.
Everyone in the city slept soundly after another day of hard work—including the couple in room 003 on the ground floor of Lux Apartments.
The bedroom door and window were shut tight. Eric Heisenberg lay on his back, eyes closed, when a sudden vision flashed behind his eyelids: the Eiffel Tower, sharp and unmistakable.
His closed eyes flickered. Slowly, they opened.
The room was so quiet he could hear every raindrop tapping against the glass. Distant cars and motorcycles passed occasionally, their headlights sweeping faint patterns across the ceiling.
He sat up. His eyes adjusted to the darkness. On the dressing table, makeup and skincare products lay scattered in cheerful disarray. He stared at them for a long moment, then whispered to himself in a dazed voice:
"So Paris is our next destination."
He glanced to his left. His wife, Ruby Whiteheart, slept with her back to him. Her Kelly-green hair spilled across the pillow. Her thick black lashes rested against skin as pale as snow. Her delicate features looked soft and vulnerable in sleep.
Beautiful.
Eric looked away. To his right stood a small table with drawers where they kept their identification cards, cash, and daily necessities—scissors, pens, paper, spare clothes. He reached down silently, careful not to wake her.
His own pink hair fell in short bangs across the right side of his face, hiding his right eye. The visible left eye glowed the same rose-pink as his hair, bright even in the dark. It had startled many people in the past. To him, it was simply part of who he was now.
He slipped out of bed in loose black pajamas and padded barefoot across the room. He opened the door without a sound, stepped into the short hallway, and turned left toward the bathroom at the end.
Before entering, he paused at the window beside the door. Rain traced slow paths down the glass. Parked cars lined the street, but not a single soul walked outside. Occasional headlights swept past. His own reflection stared back at him from the wet pane.
He turned the doorknob and stepped inside.
The bathroom was cold. A normal person would have shivered. Eric barely felt it. He walked straight to the sink, placed both hands on the edges, and looked into the mirror.
His pink hair, his glowing left eye, and the right bang covering the other eye were all clearly reflected.
He turned on the tap and washed his hands. Then his breathing quickened. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead. He splashed water on his face, looked straight into the mirror again, and used his right hand to brush the bang aside.
Both rose-pink eyes now glowed faintly in the light.
His reflection showed everything—except his own eyes.
There was nothing there.
No reflection.
No presence.
As if the mirror itself refused to acknowledge him.
He closed his eyes for a few seconds, then opened them again.
A gentle, yet deeply unsettling smile slowly spread across his face. He stared at the empty sockets in the glass and whispered, voice low and intimate:
"The memories are coming back."