Zeroth did not know where he was.
At first, he thought he was dead.
Then he thought he was dreaming.
Then he realized that whatever this was, it felt far too real to be either.
The ground beneath his feet was uneven and soaked with something warm. The air was thick, heavy, pressing against his chest as if it wanted to suffocate him. He tried to breathe, but every inhale tasted like iron and smoke. His ears rang, not from silence, but from noise—too much noise. Screams. Shouts. Cries that broke halfway through and never finished.
Everywhere he looked, people were dying.
Not slowly. Not heroically.
They were stabbed, crushed, burned, torn apart. Bodies fell around him like discarded objects, collapsing into the dirt without meaning or ceremony. Some tried to crawl away, fingers clawing at the ground, only to be trampled by others who were just as desperate to survive.
Zeroth stood frozen in the middle of it all.
His legs refused to move. His hands trembled uncontrollably. His mind felt fractured, unable to fully understand what it was witnessing, yet unable to look away.
And then—he felt it.
A presence.
The screams seemed to dull, as if the world itself had drawn a breath. Zeroth slowly lifted his head.
In front of him stood a figure.
It was enormous—far taller than any human, its silhouette stretching unnaturally against the blood-red sky. It had the vague shape of a man, yet everything about it felt wrong. Its body was pitch black, not reflecting even the faintest light, as though it devoured it instead. Shadows clung to it unnaturally, writhing like something alive.
Zeroth's heart slammed against his ribs.
The figure did not move. It did not breathe. Yet Zeroth felt its gaze settle on him, heavy and suffocating.
Then it spoke.
"Every decision has its own consequences."
The voice was distorted, layered—too deep, too distant, as if it echoed from somewhere far beyond the battlefield.
"Do you remember these words?"
Zeroth's eyes widened.
The words struck something buried deep inside him. Memories surfaced—faint, fragmented voices whispering in moments when he was afraid, moments when he was desperate. Times he had convinced himself it was just his imagination. Just his mind breaking under pressure.
His chest tightened.
For a brief moment, a terrifying thought crossed his mind.
A god.
But almost immediately, he rejected it.
No. This wasn't real. This had to be a dream. His mind was playing tricks on him again—just like it always did.
"You might think I am not real," the figure continued calmly, as if responding directly to his thoughts. "But I exist nonetheless."
Zeroth clenched his fists.
"You might also think you are weak," the figure added. "Which you are."
Something inside Zeroth snapped.
"I AM NOT!" he screamed, his voice cracking. "W–Well, I am—but I'm trying! I'm trying to become stronger!"
The battlefield trembled faintly, as if reacting to his outburst.
The figure laughed.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't mocking.
It was amused.
"Well," it said, "for now, you are inside your own mind. Whether you understand that or not is irrelevant."
Zeroth swallowed hard.
The figure slowly raised an arm and gestured around them.
"Look."
Zeroth hesitated—but his eyes followed the motion.
Only then did he truly see it.
The battlefield was not random.
Everywhere he looked, it reflected something familiar. Faces twisted by fear. Hands stained with blood. People killing not out of hatred, but desperation. Survival. The need to move forward no matter the cost.
War.
Endless war.
"This," the figure said, "is your inner world."
Zeroth's breath hitched.
"There is only conflict here. Death. Suffering. Contradiction." The figure lowered its arm. "That is why you cannot wield a sword. That is why your magic rejects you."
Zeroth's knees felt weak.
"For one to become strong," the figure continued, "one must defeat oneself first. But you are not fighting yourself."
A pause.
"You are at war with yourself."
Zeroth's thoughts spiraled. His heart pounded so violently it hurt. None of this made sense—yet every word felt disturbingly accurate.
He had dreamed before. Nightmares, even.
But never like this.
Never so real.
The figure leaned forward slightly.
"What would you do," it asked, "if you died—and were given a second chance? A better beginning. A stronger clan."
Zeroth's eyes widened instantly.
The question pierced through the chaos like a blade.
"I—" His voice trembled before growing stronger. "I would try again. And again. And again. I don't care about the clan. I don't care about anything else."
He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms.
"I just want my mother to be safe."
The figure was silent for a moment.
"Your mother," it repeated slowly.
Then it asked, "What do you wish for?"
Zeroth did not hesitate.
"Power," he said. "Enough power to protect her. Enough power to end her suffering."
The figure straightened.
"Very well," it said softly. "Zukiro Zeroth."
And then—
It vanished.
Zeroth remained.
The battlefield surged back to life violently, screams crashing into him all at once. Panic flooded his chest. He turned his head left—
A man stabbed another through the throat.
Right—
Magic tore a body apart mid-scream.
Death. Everywhere.
Death. Again.
Death. Always.
Zeroth collapsed to his knees, clutching his head. He was only ten years old. His mind could not bear this. Tears streamed down his face as sobs tore from his throat uncontrollably.
"This is too much…" he whispered.
And then—
Warmth.
Gentle hands wrapped around him from behind.
He froze.
A familiar scent filled his senses.
He turned his head slowly.
His mother.
She looked just as he remembered. Tired eyes. Soft smile. Arms that had always felt like safety.
She held him close.
Her voice was calm.
"Another time," she whispered.
Another life."
The world shattered.
Her head fell.
Zeroth screamed.
The scream tore him apart from the inside, ripping through his lungs until they burned. Pain unlike anything he had ever known consumed him—
And he opened his eyes.
Tears streamed silently down his face. His body trembled. His throat ached.
He was alive.
A hospital ceiling stared back at him.
He gasped for air, chest heaving, the images refusing to fade. The battlefield. The figure. His mother.
What if… that figure was real?
He turned his head weakly.
Kaelor was sitting beside him, asleep.
Since when had he been unconscious?
A doctor noticed his movement.
"HE WOKE UP!" the man shouted.
Chaos followed.
Doctors rushed in. Kaelor jolted awake instantly.
"This is impossible," one of them muttered. "How is he alive?"
"ZEROTH!" Kaelor shouted, his voice filled with relief. "You survived, you damn brat!"
A doctor frowned. "Why were you crying when you woke up?"
Zeroth looked away.
"I–I don't know," he stammered.
Kaelor smirked.
Later, alone—
"Tell me," Kaelor said quietly by the campfire that night. "What did you see?"
Zeroth hesitated.
"…A figure," he whispered. "And my mom… died."
Kaelor laughed.
Not kindly.
Not cruelly.
Knowingly.
"I believe you," he said. "Because I think I saw it too."
Zeroth's blood ran cold.
"What… did it say to you?" he asked.
Kaelor's smile widened.
"A lot of things," he replied. "Things you're not ready to know."
And under the silent night sky, Zeroth realized—
This was only the beginning, of something far larger.