"The Cockroach That Refused to Perish"
No people ever truly die in the world of Fletcher; there are only peoples who forget how to endure.
And amid the ruins of history—ruins that have collapsed no fewer than seven times—the name Zeneris has always emerged again, like a stain of ink that no amount of scraping could ever wholly erase from the parchment of the world.
In an age so ancient it has long since lost even its own reckoning of time, the world of Fletcher did not fall once, nor for a single cause, but many times—each collapse born of the slow accumulation of civilizational sin. War, avarice, ambition ripened too early, and prayers spoken without comprehension all mingled into a tempest of history that wrung the world dry. Each era named its destruction differently: The Cleansing, The Rebalancing, The Narrative Correction. Yet the truth beneath the names never changed—the world died, and was rebuilt atop its own bones.
And every time it happened, the clan of Zeneris was there.
They were never heroes in the official chronicles, nor often recorded as villains. Their name appeared instead in footnotes, incomplete reports, and archives deliberately censored. For they never stood at the forefront of history—they lived between its lines.
"Creatures that cannot die even after being slain," cynical historians called them.
"Cockroaches," other nations muttered, with equal parts disgust and envy.
The epithet endured—not because the Zeneris were invulnerable to blade or spell, but because they possessed a trait the world found unforgivable: the ability to retreat without surrendering purpose. They knew when to flee, when to kneel, and when to wait—and in a world enamored with martyrs, such wisdom was deemed a sin.
Yet to Blenoris Zeneris, the cockroach was no insult.
It was a symbol.
A creature that survives amid ruin, feeding upon the remnants of fallen worlds, evolving not to become beautiful—but simply to remain.
And it was there, upon an endless meadow wrought by a will beyond the world, that Blenoris sat facing his own fate.
The sky of that dimension bore no sun, yet it was bright. Light came from everywhere at once, gentle as a memory recalled too often. The wind stirred without chill, carrying the suggestion of grass rather than its scent—a concept of fragrance, rather than the thing itself.
Across from him sat Zrenis Fran Chey, his posture almost offensively relaxed for one who bore the weight of nine worlds upon his shoulders. His long robes spilled over the grass, which did not bend beneath him, as though reality itself refused to mark his presence.
"Zeneris has risen seven times," Zrenis said lightly, though his voice carried an echo that belonged to no air. "And it shall rise again, whether this world approves or not."
Blenoris lowered his head, his hands clasped tightly together, the veins upon them standing taut as though restraining something that threatened to break free.
"Seven times risen," he murmured. "And seven times branded parasites."
Zrenis smiled faintly. "Parasites steal to live. Your clan does not steal, Blenoris—it endures. This world merely despises those who refuse to die when commanded."
Blenoris exhaled slowly—the breath of a man who had long since buried his own dreams.
"In every collapse," he said softly, "Zeneris survives… but never triumphs. We live, yet always in shadow. Our children grow upon stories of a world that loathes them."
He fell silent, then released a short, bitter laugh—like an old wound torn open.
"That is why we are called cockroaches. Because we are never permitted to be anything else."
Zrenis rose to his feet. The grass did not stir.
"And precisely because of that," he said, meeting Blenoris's gaze directly, "the Imaginary Tree has chosen you."
The words struck with the weight of a hammer shattering time itself.
"Not because you are strong," Zrenis continued without embellishment. "Not because you are gifted. But because you know what it means to be buried alive by history—and to choose breath nonetheless."
Blenoris lifted his face slowly, his eyes widening.
"The World Tree… chose a failure?"
Zrenis laughed quietly, genuinely. "The World Tree chooses those who do not require recognition in order to survive."
Silence enveloped them. Beside the bench, the strange vending machine hummed softly, a mute witness to a meeting that was never meant to be recorded.
"I know you wish to refuse," Zrenis said at last. "And I know why."
Blenoris closed his eyes.
"My daughter," he whispered. "My wife."
He did not speak their names, yet the echo of his love filled the space. The image of Vleresia—green hair fading into gold, her quiet breathing in sleep—rose in his mind with painful clarity.
"I do not wish to be the father who vanishes," he went on. "I do not wish to be remembered as the man who abandoned his family for ambitions long dead."
Zrenis stepped closer, then knelt before Blenoris—a gesture so unexpected it stole his breath.
"And for that very reason," Zrenis said calmly, cruel in his honesty, "you must go."
Blenoris stared at him.
"If you remain," Zrenis continued, "you will die before your daughter does. And when the prophesied catastrophe arrives—you will not even live long enough to regret it."
The word catastrophe echoed, dragging with it visions of a fractured future.
"Vleresia," Zrenis said, "is not merely a child. She is a narrative nexus. A catastrophe-level existence. The world of Fletcher will tremble simply because she exists."
Blenoris ground his teeth.
"And you would have me abandon her out of fear?" he demanded. "Or because fate wishes me to die alone?"
Zrenis rose once more.
"I would have you live long enough to protect her."
Silence descended again, heavier than before. Blenoris bowed his head, his shoulders trembling.
"I once dreamed," he whispered, "of raising Zeneris to the highest order. Not as a shadow. Not as a cockroach."
His hands clenched.
"I wished for us to become something that could no longer be crushed."
Zrenis inclined his head.
"And that," he said, "is true evolution."
The soul contract bore no radiant light, no thunder of heaven. No blood was shed, no sigil burned into flesh. Only a single sentence spoken by Blenoris—his voice scarcely louder than a prayer.
"I accept."
The dimension folded in upon itself, like a book gently closed.
Blenoris's study returned, silent as before. Rain still fell beyond the window, tapping the glass with the patient rhythm of mourning. His coat still lay over the small body of Vleresia upon the sofa. She slept, unaware that the world had shifted a single step for her sake.
Blenoris approached, knelt, and gazed upon her face for a long while.
"Papa will go," he whispered. "Not because Papa does not love you."
His hand trembled as he withdrew the coat, as though fearing that final touch might bind him forever.
"But because Papa loves you too much."
He rose, walked to the window, and looked into the rain as one might look into the future—dark, long, and unavoidable.
Beyond the curtain of rain, fate was waiting.
And Blenoris Zeneris stepped toward it, carrying the hope of a cockroach that dared to dream of becoming an eternal monster.
"The Sword That Remembered Its Name"
That night descended in an unfamiliar manner—not as a simple veil of darkness closing upon the day, but as a heavy quilt that pressed upon the chest of every being still awake. A gentle wind wandered through the corridors of the Zeneris estate, slipping between aged windows and stone pillars that had borne witness to far more farewells than celebrations.
Blenoris stood at the threshold of the family study, gazing upon his daughter asleep upon the sofa, his coat still draped neatly over her small form. Vleresia's breathing was steady—far too tranquil for a world quietly stealing her father away. Her face was innocent, untouched by the knowledge of loss, unfamiliar with the meaning of parting, let alone fate.
He reached out, hesitated, then lifted her with a care bordering on reverence—as though a single misstep might awaken not only Vleresia, but his own resolve.
"Sleep," he whispered. "Papa will only… be gone for a little while."
His steps toward her chamber were slow, each footfall a silent countdown. When he laid her upon the small bed carved with ancient floral patterns—work shaped by the hands of Zeneris ancestors—he adjusted the blanket with the care of one preparing an altar for a fragile future.
His hand lingered in the air for several heartbeats before retreating.
He dared not kiss her brow.
For fear that such a small touch might rob him of the strength to leave.
With a chest that felt narrower than before, Blenoris departed her room and entered his own. The chamber lay silent, lit only by an oil lamp whose flickering glow resembled a resolve not wholly confident in itself.
He opened the wardrobe and packed what little he would need—no luxuries, no promise of return. Until his gaze fell upon a box in the corner.
The box was old, its edges cracked, its wood faded by time. Yet for that very reason, it felt more alive than any other object in the room.
Blenoris knelt.
His fingers brushed its surface, trembling slightly. A bitter smile crossed his face—the smile of a man who realized he must reclaim his own soul after years of pretending it had never existed.
"At last," he murmured. "I have returned."
The box opened with a soft sound—reluctant, as though it had waited far too long.
Within lay a sword.
Red—not the savage red of blood, but a deep, tranquil crimson, like a sunset refusing the night. A single golden line ran straight along the center of the blade, firm and unyielding, as though it were the axis between destruction and control. The hilt was forged of pure iron fused with Clexil, a rare metal that responded only to the soul of its rightful bearer.
The moment Blenoris grasped it—
A low hum filled the chamber.
The blade trembled—not in menace, but in longing.
As though it had waited an eternity for the same hand.
"Sword of Vleus…" Blenoris whispered.
He had forged it himself—at the age of twelve, when other children learned to read history, while he was already inscribing fate with hammer and flame. The sword was not merely a weapon; it was a fragment of his soul, the first requirement upon the path of Phaldium.
But that path had been severed.
That incident—the humiliating defeat, the shattered arm, the ruin of his pride—had driven him to abandon the blade, and in doing so, abandon himself. He drowned in drink, in nights without mornings, until a small tavern bore witness to the collapse of a would-be legend.
And it was there he met Friesy.
A barmaid with silver hair, and eyes the blue of the open sea—far too clear for a place like that.
Blenoris smiled faintly at the memory.
"To propose in a tavern," he muttered. "I truly had no dignity left."
The door opened softly.
Friesy stood there, clad in a simple nightdress that rendered her more real than any luxury Blenoris had ever known. Her silver hair fell loose, her eyes still marked by moisture from having just returned from the washroom.
She looked at Blenoris—and at the case beside him.
Without question, without sound, she approached.
"You always pack like this," she said gently as she straightened his clothes. "As though you mean to go far… but wish me not to notice."
Blenoris swallowed.
"I—"
Friesy rested her head upon his shoulder.
"Shhh… no need to explain," she murmured. "I am your wife. I know everything about you."
The words were simple—and devastating.
Blenoris closed his eyes. He wished to tell her all of it—about Zrenis, about Phaldium, about the world that would devour them—but the words never came.
They spoke of trivial things. The weather. Vleresia's growing fondness for that strange novel. Of matters unimportant—precisely because the important ones were too painful to name.
When the case was closed, Friesy took Blenoris's hand.
Then she kissed him—softly, deeply, as though storing away a longing meant to last an age.
Days passed.
Zrenis did not return.
Friesy continued to smile, to care for Vleresia, to fulfill her role as wife and mother with quiet grace. Yet beneath that smile, her chest tightened. She wished to scream, to weep, to seize Blenoris and beg him not to go.
But she knew.
She was but an ordinary wife.
And Vleresia—seeing her mother's eyes glisten—staggered forward, grasped Friesy's hand, and patted it gently.
"Mama…"
The sound shattered her last defense.
Friesy wept.
She held her daughter tightly, her sobs breaking without voice. Vleresia, innocent and unknowing, merely smiled and patted her mother's shoulder—as though offering comfort she could not yet understand.
The day arrived.
Friesy stood outside, holding Vleresia, who clutched her beloved novel. Blenoris emerged dressed immaculately—almost like a noble of high station. His cravat sat askew.
Friesy smiled faintly.
"You are always terrible with this," she said, straightening it.
Their faces were too close.
The final kiss followed—without words, without false promises.
Blenoris knelt before Vleresia.
"Be strong," he said gently. "And… do not forget Papa."
As he walked toward Zrenis, the light of teleportation began to glow.
Friesy ran to him, embracing him with all the love she possessed—leaving nothing behind.
Tears mingled with smiles.
The light swallowed Blenoris.
He vanished wearing a smile that meant: I will return.
And Friesy—smiling through her tears—believed.
For all their roles were now in motion.
Toward the highest order.
And many years later—
When Vleresia reached the age of four—
Fate came knocking once more.