White
It stretched endlessly in all directions—unbroken, featureless, without horizon. A void so complete that its monotony would have been unbearable, if not for a single imperfection.
At the center of that expanse lay a figure.
A young man, unmoving, his gaze fixed upon what could only be described as a sky that did not exist. He wore a robe of pure white, simple in design, yet unnervingly refined, as though it belonged nowhere and everywhere at once.
His brown hair spilled backward due to his position, revealing violet eyes. Eyes that watched without understanding. There was no fear within them. No urgency.
Only confusion.
And yet, something about that gaze was deeply unsettling.
Those eyes had seen far too much for a face so young.
The white did not change.
Time, if it existed at all, left no trace behind. Stillness reigned unchallenged—absolute—until something broke it.
A flash.
Then, a fracture.
Space itself split apart, silently, effortlessly. It appeared and vanished in the same breath, its existence so brief it could have been dismissed as imagination.
When stillness returned, something was different.
The young man was no longer alone.
Beside him stood a man of indeterminate age, caught somewhere between maturity and something far older. He wore deep violet garments, lustrous and unsettling, their texture fluid, as though the fabric flowed like water frozen mid-motion.
His gaze was calm.
Too calm.
A faint smile rested upon his face, precise and measured, revealing only what he allowed.
He was the one who broke the silence.
"Hello, boy…" he said mildly. "You're the last one now. Did you know that?"
The young man slowly pushed himself upright. He had sensed the presence the moment the fracture sealed itself shut, though comprehension lagged far behind perception. He kept his expression steady…or tried to.
Everything seemed to be moving too fast. Memories of what had existed before the white void collided with the certainty that it was gone forever, something no ordinary human mind could have processed.
But he was no longer ordinary.
That much he had decided.
He raised his hands before his eyes, studying them as one might study an old photograph or a place not visited in years, yet still unmistakably familiar.
A fleeting spark of understanding crossed his violet eyes. Then his gaze returned to the man… or whatever the being sharing this space truly was.
"It's been a long time," he finally said, "since anyone has called me young."
The man's smile shifted.
The serenity faded, replaced by something else.
Something more genuine.
Amusement.
His eyes lingered on the young man with renewed interest, as though a long-standing suspicion had just been confirmed. When he spoke again, it was with the certainty of someone stating an undeniable fact.
"You would need to live a thousand lifetimes," he said, "before I ever saw you as anything but a child."
Despite the strangeness of the claim, the young man did not respond immediately. He was already adjusting. After all, this was hardly the strangest thing to occur during what felt like a brief absence from reality.
He remained silent, observing. Thinking. His thoughts moved quickly, forming possibilities without committing to any.
The man's smile vanished. Amusement gave way to something colder—controlled, assured.
"In any case," he said, "I didn't come here to discuss age."
The change was instant.
The white was gone. There was no transition, no distortion. The previous space simply ceased to be.
At the center of the landscape stood a circular structure, bordered by Greco-Roman columns. A tholos but roofless. Its purpose was not protection, but framing.
A throne rose at its heart, commanding everything around it.
Reclined upon it, utterly at ease, was the same figure as before. The man held a cluster of grapes, eating leisurely, as though the world itself existed solely for his comfort.
"I don't intend to prolong this," he said. "You died."
No emphasis was necessary.
"But you are a fortunate human," he continued. "One of the few. I have decided that you possess a purpose—one that extends beyond the conclusion of your former life."
The young man listened without interruption. By now, he had accepted allowing events to unfold.
When he spoke, his voice was steady, probing.
"And what purpose would that be?"
The man's expression twisted.
Not abruptly—but deliberately, as though selecting which mask to wear. Serenity cracked, revealing a crooked smile. It was not the smile of a warrior, nor that of a conqueror.
It was smaller.
Petty.
Far more disturbing.
The smile of one who crushes ants—not out of necessity, but because he can.
When he spoke, his tone remained casual.
"To entertain me."
Silence followed.
The young man tensed. His posture shifted, calm vigilance giving way to readiness—prepared for an ambush that might never come. The air grew heavy, oppressive.
He held that stance for what could have been a moment… or an eternity. Reassessing. Reassembling every event, searching for a pattern that refused to reveal itself.
At last, he raised his gaze and fixed it upon the figure lounging atop the throne.
"Then…" he said, "…this isn't a purpose."
The man's smile diminished. He nodded casually, as though agreeing about the weather.
"Now you understand."
He rose from the throne without looking back and descended the steps that had elevated him. In his hand remained the grape cluster—now reduced to a bare stem, a single grape dangling from it.
"I will send you to a world consumed by human resentment," he said, bringing the final grape to his mouth.
He chewed slowly, savoring it before speaking again.
"Still," he added with clear disinterest, "it would be a waste if you died too soon."
Holding the stem, he traced a simple circle in the air. At first glance, nothing seemed amiss.
But everything was.
He released the stem—yet it continued to follow the path he had drawn. It spun once. Then again. With each rotation, its speed increased… and its radius expanded.
Soon, it lost all recognizable form, becoming nothing more than a brown ring suspended in the air, spinning with unnatural consistency.
Then it changed, as if it had always been meant to.
A roulette wheel appeared—ancient, massive, made of wood.
Utterly out of place.
Utterly inevitable.
"Two spins. No more," he said. "What you receive may be enough… or it may not."
The young man never looked away.
"And if I refuse?"
The man's smile stretched, brushing against the edge of the unnatural.
"Then you die properly."
The young man's pupils widened.
And then the entity was gone.
No fracture. No flash. It simply ceased to exist—like the sun slipping beyond the horizon, or the sea roaring without asking permission.
Silence closed in.
The young man remained still, staring at the roulette wheel. It had not moved. It waited.
Countless segments divided its surface. Some bore symbols he vaguely recognized. Others meant nothing at all.
There was no real choice.
There never had been.
To live meant to accept.
To die… meant to mean nothing.
He exhaled slowly—not from fear, but to steady his thoughts.
He stepped forward. Then again. He reached out.
He intended to spin the wheel himself—but the moment his fingers touched it, the wheel began to move on its own. It spun with unnatural speed, constant and indifferent.
A minute passed. Perhaps longer.
Symbols blurred past his vision: a hammer with a handle too short, a red eye riddled with black dots, a three-headed dragon…
Until it stopped.
A cauldron.
The information did not appear before him.
It formed directly within his mind.
Culinary Mastery.
You have achieved mastery in the culinary arts.
He said nothing.
For a moment, he considered the implications.
What was he supposed to do with this?
The image of hurling a plate of pasta at a potential threat crossed his mind—and vanished just as quickly.
It wasn't worth dwelling on.
He reached for the roulette again. Having learned from before, he did not attempt to force anything.
He merely touched it.
The response was immediate. The wheel spun once more with the same detached indifference, continuing for another long minute before gradually slowing.
Symbols passed by: a triangle with a circle at its center, a shape resembling a vortex crowned by something like a bird's head…
They passed.
Until it stopped.
Two opposing wings, different in direction and color. One blue. One silver. His expression shifted—just for an instant.
I know that symbol.
The knowledge surfaced before he could think further.
Ackerman Bloodline.
Protectors without a kingdom.
Hunted even by those they swore to protect.
Ackerman…
He knew that name. Not from myth—but from stories he had followed in another life.
A figure wrapped in a red scarf, advancing with unyielding resolve. Another, eyes hollow, carving a path through bodies without pause.
No one could call them weak.
A faint smile touched his lips—before doubt crept in.
Still… how was he supposed to—
The thought ended.
White returned.
The landscape unraveled, undone as though it had never existed.
Within the void stood a figure of pure black, barely humanoid in silhouette. No features were visible—save for eyes darker than the rest of its form, impossible to focus on.
Its mouth did not move.
Yet its voice echoed from everywhere at once.
"I hope he doesn't die like the others I sent," it said mockingly. "After all… he was the only one who lived twice."
Something resembling a smile formed where its face should have been.