They say human beings are fascinating creatures.
Capable of adapting to anything.
To routine, to pain, to solitude… even to illusion.
The illusion that tomorrow will be better.
That things will eventually work themselves out.
That someone will come to save us.
But when facing the end of the world, these lies vanish.
Only the naked truth remains:
No one is coming.
Aren Tallcrag learned this the day the sky tore open.
The SSS-rank Gate loomed over the city like an open wound in the firmament. A black light pulsed at the heart of the breach, swallowing clouds, buildings, and screams alike. Dark-winged angels descended in silence, their slender silhouettes gliding through the ruins like judges arriving to deliver a pre-written sentence.
Aren ran.
Not to survive—he knew that was impossible. He ran because his body refused to die standing still. Around him, the Mythics fought. Lightning scorched the sky. Mana storms ravaged the streets. Illusions flickered into existence only to be swept away by those black wings.
And yet… they were losing.
Rachel Valenir—Freyja—the most powerful of them all, was on her knees. Her breath was shallow, her gaze vacant, her weapon shattered. A black angel advanced toward her, its wings unfurling like a shroud.
Aren stared at her, helpless. He had spent his life admiring her. Believing in her. Believing in them.
A bitter laugh escaped him.
"Even gods die…"
An explosion roared. The ground vanished beneath his feet. His body was hurled against a wall, his bones screaming upon impact. He slumped to the ground, paralyzed.
The heat of the flames.
The scent of blood.
The low rumble of the Gate.
He thought of his family. His mother, his father, his two younger sisters. All dead eleven years ago, during an A-rank Gate outbreak. He had survived by chance. Or by misfortune.
He thought of his life. His weakness. His insignificance. His naive admiration for heroes.
"I wish… I could have been stronger. Just once."
An agonizing pain shot through his chest, as if something were trying to force its way into him. Or out of him. A murmur echoed in his mind. Not a voice. Not a word. Just… an intent.
Then, everything went black.
Aren inhaled sharply.
He bolted upright, gasping and trembling, drenched in a cold sweat. He was no longer on a field of ruins. He wasn't surrounded by corpses. He wasn't being crushed by the black light of the Gate.
He was… in his room.
His teenage bedroom. The posters on the walls. The old desk. The bed that was slightly too small. The familiar scent.
"…No."
He lunged out of bed, stumbled, and scrambled toward the mirror.
A young face. No scars. No fatigue. No despair.
He was eighteen again.
"Is this a joke…?"
He threw the window open. Morning sunlight. Cars. Pedestrians. Normalcy.
Then, his mother's voice drifted up from the ground floor:
"Aren! Breakfast is ready!"
His heart tightened. He felt his eyes burn, but he forced it down. He didn't have the right to break down.
Suddenly, a translucent window flickered into existence before him.
[Ascendant Detected] Aren startled, backing away and knocking over a chair. He had never had a System. He had never been chosen. He had never been special.
And yet:
Authority: VOID (Slot 1/5)
Status: Awakened Ascendant
Age: 18
Progression: 0%
He stood frozen. Then, a slow, cold, and lucid smile tugged at his lips.
"Fine. If the world wants to play this game… I will give my everything."
He took a deep breath. His gaze sharpened, turning cold and calculating. He had three objectives.
First: Save his family from the Gate that would kill them in a few months.
Second: Earn enough money to protect them, move them, and keep them safe.
Third: Become strong enough to survive the SSS-rank Gate that would destroy the world in eleven years.
Aren clenched his fists.
"This time… I won't be a spectator. I will survive. And I will save the ones I love. No matter the cost."