They sat like two old kings in an empty throne room.
Not rulers.
Witnesses.
Kamen Rider Ohma Zi-O leaned back, one armored arm resting on the throne's edge. Light from a dying star traced sharp lines along his armor, gold and black like time itself made solid. Beside him, Kamen Rider Regad Omega sat still, eyes calm—too calm—like a lake that had already seen the storm and survived it.
In this world, there were no gods.
Every being that had once dared call itself god had fallen.
Martial warriors and martial beasts now walked the same land without fear or worship. As it should have been from the beginning.
Peace.
Or rather—
The absence of false gods.
"They're all gone now," Ohma said, his voice low. "No thrones has been left behind. No heavens that can be use to rule from anymore."
"Good," Regad replied. "They has ruled this world for far too long. Their existence only a nuisance. An existence... No, a parasite to the world. Real god will never need us, it is us that need the god. Others only a cheap fake."
A pause.
"After they ascend and call themselves god, they also forgot the feeling of mortality," Regad continued.
"They forgot what it meant to be human."
Their words carried not just hatred but also only a conclusion.
Endings, spoken calmly.
Beginnings, left unannounced.
Then—
Both of them shifted their gaze.
Not toward the maps.
Not toward the worlds that already has been settled.
But toward something faint.
A thread of light.
A human soul.
Fragile.
Bright.
Falling.
Slipping through the seams of reality, tumbling from one world into another.
Regad lips curved, just slightly.
"Another junior."
Ohma said nothing.
"Ohma," Regad added, eyes narrowing with interest. "This one's different. He's not one of theirs."
Silence.
"Let him pass."
Ohma raised his hand.
So did Regad.
Two palms opened.
Light gathered between them—soft, pale, gentle. Not the kind used to destroy worlds.
The kind used to guide.
Like hands cupping a newborn, they pushed that light forward.
A single beam.
It threaded through dimensions, slipped along the soul's path, and followed it—
A quiet nudge.
A blessing without a name.
So it began.
___________________
It had been a few days since I came to this world.
The first shock wasn't the environment.
It was the body.
I had been an adult.
Big. Heavy. Familiar with my own weight.
Hands that wrapped easily around a coffee cup. Shoulders that filled a room without trying.
Then—
I woke up small.
Child-sized.
The world suddenly taller. Harder to reach.
Do you understand that feeling?
To live in a large body for years…
And then wake up in a smaller one?
Your balance disappears.
Your sense of self lags behind.
That day, my emotions twisted together.
Despair.
Hope.
Everything I had was gone.
My life.
My friends.
The quiet comforts of normal days.
I wasn't rich.
I wasn't special.
But my life had been mine own.
And now?
It was gone.
Thrown away like yesterday's trash.
And yet—
I was excited.
Who wouldn't be?
This was a world where people spoke openly about martial spirits. A world where power wasn't a fantasy but a ceremony away.
Even if my martial spirit turned out to be trash, as long it has spirit power.
Trash with power was still better than nothing.
Today was the awakening day.
All the six-year-olds of the village gathered in the main hall. Six of us in total.
Some from poor families.
Some from the orphanage.
All of us standing on that thin line between childhood and destiny.
In this life, my name was Li Yingjie.
And I watched the man who would decide everything.
Mo Jing.
The only spirit master in the village qualified to conduct awakenings for the children here. And the only person that dare to do the awakening because of his special position.
A level-32 Spirit Elder.
Once a year.
Only once.
He called it a privilege—one granted by his identity. For someone that has no money, no connections and no chance of awakening.
This will be something that can change our live.
Hearing that, I understood immediately.
This was that era.
Douluo Dalu 2.
Mo Jing disliked interruptions.
So did the villagers.
The hall fell silent.
"Who will go first?" he asked.
Low voice. Calm.
The children glanced at one another.
Wide eyes. Empty faces.
At six, you barely understand the world—let alone how to shape it with soul power.
Mo Jing sighed softly, then smiled.
"Alright," he said. "We'll start from my right."
He pointed.
"You. Step into the circle."
The boy walked forward.
Slow.
Trembling.
Mo Jing placed the engraved awakening circle between them and began the ritual.
His hands moved in practiced arcs.
Soul power flowed.
The crystal lines ignited.
Light rose from the ground like mist caught in sunlight.
The children gasped.
The light faded.
Mo Jing stepped closer.
"Right hand," he said. "Let's see your martial soul."
The boy obeyed.
A shimmer.
A sickle appeared in his palm.
Small. Plain.
"Hm," Mo Jing murmured. "A sickle. Ordinary. Not strong, not weak."
The boy froze.
Then—
Joy exploded across his face.
Children are like that.
The strange becomes wonderful instantly.
"Come," Mo Jing said, guiding him. "Place your palm on the crystal."
The boy hesitated.
Mo Jing chuckled.
"Relax. It won't eat your hand."
That did the trick.
The boy pressed his palm down.
Cool crystal.
Bright light.
He summoned the sickle again, watching it appear and vanish, again and again.
A miracle.
For him.
The ceremony continued.
One child at a time.
Routine for the village.
Everything for me.
I stood there, heart pounding, hands clenched tight—
Hoping.
Hoping that this world…
Had something worth giving to this borrowed life.