The strong, stingy smell in the air finally began to fade, but Ryuxian's confusion didn't leave him. He stood there in the silence, the streets behind him swallowed by the darkness, the starlit sky stretched out above. Yet none of it mattered. He didn't know what he wanted anymore. Everything was too loud inside him, but too quiet around him. The desperate call, the longing he never even allowed in his dreams, rose up again. "I'm already dead in this world," he whispered. "I disappeared from this place… so let me stay like this. I don't want to return, I don't want to remember. Just let me vanish."
Then, as if answering the pain buried in his chest, he said it—not to the sky, not to any god, just to himself. "Then... I want to be a snake again. The reptile. I didn't die yet. That was real. That was me."
The valley around him echoed his words in a cold hum. You want to go back...? Are you sure...?
"I don't know..." he mumbled. "But I don't feel like I belong here anymore. I thought I wanted this, I thought this was the life I longed for. But now... it feels strange, too strange. Empty. I'd rather live crawling on the dirt, than die here in silence under the wings of birds."
His legs trembled. His wrists, numb. His breath, uneven. His whole body—this human body—felt foreign, useless, too soft, too fragile. He hated it. Hated that it once belonged to him. Hated that he had to return to it.
Then the voice—no longer soft, no longer kind—whispered:
Then let the words come true...
His knees gave in, his body hit the ground. The impact echoed faintly against the walls of the alley. And just like that—he was gone. No trace. No mark. Only the trash bin rattling softly in the breeze. The city moved on like nothing had happened. But something had.
He didn't know what he wanted anymore.
His lips trembled, his thoughts tangled.
The desperate call—the one he swore he'd never make, not even in dreams—slipped out from his cracked voice.
"I already died in this world… I disappeared from it. So let me stay like this..."
Then silence. Then—
"…I want to be a snake. A reptile. I haven't die yet."
The words echoed. Carried by the wind. Thrown into the valley that never forgets.
You want to go back?
The voice returned, deep and almost mourning.
Are you sure...?
"I don't know…" Ryuxian murmured, the fog of confusion thick in his chest. "But I don't feel like I belong here anymore."
He looked up at the sky, at the tiny stars that hung like needles above the dark world.
"I always longed to come back to this life. I wanted to be normal. But now... it feels strangely strange to even breathe here."
The ground felt too stable. The air too sharp. The people too loud. His skin too human.
"I'd rather live as a snake in that world... than die in the hands of any bird here."
There was no response.
Only the wind howling through the valley.
Only the sound of a soul not knowing which world his heart belonged to.
His wrist trembled.
His legs shook so bad he couldn't even stand up.
The strength he once had… was nowhere.
He hated this human body. This skin. These nerves. This weakness.
The body that once was him now felt like a curse stitched into flesh.
Then the voice returned—low, cold, distant—like it was coming from the ribs of the world itself.
"Then let the words come true."
A pulse.
Then Ryuxian collapsed.
His body slammed to the ground. No scream. No resistance.
A dull sound echoed as he hit the pavement—and he was gone.
Gone from this world.
No breath.
No heartbeat.
No trace.
Only the trash bin beside him stayed. A symbol of what humanity left out. That was it.
Just trash. And silence.
Meanwhile…
In another world, a shift happened.
While Ryuxian battled identity and heartbreak, Moyu—in a place far, far beyond that broken alley—was thrown back to a memory not his choosing.
A distant past.
Where the bare land that now stretched quiet and empty… had once been the beating heart of war.
A battlefield.
While Ryuxian was torn between identity and despair, in a completely different part of the world—perhaps in a different time altogether—Moyu was being dragged back into his own past. The dry, cracked land he stood on now was once the sacred battlefield, announced by the Nirvana High Command, where wars were declared and destiny was torn apart.
The world had transcended into something else. Something ungraspable. No one questioned the decisions anymore—because no one was truly in control. The air burned with red heat from a sun that felt closer than it should've been. The horizon was not a line anymore—it was a wound that kept bleeding history.
Moyu had only recently taken on a human form. According to this world's system, he was just twelve years old. Just twelve, and yet the battlefield became his home. That was the rule. Fight, grow, evolve—or disappear. Every warrior, every soldier stepped into the battlefield not for victory, but for survival and power. Power came in sigils carved into their skin—lines and marks that granted strength. But the more sigils one bore, the more their mind began to fracture. Power came with madness.
There were no holy weapons. There was no chosen one carrying a sacred sword. Here, weapons were not forged—they were born. Souls of the dead transformed into weapons. The older the soul, the stronger the weapon. The more suffering it carried, the sharper it cut. The world itself had turned into a system of power-chasing, level-ascending madness, spiraling with chaos until one day the throne of the world would finally choose a successor.
And until then—everything was war.
You can't find the happiness even in war
no one had control.
It was the law of the world.
Power was earned through madness.
And battlefield scars were the only proof you'd even lived.
They fought not with crafted blades—but with weapons born of souls.
The older the soul, the stronger the weapon.
The battlefield was the forge.
Not until the throne found its rightful successor.
And the world would burn and wait.
Just like Moyu did.