A hundred years ago, the sky never dimmed.
The clouds hung like dead creatures, frozen on the horizon as if afraid to move. Beneath that unmoving sky, the ground held cracks that never truly healed—scars of an age that nearly ended everything.
This world is called Mortalworld, where humans now dwell. No longer cursed, but not yet whole. A land once saved… but still unable to forget.
In that era, humans no longer lived as humans.
They lived as shadows—beings who had forgotten how to hope.
Dark spirits no longer hid. They drifted freely over the ruins of cities and fields, dancing like smoke devouring the light.
And in the middle of that emptiness, two figures stood.
One carried a sword at his hip—its glow faint, as if aged alongside time itself. His white cloak was tattered, fluttering against a wind that dared not touch him. His face could not be seen, as if even history refused to carve it.
His name was Arthur Isolde.
The other… stood still, as though time had no hold on him. His form resembled a man, but not convincingly so. A faint smile graced his lips—too serene for someone called an enemy. He cast no shadow. His feet touched the ground, but left no mark.
"The sky is quiet today," said Arthur, his voice flat.
"But I know this peace is merely a whisper before the storm."
"Peace," replied the dark figure, tilting his head,
"is an illusion born of those afraid of truth."
Arthur looked at him. Not with hatred, but with weariness.
"And destruction is the final lie you have left?"
There was no answer. Only a smile… growing ever so slightly.
Then, the world broke.
Steel clashed with emptiness.
The air screamed.
Ancient roots rose from the earth like serpents disturbed from slumber.
And the sky—for a fleeting moment—turned a dense, mournful grey.
Then… silence.
No ending.
No victory.
No tale.
Azael opened his eyes.
His breath trembled—not from exhaustion, but from the uncertainty of whether he had truly awakened. The world around him felt foreign. Not threatening… but not welcoming either.
"Why does this world feel lonelier than the dream I just forgot…?"
He found himself lying atop tangled roots, thick and vast like the chest of a sleeping beast. The soil was damp, but not muddy. Morning dew clung to the air, but it wasn't fresh.
Above him, the sky was bright—but not clear.
He was completely bare. His long black hair fell past his neck, hanging like a curtain of leftover night.
He sat up slowly.
And that was when he noticed: there was no sound.
No birdsong. No wind. Not even the rustle of leaves.
The forest lived… yet it did not speak.
His eyes scanned the surroundings.
The trees towered like ancient pillars. Their bark dark and gnarled, scarred by time. Some were hollow, others split, yet all stood upright—like sentinels who had seen too much to care anymore.
Azael stared at his own hands.
His skin was pale, as though untouched by sunlight. Fingers long and trembling. His body thin—but not fragile. No scars. No signs of life.
He didn't know what he had lost.
But his heart mourned something,
as if a thousand yesterdays were missing from his chest.
"Who… am I?"
The question wasn't directed at anyone.
It simply existed. His breath hitched—tight in his chest, like something missing that he couldn't name.
No answer came.
But then… light appeared.
Not from the sun—but from the air itself.
Small lights began to drift through the air, one by one, as if roused by his thoughts.
Some were perfectly round, like floating lanterns.
Others stretched like threads of flame.
Some twisted, ever-shifting, never holding a single form.
Each had a color of its own.
Deep red. Bright blue. Dull green. Heavy violet.
Yet none of them came close.
Except one.
A faint pale blue light approached slowly.
It didn't shine. It didn't blind.
But it carried a strange feeling—cool… yet it sent a chill down his spine.
The light hovered… stopping just before his face.
And in that instant, a voice echoed.
"Good morning… Azael."
Azael froze.
The voice did not come from outside—it rang inside his mind. A whisper, weaving directly into his soul.
He looked around. Empty.
No creatures. No humans.
"Don't be afraid. I won't hurt you."
The voice was gentle. Warm.
Like a mother's voice—yet far too perfect to feel real.
"…Who are you?"
Azael's voice cracked as he finally asked.
The blue light shimmered softly, glowing just a little brighter.
"I... am a sword spirit.
Or more precisely, a spirit of nature—one destined for you in your previous life.
You may not remember me, but I've known you… long before you were reborn."
"Reborn…?"
Azael furrowed his brow.
"Your name… is Azael.
You are the reincarnation of a great hero.
One who once saved this world."
"This… world?"
Azael looked around again.
These silent trees. This unmoving earth. This sky that refused to smile.
This was the world that had once been saved?
"Then… why does it feel like the world itself rejects me?" he whispered.
"…Because the world has forgotten you.
Just as you've forgotten yourself."
The blue light slowly lowered something—an old cloth.
Torn and dusty, but free from mud.
"Cover yourself.
You need to prepare.
Your journey has only just begun."
Azael reached out with trembling hands.
The fabric was rough, yet felt warm to the touch.
He wrapped it around himself, slowly.
Like a child being taught once again what protection means in a world that had already forgotten him.
He said nothing.
But his mind was filled with voices—whispers, questions, a disquiet that had yet to find form.
"Don't force yourself.
Your body is still adjusting to its new existence."
New… existence?
Azael looked at the blue light.
It had no face. But somehow, he felt it watching him. Not with eyes… but with truth.
"You wonder if this is real.
It's natural.
You were reborn without memories.
But believe me—your heart still remembers the path you must walk."
"Then… why does it feel like I don't belong here?"
"…Because this place has changed.
Since you disappeared, the world is no longer the same."
Azael lowered his head.
There was something in its voice that made him want to trust it.
But also something that told him not to get too close.
"You have many questions.
But time does not wait."
"If you want to discover who you are…
Then your first step is to walk."
Azael lifted his gaze.
The air was warming. Yet sunlight still felt unfamiliar.
It touched the earth—but not him.
As if he was merely a shadow left behind by the night.
"Where do I go…?"
"To the place that was once your home."
"Britainia."
Azael flinched slightly.
That word… echoed in his heart. Not familiar, but not foreign.
Like a name from a dream, forgotten but waiting at the edge of memory.
"Britainia is the Crownhold of the Kingdom of Jornia.
That is where your story began.
And perhaps… where it will end."
The words lingered.
But Azael was too empty to refuse or question.
He did not know if he was being guided… or led.
His journey began without purpose.
Step by step over roots and fallen leaves.
No path to follow.
No direction.
Only the pale blue light drifting ahead.
And Azael followed—because he had nowhere else to go.
The forest was not silent.
It simply… listened.
Every step Azael took disturbed it.
Branches above curled slowly, as if watching.
Unfamiliar flowers bloomed in unexpected places.
The wind, at times, breathed—not blew.
Azael paused.
"Is this… where spirits dwell?"
"They do not dwell.
They observe."
"This land has no eyes.
But it remembers."
Azael turned left—where a wall of roots rose, forming a natural archway of wood and earth.
Beyond it, a small valley rested, with a quiet lake in its center.
He stepped toward the water.
And when he looked at his reflection…
He saw no face.
Only a blurred silhouette.
Dark hair, shadowed eyes, a body without a name.
As if the world refused to remember who he was.
"I really am… empty."
"You're not empty.
You are a vessel.
You have yet to be filled.
But you are not without meaning."
Azael wanted to respond.
But his voice disappeared in his throat.
"Arthur Isolde.
That was your name in the past."
"A hero who raised his sword against the darkness. Who united spirits under one purpose. Who made the world believe in light again."
"…If I was him, then why don't I feel like him?"
"Because life does not repeat itself the same way."
"Every reincarnation is a fractured mirror.
The shadow of the past may return…
But never whole."
His steps followed the spirit.
But his shadow lingered behind—
as if part of him refused to walk forward.
They walked on.
The forest began to open.
Sunlight pierced the canopy, forming soft trails through the underbrush.
The sky shifted—from pale grey… to a pale, uncertain blue.
For a brief moment, Azael felt lighter.
But the feeling vanished when he looked back.
His footprints were gone.
The Mortalworld had closed itself perfectly, as if denying he ever passed through.
"This world…"
"...truly wants me gone, doesn't it?"
"No.
But this world… fears you."
Azael did not reply.
He simply stared at the sky above, now open, with empty eyes and steps without meaning.
But within his chest… something had begun to stir.
Not hope.
Not belief.
Only…
the need to know.