A man lay on his deathbed, his breathing shallow, the edges of his vision fading to black. He wasn't thinking about his family. He wasn't thinking about his friends.
Only one thought echoed in his mind:
Was this the end?
Was this really my life?
The darkness closed in—then paused.
It wasn't complete. It wasn't empty.
He felt something warm on his face.
Light.
The sun.
His eyes opened.
He stood up, barefoot, the cold kiss of snow and ice pressing between his toes. The morning sun rose slowly, golden light spilling across a pale, endless horizon. Tears streamed down his cheeks.
"I can walk…" he whispered.
Then he laughed. And cried. A wild, trembling mix of joy and disbelief. He didn't understand how—but in that moment, it didn't matter.
Before he could fully embrace the miracle, he sensed a presence behind him. He turned.
A figure stood there—still, silent. Their skin pale as moonlight, long white hair flowing in the breeze like a silken veil. They looked neither male nor female. Neither young nor old. And not entirely human.
The figure smiled faintly.
"Good. You're both here," they said softly. "Now… we can get started."
Still smiling, they raised a slender hand and pointed toward a field in the distance. Dozens of weapons—swords, axes, spears, and shapes unfamiliar—jutted from the snow like ancient relics.
"We use this place a lot," the figure said lightly. "Pick any weapon you like."
The man blinked, confusion washing over him. He glanced around, but saw no one else.
"Wait… who are you?" he asked. "What's going on?"
The figure's smile twisted into something darker.
"Obviously," they said, almost mockingly, "you're going to kill each other."
The words hit him like ice water. Shock ran through his body, followed by a tremor in his chest—a pulse of dread. Even if this was a dream, it was quickly becoming a nightmare.
The figure sighed, now looking impatient.
"You're wasting time," they muttered. Then, with a snap of their fingers, a sharp electric pulse shot through both men's heads—an unseen storm crashing through their minds. Visions. Memories. Thoughts that didn't belong to them flooded in, reshaping something within.
He gasped, and then—
Darkness again.
He snapped back into consciousness just in time to see the other man—tall, unfamiliar, face hardened—charging at him, sword already in hand, eyes wild with instinct.
Steel hissed through the cold air.
On pure reflex, he reached out and grabbed a sword from the snow beside him, raising it just in time to block the strike. The blades clashed with a violent ring that echoed across the icy plain.
He stumbled back, breathing heavily, heart racing.
He was aware now. Fully. He didn't know where he was, or why this was happening—but something deep inside him had awakened.
And despite everything… he wasn't afraid.
He was excited.
The clash of swords echoed through the frozen valley.
Steel struck steel again and again, ringing like thunder in the cold. The two men fought with brutal intensity—clashing, dodging, striking with a rhythm that felt older than memory. Though he had never lifted a weapon in his life, never swung a sword or raised a fist in anger, the man moved on instinct. His body knew what his mind didn't. It was as if he'd trained for this moment forever.
He landed a cut.
Then another.
And another.
Snow sprayed beneath their feet as they circled, clashed, broke apart, and came together again in a furious dance. Time lost meaning. The sun remained fixed in the sky, but hours passed. Blood stained the snow—his, and the other man's. Their breath came ragged, their arms trembling from exhaustion.
And then, it stopped.
The other man staggered back, dropped to his knees, and stared at the ground. Blood dripped from his chin. His sword slipped from his hand and clattered into the snow.
"I… I give up," he whispered, voice broken. Tears rolled down his face. He began to shiver, not from cold, but something deeper. "I don't even know what I'm fighting for anymore."
The pale figure in white let out a disappointed sigh.
Then, with a snap of their fingers—
The man's heart stopped.
He collapsed in the snow, lifeless.
"No!" the first man screamed. He sprinted through the snow and grabbed the white-clad figure by the collar. "Why did you do that?! Didn't you hear him? He gave up!"
There was a whisper of cold air.
The figure was no longer in his hands.
They were behind him now, a hand resting lightly on his shoulder.
"Hold your horses," the figure said calmly, voice tinged with amusement. "Don't get too excited just because you won one measly fight."
He turned, eyes blazing with rage—but the figure only grinned.
"But I do have to admit something," they continued, eyes glinting with a strange light. "You new humans… you're damn entertaining."
The man's breath caught in his throat.
"As a reward for the show—" the figure raised their fingers again, "—here's a little something extra."
They snapped.
A surge of sensation blasted through his mind. Thoughts and emotions not his own flooded his consciousness. Images—foreign, vibrant, overwhelming—flashed behind his eyes. In the chaos of it all, a single concept crystallized.
A wish.
A whisper in the dark. A spark of impossible hope.
And he understood: the game wasn't over.
It was just beginning.
A man lay on his deathbed, his breathing shallow, the edges of his vision fading to black. He wasn't thinking about his family. He wasn't thinking about his friends.
Only one thought echoed in his mind:
Was this the end?
Was this really my life?
The darkness closed in—then paused.
It wasn't complete. It wasn't empty.
He felt something warm on his face.
Light.
The sun.
His eyes opened.
He stood up, barefoot, the cold kiss of snow and ice pressing between his toes. The morning sun rose slowly, golden light spilling across a pale, endless horizon. Tears streamed down his cheeks.
"I can walk…" he whispered.
Then he laughed. And cried. A wild, trembling mix of joy and disbelief. He didn't understand how—but in that moment, it didn't matter.
Before he could fully embrace the miracle, he sensed a presence behind him. He turned.
A figure stood there—still, silent. Their skin pale as moonlight, long white hair flowing in the breeze like a silken veil. They looked neither male nor female. Neither young nor old. And not entirely human.
The figure smiled faintly.
"Good. You're both here," they said softly. "Now… we can get started."
Still smiling, they raised a slender hand and pointed toward a field in the distance. Dozens of weapons—swords, axes, spears, and shapes unfamiliar—jutted from the snow like ancient relics.
"We use this place a lot," the figure said lightly. "Pick any weapon you like."
The man blinked, confusion washing over him. He glanced around, but saw no one else.
"Wait… who are you?" he asked. "What's going on?"
The figure's smile twisted into something darker.
"Obviously," they said, almost mockingly, "you're going to kill each other."
The words hit him like ice water. Shock ran through his body, followed by a tremor in his chest—a pulse of dread. Even if this was a dream, it was quickly becoming a nightmare.
The figure sighed, now looking impatient.
"You're wasting time," they muttered. Then, with a snap of their fingers, a sharp electric pulse shot through both men's heads—an unseen storm crashing through their minds. Visions. Memories. Thoughts that didn't belong to them flooded in, reshaping something within.
He gasped, and then—
Darkness again.
He snapped back into consciousness just in time to see the other man—tall, unfamiliar, face hardened—charging at him, sword already in hand, eyes wild with instinct.
Steel hissed through the cold air.
On pure reflex, he reached out and grabbed a sword from the snow beside him, raising it just in time to block the strike. The blades clashed with a violent ring that echoed across the icy plain.
He stumbled back, breathing heavily, heart racing.
He was aware now. Fully. He didn't know where he was, or why this was happening—but something deep inside him had awakened.
And despite everything… he wasn't afraid.
He was excited.
The clash of swords echoed through the frozen valley.
Steel struck steel again and again, ringing like thunder in the cold. The two men fought with brutal intensity—clashing, dodging, striking with a rhythm that felt older than memory. Though he had never lifted a weapon in his life, never swung a sword or raised a fist in anger, the man moved on instinct. His body knew what his mind didn't. It was as if he'd trained for this moment forever.
He landed a cut.
Then another.
And another.
Snow sprayed beneath their feet as they circled, clashed, broke apart, and came together again in a furious dance. Time lost meaning. The sun remained fixed in the sky, but hours passed. Blood stained the snow—his, and the other man's. Their breath came ragged, their arms trembling from exhaustion.
And then, it stopped.
The other man staggered back, dropped to his knees, and stared at the ground. Blood dripped from his chin. His sword slipped from his hand and clattered into the snow.
"I… I give up," he whispered, voice broken. Tears rolled down his face. He began to shiver, not from cold, but something deeper. "I don't even know what I'm fighting for anymore."
The pale figure in white let out a disappointed sigh.
Then, with a snap of their fingers—
The man's heart stopped.
He collapsed in the snow, lifeless.
"No!" the first man screamed. He sprinted through the snow and grabbed the white-clad figure by the collar. "Why did you do that?! Didn't you hear him? He gave up!"
There was a whisper of cold air.
The figure was no longer in his hands.
They were behind him now, a hand resting lightly on his shoulder.
"Hold your horses," the figure said calmly, voice tinged with amusement. "Don't get too excited just because you won one measly fight."
He turned, eyes blazing with rage—but the figure only grinned.
"But I do have to admit something," they continued, eyes glinting with a strange light. "You new humans… you're damn entertaining."
The man's breath caught in his throat.
"As a reward for the show—" the figure raised their fingers again, "—here's a little something extra."
They snapped.
A surge of sensation blasted through his mind. Thoughts and emotions not his own flooded his consciousness. Images—foreign, vibrant, overwhelming—flashed behind his eyes. In the chaos of it all, a single concept crystallized.
A wish.
A whisper in the dark. A spark of impossible hope.
And he understood: the game wasn't over.
It was just beginning.