There was no body. No pain. Only the sensation of floating, as if the world had emptied itself of weight, time, and breath.
Cipher drifted in the endless black, still clutching fragments of thought like broken glass. Sophie's face. Her safety. The violent impact. The sudden silence.
Am I… dead?
The question pulsed in his mind, though no lips moved to shape it. He had never been one to fear death—he had brushed against it often enough as a child, curled beneath broken ceilings, or staring through nights too long and cold. But now that it was here, real, his chest ached with unfinished longing.
The students. His classroom. Tomorrow's lessons. Would they sit in their chairs, waiting for a voice that would never come?
Cipher reached for the thought, but it slipped from him as the void itself began to shift.
Light bloomed.
Not sudden, but slow, like dawn spilling across a horizon. It spread into shapes, colors, outlines—an endless hall unfurled around him, pillars of marble and glass rising from unseen depths, bookshelves towering higher than mountains, their spines aglow with silver script. The air carried the scent of paper and rain, ink and fresh wood shavings, as though knowledge itself had chosen a form to greet him.
Cipher floated to the ground, and for the first time since the crash, he felt the solid firmness of floor beneath his feet. Polished tiles reflected constellations instead of chandeliers, each step rippling starlight.
At the far end of the hall, a figure awaited.
The figure was tall, cloaked in robes that shimmered between white and midnight, as though woven from both dawn and dusk. Their face was indistinct, shifting like smoke, but the eyes—if they could be called eyes—were steady beams of light, piercing yet gentle.
When they spoke, the voice carried through the hall like a chord struck upon a hundred instruments, harmonious and unyielding.
"Cipher Starlight."
The name echoed. Not just a sound, but an acknowledgment, as though the very universe had spoken it.
Cipher swallowed—or thought he did, for even here, the mechanics of breath were uncertain. "That's… me." His voice wavered, half in disbelief. "Where am I? Is this… the afterlife?"
The being stepped closer, their movements flowing like ink in water.
"This is not an end, but an interlude. A crossing between one story and the next. Here, you stand before the Keep of Wisdom. And I… I am one who watches, who listens, who guides."
Their robe flickered with glyphs—runes of ancient tongues, formulas of science, fragments of fairy-tale prose—all circling them in orbit like planets.
Cipher stared, awe wrestling with confusion. "So… you're a god."
The being inclined their head.
"If that word helps you understand, then yes. Among mortals, I am remembered in fragments—Thoth, Athena, Odin, countless others. Names differ, but the truth remains. I am Knowledge, and I am the Keeper of those who guide others toward light."
Cipher's pulse—if he even had one—stuttered. "Why me?" The question tumbled from him raw. "I was just… a teacher. Just some kid trying to give those students a little more than I had. I didn't… I'm not…"
His throat tightened. He thought of Sophie, safe. He thought of Daniel, still struggling to believe in himself. He thought of the others—bright smiles, messy handwriting, laughter in the classroom. He had given everything to them, but was that enough for gods to notice?
The being's voice softened, a low murmur that curled through the infinite hall.
"A teacher who says 'I am just' is the greatest of all. The truest guides never believe themselves worthy, yet they step forward anyway. You, Cipher Starlight, stepped forward when others hesitated. You did not measure the cost. You saw a life in peril, and you gave your own to shield it. Such is the essence of teaching—not in words, but in action."
Their gaze flared brighter.
"And so, we extend to you an invitation."
The floor shifted. Before Cipher, the tiles rearranged, reshaping into an archway of radiant light. Beyond it swirled a sky not of earth—moons in strange patterns, forests of crystal, rivers that bent like ribbons in midair. A world both alien and ancient, mythic and impossible.
Cipher's breath caught. "What is that?"
"A crossroads of many realms," the being said. "Myths forgotten, tales once whispered by firelight, dreams born of both story and science—they all converge there. But light has its shadows. Demons, curses, villains spun from the darkest imaginations prowl those lands. Heroes, too, rise and fall. Yet too often, they rise alone, unguided."
The being stepped closer, their robes trailing galaxies.
"They need a teacher. They need you."
Cipher stared into the archway. His heart wavered between awe and fear.
"I don't understand," he admitted. "Why me? I can't swing a sword. I don't know anything about fighting monsters. I'm… I'm just good at getting kids to see their own worth. That's it."
The being's hand lifted, and with a flick of their sleeve, something appeared before him.
A weapon.
Long, curved, gleaming with pale silver—the blade of a scythe. Not a farmer's tool, but a reaper's promise, its haft etched with glowing script that shimmered with each heartbeat.
Cipher reached for it, hesitating. His reflection warped across the curved blade, not grim but resolute.
"This is your tool," the being said. "The scythe. Symbol of harvest, of endings and beginnings. With it, you shall cut away shadow and sow hope where none dared grow. But remember—your truest weapon has always been your heart. The scythe will answer to that alone."
The weight settled in his hands, strange yet familiar, as though it had waited for him all along. Cipher's throat tightened.
He looked up. "You're asking me to fight? To… be a hero?"
The being's eyes softened, dimming like lanterns.
"Not a hero. A teacher still. For the greatest heroes were once students who needed guidance. Your task is to walk beside them, not above them. To teach, to protect, to challenge, to nurture. Some you will save with steel. Others you will save with words."
Silence hung between them. Cipher's gaze lingered on the archway, the world beyond swirling in impossible hues. His gut churned with uncertainty.
"I don't know if I'm ready."
The being's reply was gentle, but firm.
"No teacher ever is. But still, the students wait."
Cipher's breath caught. The words struck something deep inside him, pulling memories to the surface—his first day in the classroom, nerves rattling his hands; the laughter that followed when he dropped a stack of papers; the way those children's eyes slowly began to trust him.
He hadn't been ready then. But he had gone anyway. And it had mattered.
Maybe this would, too.
The being extended a hand. Glyphs circled their palm, swirling like fireflies.
"You will not walk alone. A companion awaits—a creation born of story and science, small in stature but vast in loyalty. They shall be both witness and partner, tethered to me, yet bound to you. With them, your path will never be silent."
Cipher thought of the loneliness of his childhood, of the countless nights where silence was the only answer. The idea of a companion stirred warmth in his chest.
He tightened his grip on the scythe. His reflection in the blade stared back, uncertain but not afraid.
Finally, he exhaled.
"All right," he said. "If there are students waiting… then I'll go."
The being inclined their head. The archway flared, its light flooding the hall, swallowing shadow.
"Then step forward, Cipher Starlight. Beyond lies a world vast and broken. Walk its roads, guide its lost, and may wisdom be your compass. This is not the end of your story. It is only the first chapter."
Cipher stepped forward, the scythe steady in his hands.
The hall dissolved behind him. Light consumed him. And somewhere within that brilliance, he thought he heard the faintest echo of voices—not divine, but small and bright, like children laughing in the distance.
He smiled.
And stepped through.