When Marco finally returned to his senses he found himself surrounded by an endless white space.
Not a room, it was more just an infinite blank color stretching as far as his eyes could see.
No smell at all, or any sound. He didn't feel hot or cold either.
It was just…nothing. A weightless nothingness.
"Where am I…?"
He looked down, and his stomach dropped. He was completely naked.
'What the hell?!'
Instinctively, he covered himself with his hands, his skin prickling from embarrassment even in the absence of air or breeze.
Before he could panic further, wisps of white cloud coiled into existence around him, curling like smoke and quickly concealing his body.
'What the—'
{Much better!}
A childish voice echoed across the empty space, bouncing off nothing and everything at once.
A cold wave ran across Marco's skin, goosebumps rising despite the absence of any real temperature. His spine stiffened completely.
"Where am—"
{You died.}
"…"
The voice cut him off cleanly, leaving the words stuck in his throat.
Marco stood motionless, suspended in the middle of an endless void, his heartbeat noticeably absent, no thrum in his ears, no breath in his chest, not even the faintest tremor of fear. Tears didn't fall, since they couldn't.
"Well… I guess I expected that sooner or later."
{You're… pretty calm for someone talking to a disembodied voice after dying.}
The voice sounded surprised now, almost offended. Marco didn't react.
"I read a lot of books. Well—" he corrected himself with a humorless breath, "I used to read. Not anymore, I guess."
He exhaled, or tried to, the gesture purely habit in a place without air.
"So is this the part where you tell me I'll be reincarnated?"
{Uh… y-yes? How did you know?}
The voice actually stuttered, which made Marco smile faintly. His eyes drifted around the blank space, searching for a source he knew he wouldn't find.
"Books. Like I said."
{Yeah, yeah, books… let's get on with it…}
"Wait, I have a few ques—"
His words cut off as a sudden rush of sensations tore through him. His memories exploded into his view like a reel of film unraveling at a high speed.
His first breath, his first scraped knee, the first book he ever finished.
The humiliation of being beaten as a child.
Hundreds of little moments he had forgotten long ago resurfaced in an instant, bright ones, painful ones, ones he hadn't realized had shaped him.
'Wow… I don't even remember half of this.'
The flood stopped and the white space returned.
{Wow. Do you even deserve to be reincarnated?}
This time the voice was accompanied by something new, a sound.
Light footsteps. Soft, rhythmic, were echoing faintly behind him.
Marco spun around and a child stood there.
A pretty strange one.
He wore a golden crown too large for his small head.
Long blond hair cascaded down past his knees, glowing faintly as if catching invisible sunlight.
His eyes were luminescent gold and they tracked Marco with an unblinking, monarchial intensity.
His outfit resembled the attire of ancient Greek gods from old illustrations, flowing and pristine.
"Yes, I do."
Marco answered calmly, taking in the figure's appearance with cautious curiosity.
The child tilted his head, studying him without any expression.
"I spent my life as miserably as possible," Marco said. "You saw the memories. I want my next one to be… better. I want to actually live it."
The child blinked slowly.
{Call me Froir. I shall reincarnate you. However…}
Though his mouth didn't move, the voice vibrated clearly through the air, or the lack of it, as if forming directly inside Marco's mind.
{You must become my apostle.}
"Your apostle?"
Marco tilted his head back at him, his eyes reflecting confusion rather than fear.
{Yes. I will give you my blessing to become strong… well, not instantly. You must grow strong on your own.}
Froir nodded once, golden hair swaying without any breeze. Marco's heart, or whatever replaced it here, tightened with anticipation.
'Is this it…? My chance to be like those overpowered novel protagonists…?'
His eyes began to shine.
"Deal."
Marco agreed, and for the first time, Froir smiled.
{Good. As my apostle, you will face many hardships, but you must overcome them. Good luck… Elias.}
Froir laughed almost hysterically and snapped his fingers.
"Elias…?"
Marco's vision warped.
Darkness consumed him in a blink, swallowing the white expanse whole. The world vanished, color, light, sensation, all collapsing into a pitch black void.
Minutes passed. Or hours. With no sound, no movement, no breath, time felt meaningless.
'Did Froir finesse me—'
Before the thought could finish, a shrill cry pierced the dark, a child's scream, and his vision slowly returned.
The first thing he saw was a sweating, panting man, his clothes soaked and spattered with blood.
'What the hell…?'
Marco tried to speak, but only the thin, instinctive wail of a baby came out.
A man glanced down at him briefly, but didn't slow. His grip tightened instead as he kept running.
Marco's vision was limited, blocked by the man's trembling arms, but he could feel everything else. The air was brutally cold, sharp enough to sting the inside of his tiny nostrils with every breath. Icy wind scraped across his exposed skin like needles.
"Please… gods… let me protect him…" the man gasped, voice trembling. His chest heaved violently, heart pounding like drumbeats beneath Marco's cheek.
'Where are we?'
Helplessness washed over him. He had just been reincarnated… and now he was being taken through a freezing tundra by a blood covered man he didn't know. Perfect.
'Just my luck.'
Suddenly, the man stumbled and dropped to his knees. The jolt made Marco cry as the world tilted, but the man steadied him with shaking hands.
For the first time, Marco could see beyond the man's arms.
They were on a snowy mountaintop, winds howling, snow drifting in thin sheets across the ground. Bare rock and endless white stretched in every direction except one.
A single structure stood ahead, a massive stone house, ancient and grim, with a simple wooden door weathered by countless winters.
'Cliché…'
Marco would've said it aloud if he could, but instead he let out an accidental newborn giggle, flailing his tiny arms.
The door creaked open on its own, slow, deliberate. The man holding Marco bowed his head immediately, his body trembling.
An old man stepped out. Snow white hair concealed his eyes entirely, drifting like frost coated strands over his face.
He used a wooden staff to support himself, each step deliberate, steady, as though time bent gently around him.
The bloody man finally spoke, voice cracking.
"P-please… I-I have brought the promised child."
'The who and what now?'
Marco stared between the two men, helpless to do anything but squirm.
The man extended Marco forward with shaking arms.
'Hey, stop—!'
He tried to resist, but his tiny limbs were no match for gravity. All he managed was a weak wriggle and another infant cry.
The old man moved closer, slow but purposeful. When he reached them, he extended one hand, thin, icy cold, but remarkably steady, and took Marco. The transfer made the man shudder, though relief briefly softened his expression.
"I will—"
His voice was raspy but layered with ancient weight, each syllable measured.
"—keep my end of the promise."
'Promise? What the hell are they talking about?'
Marco wriggled again, but the old man's grip didn't budge an inch.
"I… Seraphael… will make him strong enough to face the gods."
"…"
Marco froze mid wobble.
'Face the GODS? Make me face the gods?'
This was straight out of a protagonist's absurd backstory.
The blood covered man nodded, wiping his face at last. With effort, he pushed himself to his feet, bowed once more, and began limping away.
'Seriously? That's it? He's just leaving me with this cryptic old man?'
He looked back once, just once, meeting Marco's infant eyes. He forced a tired, heartfelt smile.
Then he disappeared into the snowy darkness below.