I killed them all. I sacrificed their lives, offered their blood. But why? My comrades, my friends, my family—those who were everything to me—what sin did I commit, O beings of light? You who cursed me to this destiny, what purpose lies in changing a world of sinners if I am its heir?
In a world where hope was a lie and life itself was a privilege earned in agony, the five rose. Five warriors, their hearts burning with dreams of a better tomorrow, sacrificed themselves to forge the "End of the End," a relic of divine power capable of sealing away the corruption that poisoned the land. Their blood and souls were the price. Their absence left the world with a fragile peace, a calm born from terror and sacrifice.
Yet even as the centuries passed, whispers of their deeds became legend. Some claimed the relic could grant any wish, provided the life force of the Seraphs remained within. Others believed the five never truly left, walking among mortals as unseen guardians. But inscribed upon the seal itself was a warning that refused to fade:
"Your sins surpass mine, beings of light. You allowed corruption to fester and committed hubris. I will return, and your repentance will be worthless."
The kingdom celebrated Princess Selena's seventeenth birthday under lantern-lit streets and laughter that grated against his ears. Shadows clung to him as he moved, pale skin standing out against the festive lights. Long, raven-black hair fell in tangled strands around his face, matted with grime. His body bore the marks of a lifetime of suffering: chains had left scars across his wrists and ankles, crisscrossing arms and torso like a cruel map of pain. Every scar was a testament to nights spent without warmth, without food, without hope, each one a story the world refused to see.
He had learned early that survival demanded nothing less than a constant awareness of cruelty. Hunger had hollowed his stomach; thirst had cracked his lips and tongue; beatings had left his bones aching for weeks. Sometimes he thought he could still feel the impressions of chains around his wrists, even though the iron had long since been removed.
He was a boy who had known only misery, yet he walked among the revelry of others like a shadow of himself. His black eyes scanned the crowd, sharp, wary, accusatory. Every glance felt like a condemnation. Every whisper, a judgment. He did not belong here—not in the lights, not in the laughter, not in the warmth.
"What a cruel world… she had everything handed to her. She will inherit a kingdom while I… I have never tasted real food, never slept in a proper bed… cursed be this world, cursed be those born with everything, and cursed be those like me who are born to suffer."
Selena. She moved through the crowd with effortless grace, radiance almost blinding. Her hair shone like gold under the lantern lights, her dress flowing with the ease of someone who had never known a struggle. Everything about her was perfection, everything denied to him since birth. His fists clenched. His chest tightened.
He remembered the hunger of his first winter, when he had huddled in the shadows of an abandoned alley while snow fell around him, piercing through the thin rags on his body. He remembered the stink of his own unwashed hair, the callouses on his hands from labor no child should endure. And now, here she was, smiling, untouched, unscarred, a beacon of everything he had been denied.
"I pray that you will be the one to destroy this kingdom, to tear apart the world that gave you everything you love so dearly. No matter which god or demon hears this prayer… grant me only this, before my death."
The crowd's laughter hit him like claws. Lanterns swung gently in the wind, casting shadows that seemed almost alive. Faces blurred together, joyous and oblivious. The music of celebration became a mockery, a cacophony that pressed on his temples. His chest heaved with a mix of rage and despair, each heartbeat echoing the injustice that had defined his life.
Every step he took through the festival was a reminder of everything he had been denied. A baker smiled as he handed a child a sweet bread. A merchant laughed as he counted coins. Nobles paraded in finery, showing off wealth Azrael had never known, wealth he had never dreamed of possessing. He wanted to reach out, to tear the world down around him, to make them all feel a fraction of the pain he carried in his body and soul.
Shadows wrapped around him like a cloak. He imagined himself rising above the crowd, the embodiment of all the rage, the anger, the betrayal that had been carved into his very bones. A fire kindled in his chest, a cold, burning desire that had lain dormant for years, waiting for a trigger. And now it roared.
The festival lights blurred. Faces twisted. Laughter became a scream. The streets melted into shadows, and the anger, the despair, the hatred—all of it—swelled until it consumed him.
Then, everything went black.
When he awoke, the world had shifted. The room around him was sterile, pristine, a mockery of the life he knew. White walls, polished floors, sheets soft as clouds—comfort he had never touched. His hands rose instinctively, fingers brushing over the scars that mapped every misfortune of his life. He hated them, hated himself for surviving, hated the world for mocking him with its perfection.
A voice, calm and measured, cut the tension:
"Oh… you're finally awake…"