"Wasn't I crossing the street just now… how did I end up here?"
Sylas's voice was quiet as he asked himself the question. He pushed himself upright, steadying his balance as his shoes pressed into the surface beneath him. It yielded slightly under his weight before holding firm.
He looked down.
What lay beneath his feet resembled clouds—dense, pale, and softly textured, stretching outward in a smooth expanse. There was no edge in sight, no variation in terrain—just a vast, white platform suspended in the open air.
Frowning slightly, he shifted his stance, testing the ground again before straightening up fully.
A cool breeze passed by, light and steady, carrying no scent, no sound—only a faint sense of emptiness.
He lifted his gaze to the sky above him, an uninterrupted gradient of blue, faintly touched by streaks of gold near the horizon. There was no visible sun, yet everything was evenly illuminated.
Slowly, he turned his head to look below him.
Far beyond where he stood, layers of clouds drifted in silence. Their movement was distant and slow, like waves observed from an impossible height.
There were no landmarks, no indication of a world beneath—only an endless expanse of blue sky.
Sylas exhaled quietly, running a hand through his hair as his brows drew together.
"…Did I die?" he asked himself.
The question lingered in the stillness, unanswered, as a voice eventually broke the silence.
"…No… no…" an aged voice mumbled to itself in frustration.
He turned toward the sound.
A short distance away, an old man paced back and forth in a restless pattern. His sandals brushed softly against the clouded surface, each step measured yet unsettled. His robe swayed with the motion, and one hand repeatedly tugged at his thinning gray hair.
"…This shouldn't have happened…" The man's voice was strained, his composure clearly unraveling.
Sylas watched him briefly before stepping forward, his movements cautious.
When he drew close enough, he spoke. "Excuse me," he called out to the man.
The old man stopped pacing. His eyes met Sylas's, and a flicker of guilt passed through them.
Sylas looked at him neutrally. "Could you explain where I am?" he asked. "The last thing I remember, I was crossing the street. After that, it's all blank to me."
The old man did not respond. Instead, he turned away, muttering under his breath as he resumed pacing. "Since he's already here… so be it…"
Sylas observed the man's actions as he waited patiently for a reply.
A minute passed, but there was still no reply.
"Sir," he tried again, more firmly this time.
The pacing stopped.
The old man straightened his posture, shifting abruptly as if forcing himself into composure. He cleared his throat twice before turning back to look at Sylas.
When he spoke, his voice had changed. It was steady now; that guilt-laced tone was nowhere to be found.
"You, young man, are currently within my personal domain… the Sky Realm." The old man folded his hands behind his back, a posture that suggested wisdom.
"As for how you came to be here…" he hesitated. "…That is a result of my own actions."
Sylas looked at the man, confused, not quite understanding what he meant by "a result of my own actions."
The old man lowered his gaze, the tension in his shoulders returning.
"I made an error," he said. "One with irreversible consequences."
A brief silence followed before he continued.
"I inadvertently caused you to be struck by a vehicle… while you were crossing the street."
The words settled heavily between them.
Sylas did not react immediately. His expression remained neutral, though his focus drifted for a brief moment.
A memory slowly returned—bright headlights, the sound of a horn, the sensation of his whole body being smashed.
"…I see." He took a moment to breathe, keeping himself from reliving the sensation of being run over.
He looked back at the old man, his expression less composed than before. "Then you are… what? A god?" he asked.
The old man inclined his head. "Yes, that is what you people call me," he responded.
Sylas held his gaze for a moment longer before turning his head slightly toward a nearby chair resting upon the clouded surface.
He walked toward it slowly and sat down, leaning forward with his forearms resting against his knees.
"What happens next?" Sylas's question was direct, devoid of panic. "Do I undergo reincarnation, or is there another process?"
The old man exhaled slowly, one hand rising to his temple. "Ordinarily, a soul is presented with two options following death," he explained. "However, your situation falls outside standard conditions."
"Because of your involvement, I presume."
"…Yes, because of my involvement." The old man reached into his sleeve and withdrew a thin sheet of paper. Its surface shimmered faintly, as though it existed somewhere between the physical and intangible.
"Due to the unnatural nature of your death, you are entitled to a third option," he said, extending the paper toward Sylas.
Sylas accepted it, glancing over its contents. "And that option is?"
"To be transferred to another world," the old man replied, "with your current memories intact."
"Are there any downsides to this option?" Sylas asked.
The old man blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the question. "If you choose this path," he said, resuming his pacing at a slower, more controlled pace, "you must determine the conditions of your existence. You may select a specific vessel in a random world… or a random vessel within a world of your choosing."
Sylas glanced down at the document. "Can you clarify what you mean by 'vessel'?"
"Your physical form," the old man said. "Your race and your innate capabilities."
Sylas's eyes shifted to a number printed at the top of the page.
"That figure represents your accumulated karma," the old man explained. "It may be used to determine your race, a singular ability… and your starting age."
Sylas fell silent as he began to read. The page was filled with structured entries—names, descriptions, origins—each detailing a different possibility.
His eyes moved steadily across the text, his expression sharpening slightly as he considered each option.
If it seemed good, he would mark the page lightly before moving on. If it didn't, he would simply flip to the next page.
Time passed, though the environment remained unchanged. The sky held its color, the light remained constant, and no external cues marked the passage of time.
Sylas shifted positions occasionally—standing, pacing, then sitting again—refining his selections with quiet focus.
Eventually, he stopped.
"…This will suffice." He stood and returned the paper to the old man. "I've made my decision."
The old man adjusted his glasses and reviewed the document in silence. When he finished, he looked up. "Are these your final selections?"
"Yes." There was no hesitation in Sylas's response.
For the first time, the old man's expression softened. "…Very well."
He extended his hand. A thin strand of white light formed at his fingertips, wavering briefly before moving forward and merging into Sylas's chest.
Sylas stiffened slightly as a warm sensation spread through him. It was neither painful nor overwhelming—simply unfamiliar, as though something within him had been altered at a fundamental level.
The sensation faded as quickly as it came.
"The modifications will take effect upon your arrival in your new world," the old man said.
At that moment, the space before them began to distort. A ripple formed in the air, expanding outward into a circular tear.
Within it, shifting colors moved in layered currents—deep blues, violets, and flickers of light that suggested depth beyond comprehension.
Sylas rose to his feet, his attention fixed on the opening.
The old man stepped aside, gesturing toward it. "You may proceed when you are ready."
Sylas took a slow breath, his hand tightening briefly before relaxing at his side. A faint smile appeared on his face. "Understood."
Without further hesitation, he stepped forward.
And as he crossed the threshold—Sylas disappeared into the light.