"Where am I?" Tilus murmured as he blinked in disorientation.
Beside him, an unfamiliar female voice replied, "Heaven? Hell? Who knows?"
Tilus sprang upright and checked his body—arms intact, legs firmly attached. He was alive, and for a moment, he silently thanked whatever gods might be listening.
Looking up, he caught sight of a tiny figure with wings hovering before him. No larger than his forearm, the woman had white hair, eyes the color of fresh blood, and a hairstyle split between a sharp, short tail and long, flowing strands past her waist. Her red eyes fixed on his without blinking.
"Who are you?" Tilus asked, voice wavering.
She tilted her head slightly and replied with a playful lilt, "Me? Hmm... You can call me the Apostle of the One Who Defies Fate."
Tilus couldn't hide his disdain. "So you're connected to that bastard?"
A glimmer of amusement danced in her eyes as she laughed—a light, mocking sound. "Oh, those eyes… full of rage and hatred. Considering everything you've been through, it's only natural."
Tilus frowned. "Why was there no one else in that trial? Aren't Constellation trials supposed to be group events? The survivors share the Constellation's power together, don't they?"
She sighed and rolled her eyes. "You wanted a group trial? In a world where people would sooner tear each other apart than cooperate? Did you really think you could rely on them… or were you planning to use them as meat shields?"
Tilus's silence said enough. With an indifferent shrug, she continued, "Anyway, you failed. Normally, I'd just toss you out, but you're... a special case. So, you get a second chance."
He managed a quizzical look. "I thought those who failed trials got another chance later?"
"True," she conceded, "for historical-grade Constellations, maybe. But mythical and divine-grade Constellations don't work that way. Fail them and your fate is sealed—they're picky about their vessels."
Her words reminded him that even Constellations had ranks. The One Who Defies Fate, it seemed, belonged to the upper echelons.
"Then why doesn't The One Who Defies Fate show up himself instead of sending you?" Tilus pressed.
She scoffed, folding her arms. "Do you think your mortal body could handle the presence of a god? Please. Honestly, I'm not sure what he was thinking when he chose you."
Tilus tried to speak—wanted to ask about X and the journal—but his throat felt paralyzed, as if someone had ripped his vocal cords out. Sensing his struggle, she leaned in with curiosity. "Hmm? Trying to say something, human?"
After a pause, he managed, "What do I need to do?"
"Simple." A dark gleam sparked in her eyes as she grinned. "Survive what's coming next."
Before him, a black door materialized, its surface covered in glowing, foreign runes—the same kind he'd seen in the journal. It swung open and released a wave of power so intense it seemed to pull every cell of his body toward the yawning void beyond.
"Wait! I still have questions!" Tilus cried out, desperation lacing his tone.
"Too many questions," her voice faded as the void sucked him in. "Just get in. Survive this time."
And then he was falling.
The darkness was endless, thick and crushing—no ground, no walls, nothing to hold onto. It was worse than any roller coaster, and Tilus found himself unable even to scream as if the air were being siphoned from his lungs.
"God—aghhh! Damn it!" he shouted as the void roared around him.
Suddenly, he spotted the land rushing up. With a sickening thud, Tilus landed face first on the ground. Gritting his teeth, he stood and shouted angrily at the empty sky, "If you ever do that to me again, I swear I'm gonna kill you!"
There was no reply—only silence.
Tilus looked around, and the surroundings felt strangely familiar. "This place... my home," he thought with bitter irony. A wry laugh escaped him. "If you're going to replicate my home, at least do it properly. It wasn't this worn down." He paused, shaking his head. "But what do I know? I haven't been home in years."
Before him stood a battered house in the middle of rubble—a worn-down shell of what it used to be. It was amazing that the structure still stood when everything around it had crumbled. Neighboring houses, once so close, were now reduced to piles of debris. Yet his house remained standing. That could only mean one thing: this was a trap. No—it was a trial.
Tilus knew he couldn't progress by lingering here. The familiar iron sliding door caught his eye, and his chest tightened as memories flooded in—the front office that doubled as a private clinic, where his father once diagnosed patients with calm, reassuring authority.
The space was as cramped as he remembered, barely enough for someone to walk straight without bumping into walls. He stared at the glass door separating the clinic from the rest of the house, everything exactly as it had been the day he left—five years ago. And yet, something was off.
As a kid, the darkness and the eerie wind had always given him chills—whooooo shhhhhhhhh. That sound still haunted him. His heart pounded as he stepped inside. The space felt suffocating, pitch-black shadows swallowing every corner while a single ceiling light flickered erratically, casting jagged flashes across the walls.
"Am I in my house, or some haunted house instead?" he muttered.
The first thing that hit him was the smell—dust, mildew, and faintly, the floral air freshener his mom once adored. The scent pulled him back into the past, and he closed his eyes to let the memories wash over him.
When he opened them again, he was standing in the middle of his old living room. But everything was wrong. The coffee table was split down the middle, its lacquer peeling; photos on the wall hung askew, some frames empty; the couch, once pristine, was sunken and threadbare, its bright fabric faded to a murky gray. Everything was worn down and forgotten—just like him.
A faint sound of laughter drifted from the next room, and his breath caught. With tentative steps, Tilus moved forward. The worn floorboards creaked beneath his weight, yet he pressed on, the weight of every memory bearing down on him as he approached the dining room.
Through a half-open door, he saw them—his parents, youthful and vibrant in a way he barely recalled. His mother was meticulously arranging dishes, her hands moving with a precision both familiar and alien. His father was buried in a newspaper, expression neutral and detached. And then there was his younger self, sitting stiffly with shoulders hunched and eyes downcast.
"You scored second place again?" his father asked calmly, not looking up from his paper.
"Yes," his younger self mumbled, barely audible.
The clatter of chopsticks set down echoed in the silence. His mother's voice cut sharply through the air, "Second place? How much money have we spent on your tuition? Your lessons? Second isn't good enough. Do you think second will get you anywhere in life?"
The younger Tilus shrank further, fingers twisting the hem of his shirt. "I—I'll do better next time," he whispered.
"Better isn't enough," his father said flatly, finally lowering his paper. "You're already behind. Look at what the neighbor's son has achieved. He's your age and already has awards lining his shelves. What do you have to show?"
Each word struck Tilus like a blow, carving into his chest. He longed to look away, to cover his ears, but the scene played on relentlessly, a loop he couldn't escape.
"You think we'll be around to take care of you forever?" his mother continued, her voice rising. "If you don't push harder, if you don't succeed, what will you do when we're gone? Do you want to shame us? To waste all our sacrifices?"
Tilus could bear it no longer. "Stop it!" he yelled, stepping into the room—but his older self felt invisible, as if the memories were meant only for his younger heart. On the table lay a hand-drawn picture of someone once close to him—the one he had pushed away. The scene was frozen in time, a bittersweet reminder of promises broken.
At last, his younger self lifted his head, pale but determined. "I'll do better. I promise."
The older Tilus felt that promise like a chain around his neck. How many times had he vowed it, only to fail? The dining room dissolved into black mist, leaving him standing amid the ruins of his past, the walls groaning under the weight of unspoken words.
Then a sharp, amused voice cut through the silence. "Oh, the crushing weight of expectations. Isn't it just delicious?"
Tilus turned to see her again—the Apostle of the One Who Defies Fate. She hovered lazily, arms crossed, her red eyes gleaming with mischief. "They built you up to be perfect, didn't they? The golden child, the one destined to bring glory to the family."
His fists clenched at his sides as he remained silent.
"And what happened?" she continued, circling him like a predator. "You fell. You stumbled. And they tore you down for it."
Her words stung—not for their cruelty but for their raw truth.
"Do you think their sacrifices were your burden to bear? Or was it the weight you chose to carry?" she asked softly.
Tilus could only stand there, the truth of her words cutting through him. Every syllable dug into wounds he had long tried to hide—even from himself.
Clicking her tongue, the Apostle remarked, "Nothing to say? Figures. You've been running for so long you've forgotten how to fight." Her wings fluttered as she hovered closer, red eyes narrowing. "Fine. Stay silent if you must. But the trial won't care. It'll chew you up and spit you out if you don't confront what's eating you. Let me put it simply: this place—this nightmare—is a reflection of your soul. Every crack, every shadow, every ruined piece? It's you."
Tilus glanced around at the crumbling walls, shattered windows, and lifeless furniture. She was right. This wasn't just his old house—it was a twisted version, warped by years of regret and self-loathing.