By the time they found me, I was already crying, kneeling before the remains of an old king.
An hour.. No, not even yet an hour ago actually, my life had been ordinary—or at least, ordinary for me.
It was another night in the hospital, the rhythmic beep of machines had always kept me company in this sterile silence.
My heart was weak, my body fragile, and my world confined to the same white-walled room I had known for years.
That was my life.
Small, constrained. Deal with it, I did.
It was then when an unusual sensation filled my lungs.
This is wrong.
This isn't the sanitized scent of antiseptic, not the faint whiff of nitrous oxide they had always used to keep me calm. It's another, it's smoke.
Thick, acrid smoke filling my lungs.
I woke to the smell of fire, the crackle of flames licking at the walls, the panicked shouts of nurses and patients in the hallway.
Sure, I had always dreamed of seeing more than those endless, suffocating white walls, of escaping the monotonous loop of check-ups and medication, a change of the scenery.
But I didn't mean it like this. I didn't want my walls to turn orange.
Hah..
I tried to run, but my body betrayed me. It always had—of course it had. Even in moments of life and death, I couldn't run.
My legs were as weak as the heart that struggled to keep me alive.
Hot. So hot. The air burned my throat, dry and cracked, barely enough breath left to whisper against the inferno's roar. Every inhale was fire, every gasp an agony.
Why?
I haven't seen the world yet.
The world around me became blurrier as I coughed violently, choking on the fumes. My chest ached in a deep, wrenching pain.
It hurts. IT FUCKING HURTS. I tried to stay calm like the doctors always told me, but how could I?
It burns. It sears. It consumes me from the inside out.
Seriously? After everything? A lifetime of sickness, of frailty, of waiting for my body to give in—
—this is how it ends?
Not by cancer, not from my failing heart, but swallowed whole by fire?
At least let the disease kill me. At least let it be the thing that takes me!
You're not funny, at all, Fate.
Ah, my vision darkened, the crackling flames and chaos around me are all fading into this one-of-a-kind oppressive blackness.
And as I lay on the burning hospital bed helplessly, those flood of memories rushed over me.
The books I'd read, the stories I'd loved, the imaginary journeys I'd planned, the sketches in my journal, the maps on my walls, the dreams that had kept me alive even when my body tried to give up.
...all of it felt so far away now, slipping through my fingers as if they were sand.
I had never lived.
Not truly, at least. And now, as the fire consumed everything, I would die just as I had lived—trapped, helpless, alone.
Damn, that was painful.
And just as my final breath left me; the pain, the smoke, the fire, the annoying noisy shouts outside the room—they all disappeared, leaving only silence.
Silence.
Then, a voice.
No, not a voice.
A feeling, a feeling pulled me, as if tugging at my very soul.
I opened my eyes again.
I was somewhere else entirely.
Curled up on the ground, my petite 16-year-old body drawn inward, and beneath me was the first thing I saw—intricate lines of glowing, otherworldly symbols formed a vast magic circle, the kind I had only ever seen in fantasy stories.
Its soft luminescence pulsed faintly, like the dying heartbeat of something ancient and powerful. I am within its bounds, disoriented, the warmth still tingling against my skin.
This feels odd.
My body, my painful heart, my legs—they felt so light.
I can't believe it. The pain was gone.
Not just the agony of the fire, but also the familiar pain of this frail body.
Am I cured? Is this how it feels to be truly normal? To have an actual healthy body?
It was as if the circle—or whatever this was—had reshaped my form.
I was cured. Restored.
Slowly, I sat up and looked around.
Heaven was supposed to look more... celestial, wasn't it? Not like this.
The roofless ruined castle hall stretched far, vast and resplendent...even in ruin.
The architecture reminded me of the Gothic cathedrals I'd seen in old history books—tall archways, towering stone columns, and intricately carved detailing that still clung to the walls.
This is a throne hall.
But Heaven wasn't supposed to look like this, Heaven wasn't supposed to be in ruins, right?
Wasn't God's kingdom supposed to be eternal, a grandeur masterpiece?
Then again, what did I know? Maybe God had given up and let the place rot.
That said, time really had ravaged this place.
The roof seems to have crumbled long ago, leaving only skeletal beams and open air where shafts of golden sunlight streamed through.
Here and there, ivory-white ivy crept through the fissures in the stone, its leaves vibrant against the hall's ashen gray.
The faint rustling of the wind whispered across the open space made the place feel both forgotten and eternal, as though it had been left to sleep beneath the sky for millennia.
Above, the sky was an endless expanse of blue, scattered with fluffy white clouds drifting lazily.
It was strange, almost sacred. The sunlit air shimmered with many dust motes, like tiny fireflies caught mid-dance. The walls still bore murmurs of their past glory; remnants of murals depicting radiant battles and soaring kingdoms, yet their colors now faded and cracked.
Beautiful. And yet, broken.
Why? Rather than glorious jewel, it was more like a relic from a world that had already ended. Like a dream someone had long since abandoned.
A strange ache settled in my chest, and I wasn't sure if it was sorrow or admiration.
And at the center far end, where the sunlight pooled brightest, stood the throne.
It was massive, carved from dark stone laced with veins of tarnished gold that caught the sun's rays and glinted faintly.
And upon it, a skeleton sat.
Its regal robes, though faded, still shimmered faintly, silk that refused to die. Its bony fingers gripped a weathered staff, hollow sockets gazing out over the ruined hall as if it still watched over a kingdom long lost to time.
Unseeing, yet all-knowing.
A king.
...Was this God?
No, that was a stupid thought.
Even if some stupid cults claimed God was dead, I doubted He'd just be sitting here, letting Himself rotten away in a forgotten throne room.
Then again, with how my life had gone so far, would it really be that surprising?
Okay, no. I need to calm down—though, I am calm! Too calm, actually. Have I always been like this? Unnaturally calm.
I mean, shouldn't I be panicking? Screaming? Losing my mind? I just died. I literally just died. In an agonizing fire, even.
But I wasn't. I was too calm.
Maybe it was the body. This new, healthy form didn't carry the same exhaustion, the same constant ache that had worn me down for years. Maybe the shock hadn't worn off yet.
Or maybe, after a lifetime of feeling powerless, I had already made peace with the absurdity of it all.
Probably the last one.
Even so, my gaze flicked back to the skeleton.
A girl my age should've been horrified. I should've recoiled, should've screamed. But instead, all I felt was...
Amazement.
And pity, too.
How grand had his kingdom been, before time claimed it piece by piece? How magnificent must it have been? How far it had fallen.
And then, I noticed it.
A lectern stood before the throne, its surface carved from the same dark stone. Upon it, a single parchment lay untouched, glowing faintly as if waiting to be read.
I dragged myself forward, crawling across the cold stone floor. Because even with this new body-even with these healthy, reshaped legs—I didn't remember how to walk.
Years spent confined to a hospital bed had stolen that from me.
Inch by inch, I pulled myself toward the lectern, my fingers pressing against the rough stone for support.
Each movement felt foreign, like I was learning how to exist in my own body all over again.
At last, I reached it. Leaning against the lectern, I let my eyes fall upon the words.
And I read.
===============================
"To the Souls Who Awakens Here."
Welcome to my broken world. I greet you from beyond. For if you are reading this, I am dead.
A voice long faded from this world. Though my lifeless form may still rest upon the throne before you.
I am Raphael. They once called me many things: the Great Sage, the Living Grimoire, the Arcane Ruler. But these titles, grand as they were, feel empty now. What use are they to a man who destroyed all he sought to protect? As I wrote this letter, I was the last mage of this realm—and for a brief, bitter time, its king. The Sovereign of Sorcerers.
Once, I was revered as the most powerful mage to ever grace this land. I shattered the skies. I commanded storms. I separate the seas. I even bent the very laws of reality to my will. They did not call me the Great Sage for nothing. Yet here I rest, lifeless, defeated, a testament to failure.
So please, let me tell you my last tale. The tale of a murderer.
This land of magic, was a haven of arcane, a realm of untamed magic and boundless ambition.
But ambition, unbridled, is a poison. My people grew greedy, and foolishly, so did I.
We hungered for power, we are not content with the mere power to shatter the heavens, we want more.
I, blinded by pride, gave them what they sought. I told myself it was for the greater good, that I could lead them safely through the dangers of power unrestrained.
We reached too far. We called upon forces that should never have been touched—forces that were ancient when the stars were young. The profane, the wicked, the unholy, the evil. The Primordial Demons.
We thought we could control it. I thought I could control it. I thought I was enough.
But I wasn't.
First, it devoured our skies, turning them into a void that wept fire. The earth split, swallowing cities whole. Rivers turned to dust. Laughter to screams—then to silence.
One by one, my people fell. The faces I had sworn to protect—their voices, their joy, their hope, snuffed out because of me.
I fought. Oh, how I fought. I burned through every ounce of my strength, under the weight of my desperation. I fought until my body broke and my soul cracked.
But even I, the Great Sage, the one who once shattered the heavens, was no match for the darkness we ourselves had unleashed.
My arrogance blinded me. I saw the warnings and ignored them, thinking myself invincible. I helped open the gates of incomprehensible forces.
I brought ruin to my people. My power, once their shield, became their doom. They trusted me, and I failed them.
Now, only I remained, the last mage.
I sat on this throne, surrounded by the bones of those I swore to protect, and I asked myself: What is a protector who cannot protect? What is a king without a kingdom? WHAT IS A SAVIOR WHO KILLED HIS OWN PEOPLE?
I could not accept it. I would not accept it. So I retreated to this throne hall—the heart of my castle, my sanctuary.
For I refused to surrender to oblivion. I crafted a spell, a masterpiece of despair: the Reincarnation Sigil.
My plan was simple. I would cast my soul into the future, to a time when the darkness had faded, and I could rise again to rebuild this world.
But everything has its price, and I paid it in its bitter irony.
My soul—vast as it was, brimming with mana—was too much for the spell to contain.
How ironic, isn't it? The very strength that allowed me to create the sigil was the reason it failed.
The circle cracked beneath the weight of my essence, unable to hold what I had become.
Yet, although the spell could not hold my soul, it could hold others—smaller, quieter, yet no less significant.
Souls unburdened by the overwhelming tide of magic that consumed mine. Souls like yours.
So, I altered its design.
If I could not live again, then I would bring others.
You. I don't know who you are. I don't know where you're from, or even when. I only know that you died, and that my spell dragged you here.
However, I cannot say whether the kingdom beyond still stands. After countless millennia, it may be nothing more than dust and overgrowth.
I only protected this castle—I wanted you to awaken somewhere safe, after all.
Now, I have but one request.
Worry not, for I am not that arrogant to ask you to fix my mistake, to repair what I had done, to fight the darkness, or even to be a hero and save this ruined world.
There's nothing left to save, anyway.
The darkness, the Primordial Demons took everything. The kingdom is dust. My enemies are ash. I'm sure the darkness itself has slumbered, sated by its feast.
I don't know. I don't care.
What I ask of you is simple: live.
Restore this land. Build where there is ruin. Laugh where there was silence. Others will awaken, just as you have. The sigil will summon them. Find them. Thrive together. Bring life to this ruin of a world.
The sigil will ensure it, that you are not the first, nor will you be the last. Together, perhaps you can create what I could not: hope.
I leave you with nothing but this broken land.
My name is Raphael. Once, I was the King of this land, this world. The Last Mage, the Great Sage.
Now, I am but a skeleton on a throne, a failure. But perhaps, through you, my failure can be the seed of something greater.
Go. Live.
===============================
Tears.
Tears are what blurs my vision by the time I finish reading.
I sympathize with the fallen ruler. Though our obvious difference; there is one undeniable fact.
Both of us, in our last moments, were a moment of hopelessness.
Raphael. The Great Sage. The Arcane Ruler. The Sovereign of Sorcerers.
A king who had shattered the skies. A mage who had commanded the very laws of reality. A man who had wielded unfathomable power.
A man who had failed.
And in the end, he had been left alone. Just like me.
Dragging myself forward, crawling, I left the lectern behind.
I reached the base of the throne and collapsed, my breath shuddering as my palms flattened against the ground.
I extended my left leg forward, adjusting the pose, but it faltered, folding clumsily beneath me.
I fell forward, panting, but I didn't stop. Gritting my teeth, I forced my legs to bend, trembling as I pushed myself upright once more.
The effort was unbearable—each second I held the position felt like I might crumble again—but I stayed there, kneeling before him.
And as I looked down on the floor, I cried even more.
Not for myself, but for the tragedy etched into the very bones of this place. For the regret I saw in the lifeless sockets of the once-great ruler.
His story, carved into the stillness of the hall, resonated with my own.
Like me, he had dreamed of something greater, only to be betrayed by the cruel reality of failure.
"You, too, died alone, right?"
Sobs.
I fell to my knees before him, my tears spilling onto the cold, cracked stone. For a moment, I was no longer the fragile girl who had never lived.
I was simply a soul, grieving for another.
This was a broken world, one that needed someone—anyone—to breathe life back into it.
Through my tears, I whispered to the fallen king, "Yes. Your majesty. I will live. For you, for me. I will live."
And then there were footsteps.
The guards burst into the ruined throne hall. Seems like they are the one who guarded the awakening place, I suppose?
But by the time they found me, I was already crying, kneeling before the remains of an old king.