Death of the Gods

The rain lashed the city like liquid whips, striking the cracked asphalt and flickering streetlights swaying under the force of the wind. Puddles formed in the dips of the sidewalk, reflecting the trembling glow of passing headlights, while thunder roared overhead like distant cannons. The smell of wet earth mixed with the metallic stench of rusted pipes and clogged drains struggling to swallow the deluge.

Amid this chaotic scene, standing at the edge of a crosswalk, was him. The hood of his yellow jacket—now stained with mud and oil—wasn't enough to shield him from the storm. The raindrops seeped through the worn fabric, mocking his attempt at shelter. His clothes betrayed his origin: a construction worker's uniform, its faded logo barely visible on his chest. His jeans, once blue, were now a patchwork of dark stains, clinging to his legs and soaked through to the bone.

He stood still, shoulders slumped, as if carrying the weight of the entire storm. His black hair, drenched, clung to his forehead, and small rivulets of water traced paths down his angular face, blending with the grime collected from a long day's work. His deep brown eyes, shadowed by dark circles, stared at the red light ahead as though it were an insurmountable obstacle. The dim glow reflected in the puddles around him, distorting his tired silhouette into a fragmented frame.

He let out a heavy sigh, barely audible over the storm's roar, and rubbed his arms in a futile attempt to warm himself. His hands were rough, calloused, and smeared with grease. Beneath his nails, traces of dried concrete resisted the relentless rain. Each breath seemed to carry the sour scent of sweat mixed with dust and cement.

The clock on a glowing sign across the street read 10:37 PM. By now, traffic had thinned, yet cars still sped by, splashing water onto the sidewalks and sending gusts of wind against him. His eyes followed the vehicles, as though expecting to see a familiar face—or perhaps hoping someone might recognize him and take him away from all this.

But no one stopped.

When the light finally turned green, he hesitated. His heavy feet felt anchored to the concrete, as if his soaked soles had grown roots. The rain continued to pummel him, making each step a struggle.

He crossed the street, the sound of his drenched shoes echoing against the wet pavement. Halfway through, a flash of lightning lit up the sky, revealing his expression—a mixture of exhaustion and resignation. He wasn't angry about his situation, nor was he sad. It was something worse. That hollow look of someone who had grown far too accustomed to the daily grind.

Reaching the other side, he leaned briefly against a streetlight, pulling his hood forward as if it could hide him from the world. But the world remained—cruel and indifferent.

Gazing at the rain-blurred horizon, he kept walking. He didn't run. He didn't rush. He simply kept moving, like someone who already knew there was nothing waiting for him except another day just like the one he had just survived.

And on that night, beneath the merciless storm, the silence within him was far louder than the thunder above.

His footsteps echoed against the waterlogged pavement, each movement spreading ripples through shallow puddles. The rain still fell in torrents, cold and sharp, but he had stopped caring about the dampness soaking into every fiber of his clothes. He felt the weight of his shirt clinging to his back, the chill piercing his skin like invisible needles.

His thoughts spun, circling like the tires of passing cars that splashed dirty water onto his already ruined boots.

"Is this how it's going to be until I die?"

He clenched his fists, feeling the calluses scrape against his rough palms. The question spun in his mind, as heavy as the water weighing down his clothes. Every single day was the same. Waking up before sunrise, cramming into overcrowded buses, enduring a boss's yelling, hauling bags of cement, mixing concrete, climbing scaffolding, dealing with impatient clients and engineers who didn't care about the sweat and grit of those working beneath the sun—or, like tonight, beneath the rain.

"Is this it? Working to make someone else richer?"

He stopped in front of a brightly lit shop window, rain streaming down the glass and distorting the display inside. A mannequin wore an elegant gray suit—something he knew he'd never have the money to buy. Reflected in the glass, he saw his own image—a tired face, slouched shoulders, and hollow eyes.

He looked away, the bitterness rising in his throat.

"It's not like I'm ungrateful…" he thought, starting to walk again. "But this emptiness… it just keeps growing."

A sharp gust of wind carried the smell of fried food from a small restaurant ahead. His stomach growled, but he knew he couldn't afford to stop. Bills piled up too quickly, and there was barely enough left at the end of the month. Life felt like a race against time—and time always won.

He quickened his pace, the water sloshing in his boots with every step. The streets were nearly deserted now, only a few hurried pedestrians and impatient drivers honking for no reason.

"Others have it worse."

That phrase echoed in his mind like a mantra. Every time he wanted to complain, it resurfaced. Homeless people sleeping under awnings, single mothers hauling heavy bags at the end of the day, elderly beggars asking for spare change. The world was far crueler than most cared to admit, and he knew it. As hard as his life felt, there were people who'd trade places with him without hesitation.

But still...

"It's exhausting."

He crossed another street, the flickering streetlights above casting faint glows on the puddles below. For a moment, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed behind him, but then faded—just another worker trying to escape the rain before catching a cold, perhaps.

And so he kept walking, swallowed by the storm and the night, his thoughts trailing behind him like shadows.

He adjusted his hood, even though it was already too soaked to make any difference. The heavy jacket clung to his body, and the added weight seemed to drag his thoughts even further down.

"Dad always said being honest is hard."

The old man's rough, steady voice still echoed in his memory. His father had hands as calloused as his own—a testament to years of hard labor. He used to say it was better to have an empty stomach than dirty hands. And he believed that. Or at least he thought he did.

"Better this than being a crook... A criminal..."

But was it really?

He stopped beside a closed newsstand, its tattered awning offering a brief reprieve from the rain. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment. The sound of raindrops hitting metal and concrete echoed in his head like a drumbeat.

"Is it worth it?"

The question hit him hard, like a punch to the chest. He opened his eyes and looked out at the street. The reflection of colorful lights mixed with the running water, creating streaks of brightness in the darkness.

Deep down, he knew he didn't have an answer. Even if he wanted to, he couldn't imagine another life. He didn't know how to do anything else. Work hard, keep his head down, and keep moving forward. That was the only path he knew.

But in the end...

"We take nothing with us when we die."

That truth stung more than the cold, more than the rain. He kept walking, his sore muscles protesting with every step. The streets grew emptier, and the weight of loneliness hung over him like an invisible burden.

When he finally saw the bus stop ahead, he let out a sigh. Fifteen more minutes waiting for the bus, then another hour to get home. Maybe he'd grab a quick bite before collapsing into bed. Or maybe he wouldn't.

Tomorrow...

Tomorrow would be the same.

The bus stop was a flimsy shelter against the storm, its rusted metal frame and cracked acrylic roof barely keeping the rain out in some spots. The dim streetlight beside it flickered occasionally, as if fighting against the darkness and the relentless cold wind.

He sat on one of the metal benches, shivering as the chill seeped deeper into his body when his back touched the freezing support. His calloused hands rested on his knees, and he gazed at the empty street, waiting to see the headlights of the bus cutting through the thick fog. But all he saw was the wet asphalt reflecting the distant glow of buildings and shops.

"It's still going to take a while..."

The thought whispered in his mind like a tired echo. He tried to distract himself from the endless wait, letting his eyes drop to the ground where raindrops trickled toward a rusted drain. He wanted to think about anything other than work, bills, or tomorrow.

And then his mind drifted—somewhere far away. To a world completely different from the one surrounding him. A world of magic, epic battles, and legendary heroes.

Fate/Grand Order.

He could almost feel the vibration of his phone in his hands, opening the game for the first time years ago. The glowing logo had appeared on the screen, accompanied by that orchestral soundtrack that always gave him chills. It was a gacha game, built around luck to summon rare characters, but what had truly hooked him was the story. Complex scenarios, battles against mythical enemies, and choices that carried real weight.

And he wasn't just any player.

"All the Beasts..."

The thought brought a brief smile to his lips. He was one of the few—only 50 players in the world—who had managed to collect all the Beasts on a single account. The divine, legendary creatures that represented existential threats in the game's lore were the rarest cards. For most players, obtaining them was impossible. But he had done it.

He remembered the moment he summoned the last one, after months of saving virtual resources and praying for luck. The shimmering animation of the summoning screen, his heart pounding, and then the golden glow revealing the final card.

"I did it..."

That night, the sense of victory had been overwhelming. Even alone, he had let out a muffled shout, pumping his fist in the air. His account had become a relic in the game's community. Many called him the "Beast Master" in forums and online groups.

But like everything else in life, that happiness had been fleeting.

The smile faded from his face as quickly as it had appeared. The cold crept back into his bones, pulling him out of his thoughts and back into reality. He was still there, sitting at a rusted bus stop, drenched to the core, with mud-soaked shoes. His virtual achievements didn't pay overdue bills or ease the crushing weight of his routine.

"A success in the game, but a failure in real life..."

That was the cruel truth he avoided facing. He might have been one of the best players in that fictional world, but out here, he was just another invisible pawn in a system that never stopped.

He looked down at his hands. They no longer held a bright, gleaming phone but were covered in grease and cement. The marks on his fingers told a story of effort and sacrifice—one no one would ever see or admire.

Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees and let out a long sigh, the warm vapor escaping his lips and vanishing into the cold night air.

"Why did I stop playing again?"

Ah, yes. Time. Or rather, the lack of it. Long shifts and extra jobs drained everything he had. By the time he finally got home, he could barely keep his eyes open long enough to grab a quick bite before collapsing into bed.

Turning on his phone to play felt like a luxury. The real world had stolen that small joy from him without asking for permission.

And yet, he still remembered that game. That world where he was respected, recognized, and, above all, valued.

For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine what it would be like to live in that universe—to fight alongside Servants, face monstrous enemies, and save the world from unimaginable threats. A world where his decisions mattered, where he wasn't just another nameless face lost in the crowd.

The sound of an engine in the distance pulled him out of his daydream. He looked up and saw the bus lights finally rounding the corner. He stood slowly, his aching legs protesting, and stepped closer to the curb.

As the vehicle pulled up, brakes squealing and doors hissing open, he took one last look at the street. The rain kept falling, relentless, but he no longer felt the drops against his skin.

After all, tomorrow everything would start over again. And no matter how much he wanted to escape into that fictional world, he knew it would never be enough to run from reality.

The bus doors creaked as they opened, releasing a gust of warm air that clashed with the freezing wind outside. He climbed the steps slowly, his soaked boots sticking briefly to the rubber floor before letting go with a wet squelch.

The driver, a middle-aged man with graying stubble and a bored expression, barely looked at him. He simply held out a hand for the fare.

"Two eighty."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of damp, crumpled coins. After counting them quickly, he handed them over. The driver dropped the change into the small metal box beside the steering wheel with a dull clink.

"Good evening..." he muttered, though the words felt empty—almost automatic.

The driver didn't respond. He just pulled the lever to close the doors and turned his eyes back to the wet road ahead.

He made his way to the back of the bus, ignoring the empty seats closer to the front. He preferred to sit far from anyone who might get on later. Throwing himself into a seat by the window, he leaned against the cold plastic, resting his head against the fogged-up glass.

The engine rumbled as the bus started moving, swaying slightly as it hit potholes along the cracked streets. He let his eyes drift over the blurred scenery outside.

Flickering streetlights, worn-down storefronts, and the shadowy outlines of leafless trees swaying under the storm. Everything looked so gray, so lifeless—like the city itself was drowning in the same exhaustion he felt.

The glass vibrated softly against his forehead with every bump, and he let the steady rhythm of the windshield wipers fill his thoughts.

"It's always the same... Nothing ever changes."

But that wasn't entirely true. He knew the city changed, even if slowly. New buildings popped up, stores closed, and people came and went. Yet he stayed the same. Always on the same path, sitting in the same seat, heading back to the same cramped, empty apartment.

He watched the raindrops slide down the glass, twisting into crooked paths as they searched for direction—only to end up merging and disappearing halfway down. For a moment, he felt like those drops mirrored exactly how he felt.

"Would anyone even notice if I disappeared tomorrow?"

The question echoed in his mind, sinking into the same emptiness he felt in his chest. He knew his family cared—at least in theory. His mom called now and then to check on him, but their conversations rarely lasted more than five minutes. His dad had always been more blunt, reminding him that life was tough and he had to keep going, no matter how hard it got.

"Everyone has problems, son. You're not special."

The words rang in his head. He knew they were true, but that didn't make things any easier.

His thoughts wandered back to the game, to how those digital voices always treated him like someone important—someone needed. The Servants, with their unique personalities, always had something to say. Something that made him feel... alive.

Yet here he was, staring out of a dirty, fogged-up window, watching distorted reflections of streetlights and signs glowing in the rain.

The bus made a sharp turn, jolting him against the seat. He glanced down the aisle and saw only two other passengers scattered across the rows. An old man slept with his head resting against the window, while a younger woman scrolled through her phone, earbuds tucked beneath the hood of her sweatshirt.

The isolation felt worse now. Even surrounded by people, he still felt completely alone.

He tried to push the thoughts away, turning his eyes back to the window. They passed a small park, where empty swings creaked in the wind, swaying as if invisible hands were playing with them.

"If I disappeared tomorrow... they'd just find someone else to take my place."

The thought came and went like distant thunder. He knew it was true. At work, no one was irreplaceable—not even him. His boss probably wouldn't even bother to ask why he didn't show up. He'd just call another employee and move on.

He let out a heavy sigh and rested his head against the glass again.

"Just a few more stops..."

The rain seemed to be easing up, but the weight on his shoulders didn't lift. He watched the streets grow darker as the bus moved away from downtown and into more residential areas. Here, the lights in the windows were dim, and the small houses looked like they were pressed together, huddling against the cold.

He felt exhaustion pulling him down. His eyelids grew heavy, and he allowed himself to close his eyes for a moment. He knew he couldn't sleep—but he just needed to rest.

When he opened them again, he realized his stop was coming up. He stood before the bus had even fully slowed and walked toward the back door.

The driver barely glanced at him in the rearview mirror before pressing the button to open the exit.

The rain was lighter now, as if it, too, had lost its strength. He stepped down onto the wet pavement, breathing deeply.

There were still ten minutes of walking between him and his apartment. Ten minutes in the dark, in the cold, and in the silence.

Pulling his hood up again, he lowered his head and started walking.

The boy blinked a few times, forcing himself to shake off the drowsiness that threatened to pull him under. The blurry glow of streetlights passed by slowly until he recognized the familiar corner marked by a small market with a faded sign and a crooked lamppost lighting the entrance.

"My stop..."

He stood up with a soft crack of his joints, his muscles complaining after a long day. Gripping the metal pole by the door, he pressed the red button, which lit up briefly and let out a sharp beep. The bus slowed, its brakes groaning as it came to a stop.

When the doors hissed open and a cold breeze rushed in, he pulled his hood further down and stepped off, feeling the drizzle and wind wrap around him again as his boots hit the cracked sidewalk.

The bus didn't even wait. The doors shut behind him, and the vehicle growled as it pulled away, disappearing down the empty street, leaving behind only the sound of water trickling through the gutters and the faint hum of streetlights overhead.

He looked up at the building in front of him. It was old, with dark water stains running down its peeling walls like scars. The ground-floor windows were covered by rusted bars, and the few New Year's decorations by the entrance seemed out of place—like a desperate attempt to hide the obvious signs of neglect.

Faded wreaths and a red banner with "Happy New Year" written in gold letters fluttered in the wind. A flickering star-shaped light hung crookedly above the cracked glass door.

"It doesn't even feel like the end of the year..."

He pushed the door open, and it let out a groan. The electronic lock beside it, supposedly for security, had been covered with tape and broken for months. In reality, anyone could walk in.

The lobby was small and dimly lit, with cracked ceramic tiles and mold stains creeping into the corners of the ceiling. Rusted mailboxes lined one wall, most of them missing locks or hanging open. He didn't even glance at them as he passed, knowing there was nothing there but junk mail and overdue bills.

He climbed the first set of narrow stairs. The air smelled of mildew and cheap disinfectant, making it hard to breathe deeply. The dim fluorescent lights flickered now and then, throwing jittery shadows along the walls.

Every step seemed to echo through the empty corridors. A few apartments on the first floor showed signs of life—a faint TV broadcast and the muffled cries of a child—but the higher he climbed, the quieter it got.

By the time he reached the third floor, his knees and shoulders already felt heavy. The building had four floors, and his apartment was on the second to last.

The elevator beside the stairs had been out of service for months. Its rusty doors hung slightly open, revealing a dark interior that smelled faintly of oil and dust.

When he finally reached his floor, the narrow hallway stretched out before him, its walls grimy and marked by dirt and fingerprints. The doors were cheap wood, some bearing scratches or dents near the locks. The floor was cracked and stained, the tiles uneven underfoot.

He walked past the other units, hearing only the faint hum of a distant TV and the occasional creak of pipes in the walls. Stopping in front of door 304, he noticed the "4" was hanging crookedly, barely held in place by a single screw.

He dug into his pocket for the key, sliding it into the lock and turning it. The mechanism resisted at first before finally clicking open with a metallic snap.

Pushing the door with his shoulder, he stepped inside as it creaked softly on its hinges.

The apartment was dark. He stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and leaned against it for a moment. He didn't turn on the lights right away. Instead, he stood in the darkness, listening only to the sound of his own breathing and the faint ticking of the clock on the wall.

He felt exhausted—but also hollow. As if he'd left part of himself behind on the bus, in the rain, or somewhere along the endless loop of his routine.

Letting out a long sigh, he finally reached for the light switch. The dim yellow glow filled the cramped room, revealing its narrow, confined space.

The living room doubled as everything—bedroom, kitchen, and lounge. Against one wall, a single bed sat covered in wrinkled sheets. Near it, a wooden table with a lone chair and a rusty microwave stood as a makeshift dining area. Beside the tiny sink, dirty dishes had piled up.

In the corner, plugged into the wall, his phone rested on a repurposed nightstand. He stared at it for a moment, feeling the urge to pick it up, open the game, and dive back into a world where he mattered.

But he didn't.

Instead, he tossed his damp jacket over the chair, pulled off his soaked boots, and walked barefoot across the cold floor to the bed. He sat down, letting his body collapse as though his muscles had finally given up.

Sitting there, surrounded by silence broken only by the rain tapping against the window, he wondered if any of it was worth it. And for the thousandth time, he didn't have an answer.

The boy lingered on the edge of the bed, staring at the worn floor beneath his bare feet. His limbs felt heavy, like every movement demanded more effort than it should. Outside, the rain began to fall harder, tapping against the glass in an uneven rhythm that filled the small apartment.

His eyelids grew heavy, but he resisted. He glanced at the phone on the table, its dark screen reflecting the weak light above. For a fleeting moment, he thought about reaching for it—maybe just to check notifications or load up the game again. Maybe to hear the familiar voices of the Servants, those pre-recorded lines that made him feel, even for a second, that someone cared.

But his arms refused to move.

With a deep breath, he leaned back, lying down without bothering to pull the sheets over himself. His eyes fixed on the stained ceiling, where watermarks formed strange shapes that seemed to shift if he stared at them long enough.

The sound of the rain continued—louder now, heavier. Thick droplets rolled down the window, distorting the streetlights into fragmented reflections. Flashes of lightning lit up the room in brief bursts of pale blue, casting flickering shadows along the walls.

His eyes began to close.

The weight of days—weeks—finally pulled him under. He sank into the thin mattress, hearing it creak beneath him, but he didn't care. The chill in the air seemed less sharp now that exhaustion had seeped into every nerve of his body.

Fragments of thought tried to take shape as he drifted toward sleep. Images from the game floated through his mind—majestic, terrifying Beasts appearing like long-lost friends.

Tiamat, with her piercing gaze and overwhelming presence.

Goetia, the monster who bore humanity's sins in his burning form.

Kama, the goddess of desire, smiling with unsettling serenity.

He wondered if he'd ever have time to play again—or if the game would simply forget him, the way the world seemed to forget so many others.

But the thoughts faded quickly, replaced only by the steady rhythm of the rain and the distant echo of thunder.

He fell asleep.

Outside, the storm grew stronger, as though the world itself was preparing for something.

Something he could never expect.

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The void was absolute.

The space around him had no walls, no ceiling, and no floor—only an endless, infinite expanse of white, as if existence itself had been erased, leaving behind a blank, immaculate canvas. There were no shadows, no textures. Only an oppressive, unbroken whiteness that defied any sense of direction or depth.

And in the center of this perfect emptiness, there was light.

A vibrant, blue sphere floated there, pulsing gently as if it were alive. Its glow was hypnotic, dancing in delicate, rhythmic patterns—almost like a heart beating in a calm, steady rhythm. Thin, sharp rays of light stretched outward from it, cutting through the void with flawless, symmetrical lines that formed concentric circles, endlessly expanding.

The light was pure, yet intense. Staring at it for too long made his eyes burn, as though he were gazing directly at the sun. And yet, there was something about it that made it impossible to look away. It was beautiful and intimidating at once—a spectacle that radiated both serenity and power.

The air around it hummed faintly, charged with invisible energy, though there was no wind, no sound, and no sensation of heat or cold. It was as if the very concept of temperature had been stripped from this place.

Still, the presence of the blue light was overwhelming. It felt alive, aware—watching, waiting. Its gentle pulsations carried an unspoken urgency, like a call beckoning someone—or something—closer.

As his eyes struggled to focus, he noticed the core of the sphere seemed to rotate. Rings of light circled its center, spinning in opposite directions like gears in perpetual motion. Deep within its glowing heart, there was a thin, almost imperceptible shadow—a dark void, as if it were a gateway to something even larger, even more unknowable.

Despite the silence, there was pressure in the air. Not physical, but mental—like the space itself was whispering without sound, delivering messages directly into his mind.

This was a place where time and space held no meaning, a realm isolated from the physical world, governed only by the pulsating light.

And it was calling.

The blue light pulsed, slow and steady, like the calm rhythm of a heartbeat. Its glow began to fold in on itself, twisting and spinning until the rays extending outward retracted toward the core. At the center of that pulsating energy, something began to take shape.

At first, it was nothing more than a vague outline—a blurred human silhouette floating in the void, caught somewhere between existence and nonexistence. With each pulse of light, the figure grew clearer—arms, legs, a torso, and finally, a face.

It was him.

The young man who had fallen asleep in a cramped, damp apartment was now here, suspended in the infinite white expanse. His bare body seemed ethereal, almost translucent beneath the intense light. Beads of sweat formed a faint shimmer on his tanned skin, reflecting the glow like scattered fragments of glass.

His black hair was disheveled, as if he had just turned in bed before being ripped from his world. His closed eyelids trembled slightly, but he didn't wake. His chest rose and fell gently, as if he were still in a deep sleep, oblivious to the unreality around him.

The silence was oppressive, yet the light seemed to watch him. Rays emanating from the blue sphere curled and waved around his body like soft, almost affectionate tentacles, examining every detail of him.

His arms lay loosely at his sides, hands slightly open, as though they were empty, waiting for something. His legs were relaxed too, as if he had simply been placed there without resistance.

The absence of clothes revealed the marks of hard labor. Discreet scars on his forearm, calluses on his hands, and muscles slightly defined—not from planned exercise, but from the tiring routine that demanded constant physical effort. He was a reflection of his own life—simple, worn, yet still resilient.

Despite his vulnerable position, the light around him didn't convey immediate danger. It pulsed in harmony with his breath, as though the environment were adjusting to his presence, waiting for something to awaken within his sleeping body.

Gradually, the blue rays began to contract, enveloping him more closely. Small sparks danced around his skin, as if probing and awakening each cell. Yet, he remained motionless, floating in that timeless void, without sound or apparent destination.

Then... the light pulsed stronger.

A slight tremor ran through his body, an involuntary reflex, as if he were about to awaken. His eyelids fluttered again. Something was changing.

The white void around him was no longer just an formless space. It began to react, as if alive, slowly shaping itself in response to his presence. The blue light seemed to intensify, as if calling him, trying to pull him from his deep sleep.

But the young man still didn't open his eyes.

The blue light engulfed his body like a living storm, spiraling around him in chaotic yet precise loops, as if each beam were performing a meticulous function. The rays vibrated and pulsed, fusing with his skin, surrounding him entirely until his form was completely obscured by that radiant energy.

For a moment, the brightness reached its peak, blinding even the vast white space around him. The pressure in the air increased, as if the space were folding in on itself, compressing that transformation into a single moment of pure intensity. Then, in a final flash, the light dissipated.

When the brightness faded, the young man was revealed once more.

His body had changed. The marks of hard labor that once adorned his skin were softened, as though every scar and callus had been erased. His skin now appeared flawless, with a subtle glow reflecting the ambient light. His muscles were more defined—not excessively so, but balanced, as if they had been perfectly shaped for endurance and agility.

His black hair fell more neatly, soft and slightly tousled, but in a way that looked natural rather than neglected. A fine fringe covered part of his forehead, and the strands shimmered as if under a constant beam of gentle light.

He now wore a dark, fitted uniform, with golden buttons that shimmered discreetly on his chest. The fabric seemed to be of high quality—resilient yet comfortable—shaping to his body as though it had been made especially for him. The raised collar gave him an air of authority, while the long sleeves concealed the forearms that once bore the marks of hard labor.

The pants followed the same pattern—fitted, yet flexible—and the shoes were simple but refined, gleaming as if freshly polished. Despite the simplicity of the outfit, there was an imposing aura about him, something that whispered power and presence.

But even with this transformation, the young man remained still, floating in the void, unaware of his own metamorphosis. His eyes remained closed, and his breathing was calm and rhythmic, as if he were still lost in a deep sleep.

However, something was different. The energy that had once flowed around him seemed to have infiltrated his body. It was subtle but perceptible—a light, pulsing aura emanated from his skin, as though he now carried part of that power within him.

The space around him seemed to react to the change. Gentle waves of invisible energy expanded from him, like ripples in a lake after a stone is thrown. Each pulse brought a slight distortion to the white void, as if the very space itself were bending to accommodate his new form.

Still, he did not wake.

Silence once again dominated the environment. The blue light that had once shaped him had now vanished, leaving only the persistent feeling of something unfinished.

And then, in the void, a faint echo emerged—a distant, incomprehensible whisper, yet insistent. Something was calling him. Something waited for him to open his eyes.

The white void split apart.

It was as if the space around the young man silently cracked, creating glowing fissures that expanded until they consumed everything. He remained motionless, floating in the void, but the blue light that had once shaped him now seemed to act as an invisible current, pulling him into the rift.

When he crossed the opening, the world changed.

The blinding glow faded, replaced by a surreal landscape. He was now lying in the middle of a field of white flowers that stretched as far as the eye could see. The petals were so white they seemed made of light, reflecting the soft glow of a colossal moon that dominated the night sky. The silver light bathed the field with an ethereal, almost magical hue, and each flower appeared to emit its own faint glow, pulsing gently as if alive.

The air was fresh and light, filled with the delicate scent of flowers and a cold touch that sent a shiver down the skin. A subtle breeze moved the petals and made the leaves whisper to each other, creating a harmonious sound that echoed across the field.

In the distance, large stone pillars rose, weathered by time. They seemed to be the remnants of an ancient, imposing structure—perhaps a lost temple or palace. The cracked marble reflected the moon's glow, casting long shadows that danced over the flowers. The bases of the pillars were partially covered by vegetation, as if nature were slowly reclaiming the space.

At the center of this scene, among the flowers, stood a figure.

A woman with long golden hair, so brilliant it seemed made of silk and light. The strands danced in the wind as if they were alive, following the rhythm of the breeze. She wore a blue and white dress, made of such fine fabrics that it appeared to float around her. Her sleeves were wide, adorned with silver details, and her skirt spread like soft waves across the field.

Her eyes were fixed on the young man, still lying among the flowers. She had a serene, almost melancholic expression, as if she had been waiting for this moment for a long time.

The flowers around her seemed to respond to her presence, leaning slightly as though in reverence. The moonlight focused on her, making her the central figure in this surreal landscape.

The young man, however, still did not move. His eyes remained closed, and his breath was calm. But something within him seemed to be changing, as if this new world were awakening something dormant inside him.

The woman took a step forward, and the sound of her feet touching the petals was almost imperceptible. She slowly approached, extending her delicate hand toward the young man, her fingers trembling slightly, as if hesitating.

The woman's delicate hand finally touched the chest of the sleeping young man. Her fingers were thin and soft, almost ethereal, as if they could vanish at any moment, but the gentle pressure she applied conveyed warmth and life. The contact caused a faint golden spark to flare at the tips of her fingers before quickly dissipating, as if checking something hidden within him.

The young man's eyes remained closed, but his breathing seemed to falter for a moment, reacting to her touch. The woman leaned in a little further, her silhouette hovering over him like a shadow illuminated by the moonlight.

Her face was finally revealed.

Her eyes were a deep crimson, like rubies gleaming in the moonlight. They sparkled with a mix of desire and affection, yet also held a dark depth, as if concealing ancient, forbidden secrets. Her long golden hair cascaded over her shoulders, flowing down to her waist, reflecting the silver glow around them and creating a perfect contrast with her penetrating gaze. Some rebellious strands gently slid and fell over the young man's face, brushing against his skin like feathers.

She bent even closer, coming within inches of his lips. The warmth of her breath brushed against the young man's skin, causing a shiver to run through his body, even in his unconscious state.

Her lips curved into a mischievous yet affectionate smile.

— Master… — Her voice was low and soft, yet full of emotion. It was almost a whisper, as if she were sharing an intimate secret. — If the others knew I was having this moment just with you…

She paused, leaning in even closer, as though trying to tease him with her proximity.

— They'd go insane with jealousy, — she finished, laughing softly.

The laughter echoed through the flower field like an enticing whisper, harmonizing with the breeze and the rustling petals around them. But there was something more to the laugh—a tone of possessiveness mixed with tenderness, as if she were determined to protect this moment at all costs.

Her red eyes lowered once again to the young man's lips before returning to his face. She then raised her hand, gently brushing aside a few strands of hair that had fallen over his forehead, revealing his face completely.

— Rodrigo… — She pronounced his name slowly, savoring each syllable. There was something reverent in her voice, almost as if she were speaking to a divine being.

For a moment, her smile softened, becoming more genuine.

— Finally… I've found you.

Then, the woman leaned even closer, resting her forehead against his for a brief moment, as if wanting to feel his presence more deeply.

However, before she could continue, the wind around them shifted again. The flowers began to stir, and the sky trembled once more. The moon shone brighter, casting uneasy shadows across the field.

The woman lifted her eyes to the sky, her expression shifting from calm to alert.

— It seems we don't have much time… — she murmured, turning her gaze back to him.

Her fingers pressed gently against the young man's chest, as if trying to rouse him.

— Rodrigo… Please, wake up... — she pleaded, her voice filled with urgency and something else—fear.

But he still didn't move. The tension in the air heightened, and the woman knew time was running out.

Suddenly, the wind gained strength, sweeping through the lily field with a violence that made the white petals rise into the air like snow. The woman with crimson eyes and golden hair stood up quickly, her long strands dancing wildly in the breeze, like golden flames battling the invisible storm.

Her eyes narrowed, and her lips, which had once curved into a tender smile, now twisted into a silent snarl. She clenched her fists as she sensed the presence behind her, but when she turned, she found only emptiness.

Still, the voice echoed, as though embedded in the very wind:

— The time has come, crazy vampire. The deal must be fulfilled.

Her expression turned to pure fury. Her crimson eyes blazed intensely, like glowing embers in the dark, while her body stiffened.

— Who dares?! — Her voice rang out with a commanding tone, but there was desperation in it too. Her hands clenched the sides of her skirt as her body took a step toward the source of the sound.

However, before she could take another step, Rodrigo's body began to glow again. Small beams of blue light emerged from his skin, like glowing cracks forming across his surface. The woman's eyes widened, and she instinctively reached out, trying to hold him.

— No! — Her scream echoed in the void.

But her hand passed through the glow, as if he were disintegrating before her, turning into stardust. The small fragments of light began to break away, carried by the wind like shimmering ashes.

— YOU HAVE NO RIGHT! — she screamed into the void, spinning around once more.

But the voice continued, relentless, cold, and mocking:

— No right? — The laugh cut through the air, full of disdain. — Do you really believe you can stop the inevitable? That you can imprison him here forever, away from what awaits him?

She gritted her teeth, her red eyes overflowing with rage.

— He's not ready! He's only just arrived, he still needs me! — Her voice faltered for a moment, but then regained its strength. — I'll destroy you all if you take him now!

The wind picked up even more, whipping her hair and dress, as if trying to push her back. But the voice didn't stop:

— Ready or not, his call has already been made. He asked for this. He desired it more than anything.

The woman staggered, as if the words had pierced something deep inside her.

— A dream… — The voice returned, now softer, almost a whisper in her ear. — The longed-for dream he's always sought… it's finally within his reach. And you know it.

She clenched her fists, trembling.

— That doesn't mean I'm going to give up on him!

But the voice just laughed, echoing almost ethereally, as if it were everywhere at once:

— You lost him the moment you made the deal. And frankly... — The voice now carried a sharp tone of disdain. — You've always been a crazy vampire, trying to fight the tide of destiny.

With that, the wind exploded around her, and the last fragments of blue light vanished into the sky.

— RODRIGO!!! — The woman's scream cut through the air like thunder, but he had already disappeared.

She fell to her knees, her golden hair scattered around her, and the white lilies were blown away by the gust, leaving her alone in the now empty field.

Her eyes glowed with intense red, but there was no more fury in them—only sadness and helplessness.

— I... promise... — she whispered, her voice trembling, her fingers pressing into the ground. — I will find him again... No matter where you hide him.

The wind finally began to calm. The moon, once so vibrant, now seemed distant, as if it had witnessed the scene and quietly pulled away.