In this world, where the roar of superheroes colliding with villains resonates like eternal thunder on the horizon, divine entities are reduced to distant, almost extinct echoes. Gods, demons, angels... They hide in the cracks of reality, turned into forgotten relics by a society obsessed with titans of steel and mutant powers. People worship these "guardians of humanity" or curse them like plagues, but few wonder what lurks beyond masks and controlled explosions. Until, one day, the divine bursts in uninvited, and you realize that the veil between the mundane and the eternal is as fragile as a whisper in a storm.
My name is Ryuusei Kisaragi, and I am 14 years old. At my age, I've already learned that perfection is an urban myth, something that is sold on superhero posters but never materializes. I'm not a blind dreamer hoping for a happy ending for everyone; I'm more of a pragmatic observer, someone who savors the fragments of joy in the midst of everyday chaos. I live in the frenetic pulse of Tokyo, with my parents and my two younger sisters, Akari and Mei. Our family was a well-oiled cog in the machinery of urban life: discussions over the remote control during anime nights, rowdy dinners with sticky rice and fresh fish from the market, and stolen weekends for walks in the park or visits to the local shrine, where we burned incense out of tradition rather than faith. It was normal, predictable, until fate decided that normality was a luxury we didn't deserve.
That day began like so many others, lazy and unpretentious, a sunny Saturday that did not demand heroics. I woke up late, the sun filtering through the curtains like golden fingers pricking my eyes. I yawned hard, stretching my arms until my joints creaked in protest, my hair a black, unruly chaos that seemed to have a life of its own. My pajamas, a faded heirloom with faded dragon prints, rolled up its sleeves in the sticky heat of the budding summer. I stumbled down the stairs, my bare feet muffled by the threadbare carpet, but the noise was enough to alert the house.
"Ryuusei, at last!" I thought you had become part of the mattress," Akari shouted from the kitchen, her voice a whirlwind of inexhaustible energy. She was hunched over the table, attacking a bowl of cereal with milk as if it were an epic battle. Her large eyes, inherited from Mom, looked at me with a mixture of playful annoyance and brotherly affection. At 12 years old, Akari was the spark of the family, always planning absurd adventures such as building fortresses with cushions or inventing stories about local superheroes who "surely" lived in our neighborhood.
"Relax, Akari. Saturdays are made for hibernation, not world conquerion," I replied with another yawn, shuffling my feet to the chair opposite. The aroma of bitter coffee and rice cooked with a hint of miso woke me up a little more, reminding me that hunger was a universal motivator.
"There are no excuses for laziness, young man. We have to seize the day," Mom interjected, emerging from the kitchen with her apron sprinkled with flour and a spatula in hand like a scepter. Her voice was soft but with that edge of authority that only mothers perfect. He deposited a steaming dish in front of me: fluffy white rice, a grilled salmon fillet with crispy skin, and a side of sautéed vegetables that smelled of garlic and sesame. The steam spiraled up, warming my face.
"Come on, Mom, the world won't collapse because you sleep a little longer," I replied with a crooked smile, poking the salmon with my chopsticks. I knew she liked the morning routine, the ritual of gathering us all around the table as if we were a family in an advertisement.
Dad, immersed in his morning paper with a cup of black coffee in his hand, pulled his glasses down to his nose and looked over the edge at me. His expression was an enigma, as always: a mixture of tired wisdom and dry humor. "Be careful what you wish for, son. The world has a twisted way of reminding us of our fragility, like a house of cards in a gale.
His words hung in the air, prophetic in a way that only hindsight makes painful. I laughed, a light, carefree sound that now haunts me like an accusing echo. At the time, it was just dad being dad, philosophizing about life while sipping his coffee.
Breakfast was spent in a family symphony: Akari telling me about his latest drawing of a superhero with time-controlling powers (inspired by a comic book I lent him), Mei with her teddy bear at 11, and mom scolding us for not eating more gracefully. Dad chimed in with anecdotes from his youth, when Tokyo was less chaotic, with no villains flying through the skies. They were simple moments, woven with routine threads that held us together.
After breakfast, I decided to go out with my best friend, Haruto. He was the perfect counterweight to my cynicism: a whirlwind of optimism with a laugh that could dispel clouds. At 14 years old, like me, Haruto dreamed of becoming an inventor, creating gadgets that rivaled those of superheroes. We met in elementary school, united by a shared passion for video games and arcade getaways. We agreed to meet at the nearby park, our personal sanctuary, a green oasis in the middle of Tokyo's concrete, where we'd played countless soccer games with makeshift balls and shared secrets about class girls.
I sat on a bench under an ancient cherry tree, its branches beginning to sprout with pink promises of sakura. The air was fresh, permeated with the smell of damp earth and cut grass, with a subtle hint of incense smoke from the nearby temple. Haruto arrived panting, his backpack hanging from one shoulder, his hair tousled by the breeze.
"Hey, Ryuusei, ready to conquer the day?" He greeted with his trademark smile, sitting down next to me and pulling out a bag of matcha sweets.
We're talking about teenage silliness: the latest RPG where you could be a redeemed villain, rumors about a girl in our class who supposedly had telepathic powers (probably fake, but fun to imagine), and plans for summer vacations, like a train ride to Kyoto to see ancient temples. Life felt like a calm river, filled with predictable meanders and gentle currents.
Suddenly, Haruto became serious, something rare for him. "Hey, what would you do if the world ended today?" No warning, bam, apocalypse.
I looked at him, bewildered by the twist. "What a strange question. To survive, I suppose. He would grab the family and run away. I would try to help whoever I could. Why do you ask?
He shrugged, looking up at the sky. "I don't know. Sometimes I think about how fragile everything is. I... I would do crazy things. Robbing a bank, confessing to that math girl. Or simply... Be with friends like you.
We laughed, the sound bouncing off the trees, unaware that it would be the last. The sun warmed our skin, the children screamed in the sandbox, and the world seemed eternal.
Then, an underground roar. The earth shook, at first like a common earthquake in Japan, the kind we are taught to ignore in school. "Another one," I thought, holding onto the bench. People murmured, some bent down instinctively.
But the vibration did not stop. On the contrary, it intensified. The ground shook with unusual violence, as if an invisible giant were striking the earth from below. When buildings in the distance began to split and collapse like they were made of paper, releasing clouds of dust and debris, I knew this was different. Much, much more different. This was not an earthquake. This was the end.
But he did not stop. It intensified, as if the Earth's crust were cracking from the core. Distant buildings creaked and bent, spewing clouds of gray dust that darkened the sky. This was not natural; It was a primordial anger, something that transcended tectonics.
"What the hell?!" Haruto bellowed, his voice broken with fear. He clung to a pole, his face pale as rice paper.
The sky was tinged with black, vortious clouds with reddish streaks, crimson lightning lashing the city like divine whips. Thunder rumbled with bone-rattling fury, and the air filled with a stench of burnt ozone and molten metal. Screams pierced the chaos: mothers calling for children, sirens wailing before cutting into dull explosions. Cars flipped over like toys, buildings crumbled in avalanches of concrete and glass.
My legs acted on instinct. I ran through the panicked crowd, bodies colliding, faces disfigured by terror. An old man stumbled in front of me, his leg caught under a twisted beam, bone exposed at a grotesque angle. His pleading eyes were fixed on mine. "Help!" My leg... It hurts so much!
I couldn't. Panic dragged me, guilt a knot in my stomach.
Ahead, a shattered family: a woman sobbing, her young daughter clinging to her skirt, both covered in ash and cuts. The father lay skewered by a shard of metal, his chest a red mess, glassy eyes fixed on the void. The girl shouted, "Dad! Wake up, Dad!
The sound pierced me like a cold blade. I looked for Haruto, for my family, hope for a fragile thread.
I turned. Haruto under a fallen pole, torso crushed, blood bubbling from his mouth. His eyes, filled with primal panic, implored me. "Take me out... Please!
A lamppost, one of those huge ones that hold electricity wires, had fallen directly on his torso. Blood gushed out of his mouth, mixing with dust and tears. His eyes, fixed on mine, were filled with a despair that I had never seen in him. An icy panic came over me.
"HOLD ON, HARUTO!" I'LL GET YOU OUT OF THERE! I shouted, my voice barely a whisper in the midst of the din. I ran towards him, ignoring the danger, ignoring the falling debris, ignoring everything. My only goal was to get to him, to lift that damn beam.
But I didn't get there. A nearby explosion, so powerful that it shook the ground beneath my feet, threw me against the pavement. I felt the blow to the head, a sharp pain, and the world became blurred for an instant. Shrapnel cut my arms, but I didn't even notice it.
When I raised my head, the dust was slowly settling. I searched for Haruto, desperately. But he was no longer breathing.
His eyes were still open, fixed on the dark sky, but the brightness of life had been extinguished. His body, motionless under the post, seemed tiny, fragile.
I was shocked. My hands trembled uncontrollably, unable to comprehend what my eyes saw. The sound of chaos around me, the screams, the explosions, everything became a distant murmur, as if I were underwater. The image of Haruto, of his lifeless eyes, was burned into my mind. Tears welled up, hot and bitter, sliding down my dusty face.
Then, the ground beneath me gave way. It wasn't a slow breakdown, but a sudden breakup, a mouth that opened to devour me. I fell. I fell into the darkness, into the void, my friend's scream ringing in my ears.
When I opened my eyes, I was no longer in Tokyo. The air was cold, heavy, and a deathly silence reigned, a silence far more terrifying than the chaos he had left behind. The ground beneath my feet was not concrete, but a kind of dense, ethereal mist that covered the floor up to my knees. An ancient and pungent smell of blood and death permeated the air, making my stomach churn. There were no buildings, no lights, just an endless expanse of darkness and mist.
In front of me, a figure. Tall, imposing, wrapped in a dark layer that seemed to absorb what little light there was. I couldn't see his face; I was hidden under a deep hood, but I felt his gaze, a gaze that pierced my soul with indifference, as if I were just another speck of dust in the vast universe. His voice, however, was strikingly clear, like crystal clear water flowing in a stream, echoing in the silence.
"Welcome to the other side, kid.
"What...?" Am I dead? My voice broke, barely a whisper. The question hung in the air, full of terror and confusion. The idea was absurd, and at the same time, the only possible explanation for what he was experiencing.
"Not quite. "Still," replied the figure, and his voice had no emotion, only a cold neutrality.
I stood up with difficulty, my body aching and my limbs trembling. My hands searched for something to hold on to, but they only found the cold, damp mist.
"Who are you?" I asked, trying to sound brave, though my heart was pounding in my chest.
"Some call me the Darkness, the Beyond, or the Void. Others, simply Death. But you can call me whatever you like, after all, I'll be your last company.
I tried to process what he was saying, that I was his "last company," that I was "not quite dead." My head was still spinning, dizzy from the trauma of the explosion and the loss of Haruto. It couldn't be real. All this had to be a nightmare, a hallucination induced by the blow to the head.
"Look, you creepy hood, I don't have time for your games." My best friend just died, Tokyo is falling apart, and I just want to wake up from this nightmare and go home," I said, feeling a twinge of anger mixed with my despair. How could this... To talk to me about "last company" while my world was falling apart?
Death bowed his head, a gesture that, despite the absence of features, made me feel as if he were expressing curiosity or, perhaps, a strange fascination.
"Interesting. Not many react with humor, or with such irreverence, when they see my face or hear my name. Most implore, or faint from terror.
"You're not a big deal either. If you were so fearsome, you would have killed me by now," I replied with a half-smile, a feeble mockery to hide the fear that gnawed at me. Irony was my only shield.
"Ha. You've got guts, boy. Few keep them before me. His voice, for the first time, seemed to take on a nuance, a kind of icy approval.
Then, Death approached, the cloak fluttering around his towering figure. He didn't move like a human, but like a gliding shadow. He put a skeletal, ice-cold hand on my head. I felt no pain, only an intense cold that ran through my body, penetrating to my bones. It was a feeling of emptiness, of absoluteness.
"But if you want to live, if you want to go back to your world, you'll have to pay a price. A price that only you can offer. And life, boy, always collects its debts.
At that moment, in the midst of the fog and darkness, with the cold of Death penetrating to the depths of my being, I understood. The world I knew had ceased to exist. Normality was an illusion. My life, as I had lived it, had come to an end. And this... This was not a nightmare. It was the beginning.
And that my story was just beginning. A story where gods and demons were not myths, but a palpable reality. A reality that had just invaded my life and that, for a price, offered me a second chance. I didn't know what that price would be, but in my desperation to go home, to see my family, I was willing to pay it. The cold of Death was still on my skin, but something else, a spark, was ignited inside me. A spark of hope, tinged with overwhelming terror.