Thunder crackled, Alain's eyes couldn't keep up.
One moment, it was shock—the next, horror.
The Jotnar warrior's head hit the stone pavement before his body did. It rolled once, leaving a smear of red across the immaculate floor. The body remained standing for half a beat longer, as if just processing what had happened, before collapsing on the pavement as well.
Alain stared. He hadn't even seen the movement. Only the aftermath.
A man stood where lightning had struck. Tall, bare-armed despite his elaborate attire, presence roaring like a storm.
Crackling arcs of pale-blue electricity snapped across his shoulders, dancing from wrist to wrist. The air around him felt charged.
Thor. Not the myth, nor the story whispered about Aesir heroes.
He stood in the middle of the garden, breathing hard, his gaze fixed on Baldr's fallen form—arrow buried deep in the Operative's chest.
The air thickened. Alain felt it first, a pressure on his ribs, as if the world tightened around his lungs.
Lia shivered beside him. "Someone's coming."
Under the dead god's body, a black swirling mist opened. From it, a man emerged, slowly forming from the dark pool into a humanoid being.
The appearance was clear, Alain had seen this person in every piece of media ever. From manuals, to official documents, to children's fairy tales.
A tall man, not particularly muscular but substantial. Dressed in full black, his armor looked like each individual plate was carved and polished by thousands of artisans.
Elaborate gold lined the outside trims of his armor, adding to the majesty and dominance. Complemented with a blue half cape that draped down to the pavement.
However, there was one thing everyone knew about this person, an unmistakable detail, told when he traded for knowledge.
An eyepatch covered his left eye. The Allfather and Founder of the Aesir.
Codename: Odin.
He knelt down beside Baldr's body. For a moment, he didn't move— nobody did, because nobody dared to.
"Baldr," Odin whispered.
Just that single breath felt like a weight dropping onto the garden, muffling every sound.
Lia's grip on Alain tightened.
Odin closed Baldr's eyes with two fingers, the motion slow, reverent. His posture did not tremble, but the air around him did.
He stayed like that for several breaths. When he turned, the shadows lengthened, even Thor straightened.
His single eye swept across the gathered envoys—the Vanir nobles trembling, the Jotnar warriors frozen, the Aesir guards unsure whether to bow or run.
He took them in one by one, then spoke.
"Baldr," he said quietly, "was the light of the Aesir."
His voice carried without force, soft yet unignorable.
"And today…" A pause, heavy enough to bend the air.
"...you extinguished that light."
Whispers broke out—pleading, panicked.
"We didn't—"
"It wasn't us—"
"Please, listen—"
Odin didn't.
His fingers curled into a fist, the joints of his gauntlet groaning.
"The Jotnar fired." His gaze cut to the decapitated corpse. "And the Vanir allowed the rot to take root on their soil."
The crowd went dead still.
Alain's stomach dropped.
"No," he whispered. "Not like this—"
Odin raised his arm.
The gold-lined runes etched across his armor ignited like molten script.
"I, Odin of the Aesir," he declared, "name this act unforgivable."
The air cracked—
like a world splitting.
"And I declare war on both Jotnar and Vanir."
Odin raised his hand, a swirl of dark mist gathered, this was the birth of a spell that would shatter the courtyard and every soul inside it.
Alain ran forward, trying to de-escalate the situation. He threw himself in between the gods, body working faster than his head processed.
Only to realize that…time had stopped. Once again.
Odin's spell hovered, a black hole half-formed in his hand, light bending around it in an impossible spiral.
Lia stood with her mouth open, her hair suspended mid-breath. Even her tears were frozen.
Alain stumbled, momentum dying the instant he entered the frozen world.
Silence.
Not absence of sound— but absence of everything, as though the world had forgotten how to exist.
Then—
He blinked.
Alain found himself in a sitting position. Looking left in a daze, he found a bench—or the half-melted version of one.
A ragged breath scraped down his throat.
Alain knew where this was, he'd seen it not even ten minutes prior. Ten minutes? How long was that again?
He lifted a hand to steady himself, palm pressing into grit. When he looked down, flakes of gray clung to his glove like dead snow.
Ash clung to his gloves like dead snow.
The same bench.
The same ruin.
The same place he woke the first time.
Only this time… it felt emptier.
He sat there, staring at the melted bench, letting the truth settle in pieces.
Then—
Words formed in the air—like it wanted to mock him.
[Revelation Failed: Fate Resumed Its Due Course.]
Alain leaned back onto the chair. It had always been like this, and will continue being like this. Every time he thought he'd be useful, it ended up going wrong.
Even the kids at the Hearth started to realize that he was just no good, flocking to Lia for everything.
…Had they?
His brow twitched.
That wasn't right. The kids loved both of them. He remembered that clearly. So why did the thought feel so… heavy?
Another breath left him, thinner than he meant it to be.
Useless. Dead weight. Always has been.
The words slipped through his mind like a familiar rhythm, one he didn't recall learning. The more he sat with it, the more it seemed to fit—like a truth he had always ignored.
His fingers tightened on the armrest.
No. That wasn't him. He didn't think like that. He never—
The world tilted, just a fraction. A pressure curled behind his eyes, cold and damp, almost… satisfied.
Alain sucked in a sharp breath and jerked forward, clutching his temples.
"What—?"
A pulse shot down his spine.
Then another message appeared, snapping him back to reality, or what's currently reality anyway.
[Corruption Level: 5%]
Warning: Intrusive Thoughts Detected.
Hostility, despair, and self-deprecation are early indicators of Miasmic Influence.
He shook his head, remembering the tragedy that happened the past month. A monster had appeared mid-capital and went on a rampage, killing fifteen before being subdued.
Upon further investigation, it turned out to be a Revelation gone wrong, turning its host into what's called a Blighted.
Was this…how it happened?
He sat back again, a sigh forcing its way out even if he didn't want it to.
Then another message formed. It appeared gently, almost… hesitant. Like someone knocking on a door they weren't sure they had the right to touch.
[Would you like to try again?]
Alain blinked.
The words hung in the air, softer than the previous warnings, their edges lacking the rigid system font he'd come to expect. They almost seemed…warm.
Try again?
Alain swallowed hard. He knew what it meant: another chance…or another failure.
If failing this time only increased Miasmic Influence by 5%, who knew how much the next would cost him? Alain couldn't be sure of anything.
Not to mention, he was worried about Lia. If 5% made him doubt himself this much, he didn't want to imagine what it might be doing to her. If hers was even the same percentage as his.
"I… have to," he murmured.
Not because he believed he could win.
Because Lia was still inside.
Because Baldr deserved better than a meaningless death.
Because….doing nothing would turn him into exactly what the miasma whispered he already was.
He lifted his gaze and answered.
"…Yes."
The system paused. Then, in that same strange, human softness—
[Good luck, Bearer.]
Light stirred at the edge of the ruins. Dust lifted from the ground, spiraling upward as if the world inhaled for the first time in centuries. The melted bench straightened. Cracks rewound into solid stone. Ash bled backward into wilted trees, restoring bark and color grain by grain.
Time was pulling him in.
The courtyard brightened, reality peeling away like old paint. Alain felt the ground slide beneath him, the world unraveling into a single, blinding thread of gold.
He closed his eyes.
When he opened them again—
—he was somewhere else entirely.
The next strand of fate had begun weaving.