Rowan Richards didn't feel pain when he died.
There was no dramatic final thought, no slow-motion regret. One moment, the streetlight ahead of him burned white against the night sky—and the next, everything simply stopped.
When sensation returned, it wasn't pain that greeted him.
It was silence.
Rowan opened his eyes.
He wasn't lying on asphalt. There was no ceiling above him, no stars, no sense of up or down. He stood in a boundless white space, smooth and endless, as if the world itself had been erased and replaced with nothing.
His body felt light. Too light.
"Hello?" His voice echoed strangely, swallowed by the emptiness.
Someone was standing in front of him.
The figure looked ordinary at first glance—no wings, no crown, no overwhelming aura—but the longer Rowan stared, the more wrong it felt. The presence wasn't imposing. It was absolute. As if the space itself existed because this being allowed it.
"Am I… dreaming?" Rowan asked.
"No," the figure replied calmly. "You are dead."
The words landed without force—and yet they crushed him.
Dead.
Rowan's mouth opened, but no sound came out. Fragments of memory slammed into him all at once: headlights, a sudden blare of sound, weightlessness, then darkness.
"…How?" he finally managed.
"You were struck by a car," the figure said. "Death was instant."
Rowan's knees buckled.
He dropped to the ground, palms pressed against the white floor that felt neither warm nor cold. His breathing became uneven as the truth settled in—not as a shock, but as something heavier. Something final.
His life hadn't been special. No great achievements. No grand failures either. Just days stacked on top of days, obligations he barely endured, dreams he kept postponing.
And now it was over.
Tears slipped down his face before he realized he was crying.
"I didn't even get to decide," Rowan muttered. "I didn't say goodbye to anyone."
The figure watched silently, neither interrupting nor offering comfort.
After a long while, Rowan wiped his face with the back of his hand. His chest still ached, but the storm inside him had quieted into something hollow.
"What happens now?" he asked.
"You may be given another life," the figure said. "If you wish."
Rowan looked up sharply.
"…Another life?"
"Yes."
Suspicion flickered through him, but exhaustion drowned it quickly. "Why?"
"Because you are here," the figure replied. "And because I choose to ask."
Rowan let out a weak laugh. "You're a god, aren't you?"
"I am called Eiran."
The name carried no weight, yet it felt undeniable.
Eiran continued, "You may live again in another world. But before that, I will ask you one question."
The white space shifted subtly, as if listening.
"How do you wish to live your second life?"
The question froze Rowan.
Images rose unbidden in his mind—crowded streets, constant noise, expectations he never managed to meet. A life spent surviving rather than living.
"I don't want much," Rowan said quietly. "I just want peace. A quiet life."
Eiran studied him for a moment.
"The world you will be sent to is called Arias," the god said. With a small gesture, the white space rippled. Faint visions formed in the air: stone roads, tall trees swaying under unfamiliar skies, people wielding forces Rowan had only ever seen in fiction.
"There is magic in this world," Eiran continued. "It shapes its civilizations, its conflicts, and its fate."
Rowan's breath caught. "Magic… really exists?"
"Yes."
His heart beat faster despite himself. "Is there a way to live freely there? Like adventurers?"
"There are guilds," Eiran answered.
Rowan hesitated, then asked the question he already knew the answer to.
"Can I use magic?"
Eiran's gaze sharpened, just slightly.
"Yes."
Relief washed over Rowan, followed immediately by guilt. He had asked for a quiet life—yet here he was, tempted by power in a foreign world.
"…Then," he said after a moment, "I want magic."
Silence stretched between them.
Eiran raised one hand.
A sensation unlike anything Rowan had ever felt surged through him—not pain, not pleasure, but vastness. Something deep and endless settled inside his chest, like an ocean suddenly poured into a glass.
Rowan gasped.
"This power will awaken fully after your rebirth," Eiran said. "You will not lack energy to wield it."
Rowan stared at his trembling hands. "Is this… too much?"
"That is for you to discover," Eiran replied. "All power carries consequence. Some are simply delayed."
Rowan swallowed.
"One more thing," Eiran added. "There exists a form of magic in Arias that cannot be taken freely. It must be granted through contract. When the time comes, you will understand."
Before Rowan could ask what that meant, the white world began to dissolve.
"Wait—!" Rowan reached out instinctively. "Will I really be able to live quietly?"
Eiran's voice echoed as the light faded.
"That depends on whether the world allows you to remain unseen."
Darkness rushed in.
Rowan felt weight return to his body. Breath filled his lungs painfully, violently. His senses ignited all at once—cold air, a rough surface beneath him, the distant sound of wind.
As consciousness slipped away again, a single thought echoed through his mind:
…This better be worth it.
And somewhere far beyond his awareness, something ancient stirred.