Humanity has always needed something to cling to.
Or someone.
Perhaps that was never weakness.
Perhaps it was simply the instinctive fear of walking alone through an indifferent universe.
From the very beginning — before the expansion beyond Earth, before interstellar wars, before forces that defied logic and monsters that challenged comprehension — we searched for a guide. Something to look toward when everything else felt too vast to face.
Humanity's cradle was Earth.
A fragile blue point, insignificant against the immensity of the cosmos.
It was there that we learned to look upward.
And ask for answers.
We worshiped fire.
Then the stars.
Then gods.
We worshiped ideas — religion, science, progress.
And when those ideas failed us, we began to worship people.
There was always that desire.
Someone who would arrive when everything was about to end.
Someone strong enough to carry our choices for us.
In ancient times, when we were divided by nations, languages, and borders, we believed those differences set us apart. They never truly did. When humanity reached its most fragile moment, all of that was abandoned without hesitation.
Not out of virtue.
Out of necessity.
The first great calamity erased nearly forty percent of the world's population. Cities vanished. Governments collapsed. The World Council existed in name alone.
Only the most basic human instinct remained.
Survive.
That was when he appeared.
The first man to manifest power that did not bow to known laws. Where armies failed, he advanced. Where science fell silent, he remained standing. History claims that he alone was responsible for the fall of thousands of creatures once believed impossible to defeat.
People called him many things.
Hero.
God.
Emperor.
Tyrant.
Each chose the name they needed in order to keep living.
History says he saved humanity.
And that much is true.
What history avoids mentioning
is the cost.
Alongside the remnants of the World Council, he created the system that governs humanity to this day. He taught the use of power. Divided responsibility. Established castes, titles, houses.
He did not merely organize the world.
He rewrote what it meant to be human.
When he died — or when they said he did — his power passed to his eldest child. The title of Emperor was inherited. The Light of Humanity was never meant to fade.
A thousand years have passed since then.
The man vanished from history.
But his name became its foundation.
His descendants rule even now. We grow up learning to revere them. To recite their deeds in school. To swear loyalty to a symbol we never chose, but were told we could not live without.
I believed in it too.
I remember the first time I saw the Emperor's image. Not in person — a colossal projection at the heart of the capital. Too much light to feel human. Too much presence to ignore.
I was a child.
Everyone around me knelt without being asked.
So did I.
Not because I understood.
But because everyone else did.
It took me years to realize that what we called peace was not balance.
It was dependence.
Humanity does not live in harmony.
It survives through the fear of moving forward without a savior.
I always thought of myself as ordinary. Nothing about me felt destined to change the world. But what I am about to do is neither simple nor small.
Imagine killing the symbol of humanity.
Everything this world has been built upon.
Killing the man they call a hero.
The Emperor of Light.
When that day comes, I will not be remembered as someone who freed the world.
I will be hunted.
Hated.
Erased.
Because no one kills a god
and remains unpunished.
Even so, I will do it.
Not out of kindness.
Not because I completely reject his ideals.
In truth, I understand his reasons.
But I want them to see it — reflected in their own faces.
Everything they tried to delay.
Everything they tried to conceal.
Everything they tried to control.
It has returned.
Not as salvation.
But as consequence.