Narrated by Kimiha
It's funny how great journeys tend to begin with a yawn.
Three days. Three damned days stuck in the southern dormitory of the Mage Temple, doing absolutely nothing — except for Fahur nearly setting the hallway on fire trying to summon a pocket dragon (and instead bringing forth a duck that puffed smoke from its beak). Gumi hadn't said a word since yesterday's breakfast, and Kirin? Well... Kirin was sorting healing vials by color and purity while chanting protection hymns. Nothing more exciting than that.
And of course, as the temple's most "unqualified" group — words straight from the Council itself — we were chosen for the most… amazing mission of all.
"Protect a priest. Escort him to his homeland. Guard the luggage. Don't cause destruction," said Lord Oui, the supreme mage of the castle, in that bored tone with his eyebrows raised like he was already predicting disaster.
Oh yes, because we're famous for our subtlety. "The Four Disasters," they call us in the hallways. Not that they're wrong… but they could at least be more creative.
The mission was simple: escort a middle-aged priest — sunken eyes, sluggish speech, and a terribly annoying habit of snoring like an asthmatic ogre — to the Sacred Sanctuary of Jall. The reason? Simple and totally not suspicious — the man was the most influential leader of the Order of Infinite Light and had become a target of the so-called Heretic Alliance, a radical group spreading strange doctrines about the "true creator of the universe." The kind of thing that paints targets on priests' backs.
So there we were. A band of misfits, mage apprentices, on a mission to escort the most hunted cleric on the continent. Me, Kimiha, the amazing, fabulous, and utterly underestimated close-combat mage (with a stylish eyepatch and questionable morals); Gumi, the silent energy reaper, who replies to everything with a grunt and wields a scythe that looks like it came straight from the underworld; Kirin, our group's little light, a shy-hearted healer with explosive power; and Fahur, a walking tome of arcane spells, with his inseparable staff — as loyal as his chronic bad luck.
On day one, Fahur tripped over an invisible rock and rolled down a hill with half the luggage. Gumi saved one of the healing vials mid-air, wordless, like he'd trained for it his whole life. Kirin panicked for half an hour, thinking the protection seal was crooked. And me? I was trying to figure out if I could conjure a coffee-made weapon.
We laughed. We fought. Gumi threatened Fahur with the scythe (twice). Kirin cried (once). But we kept going.
Until the second night.
The fire flickered gently at the center of our camp. The priest slept like a stone, a Bible cradled in his arms. Kirin dozed while reinforcing the protective shields, Gumi silently sharpened his scythe, and Fahur mumbled incantations near the trees.
I kept staring at the sky. It was too calm.
That's when I heard it — heavy breathing among the trees, then another. Silhouettes. Dozens.
They emerged like shadows spat out by the forest, hooded and armed. An ambush.
"Wake up!" I shouted, already summoning a dagger of light in each hand.
The Heretic Alliance. They had found us.
Combat erupted instantly. Kirin's shields held off the first wave, glowing with ancient runes. Gumi darted through shadows, his blue scythe slicing not just flesh but the magical essence of his enemies. One dropped with hollow eyes. Another didn't even have time to scream. Fahur launched an arcane blast that threw half a dozen fanatics flying, and I… well, I summoned Excalibur — not the real one, of course, but a projection of energy — and leapt into the fray. One spin. Two strikes. Three enemies down.
But there were too many.
And in the chaos — smoke, screams, sparks — it happened.
A spear pierced the shields. And the priest fell.
"No!" I heard Kirin scream.
She ran, blasting enemies away with a purifying beam. Dropping to her knees, she tried to stop the bleeding. Golden light radiated from her hands as she whispered life-spells.
But it was too late.
"Fahur…" the old man whispered, handing him an object pulsing with white-blue light.
A cube. Solid. Ethereal. Alive.
"Take… this… to the Temple. And… never read… the scroll…"
He pushed something else — an old scroll, dark leather, marked with symbols I didn't even recognize.
And then… he was gone.
Kirin sobbed. Fahur trembled, holding the cube as if it weighed tons. Gumi stood frozen, staring at the bodies around us, scythe still dripping blue. I looked to the sky again.
Nothing answered.
The mission had failed.
The priest's death shattered us into silence.
The sky above felt heavy as stone. The campfire still crackled faintly, and the smell of blood — mixed with smoke and magic — hung thick in the air. No one spoke for a long time. Even Gumi, who usually treated words like poison, stood still, eyes half-closed, watching Fahur.
Kirin kept trying, in vain, to transfer life energy. Her fingers trembled, as if she could change the outcome. As if time had a rewind button.
But it didn't.
The priest was dead.
And now we faced a dilemma.
"We should go back to the temple," Kirin said, her voice shaky, still stained with the old man's blood. "Report. Deliver… this."
"No," Fahur replied, eyes locked on the shimmering cube he held like a fragment of life.
Gumi lifted his head, scythe resting on the ground. "The old man trusted us. He said take it to the Sanctuary. Not the temple."
"But we're just trainees," I argued, frowning. "We're the rejects. The screw-ups with the bad rep. We're talking about a mission not even senior mages could handle unprepared. And we're supposed to decide the fate of some sacred object? A cube that GLOWS and whispers in Aramaic when it touches the ground?"
"Yes," Fahur answered. Just like that.
And in that moment, I knew something had changed in him. The shadow that always followed him… grew.
That night, we made camp again, but no one slept. We buried the priest with a simple ritual and placed his holy insignia atop the stone mound. Kirin remained silent, drawing protection sigils around it. Gumi sharpened the scythe in the dark. And Fahur… he couldn't take his eyes off the chest.
The same chest the priest said not to open.
But of course… nobody listens to reason when curiosity screams louder.
He opened it almost instinctively, as if something was calling him.
The shock was universal.
I saw the golden light spill between the wood. I saw Fahur's eyes shimmer. And then we all moved closer, one by one, as if fate itself was dragging us by the throat.
Inside, wrapped in ancient cloth and untouched seals, was a scroll bound by thin chains, covered in arcane symbols not even the temple dared describe. Fahur's trembling hands removed the chains. The scroll creaked as it unfurled — like it was breathing for the first time in millennia.
And we began to read.
It was the story of the universe. Written by someone who had watched it be born.
God's right hand.
Metatron.
The name pulsed from the pages. Described as the Herald of the Creator, the archangel closest to the Divine Will, the only celestial being capable of writing the Eternal Word. There it was — the account of creation, the design of the world, the architecture of time, the foundations of reality… and the foretelling of the end.
But then… then came the line that froze us.
"The Creator… has fallen."
I stopped. Looked at the others. No one could speak. Not even Kirin, wide-eyed, mouth ajar.
"God… is dead?" — Fahur whispered, as if saying it out loud might tear the fabric of reality.
His hand touched the cube again.
And then it all happened.
The cube's light shot into the sky, invisible to the eye but blazing in the soul. A roar of energy blasted us backward. Kirin screamed. Gumi drew his scythe. And then… Fahur froze.
His eyes lit up, filled with a white glow.
He dropped to his knees, groaning, hands clutching his head. And from the cube, visions began.
When I took the cube from Fahur's hand, I saw them too. I don't know how. Maybe the cube linked us.
Metatron — not as a loyal servant, but as a king of the heavens, seated upon a throne of stolen glory.
Portals ripped through sky and earth. Hell poured into the realm of the living. Ancient demons marched through ruined cities. Fallen angels in cracked armor walked in silence — wingless, faithless.
And then…
The world collapsed.
Light and darkness swallowed each other.
And amid the chaos, a voice echoed — deep, resounding, as if it came from both the stars and our bones.
"When the Throne is empty.
When Creation is in peril.
And when Metatron's eyes reflect too much power.
Four… shall be the Keys.
Ruin… or salvation."
Then everything vanished.
Fahur and I fell backward. My breath was shallow, while Fahur was pale, drenched in cold sweat. Kirin ran to help him. Gumi stood guard, eyes scanning the shadows.
And me?
I stared at the sky again.
But this time… it looked ownerless.
The universe had just chosen us.
Or cursed us.