Blood hit the snow first.
A crimson splatter, still steaming in the cold.
Then came the sound—wet, final—the kind that didn't echo, because it didn't need to. The kind that silenced everything.
Auden's eyes widened. His breath hitched.
His legs were... gone.
His upper body toppled backward, the world twisting sideways with it. Snow and sky spun in opposite directions. Something warm gushed from his middle. His lungs screamed, but no sound came. Just a soft gurgle as he collapsed in half.
He landed hard. His vision was already going gray at the edges.
For a moment, he lay still, staring at his own body—or rather, what remained of it. His lower half slumped a few feet away in the dirt, still twitching slightly. His hand, the one that had been raised for an attack, was now flopped on the snow like it belonged to someone else.
That can't be mine, he thought.
But it was.
Who knew my life would end this fast?
Four years old.
Well—four and some change.
He blinked slowly, watching the red spread beneath him like a cracked egg bleeding into the snow.
The pain wasn't sharp. Not anymore. Just a deep, wrong kind of numb. Like he was watching someone else's death. Distant. Quiet. Everything felt underwater.
He coughed. Blood painted his lips.
All that practice. All that stubborn focus on swirling a useless ball of mana. All that stubborn defiance. And now… this.
His eyes rolled toward his killer—just a silhouette now, wiping the blade clean.
So this is how I die... again?
A laugh bubbled up from his throat, bitter and wet. "I'm such an idiot…"
The sky above him was vast and uncaring. Clear. Cold. Beautiful.
Then—darkness.
---
It wasn't the end.
It only looked like one.
Before the snow turned red. Before the screaming. Before the pieces of his life scattered like glass—
Let's go back.
To when things were almost normal.
To the quiet before the collapse.
You ever wake up and wonder if the universe made a typo and accidentally dropped you into the wrong life?
Yeah. Me too. Pretty much daily.
People love saying "life is what you make of it." Like all you need is a little elbow grease, a fake smile, and a can-do attitude, and bam—you're halfway to a beachfront condo and inner peace.
But no one tells you what to do when you start with nothing. Or worse—when you start as someone else's clerical error.
I wasn't born into war. Or famine. Or any of the noble tragedies that make you a compelling main character. Nope. I came into the world in the middle of a living room that hadn't seen warmth in years, sandwiched between two adults who couldn't stand each other and barely remembered how to feel anything at all.
They used to fight a lot. About money. About TV volume. About breathing too loud. And for a while, I thought that was normal. Just your typical, loving, Cold War-era romance.
But even as a kid, I could tell something was off. Like they weren't fighting with each other—they were just looking for someone to hate.
That someone turned out to be me.
I was eight when I overheard my dad—well, the man posing as my dad—say it. Through the walls, like a horror movie whisper:
> "Why the hell did you keep him if he's not even mine?"
A real Disney moment.
Turns out, I was the sequel no one asked for. A product of an affair, complete with bonus existential baggage. Dad eventually noped out of the family picture. Can't blame him. I wouldn't want to look at me either if I reminded him of everything that went wrong.
Mom? Oh, she handled it great. If "great" means turning into a discount villain from a drama series. Not the screaming, plate-smashing type. More… emotionally constipated with passive-aggressive flair.
She'd drop gems like:
> "You ruined everything."
"I should've let him go before I let you happen."
Charming, right?
Eventually, the words turned to bruises. Then silence. And after a while, even I stopped bothering to label it abuse. Because if you don't name it, maybe it doesn't exist. That's how that works, right?
When I hit eighteen, she bailed. Didn't even bother pretending to feel conflicted. Just vanished one morning—left a note, a pile of debt (some real, some creatively forged in my name), and a moldy studio apartment that smelled like crushed dreams and expired milk.
I tried, okay? I tried finishing school. Made it through midterms on instant noodles and stress-induced insomnia. But eventually, I stopped showing up. Then stopped eating. Then the eviction notice came like a final boss fight with no health bar.
The landlord knocked. I opened the door, nodded, packed my sad collection of clothes and manga, and left. No drama. No tears. Just the dull sense that the credits were about to roll.
I walked for three days. Slept behind vending machines. Pretended tap water was soup.
And on the fourth morning… I saw it.
A truck.
Speeding.
Headlights like judgment day.
And for once, I made a choice.
One small step forward.
Because when you've got nothing—no future, no family, not even a goldfish—
Even death starts to sound like a decent alternative.
---
I opened my eyes slowly, my head pounding like I'd just headbutted a planet. Everything was fog — not metaphorical, actual fog. Purple and wispy, curling around cracked ground like spilled ink across broken glass. The air felt too quiet, like the world was holding its breath.
Above me? The sky was shattered.
Literally cracked. Like someone took a hammer to heaven and went, "Oops."
It stretched on forever — a mirror webbed with fractures, dyed in violet just like the fog.
What the hell?
I groaned and pushed myself up like a retired gym teacher. My body felt... floaty. Not painful, just weird.
Oversized white T-shirt. No pants. Just knees, confusion, and fabric flapping in the cosmic breeze.
Wonderful. Apparently, death came with a wardrobe malfunction.
I stood slowly, scanning the nothing. No buildings. No signs. Just fog. Purple, endless, silent fog.
"Okay. Dream. Definitely a dream," I muttered.
Even I didn't believe that.
And then I saw her.
Barefoot, standing like she'd grown from the mist itself. Long white hair. Porcelain skin. Violet eyes that looked like they could read my search history.
Beautiful. In that unsettling "judge-you-from-a-pedestal" kind of way.
"...Who are you?" I croaked.
She smiled. Not warmly. Not kindly. More like she already knew how this would end and found it hilarious.
"My name is Ophelia."
> [Ophelia? Kinda poetic. Also kinda creepy.]
I nodded slowly. "Cool. And where is here, exactly?"
She tilted her head. "This is the Glass Garden. My personal prison."
> [Great. Trapped in limbo with a barefoot goddess and a naming aesthetic.]
I looked around again — still gorgeous, still haunted.
"What am I doing here?"
She didn't answer. Just kept watching me like I was part of a mildly interesting experiment. Then she chuckled. Soft, elegant, and very un-reassuring.
"Isn't it obvious? You died."
Slap. Cold. Abrupt.
"…What?"
> [Died? No way. I mean, okay, there was a truck…]
"No," I muttered. "That can't be right."
She just smiled wider. "I'm afraid it is. You're yet another victim of Truck-kun."
I squinted. "...Truck-kun?"
"Yep. You got isekai'd. Standard protocol."
> [Did she just anime-reference my death? What kind of afterlife is this?]
"Okay... so is this the afterlife?"
"Oh no," she giggled. "Not heaven or hell. Something else entirely."
"Yeah, see, that's not helpful. 'Something else' sounds like the start of a cosmic scam."
She waved dismissively. "You're already dead. The details aren't your concern."
"Pretty sure they're very much my concern," I snapped. "You tell a guy he's dead, then shrug like it's a weather report?"
She laughed again — hand over her mouth like a smug Disney villain.
Then her tone shifted.
"So, tell me. Was the life you lived fulfilling?"
I blinked.
Didn't expect that one.
Then I laughed. Bitter. Hollow.
"Fulfilling? Lady, I got abandoned, dropped out, lived off cup noodles, and died via fast-moving metaphor. So no. Not fulfilling. It sucked."
She nodded. Not pitying. Just… curious.
"Well," she said, "perhaps things will be different here."
"Different how?"
She smiled wider.
"I can offer you a second chance. A new world. A new life. One where you can choose differently."
---
Part II – Terms and Conditions May Apply
> [Reincarnation? She pitches it like a mobile game. What's the catch?]
A flicker of hope lit in me. Brief. Dangerous.
But I wasn't stupid.
"What's the catch?"
"Oh, there's always a catch," she said sweetly. "You'll have to do something for me."
There it was. The string on the shiny bait.
I hesitated. Because yeah, part of me wanted out.
But another part — the paranoid, jaded, anime-watching part — smelled a setup.
"Nah," I said, raising my hand. "Hard pass."
She blinked. "What?"
"Yeah. No thanks."
"But—why? Isn't this every weeb's dream? Magical world, fresh start, probably a harem?"
I narrowed my eyes. "Exactly. You're too on-brand. Foggy limbo, cryptic lady, reincarnation pitch… you look like the cover of a scam light novel."
"And besides," I added, "I'm still processing the death part. Rebirth can wait."
She chuckled — low and sharp.
"Fair enough… but let me ask you one thing," she said, suddenly serious. "You really okay with how things ended?"
She leaned forward.
"You died a virgin, didn't you?"
My brain short-circuited. "HOW DO YOU KNOW THAT?!"
"Oh, please," she said, giggling. "It's not like it was hard to guess."
"Shut up!" I snapped, ears burning.
But… she wasn't wrong.
> [Unloved. Forgotten. Empty.]
[If this is what death feels like… maybe she has a point.]
I bit my lip. Wavered. Just a second.
Then shook my head.
"No," I said again, firmer. "Not interested."
Ophelia's smile twitched.
Not gone. Just… shifted. Tilted, like a painting hanging slightly off-center.
"You really shouldn't say things like that," she said, voice soft as ash. "Words are funny little knives. They always find skin."
Before I could react, she stepped forward—fast—and pressed two fingers against my forehead.
Cold.
Not physically cold. Existentially cold. Like her touch bypassed my skin, nerves, skull—and poked directly into whatever was left of me.
"What are you—?"
"If you won't take my deal…" she whispered, eyes glowing faintly now, "then I'll just have to force you."
I didn't even get a chance to move.
"I sentence your soul," she said, "to die three thousand times in five seconds."
The words hit like a commandment. Like reality itself was obeying.
And then—
---
It happened all at once.
Not in sequence.
Not even in time.
It was as if every version of death had been loaded into a cannon and fired into my consciousness.
Fire. Ice. Drowning. Falling. Burning. Buried alive. Poisoned. Crushed. Torn limb from limb. Skinned. Starved. Impaled. Eaten. Forgotten. Swallowed by shadow. Shattered like glass. Strangled by hands that didn't exist. Bled out under skies that weren't real. Buried beneath planets. Screamed through silence. Exploded. Imploded. Erased.
My mind shattered into itself, again and again and again, like mirrors breaking inward.
I felt each death. Not for seconds. Not even for fractions.
Just enough to register one thing:
Pain.
Not physical.
Fundamental.
As if the concept of self was being erased and rewritten every microsecond.
---
And then it stopped.
I jerked upright like someone shot a defibrillator through my soul. Breath tore out of my lungs. My hands shook violently. My chest burned even though I had no wounds. My vision pulsed. The world tilted sideways.
> What the hell was that?
My mouth moved before my brain caught up.
"W–what… what the hell did you do to me?!"
Ophelia stepped back, expression calm again, voice like sugar laced with poison.
"I killed you. Mentally. Three thousand times. In five seconds."
I stared at her, mouth open, heart still trying to claw its way out of my chest.
"…What?"
She shrugged. "It's honestly the most humane version of that sentence I've used. You should be grateful. Most people take a lot longer to stop screaming."
My knees buckled, but I didn't fall. Just swayed like someone rewired my equilibrium.
"I—why… why would you…?"
"Because I need you," she said simply. "And I don't have time to play therapist while you wallow in your tragic backstory."
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Tried to blink the pain away.
"I'm giving you something," she continued, tone light but eyes sharp, "that you've never had."
I looked up slowly, still shaking. "What?"
She turned, hands behind her back like this was a polite offer.
"A family."
The word hit harder than the deaths.
Just one. Soft. Casual. Like it didn't mean anything.
But it cracked something.
I stared at her. Really stared.
At the grin that never quite reached her eyes. At the way she tilted her head like I was a pet that failed to learn a trick. At the glowing cracks above us, mirrored in the way she spoke.
> This woman is insane. No, worse—she's something beyond that. Like a goddess of… chaos. Of cruelty wrapped in charm.
She didn't flinch when she broke me.
She smiled.
And yet—
> That thing she did… I don't think I can take that again. Whatever that was, it was worse than dying. It felt like being trapped in sleep paralysis while drowning in fire.
She can do it again.
She probably will.
She stepped toward me again, casual, as if we'd just shared tea.
"Well?" she asked, tilting her head. "Do we have a deal?"
I didn't answer right away.
My mind was still cracked around the edges. My body felt fake. My soul? Don't even know where that was anymore.
> I can't trust her. I shouldn't trust her.
But I've got nothing. No one. And she has all the power.
> This isn't a negotiation. This is a cage, and I'm picking the bars I want to live in.
I looked up at her, met those glowing eyes, and exhaled.
"…Fine."
My voice came out ragged.
"You win."
Ophelia smiled.
And this time, it was genuine.
Which somehow made it worse.