When he opened his eyes, he found himself inside an old wooden boat. A silent vessel, drifting on an unnervingly still body of water. Everything around him was shrouded in heavy, suffocating mist—so thick that he couldn't tell where the sky ended and the water began.
Across from him stood a man. Tall, cloaked in a black mantle. He paddled in silence. His face was swallowed by the deep shadow of the cloak—no eyes, no mouth, no trace of humanity. Only darkness… and the soft sound of water parting beneath the oar.
Cyrus blinked in disbelief. He felt hollow—weightless, bodiless. He glanced down at his hands—where the scars should have been, there was nothing.
With a trembling, defeated voice, he asked,
"I… where am I?"
The man said nothing. He just continued to paddle as though he hadn't heard.
Minutes passed… or maybe centuries.
Cyrus spoke again, a bit louder, tinged with fear:
"Sir? Where am I?!"
Finally, the man spoke, still without turning his head:
"You've done a terrible thing… Cyrus Novir."
Hearing his name sparked something in Cyrus's memory. A vague memory rushed in, blood-filled bathtub. The blade. Tears. Silence.
He held his breath. He looked at his hands… no trace.
He whispered, "But… I died. I remember… so why am I still… conscious?"
The man replied,
"You could say this is… a passage. Not quite the afterlife. Neither dead nor fully alive. I am the one guiding you to where you must go."
Cyrus felt confusion settle deep in his chest.
"So… this is… life after death?"
The man didn't answer. He just paddled.
"You… who are you?!" Cyrus raised his voice, more urgent now.
The man stayed silent, then said calmly:
"Under normal circumstances, you would've gone to hell. Your sin, by this world's standards, is unforgivable. But… someone interceded for you. Someone who believed maybe… you still deserve a chance."
A pause, then in a faintly mocking tone:
"So consider yourself… lucky. You still have time to find meaning. But that doesn't mean you're free."
Cyrus frowned.
"Meaning? For what? What meaning?"
"For life."
A wave of anxiety rolled through him.
"If I'm supposed to live again, why die first? Why all this performance?"
The man paused. Then with uncanny calm said,
"Because you have to learn… rebirth without pain is just another slumber. But this time, you'll be awake."
Then he added,
"You will be given a mission. You must prevent events that will change the fate of many. If you succeed… perhaps you may save yourself."
Cyrus froze in place, voice quivering:
"If I fail… what then?"
The man offered an unseen smile.
"Then you go somewhere even darkness fears to tread."
Cyrus spread his hands, shouting:
"But I have nothing! No power, no experience, not even hope! How am I supposed to stop something I don't even understand?!"
Without pause, the man said,
"That's your problem."
"At least… some help, something small… a starting point."
This time the man stopped. He set the oar aside for a moment. The mist around them slowly began to recede.
In a calm yet compelling voice, he said:
"There are worlds where good and evil aren't judged by colors but by outcome. In those worlds, to survive you must use everything—deceit, power, self-sacrifice. It doesn't matter how… only that you get where you need to go."
A moment passed. Cyrus opened his mouth to ask again—but suddenly the boat surged toward a radiant light. A tunnel in the fog, at its end a blinding whiteness.
Cyrus shouted:
"So… I have to abandon all my beliefs? Choose not to be human? Become a monster?!"
The man said nothing. He simply picked up the oar again, silently, steadily.
The light grew closer.
Cyrus squinted—and then everything went white.
And the next moment, when he opened his eyes again...