The night sky was smothered in clouds, snuffing out the stars and moonlight. Darkness clung to the earth like a curse. The fireflies had fled, and the girl trembled where she sat — staring at the grotesque creature before her, its skull pierced by a lance of light.
A middle-aged man stood beside her, staff in one hand, a thick tome in the other. He glanced between the stunned girl and the beast — a grotesque, six-legged thing with black smoke curling off its corpse. Behind it lay another child, ripped apart.
Silently, the man scooped up the trembling girl. She broke into sobs in his arms, grief crashing down in waves. He held her tightly, offering nothing but his warmth and silence.
When she finally calmed down, she whispered that she wanted to go home.
But fate denied her that peace.
As they crested the hill, her village burned. Screams echoed. More creatures — the same kind — ravaged the place.
She screamed.
BOOM. ZAAK. Light Spears rained down like meteors in all directions as the man unleashed his fury.
But when the fire died, no creature was left alive.
The village smoldered behind him — a graveyard of ash and silence. The girl lay unconscious near a charred tree, her breath shallow, her small hands clenched.
The man stood among the wreckage, staring down at the creature's corpse. Smoke hissed from its wounds, the air thick with a metallic stench. Slowly, he knelt.
Its anatomy made no sense.
Six legs, each ending in twisted claws more suited to birds of prey. Black, sinewed flesh shimmered with oily veins. Its tail — or perhaps a tentacle — twitched faintly, pulsing with residual energy. The head was vaguely lupine, but wrong, like something sculpted from nightmare rather than evolution.
This was not of the world he knew.
He pressed a palm to the creature's chest, murmuring an incantation. A faint ripple of golden light spread across its body — only to twist violently into violet and black sparks. ZRRK. The spell recoiled, nearly burning his hand.
As he observed the mana, he felt it—wild, unstable, and unnatural energy.
The realization turned his stomach. These things were born not from nature, but from mana itself — twisted, perverted.
He stood slowly, eyes fixed on the creature. An instinct told him—there would be more to come.
With a heavy breath, he drew a sigil in the air. A glowing portal opened — a subspace rift. With a flick of his fingers, the corpse was swallowed into it. FWUMP.
He turned to the fainted girl and gently lifted her into his arms.
Without a word, he stepped into the portal.
**
The warm glow of the room flickered softly, casting shadows across the polished table. Viviane leaned back on her couch, a mischievous smile curling on her lips as she sipped her tea. The faint clink of her porcelain cup punctuated the quiet room.
"The magic here, in Avalon," she began, her eyes glinting with amusement, "can be used for many things — healing, protection… and even anti-aging." She raised an eyebrow playfully. "Pretty useful, don't you think?"
Satria blinked, the words catching him off guard. "Anti-aging?" His voice cracked slightly, betraying his disbelief. He studied her face carefully. She looked no older than twenty-five, radiant and youthful, her skin flawless.
Viviane smirked, lifting her porcelain cup delicately. SLURP. "It's a rather crude term for it… but yes. The magic here keeps us young."
Satria blinked, unsure whether to laugh or panic. "You mean, you're not... in your twenties?"
Viviane chuckled, a low melodic sound that didn't match her words. "I'm 964." She said it lightly, like commenting on the weather.
CLINK. Satria's teacup hit the saucer. He stared. "Nine hundred and… sixty-four?" His voice cracked. "You're almost a thousand years old!?"
Viviane smiled, clearly liking his reaction. "I understand. Most would think it's a story too wild to believe." She folded her hands calmly. "But it's true. I was born in a time long before this era — centuries ago in Contraria."
Her gaze flickered toward the window, to the light that shimmered like gold — still untouched by the hours. Centuries, she'd said aloud. But in her thoughts, a quieter truth lingered. By Contraria or Earth reckoning, her age would span several millennia — long enough to see kingdoms rise and fall. But she would not tell Satria that. Not yet. Not until he truly understood what Avalon was… and what it wasn't.
Satria's mind reeled. Nearly a millennium. How could this woman be alive, after all this time? Logic clawed at his thoughts. Magic? Immortality? These were fairy tales… until now.
He tried to process it — to box her age into something logical, something he could explain.
"But… you don't even have wrinkles," he muttered.
Viviane leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. "Wrinkles are optional in Avalon."
She winked.
THUMP. Satria's heart pounded. He didn't even realize he was gripping his cup like a stress ball. This wasn't just a strange world — it was a place where time itself refused to behave.
"Let me tell you how it began," Viviane said softly. "Roughly 950 years ago… by Avalon's count, anyway."
And just like that, she began unraveling the story — one that stretched far beyond the years Satria could comprehend, and further than he would ever expect.
Viviane gently touched her cheek, her fingers trailing lightly across her skin as if the memory itself left a mark. Her voice grew soft.
"I almost died that night… from corrupted mana. If my master hadn't saved me, I wouldn't be here."
Satria blinked, his jaw tightening. What the hell? This woman was calmly recounting something from nine and a half centuries ago. He nearly choked on his tea.
"My master had just ascended to the title of Protector," she continued. "He came down from the Avalon to see the planet with his own eyes… just for a moment."
Satria stared at her like she'd grown a second head. He swallowed hard, trying to hide how rattled he felt. She's a thousand-year-old grandma, he thought, and she's recalling her teenage years like it happened last month.
Viviane looked serene, lost in the depths of her memory. "I was fourteen. A spring night — I remember that clearly. The stars were so bright… and the fields shimmered like glass under the moon."
"..."
"I was playing in the hill near my village, chasing fireflies with a friend." Her voice softened, distant. "Liora."
Satria rubbed his temples. This is absurd. She's remembering what she did almost a millennium ago.
Viviane's voice trembled slightly. "Liora was... kind. Brave. She laughed easily. We were just girls playing."
And then, her voice cracked.
"Until she was torn apart."
Satria's head snapped up. Viviane was staring ahead blankly, her expression locked in a quiet kind of pain.
"She didn't have time to scream," she whispered. "It was just a sound — a wet, crunching sound. And then blood."
Satria felt a chill crawl down his spine.
"I stood there. Watching. My legs wouldn't move. My body refused. And she looked at me… as it ripped her open." Viviane bit her lower lip, eyes glassy. "She asked me to help."
Satria's heart pounded. "...Viviane..."
"She screamed for me. Begged me. And I did nothing."
She leaned back, slowly exhaling as if to loosen the weight crushing her chest.
"When it was done with her, the creature turned to me. Its fangs gleamed. I thought that was the end. I felt nothing. I couldn't feel my legs, my hands… even my breath."
The room was so quiet, even the rustle of the wind outside the window seemed distant.
"Then, just as its jaws came down—" She lifted her hand and FWASH! mimicked an explosion of light. "A golden spear of light slammed through its skull."
Satria's eyes widened.
"My master – Merlin. He came out of nowhere. Threw the Light Spear straight into its eye. The creature dropped instantly."
Viviane closed her eyes, reliving the blinding radiance. "He didn't say a word. Just walked toward me… and held me while I cried."
Satria couldn't speak. The image of a terrified teenage girl on a hill, clutching a dying friend's voice and her master's cloak — it hollowed him.
Viviane opened her eyes slowly. "When I calmed down, we walked back to the village."
She paused.
"And that's when I saw it."
Her expression darkened. Her voice became a whisper.
"The village… was burning."
"!!"
Satria leaned forward, stunned.
"The same kind of creature — no, the same one — it had summoned others. They were tearing my village apart. My family…" her breath caught, "my family was screaming."
"What happened!?" Satria's voice broke through the silence.
"I watched them die," Viviane said hollowly. "I watched everything I knew get devoured by them."
"Viviane..."
"I survived. But… not my family, not the villagers."
*
The aroma of lavender and honey filled the room, mingling with the faint rustle of pages from the many books stacked around them. A gentle breeze drifted in through the open window, carrying the distant sounds of a garden—leaves whispering softly, whoosh... rustle...—and the delicate clink of Viviane's porcelain cup punctuated the quiet space.
She stared into the liquid, watching her own reflection ripple with every subtle movement of her hand.
Why had she told him all that?
She couldn't remember the last time she'd spoken of that night — not in such detail, not with such rawness. Centuries had come and gone, and yet, here she was, revisiting the blood-stained memories of her childhood because a stranger asked her how old she was.
Viviane exhaled slowly, her shoulders loosening just slightly. She studied the man across from her — Satria, who now sat with a thoughtful stillness, eyes downcast but alert.
Most would have flinched or dismissed her story as either lunacy or legend. Yet he had listened — really listened — not with awe, but with a quiet, grounded calm. His brow furrowed not in disbelief, but reflection.
It struck her, oddly, as comforting.
"Are you always this composed?" she asked suddenly.
Satria blinked, then offered a dry smile. "Kinda comes with my job I guess."
She raised an eyebrow.
"I work in AI engineering," he explained. "It's a lot of logic and abstraction… but I end up talking to people from all kinds of backgrounds — researchers, artists, business types, you name it. You naturally learn how to just… listen. Understand where they're coming from."
Viviane tilted her head. That made sense. The world he came from wasn't so different in its complexity — just ruled by code instead of magic. Then, she took another sip.
CLINK.
The porcelain met the saucer gently.
"Well," she said, softly now, "thank you for not asking me to prove it."
Satria looked up, and for a moment, there was no need for words.
Viviane didn't understand it fully — why him, why now — but some quiet part of her was grateful. To remember was painful. To be heard without judgment… that was rare.
She looked up, eyes steady and clear, her voice low but resolute.
"The attacks… they weren't isolated."
Satria leaned forward, his curiosity sharpening. The weight behind her words pressed on him more than he expected.
"Creatures like the one that destroyed my village," she continued, "have appeared all over the world. At first, they were scattered — random, almost insignificant. But over time, they've spread… multiplying, evolving."
She paused, as if searching for the right way to explain it. Her fingers lightly traced the rim of her cup, gathering her thoughts like fragile pieces of a puzzle.
"My master — the Protector of Avalon — tried to handle it on his own at first."
The title felt heavy in the room. Satria wasn't sure what "Protector" really meant yet, but he decided to hold his questions. This was Viviane's story to tell.
"But it was too much. Too vast. Corrupted mana is… relentless, restless and violent."
He swallowed hard, trying to grasp the enormity of a threat he'd only just begun to understand.
Viviane's gaze sharpened, a faint urgency threading through her usual calm demeanor.
She met his eyes directly, no hesitation, no doubt.
"And You, Satria, are not just some passerby. You've been chosen — to help us contain this 'Decay'."
Satria's breath caught. The gravity of her words settled in his chest.
"But… if you're the Protector's apprentice, why can't you handle this yourself?" he asked, trying to piece together his role in this impossible world.
A flicker of shadow crossed Viviane's face. She leaned back slightly, the weight of centuries settling in her expression.
"Some things require more than one person. Besides…" She hesitated, then added quietly, "There are parts of this I can't explain yet. Not until we're sure you're truly involved."
Satria stared at her, unsettled but drawn in.
"Why me?" His voice was barely a whisper.
Viviane's tone softened, but the conviction behind her words was unmistakable.
"Because you've already faced death for doing what's right. That alone marks you — it's why you're here, and why we need you."
Silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken promises and the fragile hope of a world.
Viviane's eyes never left his. "You should know — you're not the first."
Satria blinked, suspicion curling in his chest. "What do you mean?"
"There were others before you, four to be exact," she said softly. "Candidates, each chosen to help us confront the Decay. But none of them lasted."
He leaned back, tension tightening his shoulders. "Why? What happened to them?"
"Some refused outright; others… lost themselves to despair." Her voice held no judgment, only a quiet weight. "Though 'refuse' isn't quite right—it's more that fear and confusion overwhelmed them."
Satria swallowed hard, the weight of the unspoken stories settling around him. "So, I'm… number five?"
Viviane nodded. "The 'Candidate' number five."
He exhaled, a bitter laugh escaping him. "I didn't ask for this. I was just trying to live my life."
He glanced down at his hands, flexing his fingers slowly, not in panic — but in thought.
"I won't lie or shrug it off — I was scared. Confused. Enraged, even." His voice was steady now. "But I've had time to sit with it. And I get it. The world doesn't wait for you to be ready."
He met her gaze again, eyes sharp with a tempered resolve.
"I'm not lost, Viviane. I just didn't expect to carry the weight of someone else's world on my shoulders."
She tilted her head slightly, studying him like one might observe a fragile flame. "You have something the others didn't."
Satria frowned. "What's that?"
"Control. Calm. Even now, when everything is unraveling inside you, you hold yourself together." She paused. "Most candidates broke under the pressure — anger, fear, hopelessness. You're different."
He looked away, fighting the turmoil beneath his composed exterior. "I'm not as composed as you think I am."
"Maybe not," Viviane said softly. "But that's precisely why you might succeed."
For a long moment, the silence stretched between them. Then Viviane's voice lowered. "You've faced death before, fighting for what's right. That's why you were chosen."
Satria's gaze met hers again. It was no longer just about duty. It was about something deeper — a purpose found after losses.
Satria's jaw tightened. He sat rigid in his chair, fingers laced together to keep from clenching. "But… You knew what that tea would do to me."
Viviane folded her arms. "It's necessary. The Decay doesn't wait for us."
"Necessary?" He scoffed. "You could've warned me. You could've said, 'Hey, this tea will crack open your memories and make your head feel like it's splitting in two.'"
She didn't flinch. "And if I had, would you have trusted me enough to drink it?"
He opened his mouth, then stopped.
Viviane leaned forward slightly. "The others had the same reaction. Terror. Confusion. One of them screamed for twenty minutes. Another shattered my chair in the process."
"You say that like it's their fault."
"I didn't make them so," she snapped. "I watched it happen. I watched each of them break down in ways I didn't even know how to stop."
Satria stood slowly, walking over to the table. He poured himself a fresh cup with tense, deliberate movements. "You watched them fall apart and then just kept trying again?"
Viviane's expression tightened — not guilt, but something close to exhaustion. "What would you have me do? The Decay isn't patient. It spreads, it consumes, and it doesn't care if we're ready. Someone has to stand against it… or everything falls."
Satria took a sip. The usual bitterness was surprisingly mild this time—maybe it was a different blend, or maybe his frayed nerves just dulled his senses.
"You don't get to act like this is normal," he muttered. "You knew what the others went through, and you let me walk straight into it."
"I knew you could handle it."
"You hoped I could," he corrected. "Don't dress up desperation as confidence."
They stared at each other across the tea-scarred table.
Viviane's voice was quieter now. "You're angry. I understand. But you're still here. That already makes you different."
Satria emptied the cup in one long gulp with irritation. He slammed it down with a sharp clink, then shook his head.
"Fuckin' hell," he muttered, voice low and rough. "This shit's supposed to calm me, not piss me off more."
Viviane's gaze remained steady, unshaken by his frustration. After a pause, she said plainly, "You're dead, Satria."
He blinked, then let out a dry, humorless laugh. "Yeah, I kinda figured that much. Thanks for the reminder." He shook his head, crossing his arms tightly. "So, tell me, how exactly do you plan to give a dead man a second life? You just snap your fingers, chant some fancy spell, and boom — I'm back from the grave?"
Her lips pressed into a thin line, but her voice held no apology. "I didn't summon you here to haggle over miracles. You're here because the Decay threatens everything, and you can be the solution."
Satria's jaw tightened. "So, a second life, huh? What's the catch?"
"No catch," Viviane said quietly. "Only a price. You fight the Decay. You help contain it."
He scoffed, a bitter edge to his voice. "And if I say no?"
She met his glare evenly. "Then I will send you back. You'll forget this meeting, the tea, everything. Back."
A heavy silence hung between them.
Satria looked away, the weight of her words pressing down on him. "Funny thing about second chances," he said slowly, voice dripping with sarcasm. "I always thought they came with hope… with freedom. Not a leash and a mandate."
Viviane's eyes softened just slightly. "Hope is fragile, Satria. And life — even more so. You're lucky to have this chance at all."
He clenched his fists, a storm of emotions swirling inside — anger, fear, confusion, but beneath it all, a faint flicker of something else. But, maybe. "So I'm supposed to just forget everything I was, everything I wanted, and play hero for some magical cause?"
"Not forget," Viviane corrected. "Remember. Use your experiences. Your strength. Your will."
Satria met her gaze, voice low but steady. "I'm not some hero, Viviane. I didn't choose this. I just... got caught in it, by you."
Viviane's expression didn't waver. "No one chooses this, Satria. They're chosen."
Satria shook his head slightly, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. "Well, I'm here now. Guess I have to figure out what that means."
But just knowing that doesn't make it any easier. He ran a hand through his hair and exhaled deeply. "Damn it, Viviane. This isn't just some damn job — it's my life, or what's left of it. And now I'm supposed to risk all that for a war I barely understand?"
She leaned forward, eyes burning with quiet conviction. "You don't have to understand everything now. You just have to decide to stand with us."
Satria's gaze dropped to the table, fingers tapping nervously. After a long pause, he looked back up. "Alright. I'm in. But I want to know what I'm really up against."
Viviane nodded once. "That's all I can ask."
The tension between them softened — a fragile truce forged out of necessity, fear, and an uneasy hope.
For a moment, all was still. The wind rustled softly. Satria exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck as the tension between them settled.
Then his gaze dropped — and caught.
He stared at his hand, fingers wrapped around the warm porcelain cup. A flicker of confusion passed over his face. "Wait," he murmured. "My arms"
Viviane looked up, her hand halting mid-reach for a cookie. Her eyes sharpened. There it is, she thought. Delayed shock. He's finally catching up to it.
"What about them?" she asked gently.
"I… lost them," Satria said slowly, flexing his fingers. "Right before I died."
"You're remembering correctly," Viviane said. "Your body died. What's sitting here isn't it. I summoned your consciousness. Your awareness — not your flesh."
His mouth parted, but no words came. He looked down again, flexing his fingers. They moved, perfect. Real. But they weren't his — not really.
"Then… What happened to my body?"
"Likely buried. Or burned," she said softly.
A chill passed through him.
Viviane kept watching, her expression unreadable. She could already see it in the stiffness of his posture — the delayed impact of his trauma taking root.