Chapter 1: New Beginnings

Isaac Price hated endings.

They always felt too quiet.

The only sound in his apartment was the hum of his old desktop PC, its single fan grinding like it was just as tired as he was. The glow of the monitor painted the cluttered room in pale, cold light. Empty coffee mugs stood sentry on the desk like little ceramic soldiers, casualties of another late-night reading binge.

On the screen, the last chapter of Chronicles of the Eternal War was open.

Isaac scrolled slowly, almost unwillingly, through the words. Each sentence felt heavier than the last, like he was counting down to something he didn't actually want to reach.

"…and with the Demon Lord's death, the sun rose once more over the battlefield. The Hero's journey was at last complete."

He stopped there for a long time, finger hovering over the mouse wheel.

"That's it?" he muttered under his breath.

It wasn't disappointment exactly. The ending had been… fine. Perfectly serviceable. The hero triumphed. The villain was defeated. The prophecy fulfilled. The world saved.

Isaac let out a long breath, leaning back in his chair. His spine cracked, but he barely noticed.

He stared at the final paragraph for a long moment.

"The Hero's journey was at last complete."

Isaac's mouth twisted.

Complete. Right. He supposed it was. The box was checked, the loop was closed. The sun rose, the gods smiled, and everything went back to the way it was supposed to be.

But… was that really a victory?

His eyes drifted to the cluttered desk. Empty mugs. Crumpled notes. A page of theory scribbles pinned under a coaster. A name circled twice in red pen—Arlen.

Isaac's mouth twisted.

Complete. Right. He supposed it was. The box was checked, the loop was closed. The sun rose, the gods smiled, and everything went back to the way it was supposed to be.

But… was that really a victory?

His eyes drifted to the cluttered desk. Empty mugs. Crumpled notes. A page of theory scribbles pinned under a coaster. A name circled twice in red pen—Arlen.

He leaned forward slowly, resting his arms on the desk.

Maybe it was just the ending getting to him. Maybe he was just tired.

Or maybe… maybe it was something else.

'God, five years. Five years of late-night theories and spoiler tag wars. Five years watching forum threads burn down over who the Demon Lord really was, or whether Kara would survive the siege. Five years of pretending this story meant something.'

And now it's over.

'I should feel something—closure, maybe. Pride. Like I've witnessed the arc of a legend come full circle.'

'The Hero wins. The Demon Lord dies. The sun rises.'

'Neat. Clean.

Sanitized.

…Bullshit.

How many of them died just to make that ending happen? Kara. Arlen. Demea. All the fan favorites who died 'for the stakes.' All the sacrifices meant to make the Hero look nobler, the battle feel heavier for 'emotional weight'!

Wasn't Arlen supposed to matter? He had a whole arc in Book Three. A vision from the moon goddess. A line in the prophecy. And then—what? Gutted in the snow so the Hero could look grim and say something about sacrifice.

Sacrifice. That's what they call it, right? When someone dies to make the plot move.

I'm starting to think none of them ever stood a chance.

The gods in that world—Sun, Moon, War, Death—they always had their hands in everything. Blessing this, cursing that, whispering in dreams. Maybe it was never a war between mortals and demons. Maybe it was a game. And the characters I loved were just pieces.

The Hero won because the gods needed him to. The Demon Lord died because he had to. And everyone else? Collateral damage in a prophecy factory.

I used to think this story was alive. That it grew with us.'

Isaac ran a hand through his hair, jaw tight

His phone buzzed on the desk, making him flinch.

A message from one of his college friends:

"Drinks tonight? We're celebrating Rina's promotion!"

Isaac stared at it for a moment, thumb hovering over the keyboard. He could say yes. He could throw on a jacket, hop on the bus, sit in a noisy bar with people who actually had lives that were moving forward.

But he didn't.

Instead, he put the phone face down, silencing it.

With a sigh, Isaac clicked out of the computer tab and opened a blank document. The empty page stared back at him, mocking him with its infinite possibilities.

And then, almost without thinking, he typed:

"What if there was another god?"

Isaac's expression shifted, just slightly.

"Yeah," he muttered, more to himself than anything. "What if there was?"

The thought was absurd! Isaac wasn't a writer. Yet, the idea dug into him, persistent and sharp. The Pantheon in Chronicles was so rigid, so locked into its order. The Sun God and Moon Goddess ruling the celestial court, the War God and Death God fighting for influence, the Trickster constantly stirring the pot.

But what if there was someone outside that order?

What if there was a god who didn't have a temple, a clergy, a place in the divine hierarchy? What would they do to survive?

Would they beg for followers? Steal them? Trick mortals into worship?

Or would they stay hidden, a ghost in the system, changing the story from the shadows?

Isaac's lips curved into a faint smile.

"That would've been interesting."

He was just about to keep typing when it hit.

At first, he thought it was heartburn from the instant ramen he'd had for dinner. Then the pain sharpened, spearing through his chest like an iron nail.

Isaac gasped and doubled over, knocking his chair over as he fell to the floor.

"What the—!"

The air refused to come into his lungs. His chest felt like it was being crushed in a vice. His fingers scrabbled against the worn carpet, searching for his phone, but he couldn't even draw enough breath to call out.

A flash of panic surged through him—raw, primal. Not fear of dying, exactly, but the terrifying realization that something was wrong and there was nothing he could do about it.

The last thing he saw was the monitor still glowing, his single unfinished sentence staring back at him.

And then—

Darkness.

Even so, Isaac was aware of… something.

He didn't feel pain, nor fear. Instead, Isaac felt, truly felt, for the first time in a long while… weightless.

It was a wonderful feeling! Like floating in warm water, a gentle pull there and a gentle pull here, as if some invisible current were carrying him along.

Then, faintly, a voice.

"…unbound…"

It was soft, but it vibrated through him, deep in the marrow of whatever he was now.

"…unwritten…"

'Unwritten?' Isaac wondered in utter confusion.

"…you are free."

The current pulled harder. Isaac felt himself accelerate, drawn toward something like a moth towards a flame.

Faster. Faster. Like a leaf caught in a stream rushing toward a waterfall.

And then—

Light.

Blinding, searing light that pierced through the dark, swallowing him whole.

For a moment, Isaac thought he might be gone completely.

But he soon realized that he was still, in fact, himself.

Well, not quite.

There was no sense of breath or heartbeat, no arms or legs to flail. He was simply suspended, somehow.

Then, as his awareness sharpened, the world opened up.

Below him lay a planet.

Not Earth, he knew that instinctively, but a brilliant, living sphere of blue oceans and sprawling green continents, veined with silver rivers and dotted with clouds that cast shifting shadows on the land. Storms curled lazily across the oceans like white spirals painted on glass. Mountain ranges jutted like raised scars, deserts shone like gold.

Isaac hung there in silence, awestruck.

He turned, or thought he turned, and found that he didn't need to. His vision flowed around him like water, showing him everything at once. He could see the planet below, the void behind him, even the stars above—a full sphere of vision with no blind spots.

"Okay…" His thought echoed strangely, as if spoken into a cathedral. "This is… new."

Somewhere in the distance, he felt a faint tug. Not physical, more like the pull of gravity on the soul. It was coming from the planet below, calling to him like a beacon.

Isaac focused, and to his surprise, he could feel things on the surface. A forest full of damp earth and humming insects. A mountain peak lashed with ice-cold wind. The quiet thrum of something vast and ancient slumbering beneath the oceans.

It was too much. Too wide. Too alive.

For a moment, he panicked, pulling his awareness back until it was just him again, small and contained, hanging in the dark above the world.

"Right," he muttered to himself, "let's not accidentally turn into a Satellite Map."

He should have been afraid. But strangely, he wasn't.

If anything, he felt calm.

He thought back to his last moments—the quiet apartment, the empty document, the single unfinished line.

What if there was another god?

"Yeah," he said slowly. "What if there was?"

He didn't know if this was death, a dream, or some kind of afterlife, but he couldn't shake the feeling that someone had answered him.

Somewhere far below, he felt a pulse—faint and countless, like fireflies blinking in the dark. He didn't know how he knew, but he was certain: people were speaking, pleading, begging—not to him, but to someone.

Isaac hesitated, then reached, just to see if he could.

And felt one.

A single prayer, clear as a bell. A farmer asking for rain.

It wasn't meant for him. He could sense it, feel where it was meant to go—to some Harvest God far away, who would never notice the tiny plea among thousands.

He could ignore it.

Or he could answer it.

Isaac found himself smiling, faintly but genuinely.

"Well," he thought, amused despite himself. "This could be interesting!"

And then the pull from the planet surged, as if something had noticed him back.

The stars around him flared, dazzlingly bright.

For the first time, Isaac felt fear—a sharp spike of it—as the invisible current grabbed hold and yanked him downward. The planet rushed up toward him, faster and faster, until the continents blurred together.

A storm raging over a black sea, waves as tall as towers.

A spire of silver piercing the clouds, shining like a needle of moonlight.

A colossal canyon lit by a dozen campfires, where silhouettes danced in war-drums' rhythm.

"Wait, wait, WAIT—!"

And then—

Blinding white.