The question clawed at the edges of my mind.
Hero? Villain? Pawn?
In the grand narrative we all march through, what role had I truly been cast in? Were heroes shaped by their deeds? Their intentions? Or simply because the author deemed them worthy of admiration?
They cloaked themselves in righteousness, their banners fluttering high with the winds of praise. When they cut down their enemies, they were celebrated—liberators, saviors, the chosen few. Yet when I stood to protect the broken ruins of my world, when I fought for those who had no voice left to cry for help… I was branded a tyrant.
That's when I understood—
The line between hero and villain? It was a mirage.
A shimmer in the desert, a lie born of the storyteller's whim.
Villains… we are not born of hatred or darkness.
We are born of necessity—of absence.
Molded in the shadows your beloved heroes cast when they turned away.
We are the result of your choices.
The bitter fruit of your so-called "light."
Without villains, your heroes would be hollow—nothing but shallow idols with no purpose.
Without us, there would be no heroes.
So yeah, we were created. Designed.
Not to be understood.
Not to be loved.
But to give your heroes something to rise above.
And you—the reader—you've walked in their shoes from the very first page. Since the prologue, you've watched them stumble, struggle, grow. You've learned their fears, memorized their dreams. Their choices, however flawed, became your gospel. Their cause became your truth.
You wear their image like a costume.
A cape around your shoulders.
A plastic sword raised high.
You smile and cry and scream—
"I'm that person!"
And yet, not once…
Not once did you look back.
You never questioned the bodies they left behind.
The voices silenced in their wake.
You never thought to ask what our story was.
You never wondered why we fought.
The author handed you a label.
"Villain."
And with that one word, you turned away from me.
You sealed my fate.
You called me devil, and forgot I was human.
So here I stand.
The monster of your fairy tale.
The villain crafted by ink, molded by silence.
The shadow that made your hero shine.
And I ask you again—
What role did I truly play?
Because in your hero's story…
I never got a chance to write my own.
Fifteen years ago, Alaranta wasn't a scarred land clinging to survival.
Back then, the Flow Beasts weren't caged within the barren zones we now call "Beast Territory."
No.
They roamed freely—wild, relentless, and hungry.
And we… we lived in constant fear beneath their shadow.
Kathízise—my home city—was once the beating heart of Alaranta. A vibrant jewel nestled within the island, so vast and full of life that some dared call it a nation in its own right.
It was where my family lived. Where my friends laughed. Where dreams were born.
It was everything to me.
Warmth pulsed through the streets of Kathízise back then. Festivals, markets, songs that echoed from rooftop to rooftop…
But no amount of warmth could ever fully chase away the creeping chill of fear.
The Flow Beasts were a nightmare we all lived with—twisted creatures of raw, unyielding malice. They could appear anywhere, anytime. When they did, they didn't just kill.
They devoured.
Eventually, the Chasles Academy—the so-called iron shield of Alaranta—made a decision.
A brutal, unforgivable decision.
With the blessing of the Council, they enacted what they called a "containment strategy."
But in truth, it was a sacrifice.
They chose not to destroy the Flow Beasts.
They couldn't.
So instead… they chose to herd them.
To direct the monsters away from the wealthy cities.
To concentrate their wrath into one place.
My place. Kathízise.
They turned a blind eye to the fact that nearly twenty percent of Alaranta's people lived there.
They ignored the heritage, the sacred ruins of old Gloria that dotted the landscape.
They didn't ask.
They didn't warn.
They simply—offered us up.
A scapegoat.
A shield.
A tomb.
I can't escape those memories.
Not when I'm awake.
Not when I sleep.
Not even in the silence between heartbeats.
The day the herding began, the Flow Beasts came in waves.
More than ever before.
We were surrounded.
And the monsters… they did not hesitate.
I watched as the kindergarten I once napped in was incinerated in an instant.
I saw the twisted claws ripping apart the children I grew up with.
My friends. My neighbors. My family. My everything.
Gone.
Before my eyes.
But the truth is…
It wasn't the Flow Beasts who destroyed my world.
It was the people who called themselves my own.
Fellow Alaranta citizens… who decided we were expendable.
All that remained were the ruins of war.
Charred bones of a city once alive. A silence that screamed louder than any explosion.
Yet, even as a child, I refused to accept it.
I kept digging.
Desperately. Frantically. Searching for pieces of a world that no longer existed.
I dug to find my favorite pillow—its soft comfort a fading memory.
I dug to hold my old tablet again, to feel its familiar weight in my hands.
I dug, wishing—begging—for one last goodnight kiss from Mom.
I dug to whisper a thank-you to Dad, for the times he ran behind my bike and never let me fall.
I dug to play one more round of cards with my friends.
I dug to finally confess to the girl who made my heart flutter, even if it was just a child's love.
I dug, hoping someone—anyone—might see me and offer a shred of mercy.
But when hope faded?
I dug to make my own grave.
I dug for death.
I dug, and dug, and dug and dug and dug and dug and dug…
I dug. But I found nothing.
The only reward for my relentless search was the truth—cold and cruel:
They believed destroying Kathízise was necessary.
The "rescue" came too late, and with it, the smiling masks of those who ordered the slaughter.
They called it salvation.
I called it what it was—vultures picking at a corpse they themselves helped kill.
And then came Commplant. A "safe zone," they said.
But for me? A glorified internment camp, a graveyard with walls.
"I don't want to go," I muttered, standing by the shattered remains of my home.
One of them furrowed his brows. "You don't want to?" he echoed. "What do you mean, kid?"
He reached out, placing a firm hand on my forearm, gently pulling me toward their convoy.
I resisted. "I said—I want to stay here."
He clicked his tongue, impatient. "There's nothing left here. You think you can survive out here alone?"
I looked up at him—my eyes hollow, my voice sharp like broken glass.
"Do you think I should've survived… after watching my friends in kindergarten melt under a monster's breath?"
He blinked. No words came.
But I meant it.
Why was I the one to survive?
Why did the world pick me, when everyone I loved turned to ash?
I didn't want their safety.
I didn't want their pity.
If I only had a few more days left to live,
I'd rather spend them with the dead.
The man's frown deepened. "Well, it's not your decision to make, kid!"
Before I could react, he yanked my arm with brute force—so sudden, so violent, my shoulder nearly popped from its socket.
Then—
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGHHHHHHHHHHHH!!"
A bloodcurdling scream tore through the air. Close. Raw. Real.
The man froze, his grip loosening as he whipped around. "What the hell…?"
More screams followed.
Louder. Closer. Terrified.
And then we saw them.
Flow Beasts.
Emerging from the fractured horizon like demons out of a nightmare. Slavering jaws. Glowing eyes. Shadowy forms twisted by Flow's corruption. They descended upon the convoy like a storm of fangs and fury.
The soldiers didn't stand a chance.
They weren't Flow Practitioners. Just grunts. Pawns.
And Alaranta—so proud, so noble—hoarded its real forces for more "important" tasks.
Favoritism, in its ugliest form.
And now they were dying.
One by one.
Limbs were ripped clean from bodies, spinning through the air like macabre confetti.
Blood painted the ground in vicious arcs.
Screams drowned out the wind.
Cries for mothers, gods, anyone who'd listen.
And me?
I didn't cry.
I didn't scream.
I just… stared.
It was like watching Kathízise burn all over again.
The Flow Beasts finished their feast, tearing through armor like paper, leaving nothing behind but mangled silence.
Then—they turned to me.
Massive. Hungry. Yellow fangs glinting. Claws like razors.
They stared me down, ready to lunge—
But they didn't.
Instead… they stopped.
Their bodies tensed. Shivered. Twitched.
Why?
It wasn't cold.
It was spring.
But… no, I could feel it too.
A chill. Faint. Creeping.
My breath curled in the air like mist.
I raised my hands, confused, trying to warm myself. My fingers trembled.
The Flow Beasts backed away.
Eyes wide.
They whimpered. Whimpered.
Then, just like that—
They turned.
And fled.
Vanishing into the shadows they came from.
Silence returned.
Cold. Complete.
And I was alone once more.
It was still cold.
I glanced around. The sky was clear—no clouds, no windswept chill. No reason for the frost licking at my skin.
Then I looked down at my hands…
And I saw it.
A faint aura coiled around my fingers—like mist made of glass. It shimmered, pale and fragile, wrapping my arms in a ghostly veil. The source of the cold… wasn't the air.
It was me.
I was the one radiating it.
That was why the Flow Beasts didn't devour me.
They thought I was already dead.
Who would bother feasting on a corpse?
That moment… that realization… was the birth of something inside me.
The first blossom of Flow. My Flow.
The moment I awakened as a Practitioner.
From that day onward, I lived alone.
Years passed in silence. The Flow Beasts never hunted me again.
They sensed what I had become—something twisted, like them, yet not.
And in that strange stillness, I survived.
If I was strong enough to kill one, I'd carve into its flesh and roast its meat. I scavenged whatever I could salvage from the wreckage—cans, tools, blankets. I foraged the wild fruits that sprouted through the ruins of civilization.
I did what I could to take care of myself. Just like my parents would've wanted.
I bathed when I found clean water. I stayed out of the rain. I tried not to catch colds.
I read every book I could find and kept learning, bit by bit, scraping together an education in the ashes.
But none of it… ever felt like living.
Not when they were gone.
One day, I stood before the crumpled bodies of those I held dear—twisted, broken, forgotten.
I couldn't leave them like that.
So I cleared the land.
I moved rubble, felled trees, and flattened the earth with my bare hands. A vast clearing emerged where devastation once stood.
Then I began to dig.
Graves.
One by one.
Too many to count.
I gave each of them a resting place.
For people I didn't know. For people I did.
And somehow, amidst the rot and ruin, I made gravestones—rough, imperfect, but mine.
I shaped them with debris, carved them with a thick, rusted screwdriver.
The first stone I engraved:
Hector Quartz
1968 → 2024
My father.
Then:
Assma Quartz
1970 → 2024
My mother.
Then:
Angelo Bader
2018 → 2024
My best friend.
Stone after stone, name after name…
My hands bled as I carved. My arms ached. My fingers split.
But I didn't stop.
It was the least I could do.
If I couldn't save them…
Then I could at least remember them.
And I did.
I stood there.
Every day. Every night.
Whenever I had the strength to keep breathing.
Praying had become my only hobby. My only purpose.
It was all I had left.
I prayed for their peace. For their warmth. For forgiveness.
And I didn't ask to be saved.
Until they came.
I sensed them before I saw them.
The air shifted—not just cold, but aware. Flow Signatures bloomed in the distance, blooming like stars flaring into life all at once. Not beasts. Not corrupted.
Human. And far too many.
They arrived not with the stomping of boots or the war-cry of tyrants, but with the eerie calm of something that knew it didn't need to be loud to be terrifying.
A thin mist slithered through the gravestones, curling around my feet like ghostly fingers. Then, through the frost-hung silence—
"Brrr… So he was the one behind the constant chill?"
The voice sliced through the quiet like a knife through prayer—sharp, taunting, amused.
I turned my head slowly.
A lanky man stepped through the haze, velvet-eyed and smirking like someone who'd never once been surprised in his life. His arms were thrown lazily behind his head, posture too casual for this place of bones.
"Astolf," came another voice—soft as falling snow and laced with amused exasperation. "Must you always ruin a moment?"
From the fog emerged a man wrapped in an immaculate cloak, carrying a feline in his arms as if it were royalty incarnate. His every step seemed choreographed, almost ritualistic—less a walk, more a performance.
Then came the others.
A towering figure with limbs like tangled rope, trailing behind him like something half-forgotten by nature. Crimson-robed disciples, eyes glowing faintly from behind intricate tattoos. And at the rear, a presence that made the Flow tremble—a thing wrapped in grey bandages, faceless, its silence heavier than any scream.
The cat-holder—no, the leader—stopped before me, gaze warm and terrible all at once.
"Welcome, dear child," he said gently, like he was consoling a grieving god.
And I?
I had no words. No will. Only the wind howling in my hollowed heart.
"Alaranta..." he continued, shaking his head with a sigh. "It failed you. Left you to rot in frost and solitude. It breaks my heart to see you like this. Truly."
I shrugged, my voice flat and quiet, as if the years had scraped it thin.
"It doesn't matter anymore."
His smile didn't falter.
"Indeed. They made you feel like you no longer matter. But what if... what if we gave you something that did?"
He leaned forward, eyes glimmering with something between pity and promise.
"A goal. A future. A flame to chase in this cold, endless world."
I blinked. "…What are you saying?"
For a moment, he didn't answer.
Then, behind them—behind all of them—a rift on the ground tore itself open.
A shimmering, radiant portal.
Silver light poured out, pulsing softly like a heartbeat made of stars.
I had never seen anything like it. I didn't even know Flow could… do that.
He took another step forward, the cat still purring in his arms.
"What I'm saying," he whispered, "is this: Would you like to find meaning again? To live for something greater?"
He gently placed the cat on the ground and reached out to me, hand extended like a prince from a fairytale.
"Would you join us… in the name of Marloth?"
"…Marloth?" I repeated, the word strange and foreign in my mouth.
He nodded, eyes now gleaming.
"The name of the one who creates miracles. Who bends death. Who births second chances."
"…Would Marloth let me see them again?"
My voice cracked—just a little.
He knelt down and placed a hand on my head, his touch soft and cold like snow that didn't burn.
"Yes, dear child. In the name of Marloth, you will see them again."
He smiled.
"For Marloth is the one and only… who gives birth to miracles."
The portal pulsed—its light growing ever more radiant—until the ground itself began to tremble.
Cracks formed beneath our feet.
Stone groaned.
Earth crumbled.
And from the broken soil… it rose.
A monstrous tower, white and jagged, as if the very world had given birth to it. It tore through the sky like a spear of salvation, glowing with veins of silver that pulsed like a living heart.
My breath caught.
For the first time in years—perhaps since the day everything was lost—my eyes widened.
Was this… what he meant?
Was this one of the miracles?
Had Marloth been watching me all this time?
"Welcome!" the man declared, spreading his arms wide with theatrical grace. His silhouette stood boldly before the towering spire, the cat now curled at his feet like a loyal witness to the divine.
"Welcome to the almighty C.O.M.—the Cult of Marloth!" His voice echoed, strong enough to ripple the air.
"Here, we are not just survivors, not scattered students of Flow, nor the weak remnants of a broken world."
"We are architects of a new dawn. One forged in the ashes of the corrupt Council."
His voice burned with conviction.
"Welcome to C.O.M.! Where our one and only goal is to satisfy our God—To fulfill the will and desires of Marloth!"
His words slammed into me like thunder.
Was I… truly saved?
Or merely scooped up by zealots?
Was this man a savior—or just a beautiful fanatic with eloquent lies?
Would I be cherished?
Or discarded the moment our usefulness expired?
Was this the path to redemption…
Or just another lie painted in poetry, crafted for someone else's narrative?
But even with all those doubts…
I felt it.
A heat bloomed in my chest.
A flicker. A flame.
Tiny, but alive.
This wasn't just about surviving anymore.
This… this felt like being seen.
Like life was looking at me again, whispering, "Try again."
I knew. I knew I could still be nothing more than a pawn on a massive board.
The pianist no one sees, playing behind the curtain while others steal the applause.
A fence-sitter watching others make history while I cling to the edge.
But still…
If I was to give myself one more chance—
If I was to gamble this broken vessel of mine on a future—
Then this felt like the place to start.
Slowly, I lowered my gaze.
And with trembling knees and a heart caught between fear and hope—
I bowed my head to Marloth. To the only hand that was stretched to me.
So, tell me, dear reader. After infuriating yourself and seeing this glimpse of my side, will you choose to readmy story? Or will you still be enslaved by the author's choice?