The night after the grand banquet had settled into a calm, almost sacred silence.
Arthur Valerian, dressed in light night robes, lay sprawled across his bed like any ordinary ten-year-old boy who had survived a tournament, dodged assassins in velvet, received praise from nobles, and listened to a hundred cheers echoing his name.
It had been a very long day.
In his hand rested the black scroll—the very same one the High Pope had handed him with a subtle smile and a cryptic instruction:
"Open it alone."
Arthur eyed it with growing irritation. The scroll had no seal, no symbols, not even the faintest trace of mana. It was so blank it felt offensive.
He squinted at it.
"…What the fuck is this? Blank parchment deluxe?"
With a sigh, he unrolled it.
Nothing.
No golden script.No divine music.No ethereal whispers or visions.Just… his own reflection staring back at him from the glossy surface.
He frowned. "A mirror scroll? Seriously? Did that shiny old man scam me with a holy prank?"
With a snort of disbelief, Arthur chucked the scroll toward the corner of his bed like a useless snack wrapper.
"Next time someone says 'open it alone,' I'm tossing it straight into the fireplace," he muttered, rolling over to finally sleep.
But just as his eyelids drifted shut…A glimmer.
A soft, pulsing green light blinked into existence.
It grew.Expanded.Swallowed the room in a blinding emerald radiance.
Somewhere Else. Nowhere Known.
Arthur woke with a sharp inhale.
Not from fear.Not from pain.From something far stranger.
Peace.
He sat up quickly. The ground beneath him was soft—grass, perhaps—but it shimmered like moonlight frozen in motion. Above, the sky glowed with both the colors of dawn and dusk, as if time itself had broken its own rule.
"…Where am I?" he whispered.
A voice answered, smooth and deep, like wind through marble.
"Hello, child."
Arthur turned—and his breath caught.
A man stood a few steps away, draped in simple white robes. His hair was silver-gray, his skin pale as frost, and his eyes the color of fading ash. He wasn't bulky, but every movement spoke of power so absolute it needed no display. His presence was ancient—older than kings, deeper than oceans.
Arthur knew this face.
He had seen it carved into cathedral ceilings.Painted on temple walls.Whispered about in battlefield prayers.
The God of Hope.The God of Death.The God of Weapons.The God of Combat.
But above all—
"The God of War…" Arthur breathed."Mars Vallhala…"
He stumbled to his knees and bowed low, every bit the respectful noble child he had been trained to be.
"I—I greet the God of War, Mars Vallhala. Savior of the world. Protector of mankind."
Mars chuckled—a warm, dry laugh like thunder rolling gently in the distance.
"You're well-mannered," Mars said. "Especially for someone who just called a Pope a 'stupid shiny old man' in his sleep."
Arthur flushed. "T-That wasn't—I didn't—!"
Mars raised a hand, amused. "Relax. He deserved it."
Arthur blinked. "…Really?"
A faint smirk curved the god's lips.
Mars stepped forward. "This meeting wasn't planned. But it was… permitted. For reasons I can't explain, you're being given a chance that hasn't been offered in over a thousand years."
Arthur swallowed hard.
"A wish," Mars said simply. "Power. Weapons. Knowledge. A single thing—anything your soul dares to grasp. Say the word."
Arthur opened his mouth. Then paused.
He already had something. Something buried deep. A darkness—not malevolent, but primeval—that pulsed just under his skin. He could feel it now. A weight. A presence. Something not of this world.
And Mars…
Mars knew.
The god looked right into him, through him.
"But I'm not here to compete," Mars said gently. "Don't make this awkward. I know what slumbers inside you. I know who chose you."
Arthur's heart pounded in his chest.
So it was true. Even a god dared not interfere fully.
"But," Mars continued, "I will still give you something. Not because I must. Not because you need it. But because…"He paused."…The world may need someone like you again."
He lifted his hand.
A pale light gathered in his palm—gentle, divine.
Arthur tensed.
Then—
BOOM.
A blue shockwave exploded from Arthur's chest.
Mars's eyes widened in raw surprise. In a blink, the god was blasted backward—flung through the sky like a comet of white fire, his form vanishing into the horizon.
Arthur gasped."WAIT—WHAT?!"
Then—
[DANGER DETECTED – HOST LIFE IN CRITICAL CONDITION][WARNING: HOST HAS BEEN CURSED][ESTIMATED TIME TO FATALITY: 2 MINUTES]
Arthur's vision blurred.
His limbs froze.
"Wha—What?!" he choked out. "I'm cursed?! That god—Is he killing me?! What the hell is happening!?"
Panic.Terror.Confusion.
His head spun. Reality wrapped and twisted around him like a dying dream.
[SYSTEM STABILIZATION FAILED][SHUTTING DOWN CONSCIOUSNESS]
Arthur collapsed. The last thing he heard was his own voice whispering—
"…Am I dying again?"
Darkness swallowed him whole.
Back in His Room.
Arthur's body lay motionless on his bed.
Limp. Breathless.Cold.
To any who might enter, he was gone.
Time passed. Minutes. Hours. The world moved on.
Then—
A figure stepped into the room.
His face was veiled in shadow. His form indistinct—more idea than flesh. All that could be seen was the fluttering of a white-blue robe that seemed to drift on invisible wind.
In his hand… a flute.Simple. Smooth. Silent.
He walked toward Arthur.
Kneeling, the figure twirled the flute once in his fingers… and tapped it gently against the boy's forehead.
The air shuddered.
And he whispered:
"They've started to move."
In the next blink, the figure vanished—like mist under moonlight.