It feels soft… and warm. A strange, unfamiliar comfort surrounds me, pulling me from the depths of unconsciousness. My eyelids feel heavy as I slowly force them open, my vision blurry at first. As the haze fades, I realize I’m not in some rundown inn or a makeshift healer’s tent.

  I’m lying on a bed—no, not just any bed. This one is massive, covered in pristine silk sheets that feel impossibly smooth against my skin. The mattress beneath me is unlike anything I’ve ever slept on, almost as if it’s cradling me in weightless luxury.

  My gaze drifts around the room, and my breath catches. Everything—almost everything—is adorned with gold. Ornate furniture, polished surfaces, and intricate patterns etched into the walls. Even the chandelier hanging above me gleams with golden filigree, casting soft reflections around the room.

  "Where… am I?" I mutter, my voice hoarse and weak.

  I shift, attempting to sit up, but a sharp soreness spreads through my entire body. Every movement feels sluggish, my muscles protesting with a dull ache. I grit my teeth and push through it, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. My bare feet touch the cold marble floor, sending a small shiver up my spine.

  I take a deep breath, steadying myself. The last thing I remember was—Varis. The battle. The demons. And then… darkness.

  So why am I here? And more importantly… who brought me here?

  I push myself up, ignoring the stiffness in my limbs, and take a step toward the door. My legs tremble beneath me, unsteady, as if I’m walking for the first time. Every movement sends a jolt of pain through my body, but I grit my teeth and force myself forward.

  One step.

  Another.

  Then my body gives out.

  The weight of exhaustion, the soreness in my muscles, and the lingering wounds finally catch up to me. My knees buckle, and before I can even catch myself, I slam onto the cold marble floor. The impact sends a sharp, aching pain up my side, but I barely register it.

  I just lay there.

  Motionless.

  Breathing heavily, staring at the ceiling, lost in the silence.

  I lost.

  No—not just lost. I never even stood a chance.

  I trained. I fought. I pushed myself beyond my limits, again and again. Every battle, every enemy I faced—I clawed my way forward, convinced that if I worked hard enough, I could win. That no matter how strong the opponent, no matter how impossible the odds, I could find a way.

  But when it truly mattered—when I needed to prove that my strength had meaning—I was nothing.

  I wasn’t even an obstacle to that demon. Just a toy to be thrown around.

  I clenched my fists against the cold floor.

  This… this wasn’t the first time, was it?

  A memory surfaces, unbidden.

  Back then, in my old world, it was the same. No matter how much effort I put in, no matter how much I bled for the cause, there were battles I could never win. I was just a piece of something larger. I obeyed. I followed orders. I did everything right, and still—still, people died. Still, I failed.

  And in the end, my efforts amounted to nothing but regret.

  I thought this world was different.

  I thought I was different.

  But maybe strength isn’t something you can just earn. Maybe, in the end, there are people who are simply meant to be stronger. People who stand at the top while the rest of us struggle at the bottom, clawing at something we’ll never reach.

  Maybe I was never meant to win.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, my breath ragged.

  No.

  No, I refuse to accept that.

  I’ve fought too hard, suffered too much to just lie here. If I can’t reach the top, I’ll carve my own path. If strength isn’t something that can be earned—then I’ll take it by force.

  I don’t know how long I lay there, lost in my thoughts. But one thing is certain.

  I refuse to stay weak.

  I try to push myself up, but my body refuses. The soreness, the weight of exhaustion—it’s unbearable.

  I slam onto the cold golden floor, my breath hitching as pain shoots through me. My fingers dig into the smooth surface, frustration bubbling in my chest. I squeeze my eyes shut.

  Why… Why am I so weak?

  I trained. I bled. I pushed myself past my limits over and over. And yet, when it actually mattered, when people needed me most—I lost. I didn’t even stand a chance.

  I wasn’t even a threat.

  The memories of the battle flood back, the overwhelming power of the archdemon, the sheer helplessness I felt as I was tossed around like a ragdoll. My body was torn apart, my skills meant nothing, my stats—just numbers on a screen that failed me when I needed them most.

  I grit my teeth, the ache in my chest growing unbearable. It’s not just the pain of my injuries. It’s something deeper.

  This isn’t the first time I’ve felt this powerless.

  A memory resurfaces, one I’ve buried deep, trying to forget. But now, lying here, broken and defeated, it claws its way back.

  Graduation day. The day I became an aerospace engineer. I should’ve been proud. I should’ve felt accomplished. But all I could feel was the suffocating weight of my father’s disappointment.

  "Your mother sacrificed everything for you, and this is what you chose? A piece of paper?"

  His words cut deeper than any blade.

  I had enlisted afterward, maybe to prove something. Maybe to escape. Maybe because I thought if I pushed myself hard enough, if I endured enough, I could be worthy of the life she gave up for me.

  But I wasn’t.

  And now, in this world, I thought I could be different. I thought if I trained, if I worked hard enough, I could be strong enough to protect the people I cared about. But I failed. Again.

  A ragged breath escapes me. My vision blurs.

  I press my forehead against the floor, my body shaking.

  "Mom…"

  The word comes out in a whisper, barely audible. I don't even know why I said it. She’s gone. Has been for so long.

  But in this moment, in this suffocating silence, I just wish she was here.

  A choked breath escapes me. My fingers curl into fists against the cold golden floor, my nails digging into my palms hard enough to sting. My body shakes—not from pain, not from exhaustion, but from something deeper. Something I can't suppress anymore.

  "Mom..."

  I whisper again, but it feels hollow. There's no response, no warmth, no one to hold me and tell me it's okay. Because it's not.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, but that only makes it worse. The memories keep rushing in.

  My father’s voice, sharp and cold. "Your mother would still be here if it weren’t for you."

  The archdemon’s voice, mocking and amused. "Is that all you’ve got?"

  Both lives. Both worlds. No matter where I go, no matter how hard I try, I always end up like this. Weak. Powerless. A burden.

  My breath hitches, and suddenly, I can’t hold it back anymore. The first tear falls. Then another. Until my vision is blurred, and my shoulders start to shake.

  I try to stop it—I try to breathe, to pull myself together. But I can’t.

  In both worlds… I’ve never been enough.

  Not as a son. Not as a soldier. Not as an adventurer.

  Maybe… Maybe I was never meant to be.

  Maybe I’m the curse.

  Maybe everything would’ve been better if I had never been born.

  "Maybe I should just kill myself?"

  The voice is faint yet familiar, echoing from a place buried deep within my memories. It’s a voice I haven’t heard in so long, but I know exactly who it belongs to—the person who summoned me, the one who gave me a second chance.

  My vision blurs for a moment, the golden hues of the lavish room fading away. When my eyes adjust, I realize I am no longer where I was before. The intricate walls, the silk sheets, the luxurious bed—all of it is gone.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Instead, I find myself standing in an open field, the scent of fresh soil and morning dew filling my lungs. A gentle breeze brushes against my skin, carrying with it a familiar warmth. I look around, my heart pounding in my chest.

  This isn’t just any garden.

  No… this is the farm.

  The farm where I grew up.

  I stagger forward, my legs still weak from the weight of my injuries, but the shock of my surroundings dulls the pain. The wooden fence, slightly broken in places, stretches along the fields just as I remember. The small barn, its red paint faded and peeling, stands in the distance. The sky above is a soft shade of blue, untouched by war, by demons, by suffering.

  It’s exactly as I remember it—down to the very last detail.

  But that’s impossible.

  This place should be gone. It shouldn’t exist anymore.

  And yet… I’m here.

  A rustling sound comes from the bushes nearby, soft at first, then growing louder. My body tenses, my breath caught in my throat. A figure emerges, tall and unnerving, its fully white head featureless except for a mouth filled with sharp, jagged teeth.

  And then, in that same familiar, hollow voice, it speaks.

  "Maybe I should just kill myself?"

  The words send a shiver down my spine. It’s like hearing an echo from the past—one that I thought I had buried. I stare at the figure, my hands clenched into trembling fists.

  "Who… who are you?" My voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper.

  The figure doesn’t answer right away. Instead, it takes a slow, deliberate step forward, its presence suffocating, yet strangely… familiar.

  "You already know who I am," it finally replies. "I'm the part of you that you try so hard to forget. The voice that lingers when you're alone. The weight in your chest when you fail. The doubt that whispers when you struggle."

  I swallow hard, my pulse pounding in my ears.

  "No…" I shake my head, backing away. "You're not me."

  The figure chuckles, tilting its head. "Aren't I?"

  The scene around me suddenly shifts. The golden fields darken, the warm breeze vanishes, replaced by the cold hum of static. The sky turns gray. The distant barn dissolves into the shape of a small wooden house. A radio crackles from inside, its warped, distorted voice cutting through the silence.

  "Authorities are still searching for the suspect in a series of grisly murders that have left the community shaken. Residents are advised to stay indoors and report any suspicious individuals immediately."

  I know this moment.

  I’ve lived this moment.

  The weight in my chest grows unbearable as my legs move forward on their own. My small hands push open the wooden door, revealing the inside of the house. The scent of warm soup fills the air. My mother is there, standing by the counter, her back turned to me.

  "Mom?" My voice is small, hesitant.

  She turns, smiling. "Kelvin, sweetheart, it's almost dinnertime. Go wash up, okay?"

  I want to tell her. I want to scream that something terrible is about to happen. But I can’t.

  A knock echoes through the house.

  A sharp, deliberate knock.

  My mother stiffens, her hands pausing over the countertop.

  Another knock. Louder this time.

  She slowly walks to the door, hesitating before cracking it open just enough to see outside.

  A man stands there, dirty and disheveled, his clothes tattered and his face gaunt. His eyes are hollow—empty, yet filled with something dark beneath the surface.

  "Please… miss, I just need something to eat," the man says, his voice hoarse, desperate.

  My mother doesn't answer right away. Her grip on the door tightens. I can see the hesitation in her eyes, the flicker of recognition. She knows.

  She knows exactly who this man is.

  The serial killer from the radio.

  "Please… just a little food," the man pleads again. "I haven’t eaten in days."

  I feel my small hands clench into the fabric of my shirt. My mother swallows hard, then finally steps away from the door.

  "Wait here," she says cautiously before walking back to the kitchen.

  I watch, frozen, as she prepares a small plate of food, placing a piece of bread and some soup onto it. She walks back to the door, opening it just a little wider as she carefully extends the plate to him.

  But the moment the plate is in his hands, his demeanor changes.

  His expression twists into something vile, something hungry—but not for food.

  "You’re a kind woman," he murmurs. "A real shame."

  Before I can even react, he lunges.

  His hands slam against the door, forcing it open. My mother stumbles back, but he’s already inside.

  I barely understand what’s happening. One moment, he’s pressing himself against her, his filthy hands gripping her arms. The next, she’s struggling, pushing against him, her breath ragged with panic.

  "Let me go!" she shouts, but he only grins.

  "You have such a beautiful body," he whispers.

  I’m frozen in place.

  My legs won’t move. My voice won’t come out.

  Then, my mother fights back.

  She struggles, kicking, pushing, grabbing at whatever she can—until finally, she shoves him hard. He staggers back, his hand instinctively reaching into his coat—

  A flash of silver.

  A sickening wet sound.

  And then… blood.

  She gasps. Her hands clutch her stomach as crimson spills between her fingers.

  The man’s eyes widen as if realizing what he’s done, and he bolts out of the house, vanishing into the night.

  I run to her. My small hands press against the wound, but I don’t know what to do.

  "Mom—Mom, stay awake! Please!" My voice is breaking, panic taking over. "I-I'll get help!"

  But she smiles. Even as blood stains her lips, she smiles.

  "Kelvin…" Her voice is barely above a whisper, trembling, fragile. Blood trickles from the corner of her lips, her breaths shallow and uneven. "I'm… sorry you had to see me go this way."

  Her hand, slick with blood, weakly reaches for my face. Her fingers are cold, but she still tries to wipe away my tears.

  "Listen… to me," she continues, her voice breaking. "Being human… it's not about wealth… or fame… or status. It's about… the choices we make." She gasps, fighting for breath, her body trembling from the pain. "Whether those choices are right… or wrong… they shape who we are."

  Her grip on me tightens for a moment, as if she’s trying to hold onto life just a little longer. "Mistakes… will happen. They always do. But… it’s not our mistakes that define us." A weak, bitter chuckle escapes her lips. "What really matters… is what we do after. If we take responsibility… if we try to make things right…" She coughs violently, blood staining her chin.

  Her eyes meet mine again, softer now, filled with something I can’t describe. "More than that… being human means… getting back up… even when everything tells you to stay down." Her breathing is ragged, each word a struggle. "It’s about… learning… healing… choosing to be better." She winces, her body twitching in pain, but she keeps going. "Because… if we let our mistakes bury us… if we stop trying…" Her fingers tremble against my cheek. "That’s when… we truly lose our way."

  She draws in a shaky breath, and for a moment, I think she's about to say something else. Instead, she just stares at me, as if memorizing my face.

  "You won't understand now…" she finally whispers. "But one day… you will. So please, Kelvin…" Her lips quiver as she forces out her last words.

  Her hand falls limp.

  And just like that… she’s gone.

  The memory fades. The golden fields return.

  The figure with the white head stands in front of me, watching.

  "You were never to blame," it says softly. "But you've always carried it, haven't you?"

  Tears spill down my face.

  I drop to my knees.

  And I cry.

  The figure watches me, its white head tilting slightly as if examining me from a distance it has never dared to cross. I feel its gaze even though it has no eyes. Its presence is suffocating, yet strangely... patient.

  "You're finally facing it," the figure murmurs. Its jagged teeth part slightly as it speaks. "Took you long enough."

  I clench my fists, my breath still ragged from the sobs wracking my body. My mother’s words still echo in my head, but the weight in my chest doesn’t lighten. If anything, it feels heavier.

  The figure takes another slow step forward, its movements eerily smooth. "You always thought you carried this burden because you deserved it. That you had to." It chuckles, a hollow, humorless sound. "But the truth is… you were never even given a choice, were you?"

  I swallow hard, lifting my head slightly. "What…?"

  "You didn’t pick this," the figure says, gesturing vaguely at me. "You didn’t ask for this weight. You didn’t ask to be haunted. And yet, here you are—chosen."

  A chill runs down my spine.

  "Chosen?" I echo. "By who?"

  The figure tilts its head the other way, considering. "That’s the thing, isn’t it? I don’t know."

  I stiffen. "What?"

  A long silence stretches between us before the figure finally speaks again.

  "I didn’t pick you," it says. "I didn’t reach out to you. I didn’t mark you as anything special. And yet… here I am. Tied to you. Bound to you. Watching you drown in something that was never meant to be yours."

  My breath catches.

  "I didn’t choose you," it repeats, its voice quieter this time. "But for some reason… you were chosen."

  The weight in my chest tightens.

  "What does that mean?" I ask, my voice hoarse.

  The figure doesn’t answer immediately. It just stares—if something with no eyes can stare. Then, it crouches down in front of me, close enough that I can hear the faint, raspy sound of its breathing.

  "That," it murmurs, "is what you have to find out."

  "Something I have to find out?" My voice trembles with frustration, my breath ragged. My fingers dig into the earth beneath me, as if holding onto something—anything—that could ground me.

  My chest tightens, the words burning at the back of my throat. "If you didn’t summon me... if you didn’t reincarnate me... I would be with her right now!"

  My voice echoes through the golden fields, the raw pain splitting through the air like a crack of thunder. My vision blurs with unshed tears, the weight of everything pressing down like an iron chain.

  But the figure merely watches, unshaken. Its jagged grin never falters.

  And then, in a voice impossibly calm, it replies.

  "But is that what you want?"

  I freeze.

  "You speak as if you’ve made up your mind," it continues, stepping closer. "As if this pain is all you’ve ever known, and all you’ll ever be. But tell me, Kelvin… is that what you truly desire?"

  The figure raises a hand toward the sky, its hollow form silhouetted against the vast expanse of stars.

  "Countless stars in the sky," it murmurs, "and yet, you were chosen. Why? How? I gave you my power—the SYSTEM. But it seems you were blinded by it. You were so consumed by the strength it offered that you ignored the very basics."

  It lowers its hand, slowly tilting its head.

  "Did you humans learn how to run before you could walk? Did you walk before you could crawl? No. Every step had to be taken in its time. Every lesson had to be learned."

  It exhales, a sound like wind passing through hollow bone.

  "Perhaps I didn’t choose you." The figure pauses, its grin widening. "But you’re not far from me… abandoned god, lost soul, whatever you wish to call it. All I know is—" It leans closer, voice a whisper against the wind.

  "I did not give my power to just anyone."

  The words settle in my chest like a weight I can’t name.

  Then, slowly, it extends its hand.

  A choice.

  "So tell me, Kelvin—" the figure’s voice is quiet but firm, "do you wish to return to the past, to your mother… or will you continue down this bumpy path, uncertain as it may be?"

  I stare at the outstretched hand, my breathing shallow, my fingers trembling.

  Go back?

  Go back to her… to the warmth of her embrace, the sound of her voice, the home I lost?

  A lump forms in my throat. My chest tightens, my entire body aching for the answer that should have been so simple.

  But the weight of his words lingers.

  "Did you humans learn how to run before you could walk?"

  I lower my gaze, staring at my own hands.

  No matter how hard I tried, no matter how much I trained, I couldn’t even lay a scratch on that demon. I couldn't move. I couldn't protect anyone.

  Just like back then.

  I was powerless.

  And I hated it.

  I grit my teeth, swallowing the bitter truth. Maybe I was blinded by the power the System gave me. Maybe I thought I could just keep leveling up, keep pushing forward, and somehow, that would be enough.

  But it wasn’t.

  It never was.

  "You were chosen."

  I still don’t know why.

  "But is that what you want?"

  The wind around us is still, yet it feels deafening.

  I could go back.

  I could return to that moment, to my mother’s side. Maybe this time, I’d do something differently. Maybe I could change something. Maybe I could save her.

  But what then?

  The past wasn’t a place to live in. Even if I could change that one moment, the world wouldn’t stop moving. And if I ran from this path now…

  What would she think?

  The memory of her dying words echoes in my mind, her voice soft yet resolute.

  "Being human isn't measured by wealth, fame, or status; it's defined by the choices we make. Mistakes will happen—it's inevitable—but it's not the mistakes that define us. What truly matters is having the courage to stand by your choices, to take responsibility for them, and, if necessary, to make amends without causing harm to others."

  My hands curl into fists.

  I don’t know who I’m supposed to be.

  I don’t know what lies ahead.

  But I know running won’t change anything.

  Slowly, I lift my head, my eyes locking onto the figure’s hollow gaze.

  I take a deep breath.

  And I step back.

  “No,” I whisper. My voice is weak, but the certainty behind it is not.

  I clench my fists tighter, forcing myself to stand taller.

  "I want to move forward."

  The figure watches me, silent. Then, after what feels like an eternity, its jagged grin stretches wider.

  “Good.”

  The world around me begins to blur, the golden fields dissolving into darkness.

  And then, just before everything fades—

  “You may have been chosen, but that doesn't mean you were meant to survive.”

  Before I can process his words, the world shatters.

  And I wake up.