This is NOT the End

I stood surrounded by lush greenery, my hair dancing in the breeze. The grass swayed, pulsing like a heartbeat.

Above, the sky stretched endlessly, a canvas of blue with clouds brushed across it. The sun shone warmly, its rays spilling over me, while the fresh air carried the delicate scent of lilies.

Where in the world…?

This didn’t make sense. Just moments ago, I was in my room, wasn’t I?

Wait. Wait. Reset.

I came home from school, fried some eggs, ate, went to my room, played games, heard my alarm, rushed to my course, picked up my sister on the way back, set the table, welcomed my parents, had dinner, returned to my room, suffered a losing streak, and then… slept.

Ah, a dream.

Of course. A place this beautiful couldn’t be real. And even if it were, I wouldn’t have the time to be here.

Is it some kind of Lucid Dream?

I tried changing the scenery to a more Sci-fi setting... Nothing.

Fly? Nu-uh.

Motorcycle?! Denied!

...Is this really a dream?

I sighed and started walking, only to realize I had nobody. Yet, I could still feel the breeze caress me and the scent of lilies linger in the air. And despite not moving of my own will, I was being pulled in a certain direction.

Weird dream.

The green grass gradually faded into a vast field of white lilies. Their fragrance grew stronger, yet it remained pleasant, intoxicating even.

Then, at the base of a distant hill, a lone tree came into view. From up here, I hadn't noticed anything unusual, but as I drifted lower, I saw her, a lone girl.

No… not a girl.

An angel?

Her beauty was impossible to define. Not sexy, not cute, something beyond that. Something… divine(?)

She wore a shrine maiden’s traditional white striped with red attire, holding a crimson wooden umbrella in one hand. Through its delicate fabric, I could barely make out her silhouette.

Then she turned.

I stopped.

Long, flowing white hair. A simple black choker around her throat. And her eyes, two pairs of cold, crimson orbs, like droplets of blood on a lily’s petal.

She stared at me. Right into my eyes.

Wait… I didn’t even have eyes.

H-Hi?

I tried speaking, but the words remained stuck in my thoughts. Yet, she reacted.

She stepped closer, lips parting. Definitely saying something, but no sound reached me.

Miss, I can’t hear you! And I’m no expert in lip reading either!

She didn’t respond to my thoughts, only continuing whatever she was doing. But the moment she stepped out from beneath the tree-

Rain.

Red. Metallic. Foul.

B-Blood?

It poured down in torrents, staining everything, painting the lillies field in crimson. Even my formless body suddenly became solid, tangible, real.

Yet, she remained unfazed. With her umbrella shielding us both, she kept speaking in that silent, unknowable voice.

This is a crazy dream, all right.

Then, without warning, she reached for me, fingers gripping my chin, pulling my face close to hers.

She was about to say something-

"Son, wake up!"

A deep, familiar, manly voice erupted from her mouth, completely catching me off guard.

Wait… what?

"WAKE UP!"

The ground trembled. The sky fractured. Bloodstains afalme.

The voice...

IT WAS MY DAD’S!?

---

"AAAA- OOF"

I shot up from my bed, only for my forehead to collide directly with another.

"Ugh!"

My dad staggered back, clutching his head, while I flopped back onto my bed, groaning.

I laughed a little, the absurdity of it all hitting me. Looking up, I took in the sight of my old man, his balding hairline, thick glasses, and a beard that had already gone wild despite him shaving just yesterday. The genetics of the Harley family at work, I guess.

"Ugh, what are you doing, Dad?! I was having an amazing dream! It was probably that rumored wet dream you always refuse to explain."

I smirked, expecting a snappy comeback.

But he didn’t shoot back.

I blinked. His expression… I knew that look. He had only ever shown it to me two times in my life. It meant something terribly serious had happened.

My joking tone vanished.

"Dad… is something wrong? Are your legs acting up again? If so, let’s go. I’ll drive you to-"

"Son, your grandpa got imprisoned."

"..."

---

It was the middle of the night. I drove even though I had no license, letting my father rest, stress had clearly caught up to him.

"You okay, Dad?"

I glanced at him. He was pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes shut tight. I wasn’t exactly stressed, more curious. Harleys had dealt with government officials and politics before, allegations weren’t new to us.

But when Dad said Gramp Albert had been taken into custody, it sounded like nonsense.

Why do I call him Gramp Albert? Because my actual grandfather, Gramp Nas, had been seven feet under for years. Gramp Albert was his younger brother.

And he was too naive, too idealistic, to do something that would land him in prison. More than that, we had just celebrated his position change last week.

"Dad?"

I asked again. This time, he let out a long sigh before finally speaking.

"I'm fine… but your gramp isn’t."

I side-eyed him. His expression hadn’t changed. That serious, unsettled look. That look. Why?

"What’s so serious about it? We’re going there to take him back, no?"

Silence.

Then, out of nowhere, he asked...

"Son, tell me, when Golden week takes place this year?"

"A week from now?"

"And the election?"

"Three weeks?"

"And since when has the tension been bubbling up?"

"Since last year… I don’t get where you’re going with this."

We stopped at a red light. A color that means stop, but also signifies bravery.

"Your gramp taking that position last week was a mistake. I told him not to, but he was too stubborn. His son’s wedding was coming up, and he wanted to fund it. The election has split this country apart again, but he refused to see it. He took an offer from the opposition."

I clenched the wheel.

"Which means…"

Dad sighed.

"Yeah, Brody set him up."

I exhaled sharply.

"So why are we going to the prison now?"

"I just want to tell him that everything would be okay."

The light turned green. It meant go, but it could also mean inexperience.

"We’ll deal with this in court. We have a high chance of winning."

Yet that look on his face hadn’t changed.

"So why are you still not over it?" I pressed.

Then, when he spoke next, everything became clear.

"His imprisonment happened way too fast. The only evidence they have is a paid-for report from some university, not the Corruption Eradication Commission. They wanted him locked up as quickly and for as long as possible. The trial will take at least three days of Golden Week, at most seven. In other words… They want the Harleys to suffer. They want to make an example out of us."

I gritted my teeth.

"That’s psychopathic."

---

The trial was over.

Four years. That was the final verdict.

We fought. We argued. We presented our case. But deep down, we knew, we couldn’t win.

The case itself was a textbook graft setup. $1.54 million allegedly lost in the procurement of personal protective equipment during the pandemic of 20XX. A sum that seemed staggering to the public but, in the world of corruption, was just another figure in an endless cycle of scandals. The prosecution painted my grandfather, Albert Harleys, as the mastermind, a man who had personally siphoned off the funds, as if he had been living lavishly off the nation’s misfortune.

But that wasn’t the truth.

The real perpetrator was out there, untouched, unseen. But we knew deep down who he was, Brody.

Grandpa’s only crime? Being too naive. Too trusting. He had let the wrong people handle matters he should have overseen himself, and for that mistake, he paid the price.

The evidence against him had been planted long ago, buried deep, waiting for the right moment to be unearthed. And now, with the elections approaching, when the country was already teetering on the edge, they pulled it out like a trump card, painting him as a convenient villain.

I should’ve seen it coming.

The moment the prosecutor’s office chief announced that both Albert Harleys and private company executive Ros Robinson would be detained for the next twenty days, I knew something was off.

Ros Robinson was a businessman. A man with connections. A man who knew how to slip through the cracks. He wasn’t worried. He didn’t even bother pretending to be. His statements were carefully vague, his demeanor unsettlingly calm. It was obvious where this was going.

By the end of it, Ros walked free. Grandpa didn’t.

The trial itself was a joke.

Barely anyone from the plaintiff’s side showed up. The judge seemed impatient, eager to rush things along, as if this were just another case to cross off his list. We tried to push for clarity, to trace the red thread back to its true source, but our efforts were dismissed without a second thought.

The prosecution played their part well, dragging in clueless witnesses whose statements contradicted themselves, yet somehow carried weight in court. Statements that were flimsy at best. And yet, they mattered.

We argued that Grandpa had no reason to be involved. If he were truly rich from corruption, why would he still be working? Why would he have accepted a lower government position? It made no sense. But logic wasn’t the deciding factor here.

Perception was.

The public saw what they were told to see, a man in power accused of corruption. And that was enough.

In the end, we managed to reduce the sentence into negligence with jail time about four years. A small victory, but a hollow one. The damage was done. The Harley name, dragged through the mud, now forever stained.

As we left the courtroom, I glanced at Dad. I knew that look.

I had seen it twice before.

The first was last year, when he lost his mother. He had come home that morning after visiting her, carrying good news, Grandma was recovering well. By noon, we got the call that she had passed away.

The second was after his family trip overseas early this year. Grandpa Nas, my father, my uncle, and my aunt had all gone together. But only three of them came back.

Grandpa Nas had succumbed to his illness there. Worse, our currency’s exchange rate meant we could only afford to keep his grave there for two years. And with how much plane tickets cost, we could barely visit him.

Dad had been a rebel in his youth. Sold drugs for extra cash. Made trouble wherever he went. But through it all, one thing had always driven him, his loyalty to family. He had fought harder than anyone. He had believed, maybe even more than I had, that justice would prevail.

But justice was never on our side to begin with, Injustice was. And it spat on his effort.

We had lost more than just a case. We had lost our place in this world.

And I wasn’t sure if we’d ever get it back.

---

School hadn’t been the same since the holidays.

Classmates avoided me. Some did it on their own. Others were told to.

It wasn’t that bad. It’s not like I was close to any of them.

But my real friends? I pushed them away myself.

They knew better than to judge me for someone else’s crime. They knew my grandfather wasn’t guilty. But I couldn’t let them get dragged into my mess. If they stuck around, they’d be next. Guilt by association. A bad rep like mine could stain them too, and I refused to let that happen.

It hurt. A lot.

But not as much as what came next.

Two groups treated me like absolute trash.

The first? The adults, specifically, the teachers.

To them, I wasn’t just a student anymore. I was a parasite. The offspring of corruption. The embodiment of sin, eating away at the country’s future.

They didn’t hold back.

“You must be proud, huh? Your family’s stolen money feeding you well?”

“I wonder if your grandfather taught you how to lie as well as he did.”

“You’ll end up like him, behind bars. It’s in your blood.”

The verbal abuse was annoying, but I could handle it. I was used to worse.

The real problem? Score manipulation.

No matter how well I did, no matter how much I studied, my grades kept dropping. Essays that should’ve scored high came back marked with red ink, entire paragraphs crossed out for vague reasons. Multiple-choice tests I knew I aced were somehow failures. The teachers made it clear, if I wanted to graduate, I’d have to crawl for it.

And then, there were the idealist upperclassmen.

Unlike the teachers, they didn’t waste time with words. They went straight for physical abuse.

They were the type who saw themselves as future leaders. The country’s bright hope. And to them, I was the reason their tuition fees were skyrocketing.

The logic made no sense.

But it didn’t stop them from throwing punches.

A fist to the gut sent me staggering.

A knee to the ribs dropped me.

Then, a sharp kick to the side sent me sprawling across the hallway tiles.

Laughter. Someone spat next to me.

I laid there for a moment, staring up at the fluorescent lights buzzing above.

“…You gonna fight back, or just lie there like the trash you are?”

I wiped my mouth, tasting blood. My knuckles clenched.

I could fight back. I should fight back.

But I didn’t.

Not because I was scared.

But because I knew they wouldn’t get punished. I would.

So I stood up, ignored their taunts, and walked away.

---

Home wasn’t any better.

My privileges had been stripped. No more cars. No more spending money. That was fine. I didn’t care about that.

What did hurt, though… was the silence.

Dad and Mom weren’t the same anymore.

They were handling the fallout head-on, along with my uncles and aunts. It was understandable. They had bigger things to deal with than me.

But it didn’t make it hurt any less.

Dad exploded more easily now. His patience, once infinite, had become razor-thin. He snapped over the smallest things.

Mom barely talked at all.

The house had become a minefield.

Dinner time.

We sat at the table, the only sounds being the clinking of utensils.

“…So, how’s school?”

Mom finally asked, her voice distant.

I almost laughed.

“Fine.”

Dad scoffed.

“Fine, huh?” 

He slammed his fork down. 

“Must be nice to be a kid. Ignoring reality like nothing’s happening.”

I didn’t answer.

“What, no comeback?” 

His voice was sharp now, accusatory. 

"Not gonna tell me about your little fights? Or should I say beatings?”

I flinched. So he knew.

“Maybe if you actually fought back, you wouldn’t be such a disgrace.”

“Dean…” 

Mom whispered, but Dad ignored her.

“I busted my ass trying to keep this family together, and you...” 

He let out a bitter laugh.

“Pathetic.”

I pushed my plate away, appetite gone.

Mom didn’t say anything.

She never did anymore.

The quiet used to be comforting. Now, it felt suffocating.

I stood up, my chair scraping against the floor.

“I’m full.”

Then I walked away.

---

My room used to be my escape.

Now, it just felt like another prison cell.

I stared at the ceiling, listening to the faint sounds of the city outside. Distant cars. Barking dogs. The occasional siren.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

I missed before.

Before all this. Before Grandpa’s trial. Before people looked at me like I was a walking curse. Before my own father started seeing me as a disappointment.

I missed being normal.

I let out a long breath, feeling exhaustion creep into my bones.

I needed sleep.

And maybe, just maybe, when I woke up, I’d find myself back in that dream.

Back in that field of lilies.

Back in front of her.

---

Two years.

It had been two years since Grandpa’s trial, since my life had turned into a slow-burning wreck.

Two years since I had learned that in this country, truth didn’t matter, only power did.

And in those two years, I had done everything I could to get out.

I had worked, saved, and planned meticulously. Every late-night job, every sacrifice, every skipped meal, it had all been for this.

A chance at a university abroad. A fresh start. A place where I wasn’t Albert's grandson but just another student, free from the weight of my family’s disgrace.

I had almost made it.

Almost.

But when I checked my account that morning, everything was gone.

Not a single dollar left.

Zero.

Nothing.

Panic surged through me as I refreshed the page again and again, my fingers trembling. No errors. No mistake. Just empty digits where my future used to be.

And then my phone rang.

Dad.

A cold feeling settled in my gut. I answered.

“What is it?”

My voice harsher than I ever intended to do. 

A pause.

Then, softly.

“I’m sorry.”

I frowned.

"For what?”

“The money, I had to use it.”

Silence.

“…What?”

Dad took a deep breath.

“Son… Your mom, she has cancer.”

My heart stopped.

“Stage three. We caught it late. We’re already in a neighboring country. Treatment here is cheaper, and we thought maybe you could..."

That voice.

This was the dad I remembered.

The one before the trial. Before the anger, before the resentment. Before life had beaten him down.

And that’s why I couldn't be mad at him.

I forced a small laugh, trying to sound carefree.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Son?”

“I’ll take a public university. They must have some kind of scholarship test, right?”

“But-”

“I said don’t worry.”

He fell silent.

The call ended, but my hands were still clenched around the phone. My mind buzzed with too many emotions to name.

Sadness. Frustration. Helplessness.

But most of all, spite.

Not for my parents.

Not for my teachers.

Not even for the people who had spent years treating me like garbage.

But for the system that had made us this way.

The system that had ruined Grandpa.

The system that had stolen everything from me.

The system that had turned my father into a broken man and left my mother on the edge of death.

I had no money.

No prestige.

No safety net.

But I had this anger, this fire inside me.

I opened my mouth and scram

"WORLD, YOU CAN SUCK MY DI-"

---

The rain poured. Cold. Heavy. Unrelenting.

I stood there, soaked to the bone, staring down at a grave.

Dean Harley.

My father.

The man who had burned himself out.

Maybe Mom’s illness had guilt-tripped him back into being a better man, but he pushed too hard. Forced himself past his limits. Tried to bear a weight no man should carry alone. And in the end… It crushed him.

“That’s not fair, you piece of shi-”

I stopped myself, swallowed it down.

“You shouldn’t have gone like that.”

The headstone stared back, silent. The name carved in bold, uncaring letters.

“You think this makes it right? You think running yourself into the ground fixes what you did? You think dying’s some kind of redemption?”

It had been three years since that phone call. Three years since I lost my future. Since I abandoned the dream of leaving this place behind.

Instead, I climbed.

I clawed my way up, step by brutal step, through the very system I once despised.

The youngest. That’s what they called me now. The youngest to ever hold my position. The youngest to ever gain this much power.

“You’d have hated it. Me working for them. Becoming them. But what the hell else was I supposed to do? Just sit back and watch them tear everything down?”

And yet, despite everything-

Mom would never walk again. The treatments saved her, but they took everything else. The damage to her spine was permanent. She would never move without assistance. Never dance like she used to. Never stand tall like the woman I remembered.

“She wanted you to be the one pushing her chair around, damn it. Not me. She waited for you, y’know? Right up until the end. Even when she could barely speak, she still asked about you. Every time.”

I wiped my face, though it didn’t matter, rain and tears blurred everything anyway.

“Gramp Albert? He’s finally free. Took some convincing to get his family to take him in. They didn’t want the stain of his name.”

I scoffed.

“How shallow, huh?”

A pause. Just wind and water and the soft tapping of drops on polished stone.

My sister was growing up strong. I made sure of it. Paid for her education. Gave her every opportunity I never had. Made sure she’d never suffer like I did.

“You didn’t see her win that essay competition. You didn’t see the way she talks about you, like you were some kind of hero. You were my hero too once…”

I laughed bitterly.

“She doesn’t remember the yelling. The broken things. She remembers the man who tried. The one who stayed when Mom got sick. That’s who she holds onto.”

I knelt down, fingers brushing the wet grass.

“But none of it matters. Not really.”

Because no matter how high I climbed, no matter how much I provided, this country was still rotting.

The same system that destroyed my grandfather, crippled my mother, and broke my father beyond repair still thrived. Still chewed up the innocent and spat them out. Still let the guilty walk free.

“I tried playing their game, Dad. Thought maybe I could change it from the inside. Maybe I could be different.”

I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palm.

I wasn’t a child anymore.

I wasn’t weak anymore.

I wasn’t powerless anymore.

I stared at the name on the grave, rainwater running down the stone like tears.

“…Dad...”

A deep breath.

Slow. Steady.

Then, in the cold silence of the cemetery, I made a promise to him.

“I’ll burn this country down. I’ll make sure of it.”

---

Five years.

It had been five years since I last stood over my father’s grave, whispering a vow into the dirt. Five years of maneuvering through the rot that chewed up my family and spat out the bones.

Now I was twenty-eight, and somewhere along the way, I’d become something I never expected.

Detached.

Efficient.

Numb.

I didn’t flinch at threats anymore. Didn’t blink at bribes. I stopped asking whether something was right or wrong, only if it was useful.

Assassination attempts? Routine.

Corruption? Abundant.

And I let it happen. I welcomed it. Because every rotten deal, every filthy handshake, brought me closer to the roots I planned to rip out.

Today was supposed to be a milestone.

A new member.

Another soldier added to the machine I’d quietly been rewiring from the inside.

But no,  of course she didn’t come to me.

No, I was the one sent climbing stairs, navigating a half-abandoned high-rise with a half-broken elevator just to find her standing on the goddamn roof.

The nerve.

Wind howled up there. Sharp. Constant. Tugging at my coat, threading through my hair like it wanted to peel the skin off my bones.

And there she stood, like she belonged in it.

Dark hair whipped around her face. Brown eyes locked on the skyline. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t brace. Like the wind answered to her, not the other way around.

I sighed. Loud enough for her to hear.

She turned. Straightened. Offering a smile, like I hadn’t just spent twenty minutes hunting her down.

“Good morning, sir. You must be-”

“What, were you planning to wait up here till the heavens whispered your next promotion? You’re supposed to report to me. Not the other way around.”

She blinked. Unshaken. 

“Apologies, sir. I like the wind. It helps me think.”

“You’re lucky I don’t dock points for dramatics.”

Then I really looked at her.

Young. Maybe twenty-six. Sharp posture. Calm eyes. And clean hands.

She was the new Youngest.

Took the title I’d carved with blood under my nails.

The public loved her. Said she was change incarnate. Said she was the future.

I didn’t see it. Not at first.

 Not until she spoke again.

“You probably want to know why I joined.”

“I want to know why I wasted a morning finding you.”

She grinned. 

“Because you inspired me, sir.”

That stopped me.

“Excuse me?”

“You bore a name that should’ve buried you. But you rose anyway. You made promises, and you kept them. When everyone said you were just another dangerous legacy, you proved them wrong. You gave people like me hope.”

She said it so fast. Like it had been rehearsed a hundred times.

But it didn’t sound fake.

No trembling. No flattery. Just conviction.

I blinked at her. 

“You’re serious.”

“As death, sir.”

I stared for a second longer before shaking my head, letting out a sigh. 

“Don’t call me sir.”

“But sir-”

“I’m not old enough for that yet. Just Harley.”

“You’re twenty-eight.”

“That’s still young, you rascal.”

She laughed. A real laugh. Carefree. Warm. The kind of sound I thought this place had beaten out of everyone years ago.

And for a second, just a second,the world didn’t feel so gray. Didn’t feel so heavy. Just wind, and sky, and the strange, ridiculous hope blowing in beside her

“Nice to meet you then Si- Harley. My name is Diana, Diana Amanda.”

---

I stood in front of an apartment door. Her apartment door.

The nameplate on the wall read Diana Amanda.

It had been six months since we met, and we were acquainted enough for her to trust me with something that felt insane.

A key.

To her place.

Crazy, I know.

The reason I was here? She had been working from home for a week now. Her reports were submitted on time, her tasks completed, yet something felt…off.

I had seen people burn out before. Seen them spiral. I wasn’t about to let that happen to someone like her.

I unlocked the door and stepped in.

Darkness.

And then-

Nya~

The second thing to greet me was Sneakers.

Her cat.

Don’t ask me why the name was like that.

I bent down, rubbing its head before tossing a treat. It happily scampered away, leaving me alone with the dim silence.

The room was mostly dark, but at the end of the corridor, there was a faint glow. Monitors?

Did she pass out?

The worst-case scenarios started running through my mind, but when I turned the corner, my concern melted into something else entirely.

Annoyance.

There she was.

In front of her TV.

Dressed lazily in an oversized hoodie, legs tucked up onto the couch. Controller in hand. Eyes glued to the screen.

She was mumbling. Giggling. Completely absorbed in whatever game she was playing.

This junior of mine…

With a quick slam, I flipped the light switch.

“AGH! MY EYES!”

She yelped dramatically, throwing her arms over her face like a vampire caught in sunlight.

I crossed my arms, unimpressed.

“So this is what ‘working from home’ looks like?”

Diana blinked, still dazed from the sudden brightness. Then, with zero shame, she grinned.

“…Welcome home?”

This woman…

“Don’t welcome home me!”

I brought my hand down and chopped her head.

“Oof. Ouch. Ittai. Ugh.” She winced with every hit but didn’t even try to escape.

“I want an explanation!”

“There was a new amazing Otome game that just came out!”

“…HUH!?”

“I had to finish all the routes!”

Another chop.

Diana groaned, clutching her head.

“Abuse! I’ll report this, I swear-”

“You swore you were sick.”

“I am sick!”

“With what? Romance fever?!”

“Exactly.”

I chopped her again.

---

I walked home with a plastic container in hand. Inside was the disk for that Otome game.

Why did I get dragged into this?

Diana’s annoying voice echoed in my mind

"This will put a smile on that flat lip, and tug those cold eyes!"

…Unbelievable.

Apparently, the game wasn’t just about romance. It had actual gameplay. A mix of mechanics that catered to both male and female audiences, strategy, world-building, combat, and, of course, the branching romance routes.

I reached my room, gripping the doorknob, when a thought struck me.

My flame was gone.

That bitter, spiteful fire that had driven me for years… extinguished.

But was that really so bad?

I sighed and shook my head, stepping inside. Tossing my coat over the chair, I sat down, popped the disk in, and watched as the screen flickered to life.

Eternal Seradane.

Or as my brain immediately misread it-

Eternal Sarden.

Hehe…What’s up with my humor lately?

The title screen was elegant, ornate golden lettering over a backdrop of a grand academy, where the game’s story would take place. A haunting yet beautiful melody played in the background.

I started a new game.

The game threw me into its world fast. The main protagonist, a commoner girl, Elaina, had just received a scholarship to attend Seradane Academy. The reason?

She was a Saint.

Gifted with divine magic, a rare power that set her apart from ordinary people. But her presence in the academy stirred resentment among nobles, especially from one particular character-

Her.

A girl with white hair and red eyes.

The moment I saw her, my breath hitched.

She looked like the girl from my dream.

But different.

Her beauty was no longer cold and distant but spoiled, arrogant, and cliche, the very picture of a high-ranking noblewoman who saw the protagonist as filth.

Her hair shorter, eyes with a glimmer of mischief.

Her name? Celestia Sanguis Lilithorne.

One of the early game antagonists. A fodder even.

Or at least, that's all she was supposed to be.

Because the game allowed freedom, many different routes. And I had already made my decision.

I was going to romance her.

---

The world of Eternal Seradene wasn’t just about academy life. There was a greater threat-monstrous beings known as Abyssals.

No, not demons. Not this time.

Creatures from a realm beyond understanding, appearing only when the boundary between worlds weakened.

The game balanced school drama, romance, and epic battles against these horrors. Elaina, as a Saint, had the power to repel them, but nobles had their own ways of fighting-using Bloodline Magic.

Celestia’s ability?

Crimson Sovereignty. A terrifyingly powerful magic that allowed her to control blood. Hers. Others’. Even the battlefield itself.

---

Hours turned into days.

And then, the inevitable happened.

Celestia died.

Her death was scripted. No matter what choices I made, no matter how high her affection was, she always met a tragic end.

I stared at the screen in disbelief.

No. There had to be a way.

There had to be a good ending.

I clenched my fists.

I just had to play again.

Somewhere in the distance, I could almost hear Diana laughing.

Damn it, Diana.

---

Thirty.

I had officially turned thirty.

And here I was, standing in line outside a gaming store with Diana.

If someone had told me years ago that I’d be here, waiting for a DLC release of an Otome game, I would’ve laughed in their face. But now?

It was routine.

Another expansion for Eternal Seradane. The developers had been milking the game for years now. Post-Odyssey had already dropped, introducing new combat mechanics and additional lore. Other characters had gotten expanded routes. Even minor NPCs had gained new story arcs.

But Celestia?

She was the only one who still had no way to survive.

Her death had become a running gag. Fans joked about it. Memes were made. It had been two years, and even the developers leaned into it.

Diana, of course, loved to rub it in.

“So, Harley…”

She gave me a teasing grin. 

“Ready to be disappointed again?”

I exhaled through my nose.

“Shut up.”

“Oh, come on. You know she’s dying again.”

I clenched my jaw, refusing to take the bait.

“She’s like, the only character the devs refuse to give a happy ending to.”

Diana crossed her arms dramatically.

“You’d think with all the money they’re making, they’d at least give her a single alternate route. But nope.”

“She deserves better...”

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

Diana smirked, nudging my shoulder.

“You totally said something. Wait- are you actually mad?”

I sighed.

Yes.

Yes, I was mad.

Not just at the game, but at the principle of it.

No matter what you did, Celestia always died.

Even in a world of magic, divine miracles, and Abyssal horrors, there was no way to save one girl.

It felt... too familiar.

Diana was still trying to rile me up when I heard it.

A car.

Engine roaring, accelerating.

I turned.

It was coming.

Not just speeding, aiming.

At her.

“DIANA!”

I shoved her away, dragging myself with her.

The car missed its target, tires screeching as it barely avoided us. It didn’t stop—it just kept going, disappearing into the city streets.

You thought I'll die some cliche death? Think again!

Diana gasped, gripping my arm.

“What the hell-?!”

I didn’t answer.

Election day was four weeks away.

And they were already making moves.

They wanted to pluck the golden thorn before she could become a bigger problem.

Damn it.

Saving her must have made me look disloyal.

Which meant they wouldn’t stop at just her.

They’d come for both of us.

Something burned in my chest, something I hadn’t felt in years.

The flame.

The one I had let die.

It was back.

I wouldn’t let them take her.

I had spent years gathering everything I needed to end this system.

I had been waiting.

Hesitating.

But no more.

I finally remembered, I was planning to die with this system to begin with.

Diana’s voice snapped me out of it.

“Harley, what’s going on?”

I turned to her.

Expression blank.

“…Follow me.”

---

It had been two weeks.

And it all led to this moment.

I stood alone in front of dimly lit mirror,  shoulder heavy with the weight of my actions.

On the table before me sat a small drive.

Years of corruption, bribery, rigged elections, secret deals, assassinations, every piece of filth I had collected, all compressed into this tiny device. If it landed in the hands of someone with enough willpower, it would be enough to bring the entire country down.

Enough to ignite a revolution.

A soft noise broke the silence.

Nya~

Sneakers jumped onto the table, tail flicking. The little black cat had no idea the burden I was placing on it.

I carefully slipped the drive inside the bell on its collar.

"Go. Find her."

I scratched behind its ear one last time and gave it a treat. The cat purred before, as if sensing the urgency, it leaped onto the windowsill and disappeared into the night.

Every TV station was buzzing.

Every news anchor, every analyst, every political commentator, they were all talking about the recent chaos.

About the scandals. The controversies. The exposed corruption.

I made sure of it.

I had leaked just enough, enough to redirect the heat onto myself.

Enough to make sure Diana wouldn’t get caught in it.

Where was she?

Safe.

I forced her into hiding at my sister’s house.

She hated it. She had fought me on it. But my sister understood the assignment.

She wouldn’t let Diana leave. No matter how much she resisted.

My TV played in the background, they spat out names.

Names of powerful people. Names of criminals in suits. Names of the untouchable elite.

And also, my name.

Not everything they accused me of was true.

But enough of it was.

And the rest? The heavier accusations? The fabricated charges?

Of course, they made those up. They needed a villain to unite the people against.

And I was more than willing to play that role.

There was nowhere to go.

There was nothing left to do.

I closed my eyes, breathing in the still air of the room.

Then, I sat down.

Waiting.

As the sound of footsteps grew closer.

I’d got arrested two weeks before the election just like my gramp, huh?

---

My head still hurt. They must had knocked me out.

The room was dark and small, a single dangling old bulb being the only source of light.

It stank of gun oil and sweat.

And maybe… a little bit of fear.

Not mine. Theirs.

There were four of them. Suits, black gloves, clean-shaven, government dogs playing mafia. And one of them had a gun pressed to my temple, waiting for me to break.

I wasn’t going to.

Instead, I exhaled slowly, letting the tension thicken. Then, as casually as if I were asking for a drink, I said-

"Ya got a puff?"

The words came out smoother than I expected, considering my situation. I glanced up at the man with the gun. His grip tensed.

"Never had one in my life."

There was a pause. Then, laughter.

Low, grim, humorless.

“Never had a puff, huh?”

The gunman chuckled, lowering his weapon slightly.

“You lived too clean for a politician.”

"You could say that."

I muttered, subtly testing the ropes around my wrists. Tight. No chance of slipping out without dislocating something.

One of the men pulled a pack from his coat, flicked out a cigarette, lit it, then shoved it between my lips.

I took a drag. Instant regret.

The smoke burned like hellfire, scratching its way down my throat. I coughed, hard.

More laughter.

"Not used to it, huh?"

I took another pull, slower this time, letting the smoke coil in my lungs before exhaling. The burn was familiar, now. Almost grounding.

The cigarette was already half-burned when the leader leaned in, smirking.

"Alright, Mr. Anarchy, since we're feeling generous, any last words?"

I exhaled a thin stream of smoke, my eyes locked on his.

"Yeah."

The room went still.

"You should check your emails."

His smirk faded. One of the others hesitated, pulling out a phone. Tapped quickly.

His face twisted.

"What the fu-"

Boom.

A distant explosion.

The floor trembled. Lights flickered. Just enough of a distraction.

I moved.

Launched forward, chair and all, slamming my forehead into the nearest guy’s nose. It cracked. Blood splattered his collar.

The gunman snapped up his weapon. I twisted, dislocated a joint, and threw my chair hard, the shot went wide.

Concrete shattered.

Chaos.

One of them lunged, I kicked out, hard. Sent him crashing into the table. Another scrambled for his gun, too slow.

I was about reach him but then-

Pain.

Something slammed into the back of my skull, lodging itself deep within.

I hit the floor. Hard.

Vision swimming. Blood in my mouth.

Yeah, this is... more acceptable... I'm sorry Diana, please take care of the rest...

The last thing I saw before darkness took me-

The flickering bulb above me.

And the cigarette, still burning itself out on the cold floor.

---

The world blurred.

Edges vanished first, the corners of the room, the sharpness of concrete, the flickering overhead light. Everything bled out like spilled ink on wet parchment, soaking outward, fading into a soft, dull gray.

The pain was the last to go.

It dulled slowly. Like someone turning down the volume on an old stereo. The pressure at the back of my skull, once roaring like thunder, slipped away into silence. My body felt like paper, thin, light, drifting.

And then… static.

Soft. Familiar.

Not from this room. No, this came from somewhere older. Somewhere warmer.

Like the soft crackle of an old radio in a tiled kitchen, where burnt toast and brewed coffee mingled in the air. A Sunday morning sound.

Then, a melody.

Delicate. Threaded with memory.

---

“Galang Rambu Anarki, my child.

Born in early January, right before the election…”

---

I was six again.

Back in the sunlit living room with floors too clean and furniture too modern. I was sitting cross-legged in front of Dad, watching him clean his guitar, his fingers moving like they were telling a secret.

"Why’s my name Anarchy? Isn’t that… evil or something?"

I remembered asking it with all the confusion a rich kid wasn’t supposed to have.

He laughed. Not loud, not mocking. Just… soft. Like the way people laugh when they’re remembering a part of themselves they’d forgotten.

He ruffled my hair.

"It’s not evil, son. It’s the kind of name you give when you love the world too much to let it stay broken."

He set the guitar down and picked up a small speaker, played the song. That same one. That voice, rough and aching, drifted into the air. I didn’t understand the words back then, not really. I only understood the way Dad’s eyes got glassy, the way his hand clenched a little tighter when that chorus came.

---

“Forgive your parents, If we can't afford to buy milk...

Fuel prices soar high, Milk becomes unaffordable…”

---

Back then, I didn’t get it. We could afford anything. We had a damn fridge just for drinks.

But Dad didn’t come from that.

He came from a fried rice stall, a tin roof, a broken speaker held together with hope and duct tape.

He came from less, and I guess he gave me that name as a way to remind himself that he’d made it… and that I shouldn’t forget what it took.

"Your name is a promise. It means you’ll never stay quiet when something’s wrong."

And maybe I’d done that.

I screamed when I should have bowed.

I struck when I should have stayed still.

I burned bridges and climbed through the smoke.

Even when I whispered, they heard me.

---

“Grow up quickly, my sunshine.

Cry out loud, don’t hesitate.

Strike the arrogance of the world, my beloved…”

---

I had. I did.

And I was tired.

The bulb above me flickered one last time.

Then it stayed off.

No more light. No more questions. Just the warm lull of memory, wrapping around me like the familiar arms of an old song.

Sneakers, wherever she was now, would find her.

Diana would know what to do with the truth. She always had the guts to act clean where I had to walk through the mud.

She’d fight in the daylight.

I’d fought in the dark.

---

“Our prayers flow in your veins…”

---

And then—

Anarchy Harley stops breathing.

No title.

No campaign.

No suit.

No noise.

Just a man.

Born from fire.

Forged in spite.

And finally-

Free from it.

The world won’t pause. It never does.

But somewhere, a bell rings as a small cat weaves through alleys with something precious tied beneath its chin.

Somewhere, a girl opens a door with trembling hands and finds the truth wrapped in silence.

Somewhere, a sister holds back tears as news fills the screen, but she doesn’t look away.

Somewhere...

Wind will carry out your fire.

Not to extinguish it.

But to spread it.

---

…

...

…

Dying was surprisingly peaceful

…

…

…

I take that back-

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

---

Death was painful.

No, seriously. You don’t get it. I’m not talking about “paper-cut-on-the-webbing-between-your-fingers” kind of pain. Or even “stub-your-toe-at-3AM-on-a-coffee-table-you-swear-wasn’t-there-yesterday” agony.

I mean existential pain. Soul-flaying, brain-boiling, reality-imploding torment that adapted, every time I got used to it, it evolved. Like some sadistic Pokémon of pain.

Imagine a Shepard tone, but for suffering. No peak. No release. Just a relentless climb, like my entire being was screaming through an infinity of glass shards and broken violin strings.

How long did it last?

Minutes? Hours? Centuries?

Could’ve been a second. Could’ve been a millennium. Time had rage-quit the group chat. My memory kept soft-resetting mid-scream, like some cosmic blue screen of death.

Then, silence.

A soft click, like a clipboard snapping shut.

I opened my eyes.

She stood there.

Wings. Halo. Pencil skirt. Button-up tucked just enough to say “I go to therapy but still commit tax fraud.”

Her name tag read: "Chyrael – Afterlife Logistics."

“Are you calm now?”

She asked, her tone flatter than decaf espresso.

“Define calm.” 

I croaked, my voice sandpapered from all the screaming.

She was already scrolling through a translucent screen only she could see, squinting like she was trying to track a UPS package from another dimension.

“Post-life intake. Standard procedure. You died. Big boom. Nice job.'

“You’re an angel?”

“I’m a civil servant.”

She corrected, monotone.

“Angels get hazard pay and wings with real feathers. I’m just middle management in the bureaucracy of death.”

She clicked her pen like it owed her money.

“Name?”

“Just Harley.”

She sighed.

“We’ve got forty-seven Harleys in the queue. Be less vague.”

“Uh… Anarchy Harley, son of Dean Harley?”

She froze. Brows rose. Her wings twitched slightly.

“Oooooh. That Harley.”

Her eyes narrowed like I’d just admitted to being the guy who microwaved fish in the office kitchen.

“You really stirred the pot down there, didn’t you?”

“Depends which pot.”

She didn’t laugh. Didn’t even twitch. Just ticked a box.

“Alright, Mr. Harley. You’re eligible for the Premium Package, three choices.”

She held up three fingers, nails chipped, blue polish hanging on for dear life.

“Option One, Hell.”

A chill crawled across my soul.

“That pain you just experienced? That was the trailer. The full features longer, louder, and scored by Skrillex. Directed by Zack Snyder. All lens flares and sad boy lighting.”

“Hard pass.”

“Most people say that.”

She didn’t sound disappointed. Just tired.

“Option Two, Heaven. Lower-tier access. Nothing fancy, but no war, no taxes, no bosses, no bills. Just peace. Eternal, uninterrupted peace.”

Honestly? That sounded nice. Real nice.

She noticed my expression shift. Her eyes sharpened.

“Or… Option Three.”

Cue the sleazy car salesman smile.

“Limited-time offer! A second life! Reincarnation with benefits! Not everyone qualifies, but guess what? You do!”

She pulled out a brochure from thin air.

“Pick your own route! Your own power set! Want to be a sword-wielding wizard prince? Done! A vampire cyberpunk in space? Boom. Easy. You want cheat codes? I can throw in cheat codes. Everyone’s doing it these days!”

“Uh-huh, And you get...?”

She dropped the act.

“Commission.”

Right.

I thought about it. 

Actually, no, I didn’t.

I just leaned back, let out a breath.

“Nah. Give me Heaven. I’m tired.”

She blinked. Once. Twice. Like her brain just did a hard reboot.

“…What?”

“Heaven, I’m done. I just wanna nap. Maybe read that book I never started. Just... be.”

The clipboard snapped in half.

“WHAT THE HELL, HARLEY?!”

She screamed, wings flaring like a phoenix having a meltdown.

I flinched. “What?!”

“WHY?! Why would you do that?!”

“Because… I’m tired?”

“YOU JUST BLEW MY ENTIRE RETIREMENT PLAN!”

I blinked.

“That sounds like a-you-problem.”

“I HAD A FIVE-SOUL PARLAY ON YOU PICKING REINCARNATION!”

“Wait. You bet on me?!”

“Yes! You were the chosen one! The perfect Isekai candidate! You had trauma, charisma, a dead mentor, unresolved daddy issues, you had a montage arc waiting to happen!”

“I’m flattered?”

“I’m ruined!”

She hurled the broken clipboard into the void. Her halo sparked, then fractured. Her wings began molting, feathers shriveling like burnt paper.

And then she changed.

The air bent around her.

Her eyes turned black. Not dark nor soulless. Black, like the abyss had pupils. Her pencil skirt shredded into shadowed silk, flowing unnaturally. Horns curled out from her temples, gleaming like obsidian. Her halo dripped ink.

She was now a fallen angel, and she looked ready to file me under revenge.

“GO. TO. HELL!”

she shrieked.

And then-

The floor, or maybe reality itself, shattered beneath me like glass struck by a bullet.

I fell.

The last thing I saw was her name tag, tumbling beside me through the void.

CHYRAEL – Afterlife Logistics (Former)

And the last thing I heard was her scream, echoing like a banshee behind me—

“WHYYYYYYYY MEEEEEEEEEEE-”

---

As I fell, correction, as I plummeted, to what I could only assume was Hell, I did the most appropriate thing a man in my situation could do.

I chuckled.

Of course.

Of course I would end up here.

After all that, after dying with some weird peace in my chest, after choosing Heaven, after blowing up the afterlife’s customer service rep’s entire crypto portfolio, after that soul-mangling pain, this where I would land?

I was apparently too good for Hell... but not good enough to stay out of it.

“The world really hates me that much, huh?”

I mumbled to no one, wind roaring past me, existence cracking like glass around the edges.

"You'll get your retirement."

The voice stopped my heart.

Feminine. Soft, smooth. Almost noble.

It sounded eerily like Celestia, from the game. But there was no arrogance. No villainous pride. No cackling tsundere superiority.

It sounded like... me, if I ever spoke through her lips. Level-headed. Jaded. Slightly done with everything.

My descent slowed.

I wasn’t falling anymore, I was drifting. The pressure that had been trying to grind my soul into cosmic confetti lifted.

And then, she appeared.

Descending slowly from above like a forgotten god taking a coffee break, she floated down beneath a crimson parasol, a polished wooden umbrella that caught no light, yet glowed like lacquer.

She wore a shrine maiden's outfit, stark white with red trim, the sleeves long enough to hide a thousand secrets. Her white hair flowed around her like strands of moonlight caught in a breeze. A black choker rested snug around her pale neck. Eyes crimson like blood, clear, but old. Tired.

And yet, they burned.

My breath hitched. My heart hiccuped.

It was her.

The girl from my dreams. The one I kept seeing as a kid. The one I thought was some weird figment, born from too much late-night anime and undercooked ramen.

She looked exactly like Celestia, but she wasn’t her.

She was something older. Wiser.

“This is not the end.”

She said, voice carrying across the void like a lullaby and a warning wrapped into one.

I stared. 

"Who... are you?”

She smiled.

Not warm. Not cold. Just... knowing.

Then, without hesitation, she drifted close, leaned in, and pulled me into her arms.

"You’ll understand once you’ve retired.”

She whispered softly.

And then, she kissed me.

No fireworks. No dramatic musical score. Just a gentle pressure, a moment of silence... and then-

Everything went black.

---

Gasp.

I sucked in a lungful of air so violently, I thought my ribs would pop.

I jolted upright.

And then immediately regretted it, because I was in bed, a very soft one, and the motion tangled me in silk sheets that felt absurdly expensive.

The scent of lilies filled the air, too elegant to be artificial. It clung to me like memory, like perfume dabbed behind someone’s ear.

I blinked.

I felt... light.

Not like I had wings or anything.

I just felt like I weighed less, like the heavy stuff, grief, pain, burnout, bitterness, had been shaved off.

My hands...

I held them up. Small. Pale. Delicate.

My arms, thin, not sickly, but soft, untouched by years of stress or caffeine-induced tremors.

I reached toward the nearest reflective surface, an ornate gold-framed mirror across the room.

What stared back-

Was a little girl.

White hair. Crimson eyes. Choker. I blinked, and the girl blinked back.

And then it hit me.

“No, no no no no no-”

I stood up on instinct and tripped over my own too-long sleeves, face-planting with the elegance of a dropped sack of rice.

From somewhere nearby, I heard maids shout in panic.

And from my reflection, the same realization I felt was mirrored perfectly

I had reincarnated as a 7-year-old version of Celestia.

The villainess.

The first boss character.

The one that dies in every route.

I let out a long, slow breath.

Then-

“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!?!?!?!?!?!?!?”

Yeah, this is not the end alright.