The night was quiet. Too quiet.
Stone lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling, silver-grey eyes unfocused. Sleep never came gently to him—it came like a thief, dragging him into places he had no intention of going. And this time, when his lids finally sank… he didn't fall into darkness.
He opened his eyes to light.
A sky of endless white. A floor paved with gold. And choirs of wings whispering hymns too holy for mortal tongues. He was in Heaven.
Stone moved, silent as a shadow, weaving through the radiant crowd—but something was wrong. No one saw him. They passed through him, like mist through glass, like he didn't exist. He spoke once. Twice. But his words dissolved into silence.
So he stopped trying. He stood at the corner of the great hall. Waiting. Watching.
The angels gathered in ranks, falling to one knee. Heads bowed. Wings folded. In reverence.
Before them stood eight thrones, carved from light itself, and seated upon them—shapes too bright for eyes to capture. Humanoid… but not human. Their figures burned in brilliance, the kind that annihilated definition.
Stone's gaze lingered. His thoughts quiet, low.
Are these… gods?
But it was not the thrones that caught him. No. His eyes fell to the one who stood before them.
An angel.
Her hair was platinum, bright as frost under moonlight. Her eyes, glowing green, like spring resurrecting from eternal winter. Her beauty… no, not beauty. Beauty was too weak a word. She was Heaven sculpted into flesh. Clad in divine white armor, edged in gold. A warrior. A goddess.
And though he had never seen her before, something in him stirred. A recognition carved deeper than memory. Why… do I feel like I know her?
The chamber trembled as one of the beings on the throne spoke. A voice that cracked the marrow of Heaven itself:
"Great warrior of the heavens. He has slain mortals without number. Devoured souls beyond counting. He grows ever stronger. We made him, but we cannot control him."
Stone's heart stilled.
…Who are they talking about? Devoured souls? Strength beyond gods…
His lips parted in disbelief.
"…Death?"
And then—
All at once.
Every angel turned.
Their glowing eyes fixed upon him. A thousand, ten thousand, a million stares stabbing through his skin, pinning him in place. Even the light from the thrones bent to find him.
Stone's jaw clenched. No fear, no rush. Just a quiet curse slipping past his lips.
"Fuck."
The scene shattered.
The gold, the white, the thrones—all gone. And Stone stood alone in a wasteland. A flat, endless plain. No trees. No ruins. Nothing. The skeleton of a world burned away.
His eyes narrowed.
"…Not nothing. A battlefield."
And there they were.
Two figures. The only figures.
The first—her. The angel. Clad in gold and white armor, her sword blazing with holy fire. A blade not forged but willed into existence by Heaven itself. The sword of Destruction.
The second—a man cloaked in onyx armor. His body not flesh, not bone, but darkness incarnate. His eyes burned with violet flame. And in his hands… a scythe. Its blade dripping void, its curve like the end of time itself.
And his aura—
Stone knew it instantly. He didn't need to guess.
"…Death."
But this was not the playful, reckless Death who teased him in shadows. No. This was him unbound. Unleashed. His presence devoured existence. His aura bled power enough to snuff stars.
The clash came like creation's scream.
Sword met scythe. White met black. Light tore through dark, dark devoured light. Their strikes cracked the world's crust, shattered mountains, erased oceans, and then rebuilt them in the same breath. A fight not of mortals. Not even of gods. A fight of absolutes.
Stone could only watch. Watch as Death carved her down—again, and again, and again.
But she didn't die.
She returned.
Each resurrection stronger. Each fall birthing her anew. Her strength multiplying, rising like an endless tide. He watched her face agony beyond description, her body crushed, burned, broken—and every time she rose, brighter, stronger, faster.
How can one being hold so much power…?
Even the thrones in Heaven—Stone remembered them, wondered if those "gods" feared her more than Death himself.
But still. Death was stronger. Always stronger.
The battle stretched not hours, not years, but millennia. Centuries dissolved like seconds. And when the armies of Heaven came—billions of angels storming the field—they fell like moths into flame.
One of the Eight descended. Godlike. Radiant. Untouchable.
But Death killed even him.
The heavens shook. And retreated.
But she… she refused.
The Immortal Angel would not fall back. She fought. And fought. Her blade cracked the sky. Her blood painted eternity. She died in horrors Stone could not name, died in pain that seared through his bones as if he lived it himself. And still she rose.
Until at last… she couldn't.
Naked. On her knees. Armor long shattered. Her body trembling, her eyes alive but hollow.
Death stood before her, scythe glimmering with silence. And for the first time, his voice broke the storm. Smooth. Calm. Empty.
"Why do you fight?"
His purple eyes pierced her soul. His tone was not mockery. It was curiosity. Cold. Eternal.
"All this for them. And what have they given you? Nothing. They sacrifice mortals. They sacrifice angels. They sacrifice you. They'll just create more. Always more."
He lowered his scythe, leaning close.
"Do you want truth? You are my sister. Life. And I… am your twin. Death. You are their sweet lie. I am their bitter truth. That's why they cannot accept me."
His voice dropped lower. Cruel in its simplicity.
"But listen well. That is not the truth that terrifies them. You are. They fear you, not me. You are immortal. You return stronger every time. You are proof they cannot control their own creation. That is why they sent you here—to die by me. Not to win. To be erased."
He stepped back. Shadows trembling across his frame.
"I don't care for you. But they want you gone. Because you are the one thing they cannot kill. The one thing that could end them. So… why do you still fight?"
Life said nothing.
Her body trembled. Her lips parted. But her silence spoke louder than words.
Her eyes burned with life. Her soul burned with ruin. But her will… had not broken.
Death's gaze lingered. Then the scythe rose.
And in a breath—her head fell.
Silence.
---
Stone gasped. Eyes snapping open.
His room. The mansion. Night still heavy outside. His chest lifted slow, calm. Too calm.
He rose. Walked out to the balcony. Metal rails cold beneath his palms. The stars above unmoved.
But his mind… was fire.
Why me? Why that dream?
Who was she? Why did I know her? Why did her pain feel… mine?
And Death… what game are you really playing…
Questions clawed inside him, each sharper than the last.
But no answers came.
Only the night.
Only silence.
And Stone's eyes, silver and still, staring into the void.
From the corner of his room, shadows twisted unnaturally, forming a presence that pressed against reality itself. The air thickened, taste metallic, heavy. A form coalesced—impossibly smooth, black as void, yet alive. Vermilion eyes burned from the darkness, piercing through the calm exterior Stone wore like armor.
A voice, low calm yet deadly, slithered through the air, curling around his mind:
"Don't worry, boy…"
A grin stretched across the unseen figure, wide, confident, cruelly amused.
"…That's only… the tip of the iceberg, as the humans say…"
The words lingered, almost a question, almost a challenge:
"Tell me… do you think you're ready for the rest?"
Stone didn't flinch. His lips remained neutral, his body unmoving, yet the air itself seemed to shiver. The presence held power enough to suffocate, intoxicating and divine. The vermilion eyes in the corner of the room studied him, weighing him as though peering into every hidden layer of his soul.
Stone's thoughts remained sharp, detached. He understood, dissected, but did not feel. Fear did not course through him—yet the question resonated, subtle, probing, unrelenting.
And as the shadows receded slightly, the question hung, unanswered, echoing in the emptiness of the massive room.
Stone's vermilion eyes narrowed, cold as ice, expressionless—but a slow, deliberate grin spread across his face, one that promised everything and nothing all at once.
"Why me..?,lots of people die from betrayal...but Why did DEATH choose me....
What's he playing at ?"
The wind whispered through the balcony, brushing against his coat. Stone exhaled softly, indifferent. And yet, somewhere in the corner, vermilion eyes lingered, patient, eternal, watching.
The game had only begun.