It is said in the legends… that before the world truly falls, there will be seven minor apocalypses.
These minor apocalypses are not total destruction.
Not the end of everything.
But they are enough to crack the world.
Enough to stain the sky in unnatural colors.
Enough to make every living being realize… that they were never truly safe.
Five of them have already passed.
And now… ten thousand years have gone by since the fifth apocalypse.
Ten thousand years—
long enough for fear to fade.
Long enough to bury the truth beneath layers of stories.
No one knows when the next apocalypse will arrive.
No one knows… if it will even come at all.
And strangely—
that fear no longer feels like fear.
Because it has become… a story.
A story no more than a legend—
or perhaps even… a myth.
---
This legend…
has been passed down from generation to generation.
From parents to their children.
From old books to entertainment stages.
From history… into fairy tales.
It is not only about disaster—
but also about the heroes who stopped it.
About those who dared to stand against catastrophe.
About beings that came from beyond the boundaries of the world.
About the calamities themselves.
And above all—
the legend of the hero of the fifth apocalypse became the most popular of them all.
Because whether it is true or not,
the story is not just about salvation—
but about the one who reshaped and defined the world as it is today.
A man.
A man called a king, a hero, a guardian, a savior, a ruler...
A man who stood at the peak of the world… and held back destruction alone.
He is no longer portrayed as human.
But as something higher.
Something purer.
Something… absolute.
And in the end—
he became a fairy tale.
The kind children love the most.
---
In a small, worn-down, dimly lit house…
that fairy tale was told once again—
a popular bedtime story for children, especially those born into hardship, who needed something to dream about.
The night wind slipped through the cracks of the aging wooden walls. A soft creaking sound echoed every time the wind grew a little stronger.
A dim lamp hung from the ceiling, swaying gently, casting unstable shadows across the room.
In one corner, a thin mattress lay on the floor.
And there, a young boy rested—his head on a woman's lap.
His eyes sparkled.
Full of curiosity.
Full of hope.
"Mom…" his voice was soft, almost a whisper. "Am I really… a descendant of that hero?"
The woman didn't answer right away.
Her face was hidden in the shadows.
Only the faint outline of her chin could be seen under the dim light.
But that small smile… was still there.
She knew.
Everything she told him… wasn't entirely true.
For people like her, born and raised among the lower class, even accessing popular stories was difficult.
Only receive fragments of information—without even knowing whether those stories are true.
So, people like them created their own versions from fragments of information.
There were more false versions than the amount of money they could earn in a day.
But that was how they entertained themselves—
and their children, who were filled with dreams and imagination.
And so, like the others, she made her own version.
Adjusted.
Simplified.
Turned into something her child—who barely understood the world—could grasp.
But still…
what was wrong with giving him a beautiful lie, just for tonight?
Their lives were already harsh enough.
Days filled with scarcity.
Nights filled with hunger they had to endure.
A quiet fear that never truly went away.
If a small lie could bring even a little happiness…
then to her… it wasn't a sin.
The woman let out a soft laugh.
"Yup," she answered lightly. "And you'll be his successor."
She gently pinched the boy's cheek.
"You'll have amazing powers. Strong… super strong, hehe."
The boy's eyes widened instantly.
As if his small world suddenly grew much bigger.
"Woah… his successor…"
He lifted his head slightly, looking at her with excitement.
"Yeah, Mom! I want to be like that hero!"
"Strong! Unbeatable!"
His small hand clenched, as if grasping something invisible.
"So no one will ever dare mess with us again!"
The word us came out without hesitation.
As if his world consisted of only himself… and the woman in front of him.
He paused for a moment.
Then—
a wide grin spread across his face.
"And maybe I can just be lazy and still beat all the bad guys. Just like the hero, right?"
The woman raised an eyebrow.
"Like—just snapping my fingers while lying down, and the bad guys lose! Hehe!" the boy continued, wiggling his fingers as he demonstrated.
The woman laughed.
Not just a quiet chuckle—
but a real laugh.
Light.
Warm.
Rare.
Her hand gently stroked his hair.
"Yeah… yeah…" she murmured. "I'm sure you can."
She didn't argue.
She didn't break his dream.
Not tonight.
Not in this small world.
The boy's laughter slowly faded.
His breathing became steady.
The sparkle in his eyes gradually dimmed.
His eyelids lowered… slowly… until—
darkness.
---
But…
this darkness felt different.
Not warm.
Not comforting.
When his eyes opened again—
the world had changed.
There was no more swaying lamp.
No more soft voice of his mother.
There was only—
cold.
A dark room.
Silent.
Moonlight slipped through a cracked window, casting long, distorted shadows across the floor.
The air felt heavy.
And—
there was a metallic scent.
Unfamiliar… yet impossible to ignore.
The smell of…
blood.
In front of him—
a woman lay on the ground.
Her body stiff.
Unmoving.
Blood pooled beneath her, slowly seeping into the gaps of the wooden floor.
Her face…
looked like his mother's.
The boy froze.
He didn't scream.
He didn't cry.
He just… stared.
His eyes trembled.
As if his mind refused to accept what he was seeing.
Slowly…
he looked down.
His small hands—
were covered in blood.
"Why…"
His voice was barely audible.
Like it was stuck in his throat.
"Why…?"
In front of him—
more than a dozen humanoid silhouettes stood in the shadows.
Unclear.
Faceless.
But their presence… was real.
And they began to move.
Step by step.
Slowly.
Closing in around him.
"Why are you…?"
His voice cracked.
Something inside him broke.
"Why…?"
There was no answer.
Only footsteps.
Closer.
Closer.
The air grew heavier.
The boy shut his eyes.
His body trembled.
As if the world itself was collapsing around him.
---
Darkness.
---
Crash!
The sharp sound of shattering glass slammed against the floor.
"—Hey!"
A harsh voice tore through the noise.
"Is this how you serve customers?!"
Those eyes opened again.
But this time—
there was no darkness.
No blood.
No shadows.
Instead—
blinding lights.
Low, thumping music in the background.
Laughter.
Chatter.
And the sharp scent of parfume and alcohol in the air.
The shift was abrupt—almost violent—like being dragged out of a nightmare and thrown into a completely different world without warning.
He stood in the middle of a spacious room.
A private lounge—modern, sleek, and dripping with luxury.
It was filled with well-dressed young people in expensive outfits.
Colorful neon lights reflected off glass surfaces and rows of neatly arranged bottles behind the counter.
A large table in front of him was covered with drinks, glasses, and snacks.
Some people lounged comfortably, laughing as if the world had never known a single problem.
Others frowned, pointing at him in irritation.
He didn't immediately understand what was happening.
His hand—
He raised it and stared.
No longer small.
But the hand of an adult.
Wearing neat waiter gloves.
No blood. Nothing horrifying.
Yet… for a split second, he could almost swear he still felt something warm clinging to his skin—something that wasn't there anymore.
He looked down.
Black uniform.
Clean apron.
Formal shoes.
And—
broken glass at his feet.
"Are you even listening to me?!"
A man dressed in casual yet expensive clothing stood in front of him.
His jacket, shirt, pants—even his watch—radiated wealth.
But his face was dark with anger, his expression pushed to the edge.
His brows furrowed sharply.
"What kind of waiter are you?!"
A few people at the table started laughing.
Some looked at him with clear disdain.
Others…
were simply enjoying the show.
Like this was just extra entertainment.
No one stepped in. No one cared. To them, he was just part of the service—replaceable, forgettable, insignificant.
The man let out a long breath.
His hand reached up, rubbing the back of his neck.
His expression…
flat.
Not panicked.
Not afraid.
Just… a little tired.
A little bored.
As if this wasn't the first time.
"Ah…"
He muttered softly.
Almost like he was talking to himself.
"Looks like…"
He lifted his gaze slightly.
His eyes were calm.
Too calm for someone in this situation.
"…I'm in trouble again."
But deep inside—
something stirred.
Something unseen.
Something that didn't belong in this world.
Like the remnants of a nightmare that hadn't fully faded.
Or maybe…
it wasn't a dream at all.