The world was white.
No, not merely white—but blinding. A colorless radiance made of every hue, refracted through a thousand shimmering prisms. The man blinked. Once. Twice. Then again. His vision was assaulted by crystalline structures—spires, pillars, arches, all forged from translucent gemstones that pulsed with holy brilliance. It was as if he had awoken in the middle of a kaleidoscope dream, both unreal and sacred.
He lay on a dais of diamond-like glass, faintly glowing beneath his body. Each breath he took stirred faint motes of gold in the air. The scent was sweet—like honey, like summer winds, like something he hadn't known since he was a boy.
Alive. He was alive.
Or something like it.
He sat up slowly, head turning in awe as the temple revealed itself further. It wasn't just made of crystal—it was made of light. Stained light, sacred light, angry light. Every column was engraved with incomprehensible runes, every window a hymn of color. The air rang with silence—too pure to be real.
Then he looked up.
A throne, no—a seat of judgment, carved from layered opal and ethereal marble, rose above all. Upon it sat a woman who could only be described as divine. No, "divine" was a shallow word for her presence. She was the definition of beauty, so immaculate it felt painful to behold.
Her hair flowed like strands of sunlight, her skin glowed with otherworldly sheen, and her robes, impossibly white, swayed with no wind. She wore no crown, no scepter, no adornment that might distract from her perfection.
She opened her mouth. And the first sound the man heard in this new existence was a voice that could birth galaxies.
"O, sinner of sinners. How does it feel? To be in Heaven, when you thought you'd be in Hell?"
There was a curve to her lips. The faintest hint of mirth. Or maybe contempt. Sarcasm twisted her otherwise flawless tone like a crack in polished glass.
The man stood slowly. Uncertain. Unworthy. His clothes were simple, made of memories—whatever he wore when he died. A tattered black coat, stained boots, a shirt full of holes. He looked nothing like the legends of the dead who ascended. And his heart, even less so.
"…Why am I here?" he asked. "Like you said, I was sure I'd go to Hell."
The words left him as casually as breathing, but his voice bore the weight of his sins. Sins he didn't deny. Sins so numerous, the mere recollection of his life could poison holy ground.
The Goddess tilted her head, a single strand of gold hair slipping forward.
"Well, I suppose you aren't too familiar with Light Novels."
"…Light Novels?"
He raised an eyebrow.
"I know about them. Never read any though. I'm guessing this is the part where I get reborn in another world. One filled with swords, magic, and monsters."
Her perfect eyes widened ever so slightly. A flicker of surprise. The kind a poker master reveals when someone else calls their bluff. He smiled. So she wasn't all-knowing. Not entirely.
"I can still read your thoughts. Within my realm, that is," she added coolly, voice sliding back to that divine calm.
"I don't need a second life. I don't need a second chance at happiness."
His voice was steady. No hesitation. No denial. It wasn't pride—it was apathy. The kind born from blood-soaked hands and a conscience long since buried beneath corpses.
"Aww~ come on~, that's no fun!" she said suddenly, her godlike tone cracking into a playful sing-song.
It was jarring. Like hearing a queen giggle after a public execution.
"I'll just say it quickly."
The Goddess stood up. The light bent toward her, as if all of creation bowed with her motion.
"I've reincarnated dozens of people. Gave them fancy powers. Called them Heroes. They all failed. Dead, broken, corrupted. Every. Single. One."
She frowned, like a girl annoyed her toys kept breaking.
"They were all so generic," she continued with a sigh. "Courageous boys with harem dreams, pretty girls with saint complexes. Ugh. I'm bored."
The man stared at her. Finally, it clicked.
"So, you need someone evil like me. A walking contradiction. A sinner with blood on his hands to play your Hero. Someone who won't die the moment things stop going their way."
She clapped her hands.
"Yes! Finally, someone who gets it! Well—you won't exactly be the Hero. More like… my Mercenary. The Mercenary of the Goddess. Has a nice ring to it, right?"
"Do mercenaries get special powers?" he asked dryly.
"Of course. Of course~," she nodded, and suddenly, the room darkened.
One by one, hundreds of orbs ignited in midair. Spiritual flames in every hue. They floated like stars within the crystal cathedral, each one burning with sentient light.
"In the world of Primas, some are born with Soul-Spirits. Unique beings that exist beside their Mana. Think of them as living magic—creatures, weapons, phantoms. Each one offers power… at a price."
She gestured to the orbs.
He stepped forward.
They shimmered in his vision. Dragons wreathed in shadow. Living swords that screamed. Spirits of ancient warriors, serpents made of lightning, ghosts that could possess planets. And with each orb, he knew. Knew their names, their powers, their pain.
"Can I choose, or…" he trailed off.
She began to respond.
"No, the spirit will choose you. That's the law. Even I—"
But her words died.
He was already walking. He wasn't drawn by instinct, nor fate. His steps were deliberate. His gaze unwavering. As if he'd seen this moment in a thousand different lives.
He stopped before a single orb.
It burned red. Not with flame, but with fury.
He reached out with his ethereal hand.
"You can't choose the soul-spi—!" she began, almost in panic.
But it was too late.
The orb shook. The crystal temple rumbled. A soundless scream echoed through the light as the orb began to shift, compressing, warping, until it became—
A card.
A plain white card, etched with blood.
He took it.
"I've never had a choice in my life," he said. "I've only ever been chosen. Used. Discarded. This time, I choose."
The temple was silent.
The Goddess looked stunned for the first time.
"I… I've never seen that before," she whispered. "Guess you really were the best choice."
She raised a hand. The throne behind her dissolved into particles of light.
A voice deeper than time rang through the temple.
"O, @%#&#& of Earth-72. You will be reborn as Alden, in the World of Primas. Become the Hero. Save the world. Bring hope to all."
Golden light surrounded him like a cocoon. He felt his soul fracture. Rebuild. Scream. Heal.
And as the light consumed him, he looked down at the card in his hand.
It depicted a figure—featureless, faceless—wielding a sword drenched in blood. Above the figure was a crimson circle, shattered into seven pieces. One piece was painted pitch black.
Below the image, a single word glowed.
[WRATH]
He smiled.
"Fitting."
And then, he was gone.
The temple shimmered once more, alone.
The Goddess remained seated, tapping her chin thoughtfully.
"Wrath, huh… Let's see if this one finally breaks the cycle."
And thus, a sinner became a savior.
Onwards to another world!