A cold, impossible dread settled in my gut. "So, I will be forever reincarnated?" The question felt like gravel in my throat.
"All mortal souls in my domain are reborn," Ereshkigal stated, her voice echoing in the stark throne room. "Your only distinction is the contract bound to your soul—a curse of memory, ensuring you remember every life, every failure."
A glimmer of desperate logic surfaced. "Then the only way I truly rest... is to fulfil the contract that first summoned me?"
"Not necessarily, Rudeus." The goddess leaned back, the obsidian of her throne seeming to drink the light. "The world you are destined for is not the one you knew. It is a world where gods walk openly among mortals. Perhaps there, you can find a solution we cannot conceive of here."
Instead of hope, a glacial fear seized me.
'Gods walking among mortals?'
The thought wasn't just unsettling; it was a vision of chaos. A playground for divine whims where mortals were but toys. A powder keg waiting for a single celestial spark.
Ereshkigal's golden eyes flickered, catching my terror. "There are rules," she assured, though her tone lacked comfort. "The gods cannot act freely. Break them, and they are cast out of the mortal realm."
A shaky breath I didn't realize I was holding escaped my lips. Rules. There were rules.
"How many?" I asked, my voice tight. "How many gods?"
She tilted her head, a predator considering its prey. "Many. And more arrive with time. Some names... may be familiar to you." A deliberate pause, letting the silence stretch. "Freya. Hephaestus. Amaterasu. Do these ring a bell?"
Each name was not a memory, but a physical blow.
'My world's myths? Here?'
My mind scrambled for a connection, a reason, finding only terrifying possibilities.
"I do not know why the deities of your legends exist in this world," Ereshkigal continued, cutting through my spiralling thoughts. "But I expect you to find the answer for yourself, Rudeus."
"I will not disappoint you, Goddess." The promise felt hollow, but it was all I had.
One final, crucial question remained. The most important one. "Will I… keep my memories?"
Her stony expression softened, almost imperceptibly. "Even after all your suffering, you would choose to remember?"
A weary, broken smile touched my lips. "I would rather face the next life with my eyes open, my past as a shield. I won't repeat the same mistakes."
For a fleeting moment, something akin to warmth crossed her divine features. She turned away with a dismissive huff, but not before I caught a faint blush on her cheeks. "Hmph! I expected nothing less. Though there is... one more thing."
Her tone dropped, the air itself growing heavy and cold. It was no longer the voice of a bureaucrat of souls, but of something ancient and vengeful. "If you ever meet the goddess named Ishtar," she whispered, the name dripping with venom, "do not help her. In any way."
The warning hung in the air, a tangible threat. I didn't need to ask why. The look in her eyes was a silent scream: some knowledge is a death sentence.
"I'll remember," I vowed, the words rushing out.
"Good." In an instant, the menace vanished, replaced by her playful arrogance. "Then a parting gift—a shard of my power."
She was before me in a blur of motion. Before I could flinch, her cool palm pressed against my right eye. A searing, divine heat flared through my skull, then cooled, leaving behind a strange, weighty sensation, like a lodestone embedded in my vision.
"You will see the sins of others now," she murmured, her breath cold against my ear. "Use it wisely."
Her smile turned razor-sharp. "But If you make me regret sent you back to the world of the living. I will show you the taste of hell."
I swallowed hard, the image searing itself into my mind. "Understood."
Her laughter was a light, chilling sound. "Then go. Your new life awaits—human, elf, or something else entirely. Be prepared."
A single, gentle tap on my forehead. My body turned to lead, my vision swimming into a blur of fading obsidian and gold. The last thing I heard was her voice, a whisper woven from the shadows themselves:
"I'll be watching."
As Oberon very soul sent to the abyss by Ereshkigal a figured appeared beside her.
"My lady is it wise to sent him with memory intact. I can see he can bring great chaos."
"You just my servant." Ereshkigal then shoot acold gaze into a cloaked being beside her "I had been watching and read ever memory of the mortal for eon I know what I did."
"My apologize my lady, but still, I am worried other gods will be using him."
"That why I give him my eyes. So, stop think I am just an idiot goddess or I will send you to Irkalla."
That threat alone makes her servant went silent and back to the shadow then Ereshkigal gaze back into the abyss.
"It been long time I feel this excited. I never thought I had the chance to payback directly fufu~"
====x====
In the celestial realm between heaven and earth, where golden light bled into twilight, a lone queen sat upon her throne of shimmering stardust. The air hummed with silent power, the very fabric of existence pulsing around her. Her silver eyes, ancient as the cosmos, swept across the empty halls—until they locked onto the Vein.
The Vein—a luminous thread of fate, thrumming with the essence of both mortal and divine.
And then she saw it.
Her breath caught. Her fingers dug into the arms of her throne.
"T-that—" Her voice, usually steady as the turning of worlds, trembled.
In an instant, she was on her feet, her regal robes swirling like storm clouds.
A servant rushed forward, their wings flickering with unease. "My queen, what troubles you?"
But the queen did not answer. Her gaze remained fixed on the Vein, where something impossible had taken root. A fracture. A shift. A presence that should not exist.
Seconds stretched into eternity before she finally tore her eyes away. When she spoke again, her voice was steel wrapped in silk.
"It is nothing you need fear." A lie, smooth and practiced. "But our days of quiet are over."
The servant bowed, but not before catching the shadow in their queen's eyes.
Something was coming.
====x====
The air was thick with the ghosts of last night's revelry—a hazy mix of wood smoke, spilled ale, and the faint, sweet scent of a sputtering candle. It was in this dim, quiet aftermath that Riveria Ljos Alf moved.
"It's time."
Her voice, sharp as a shard of ice, cut through the silence. She rose, her emerald-green robes not just whispering, but hissing against the grimy wooden floorboards.
Slumped across the table, a splash of chaotic color against the dark wood, was Loki. The goddess's fiery red hair was a wild mess, her cheek glued to the sticky surface by a patch of dried mead.
Dressed in scandalously little—hotpants and a thin, loose top that did nothing for her boyish frame—she was the picture of divine debauchery. A half-empty mug of ale teetered in her limp grasp with every snore.
"Mmmph… wha'? Is it… is it born already?" she slurred, not even lifting her head.
Riveria's lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line. She adjusted her cloak, her movements precise and freighted with urgency. "The signal came through. I will return in a few days."
From the deep shadows of a corner booth, a pair of cerulean eyes watched, gleaming with amusement that belied a youthful face. Finn Deimne's voice was light, but it carried the weight of a commander. "The Wishe border is no casual stroll, Riveria. Even for you. An escort?"
Her gaze snapped to his, a flash of green fire. "Unnecessary." Then it swung to the drunken goddess, who had begun to giggle softly into her mug. "You—ensure she doesn't try to fry eggs on the hearth and burn this hovel to the ground."
A low chuckle escaped Finn. "I can promise vigilance, but not miracles. The Familia will be here when you return."
A curt nod was his only answer. Riveria turned, and with a swirl of her cloak that stirred the stale air, she was gone. The door clicked shut like a final verdict.
The sound seemed to jolt Loki awake. She pushed herself up, a dreamy, wicked grin spreading across her face. "So… whaddya think, Finn? Boy or a girl?"
The Pallum leader shrugged, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. "Does the gender truly matter? A new High Elf is rarest and powerful elven race about to be born."
"Pfft! You're no fun at all," Loki scoffed, her crimson eyes glinting like rubies in the gloom. She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a husky, conspiratorial whisper that seemed to draw all the light from the room.
====x====
The bustling streets of Orario were a living tapestry of ambition and strife, a daily spectacle that Freya, the Goddess of Beauty, watched from her silken perch. A faint, indulgent smile played on her lips as adventurers clashed and connived below—a charming, if fleeting, diversion.
Then, it hit.
It was not a sound, but a silence that roared. A pressure, vast and impossibly deep, rolled from the East. It washed over the world not like a wave, but like a tide from the abyss, chilling the divine spark within her.
Freya's breath caught in her throat; the fine crystal glass in her hand froze halfway to her lips. She felt it rise—an invisible, crushing weight—climbing her ankles, her waist, her chest, until the primordial chill lapped at her very neck, threatening to swallow her whole.
And then, as suddenly as it came, it was gone. Receding back into the depths of the world, leaving only a vacuum of stunned silence in its wake.
The glass trembled in her hand. Azure eyes, wide with a shock she had not known in millennia, stared eastward.
"What… what was that?" she whispered, the words a ghost in the sudden stillness. A thrill, sharp and dangerous, cut through her shock. "This feeling… this pressure… It can't be. Has a new god descended to Gekai… or has something far, far older just awakened?"
========
Beneath the silver glow of the full moon, the elven village stood in hushed anticipation. The towering ancient tree—its gnarled branches stretching a hundred meters into the night—loomed like a silent guardian over the gathered crowd.
Villagers clutched their cloaks tighter, their breaths misting in the cool air as their eyes remained fixed on the grand hollow within the tree's roots—the home of Lady Viska and Lord Levos.
"May the spirits grant Lady Viska a safe birth," an elder murmured, her voice trembling.
A younger elf tightened his grip on his bow. "She's strong. And Lord Levos has prepared for this. Nothing will go wrong."
Yet the words did little to ease the tension thickening the air.
Unnoticed by the crowd, a figure emerged from the shadows—a woman with long, emerald-green hair that shimmered like moonlit leaves. Her presence was silent, regal, as if the forest itself parted for her.
Only one noticed her—a small elven girl, her wide eyes locking onto the stranger.
"Mama," she whispered, tugging at her mother's sleeve. "Who's that?"
Her mother turned—then gasped.
"R-Riveria-sama!"
The name rippled through the crowd like a gust of wind. Heads snapped toward the princess, disbelief and awe flashing across their faces.
"Princess Riveria… She's returned?"
Riveria offered them a faint, knowing smile. "Please, don't let me disturb you. I've only come to see my dear friend."
A villager hesitated. "But… if the king learns—"
"Then I trust none of you will tell him," She interrupted smoothly, her voice light but edged with unspoken command.
The crowd exchanged glances before bowing their heads, parting like reeds in a stream as she passed.
At the base of the great tree, a guard snapped to attention, his fist pressed to his chest in reverence.
"Riveria-sama," he breathed. "Lord Levos and Lady Viska await you."
Her gaze flickered toward the closed door, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Has the child been born?"
The guard's face darkened with uncertainty. "We… do not know yet, Riveria-sama."
"I see."
=========
The air in Riveria's lavish residence was thick enough to taste—a cloying mix of incense and unspoken fear. Levos was a statue of tension, carved into his chair. His emerald-red eyes, usually so sharp and commanding, were fixed on the wooden door as if he could force it open by will alone. His fingers were claws dug into the armrests, his knuckles bone-white.
"Levos."
At the sound of his name, the elf jolted, his anxious gaze snapping toward the princess as if waking from a nightmare.
"Princess Riveria," he breathed, bowing his head in a gesture that seemed both reflexive and painfully weary. "Forgive me. That you should see me in such a… unravelled state."
Riveria's lips curved into a faint, understanding smile. "In the face of childbirth, a father's worry is the most natural thing in the world." Her eyes, like chips of polished jade, flickered toward the empty space beside him. "I had thought Hyrmr would be here to share this vigil."
Levos exhaled, the sound a testament to exhaustion. "The monsters at the border grow bold. She took my post so that I could be here. A debt I can never repay."
"I see…" Riveria murmured, and began to weave tales of the Elven Kingdom's mundane affairs—a deliberate, soothing spell to anchor him. But the spell shattered as the door creaked open.
A maid stood there, her face a beacon of joy. "Levos-sama!" she announced, her voice trembling with excitement. "It's done! A healthy boy!"
Yet, the celebration in her words did not reach her eyes. And beneath it, something else was wrong.
A profound, deafening silence.
No indignant cries. No wails of new life protesting the world. Only a heavy, waiting quiet that seemed to swallow all sound.
Riveria's chest tightened. Her eyes met Levos's, and in that shared glance, a thread of fear was pulled taut. Without another word, they moved as one, their steps quickening from a walk to a hurried stride.
Inside, the room smelled of sweat, blood, and pungent herbs. Viska, her golden hair splayed across the pillow like a halo, lay unconscious, her chest rising and falling in shallow, effortful breaths. And beside her, a small, ornately carved crib stood ominously still.
The silence was a living thing.
Then Riveria felt it—a presence.
It washed over her, thick and suffocating, pressing down on her senses like a physical weight. It was an ancient, cold dread that coiled in the air, dragging her deeper into its depths with every step she took. She glanced at Levos and the maid, but they moved freely, their faces etched with human concern, utterly oblivious to the metaphysical tide threatening to drown her.
'What… is this?' The thought was a spark in the overwhelming dark.
Then, as suddenly as it came, the weight vanished. The air in the room lightened, becoming simple air once more.
'Had it been her imagination? A trick of the tension?'
"Madam is asleep," the maid whispered, the sound startling in the newfound stillness.
Levos swallowed hard, the sound loud in the room. "Inform the others. Let them know… all is well."
With a quick nod, one of the maids scurried away. Levos and Riveria approached the crib, their shadows falling over the tiny form within like a shroud.
A boy.
He was peaceful. Too still. His features were a perfect, delicate echo of his father's.
"He has your look, Levos," Riveria remarked softly, her voice carefully neutral.
Levos said nothing. His hand, hovered over the child. It trembled.
"I'm glad they're both safe," Riveria murmured, sensing the storm of fear and love raging beneath his calm exterior—a father's terror, a helplessness in the one battle he could not fight for them.
She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "They need rest. And you, my friend, need it as well."
Levos blinked, as if surfacing from deep water. "Y-yes. Of course. Princess, please, use the guest chambers we prepared if you need a moment of respite."
A flicker of amusement touched Riveria's eyes—the mighty Levos, a legend on the battlefield, brought to his knees by the silent miracle of his son. But as he stepped away, her sharp eyes caught another detail. One maid lingered, her fingers twisting the fabric of her apron into a tight, anxious knot.
"Is something the matter?" Riveria asked, her tone low and inviting confidence.
The maid hesitated, her eyes darting toward the sleeping Viska before returning, wide with a fear she could not contain.
"I… I must beg you to keep this from Lord Levos and Lady Viska," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
Riveria's gaze sharpened. "I cannot make such a promise without knowing what 'this' is."
The maid leaned closer, her words dropping to a horrified, breathless rush.
"When the child was born… he was so pale. So still. For a terrible moment… we were certain he was not breathing. We thought he was dead."
A chill, sharp as a shard of ice, slithered down Riveria's spine, connecting the suffocating presence, the unnatural silence, and this confession into one terrifying, unspoken question.
When Riveria tried to inspect the baby with her own hand the baby arm grabs one her pinkie finger.
"Keep it secret to both of them," Riveria waved the boy gently and put back of her palm to his cheek "The baby are born well that all you will say."
"Understood Riveria-sama."
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