All right.
And nothing left.
Okay—enough with the silly pun.
Now, before we begin, let me tell you something real quick.
Ready?
Right, here we go.
Magic is a sham—nothing more than a heroic fantasy disguised as triumphs.
Crude exclamations: "Oh, it's so cool!" or "Wow, I wanna be like them one day!"
Or the most overused line of them all:
"I will become a hero to change the world!"
All of these are futile.
And still, they threw their fists into the air, basking in the warm glow of their own na?ve delusions, as if they were the victors and the villains always the losers.
They grinned for the camera—glossy posters, government stamps.
Heroes frozen in propaganda. People cheered not for them but for the greatness someone else sold. They stormed fields shouting for homesoil, certain the land would honor them.
But when they fell, mothers wept for ritual, not victory.
Each hero filed away: confidential, numbered, stamped.
People reduced to entries; approval bought by cowards.
Irrational ideas.
Delusions with shape.
Obsessive fixations.
These dreams will never come true—no matter how hard they try.
Or how long they should persevere.
Hey, you.
Yes—you.
The one currently reading this try-hard, pretentious, edgy story.
Let me ask you something:
Ever thought… of becoming a hero?
Or—better yet… a godlike deity? The kind of power plastered across recruitment posters and propaganda slogans?
No.
Don't.
Trust me.
You don't want to.
Why?
Well…
It all began with a silly, yet somewhat true story.
Res Ain staged a ritual for deities meant to protect this world.
But soon… everything changed.
The mirror of reflections shrouded them.
The pulse crystallized into form.
And in the end…
They were taken.
Gone.
Dissipated into the air.
Funny, isn't it?
You see… every tragedy starts as a silly story.
Gods devour themselves.
Yet humanity calls it progress…
…how pathetic.
Heroism is the act of selflessness, serving for people in the name of country.
Pride of institution, funded entirely by governments to mercilessly murder 'bad people' in the name of humanity.
Announce that on a podium and you will sound noble. Pin it on a poster and whole crowds will scream even louder. The words don't change who signs the orders.
The role is handed to you, not the war.
Applause is currency. Glory is accounting entry.
Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.
So, know who assembles you before you volunteer.
Now, imagine those "villains" do the exact same thing — the same rituals, the same funerals, the same speeches about duty and sacrifice.
They bind themselves to a greater cause, train, bleed, and kill with equal conviction.
What changes then is not the act but the frame: a different flag, a different broadcast, a different list of names pinned as enemies.
The machinery hums unchanged; only the placards rotate.
History then performs its neat trick: wiping the blood from the hands it prefers, baptizes violence it needs in the name of virtues, then files the rest away under other headings.
The crowd applauds whichever face the banners show them.
So the irony isn't that heroes and villains trade places — it's that the language around them swaps like a cosplay while the value remains identical.
Which label matters less than who gets to write the ledger.
Same screams. Same last breaths. Same mothers memorizing new names for the old grief. Flags change colours. Portraits trade walls. Homeland soils swallow same measurements. Ink moves across columns. Numbers climb. The ledger never asks. Some random stamps pages. Some heroes smile at cameras. History files those under "confidential."
You can choose a banner. Yet you cannot change the accounting.
After all… five minutes after you are born, they will decide your name, your nationality, your religion, your sect — and you will spend the rest of your life defending what you did not choose.
…
Enough is enough.
So, after reading that... tell me—
Do you still want to become a hero?
…
…
"—Miss Aveline."
The voice cut straight through my well-executed monologue.
I blinked.
White walls.
Rows of desks.
Windows of scenery.
A projection board flickered with strange mythological symbols I shouldn't recognize—jagged and alive somehow—yet my mind processed them instantly.
Familiar, like I had always known them.
I then looked around...
Around thirty students.
Thirty pairs of eyes before me, sharp and piercing.
Theirs held curiosity mingled with a subdued expectation.
My chest tightened, desperate.
Clamoring for release.
"So…"
"Are you planning to answer that question," the instructor continued calmly,
"or instead..."
"Shall we take your silence as a definitive response—or perhaps, its lack thereof?"
I only looked down, staring at anything that worked as a distraction.
My hands, now smaller and unfamiliar, were clenching on my knees.
Nope.
Not from trembling—but something else.
Rather, for the fact they aren't mine.
Oh, wait...
Mirielle Fatui Aveline.
Right.
Once again.
I had been daydreaming.
Again.
Guess I've got to impress them somehow...
Hearing that snappy remark, I stood immediately.
Then, without any hesitation, I put a well-articulated smile in front of him.
One I had never known I possessed.
"Magical incantation. A barrier to form a ritual, isolate, and make a pact with monsters."
This line simply came out so effortlessly in my head, as if I'd never been daydreaming before. How incredible of me to pull this off.
I'm so proud of you.
Stand proud. You are strong.
"Unbelievable."
The instructor only sighed in disbelief, then continued.
"Alright, class. That's it for today."
"Class dismissed," he announced as the students filed out.
But then...
"Except for Miss Aveline."
Wait... are we being deadass now?
Anyway, enough with these jagged lines.
So, curious.
Do you still want to know how it begins?
Maybe something like a short, mental flashback before we go back again?
Oh, intrigued?
Ah, shit. Here we go again.
