Her pace was steady. Her breathing calm. But her golden eyes shimmered beneath the shadow of her hood; sharp, focused, predator stillness in human form.
Celeste had always walked this way. Alone. Silent. Watching the cracks in the pavement, dodging careless feet and swaying drunks, avoiding those too curious about a girl who didn’t look like she belonged anywhere.
She didn’t.
She was an orphan. A ghost to the system. A girl with no name beyond what the streets called her.
And yet, every scar on her body. Every broken rib and bruised knuckle. Every late-night spar in underground rings, every paid duel in forgotten alleys, had forged something harder than steel in her blood.
She was twenty-three. Alive. Master of multiple forms of martial arts. Feared by those who underestimated her and respected by those who bled with her.
But not even that had given her the answers she sought.
She paused at a streetlight. Her fingers curled into fists.
She had scoured police reports, adoption records, and unsealed files in backrooms that stank of mold and truth. Still, nothing. No trace of her mother. No record of her father. Not even a hospital record of her birth.
Who was she? Why had she been abandoned? Why had no one come for her?
The light changed. She stepped off the curb.
A man bumped into her shoulder and muttered something under his breath. Celeste didn’t react. She was used to being invisible. Forgotten. But she wasn’t weak. Never again.
She glanced up at the construction site just ahead—a steel tower still growing, draped in tarp and skeletal beams. The crane groaned above it like a god in chains.
And then it happened.
The steel beam dropped from the crane without warning.
Someone screamed. Others ran.
Celeste had no time.
Her instincts flared. Her body moved.
But she wasn’t fast enough.
There was a crunch. A shattering weight.
Pain, sharp and bright, flashed for a second. Then nothing.
Silence.
White.
That was the first thing she saw.
Not light. Not color. Not even a floor beneath her feet.
Just white.
An endless space that stretched in all directions. Silent. Still.
She stood barefoot in her hoodie and jeans. Untouched. Whole.
And before her, seated on a high-backed throne made of intertwined bone and flowers, was a woman.
She was beautiful beyond anything Celeste had seen. She was tall, regal, dark skin glowing faintly like starlight beneath porcelain markings that moved slowly over her cheeks and brow. Her eyes were silver and deep as the void.
She smiled.
“Celeste,” the woman said. “Welcome.”
Celeste said nothing. Her body shifted. Her feet slid into stance, weight balanced, hands at ready. Her eyes scanned every line of the woman’s posture.
The woman chuckled.
“I’ve never been greeted with such suspicion. Its refreshing.”
“Where am I?” Celeste asked. Her voice came out steadier than it should have. Her hands didn’t shake.
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“You’re dead.”
The words struck like iron.
Celeste did not move.
After a moment: “That doesn’t explain this.”
“No,” the woman said. “It doesn’t.”
She stood. Her presence seemed to pull the white around her like a tide. The throne dissolved into mist.
“I am the Goddess of Life and Death,” she said. “I have also been known as the Goddess of Creation and Destruction.” “And I have an opportunity for you.”
Celeste’s golden eyes narrowed.
“Why?”
“In all honesty, because I was bored… among other things” the goddess said, walking forward, “and in all my years I have sent souls into the reincarnation cycle, you are the first soul that has such a strong will to live, it refuses to go to the reincarnation cycle.”
She stepped closer. Celeste didn’t flinch.
“I watched you fight, survive, and grow. Your will kept you going, overcoming many obstacles. And most of all—” She smiled. “You still wonder who you are.”
Celeste’s jaw tightened.
“I can’t answer that for you,” the goddess said. “But I can offer you something else.”
She lifted her hand.
The white around them shimmered, and slowly began to reshape.
A new world. A fantasy world.
Forests and kingdoms. Magic and monsters. Armies and wars.
A place where the strong lived by the sword, and the weak were left to rot.
“A world called Serathal.”
Celeste watched, unmoved.
“This world operates by different rules,” the goddess said. “Class systems. Mana. Leveling. Stats. It functions like a game world. Everyone is born with latent magic, but it means nothing unless you earn your class.”
Celeste folded her arms.
“And?”
“You will be reborn there,” the goddess said. “Not as your current self, but as a child. With a family. A new name. A chance.”
“Why?” Celeste asked.
“Because I choose to give it to you,” the goddess replied. “And because Serathal needs someone like you.”
She raised her hand again.
A mirror appeared. Not glass; liquid silver, rippling with energy. In it, Celeste saw flickers of herself: training, fighting, bleeding, laughing, crying, screaming.
“You may choose two gifts from your past life,” the goddess said. “Two passive traits from the following list shown on the mirror.”
Passive Skills Available:
- Martial Master
- Strategist
- Teacher
- Runner
- Ghost
Celeste studied the mirror. Her heart beat once. Twice.
“Martial Master,” she said. “And Strategist.”
The mirror rippled.
The goddess nodded. “Fitting.”
“One more thing,” she added. “A blessing; can also be considered a curse. From me.”
Celeste raised an eyebrow.
“You will not die,” the goddess said simply. “Ever.”
“What?”
“Your soul cannot be severed. You may be struck down, broken, even erased from memory, but you will never cease. You will stop aging at eighteen. Immortality.” “This will be a passive trait as well.”
Celeste stared.
“Why would you give that to anyone?”
“Because I felt like it,” the goddess whispered, “plus I believe you can bring change to this world.”
Before Celeste could ask what that meant, the world around her began to collapse.
The mirror flashed.
The white turned to stars.
And the voice of the goddess followed her down:
“Live, Celeste. Live as only you know how.”
And then—
Darkness.
And the cry of a newborn beneath a sky she did not know.
Wind howled through the forested valleys of Thalorion.
The cry echoed into the rafters of a stone keep nestled among cliffs and mist, where a noblewoman, pale and fevered—clutched a bloodstained sheet as midwives scrambled and a fire burned low in the hearth.
Luna Silver had given birth before. Twice. But this one… this one had been different.
She felt it.
Even as exhaustion clawed at her and her vision swam, she reached out.
A tiny hand gripped her finger, fierce, strong.
The child didn’t cry again. She stared up at Luna with golden eyes.
Luna gasped.
Argo Silver stood behind the bed, a large man with a warrior’s build and tired eyes. He leaned forward. “Her eyes…”
“They’re…”
“Like lightning caught in amber,” Luna whispered.
The midwives whispered blessings. But one of them, older, quieter, froze. She stared at the child and then bowed her head.
“She is blessed,” the old woman said. “She is not ordinary.”
Luna pulled the baby closer.
“She is ours,” she said. “That’s all that matters.”
Outside, thunder rumbled through the mountains.
And the child named Celeste opened her eyes to a world that had no idea what had just awakened.