Kairos sat on the floor beside the bed, his head tilted back as he stared at the ceiling. Then he felt it—a pull.
Not from the sky, but from the very floor beneath him.
"What is this force?" he asked, trying to stand. But he couldn't move.
It was as if his body was magnetized to the ground. The pull grew stronger, forcing his back down until even his head slammed against the floor. His entire body trembled at the sensation.
"Myra... Myra... help!" he tried to shout, but no sound came out. His voice was gone. He couldn't form a single word.
The floor beneath him turned to liquid. Like water.
He sank.
It felt like he had fallen into the middle of a vast sea. The force still pulled him downward. Kairos stopped struggling—the strength of the pull was far too great.
He looked up. All he could see was the faint, blurred image of the ceiling, growing smaller and dimmer by the second. Then even that disappeared as he was dragged deeper into the water. He couldn't breathe.
His body hit the ocean floor with a harsh thud, and pain surged through him. But the force didn't stop. It kept dragging him further, deeper, until the seabed cracked and shattered beneath him.
Suddenly, he was no longer underwater but falling through empty air. The sky stretched above and around him. His arms and legs flailed, but at least now he could breathe.
Then, without warning, he hit the ground again. Hard.
"Ouch," he muttered.
The force was gone.
He lay still for a moment, his breathing ragged. Slowly, painfully, he sat up.
"What is happening?" he whispered, his voice hollow and weak.
He took another shaky breath, then stood up. His legs wobbled beneath him, and pain still echoed in his joints. As he opened his eyes fully and looked down, his breath caught.
He wasn't standing on solid ground.
He was standing on dead bodies.
His breathing quickened. His body began to shake. A chill ran down his spine, cold and sharp. Slowly, he raised his head and saw even more corpses scattered across the area.
In panic, he stepped back—but his foot caught on another body, and he stumbled, falling to the ground again.
Kairos's breath came faster and faster. He couldn't make sense of what he was seeing. He looked around. It seemed like the ruins of a building, broken and lifeless.
Then a voice spoke behind him—calm, low, and steady.
"In every realm—whether the world of mortals, the heavens of the gods, the dark lands of demons, or the quiet places of spirits—the story never changes. People speak of heroes, of good men rising to save the world. But that idea is a lie. A sweet dream for those too afraid to face reality."
Kairos turned his head slowly, his heart pounding harder than it ever had before.
A figure stood there.
Dressed in a white robe stained with blood, its head was covered by a hood. The face was hidden. The figure sat casually on a pile of corpses.
"It doesn't matter how hard you try," the figure continued. "How much you give. How pure your reasons are. The truth remains the same: all living things—gods, demons, spirits, mortals—carry the same desire deep inside. They don't want peace. Not truly. They want power. They want control. That hunger drives them, shapes them, and in the end, destroys them."
"They might pretend to care about justice, or love, or balance. But when it really matters, when the world starts to crumble, the mask falls. And what's left is a creature willing to burn everything to rise above the rest."
The figure picked up a skull and began tossing it into the air with one hand, letting it fall and catching it again.
"This is why the world doesn't need a hero. Not another dreamer with kind words and soft hands, hoping to change hearts. That path always ends in failure."
It turned to face Kairos.
"What the world needs is a ruler. Someone who sees people for what they truly are, and leads them anyway. Someone strong enough to command, to bring order to the chaos. Not with false hope. But with true purpose."
The figure stood, taking slow, deliberate steps toward Kairos.
"A leader who does not ask to be loved."
"A voice that does not beg to be heard."
"Not a hero to be remembered."
"A ruler to be obeyed."
Kairos tried to move, but his body wouldn't respond. A wave of dizziness washed over him. His vision blurred. The figure grew closer, until it was just in front of him.
"Ah... I forgot the rules of time," the figure said quietly.
Those were the last words Kairos heard before everything went black.
He opened his eyes once more and found himself seated on the floor beside the bed.
His hands were trembling. His heart raced.
He quickly stood and rushed to the bathroom. He dipped his head into a basin of water and lifted it again, gasping. Slowly, he walked to the mirror.
"What was that?" he whispered. "A nightmare?"
He sighed.
"Kairos!" Myra called out from the other room. "I'm done with the cooking!"
Kairos remained silent for a moment, staring at his reflection in the mirror. Water dripped from his face, his hair damp, eyes hollow. His breathing had slowed, but the pounding in his chest had not. The image of the robed figure, the mountain of corpses, the voice that echoed like a curse—it all clung to him.
With one final breath, he wiped his face dry and stepped out of the bathroom.
He made his way to the kitchen,feet slow and heavy. His hands still trembled slightly as he entered the kitchen.
Myra stood at the table, placing food into two wooden bowls.She turned just as Kairos entered.
"You're sweating," she said, her voice laced with concern. "Are you okay?"
Kairos hesitated, then gave a faint nod. "Yeah."
Myra stepped closer, her eyes scanning his face. "You sure? You look pale."
"I'm fine," he said quickly, forcing a small smile. "It's nothing."
She didn't press further, but her eyes lingered on him a moment longer before she returned to the food.
"Come eat," she said gently. " Hope you enjoy it."
Kairos sat down slowly on the stool still feeling the weight of the vision. As he picked up his spoon, his hand paused mid-air. In his mind, the figure's voice whispered once more:
"A ruler to be obeyed."
He clenched his jaw and began to eat in silence.