Alaric's awareness stirred, not with the jolt of a racing heart or the rush of breath, but with the gentle spark of a single thought.
There was no breath in his lungs, no heartbeat thudding in his chest—just a strange, quiet awareness. His eyes opened to a vast expanse that stretched endlessly in every direction. The ground beneath him was smooth like polished marble, divided into massive squares that glowed faintly with veins of silver and black. It reminded him of a chessboard, though each square was the size of a plaza.
Towering above him were statues—colossal, unearthly chess pieces frozen in place. They weren't the simple shapes he remembered from the game of his youth; these were grotesque and beautiful, twisted into something both artistic and horrifying. Knights with lion heads stood poised for battle. Bishops clasped their hands in prayer, their arms bound with chains that ended in jagged blades. Queens bore crowns of fire and thorns, their faces serene but cruel.
Alaric's gaze lingered on the pieces, trying to make sense of them. They seemed alive somehow as if they were watching him—or waiting for him to move.
And then he noticed the others.
Thirteen figures floated nearby, though they weren't quite people. They were motes of light, flickering like candle flames caught in an invisible breeze. Their glow wasn't white or black but a swirling gray that shifted constantly, alive and restless. Some were warm and inviting; others felt cold and distant.
Alaric looked down at his own hands and froze. They weren't flesh—not entirely. His fingers shimmered faintly, like the memory of hands rather than the real thing. He clenched them anyway and felt something solid enough to convince himself it was real.
"So this is what comes after?" he murmured to no one in particular.
The memories came slowly at first, like drops of water falling into a still pool. Then they began to bleed together—a flood he couldn't stop even if he wanted to.
He remembered standing tall in a crisp uniform as medals were pinned to his chest: Alaric Stone, military strategist, hero to some, traitor to others. He had believed in systems once—in order, honor, leadership—but those ideals had crumbled under the weight of betrayal.
He saw himself on the steps of a courthouse, cameras flashing as reporters shouted questions he didn't answer. The world had called him a traitor that day, but he had smiled anyway because he knew the truth: he had taken the fall for someone else's mistake—a young officer who still had a future ahead of her.
"You'll be safe now," he had whispered under his breath before walking inside for the last time.
The next memory came sharper than the rest: an empty room, a glass of whiskey trembling in his hand, and then... nothingness. A bullet through his skull had ended it all—or so he thought.
But this place wasn't hell. And it certainly wasn't heaven.
Before Alaric could make sense of it all, a voice echoed—not from above or around him but inside his very mind. It was soft yet commanding, soothing yet sharp, like bells ringing underwater wrapped in storm winds.
"Welcome," it said simply.
The word hung in the air for a moment before the voice continued: "You are neither judged nor condemned here. You are merely... chosen."
The motes of light around him flickered brighter as if responding to the voice's presence.
"You are now Tathāgata Balancers—proxies of divine will," it explained with an almost casual tone that belied the weight of its words.
"Your souls represent the dance of Sin and Virtue—the twin fires that shape Aerithya's fate."
The ground beneath Alaric trembled slightly as one of the statues—a towering Queen—seemed to twitch ever so slightly.
"This is not heaven," the voice continued patiently. "Nor is it hell. This is Tianrenpan—the Heaven-Human Board—a place where gods wager their belief upon mortals."
Alaric squinted into the endless void above him, searching for some source to this disembodied voice—but there was nothing there.
"You will be reborn into Auron," it said matter-of-factly now—a world where elves walk beside men; where mermaids sing songs of sorrow; where beastmen hunt under crimson moons; where orcs forge empires from blood and steel."
"You will not choose your place nor your people," it added almost teasingly as if relishing its power over them all.
"Your pieces are placed... The game begins."
Alaric took an instinctive step forward then—his voice steady despite everything swirling within him: "What are the rules?"
For just a moment there was silence—a pause so long it felt deliberate—and then came an answer that chilled him more than anything else so far:
"You are pawns," said the voice with something like amusement curling at its edges now.
"What need have you for rules?"
Before Alaric could respond lightning cracked across the board—a blinding flash that struck between two squares near him—and one by one those gray motes began falling through cracks that hadn't been there moments ago.
They vanished without sound or struggle—slipping away like droplets into some unseen ocean below.
"You will retain your memories," said the voice softly now as if offering some small mercy amidst its cruelty.
"That is your curse... and your blessing."
Alaric turned sharply then as something loomed behind him—the Queen statue again—but this time her gaze seemed fixed on him specifically—as though measuring his worth somehow without saying anything at all.
"Prove yourself," said her silent stare—or perhaps it was still just that voice speaking through her now—"or perish forgotten."
And then—he fell.
There was no wind rushing past him; no sensation of descent; only darkness swallowing everything whole until even he began unravelling at its edges like a thread pulled loose from fabric too tightly wound for too long...
But just before everything disappeared completely—before whatever came next could take hold entirely—he softly whispered into that endless void around him:
"Pawns still take kings."
And with those words hanging heavy between worlds... The game began anew.