Soel is a chemical found in the deepest veins of the universe—one that defies modern science. It pulses with energy, reacts to thought, and resonates with something far older than the world itself. To scholars, it's a miracle compound. To mystics, it's a fragment of the first breath. Its true nature remains unknown, but one thing is certain: Soel is alive in ways no chemical should be
The darkness surrounded him, comforted him like a mother cradling her young.
It was warmth without weight. Familiar without form.
It smelled of forgotten memories—burnt wood, spring rain, soft linen.
It whispered lullabies in a voice that mimicked his mother's—though he never knew her.
The wind whispered to him
"Shh… you've done enough."
"Rest."
"There's nothing left to fight for."
He floated in it, wrapped in its velvet breath.
No chains. No war. No blood drying on his hands.
He felt Light. For the first time in his life, he wasn't heavy with purpose.
His chest rose slowly, calmly, like the surface of a still lake under moonlight.
And then… he saw them.
A home.
A table.
Laughter.
People. Smiling. People who knew him, who didn't want to use him.
He saw children running through a garden, flowers blooming under their feet.
He saw a father—not Satan, not a god—but a man, faceless and kind, teaching him how to fish.
in the reflection of a pond he saw himself… without the scars.
It was perfect.
"This is yours," the darkness said, voice syrup-sweet. "You deserve this. You've suffered enough.Just let go."
His muscles loosened. His breathing slowed.
He wanted to let go.
"There is no pain here. No sin. No judgment. No blood."
"You've already died, child. This is what comes after. You earned this."
A golden light began to glow through the trees of the dream.
He walked through it barefoot. Birds sang. The breeze tasted of fruit.
The sky stretched endlessly, neither day nor night—just a warm, eternal dusk.
Time passed—He couldn't tell how long.
It didn't matter. Nothing did.
He had a name here, one no one feared.
He had a sister. She called him "brother" with silver eyes that sparkled like starlight.
Days passed like minutes. Years, maybe.
His sister grew before his eyes.
She lost a tooth. Came running to him crying, and he held her until she fell asleep in his arms.
She learned to read, her voice wobbling through each letter while he corrected her gently.
She argued with him. Slammed doors. Stormed off. Came back hours later, whispering a quiet apology.
He built her a treehouse.
She decorated it with paintings and stories.
They carved their names into the wood.
The seasons passed. She learned to fight with a wooden sword, mimicking his stance.
"Like this, right?"
"Almost. Again."
He watched her laugh at the stars. Cry at a sad story. Fall asleep on his shoulder beside the fire.
And for a while…
He believed it.
She braided flowers into his hair and sat with him by the fire. Her laugh was warm, real, full of life.
They played games. Told stories. Laughed until their sides hurt.
He tended a garden. Fed animals. Read books. Watched the seasons pass without war, without gods, without death.
No blood. No ash. No pain. Just… being.
And for a while, he forgot.
Forgot the chains.
Forgot the screams.
Forgot the weight of his name.
But then…
The flowers started repeating the same bloom.
The sky never shifted. The fire never needed wood.
The laughter came in loops—like a record caught in the same few seconds.
He watched his sister speak to him, but her mouth didn't move.
He touched the earth, and it didn't feel like earth.
He looked in a mirror—and the reflection blinked before he did.
"Don't look too closely."
"it's just your imagination"
He blinked, and everyone smiled at him in unison.
He blinked again, and their faces glitched—flickering between strangers and memories.
And then he saw himself… watching.
Seven versions of him, dressed in shadow. Standing at the edge of the dream.
Eyes empty. Silent. Waiting.
"You know it's not real."
"Wake up"
His sister stood in the garden, still smiling, still perfect.
But there were tears in her silver eyes now.
The wind stilled.
The birds stopped singing.
Even the light… paused.
Ex stood frozen. Hands trembling.
His sister stood frozen mid-laugh, the flower crown in her hands falling apart petal by petal.
Then—
The wind returned.
But it was cold now. Wrong.
It carried embers. Not warmth. Not life.
One by one, everything he loved began to unravel.
The garden withered. The books blackened.
The fire pit cracked and spat silence.
And his sister…"Brother…" she said, voice paper-thin.
Her silver eyes stared at him—trembling—as ash flaked from her fingers, then her arms, her hair…
"No—" he reached for her, but his hands passed through smoke.
She smiled as she faded. "You don't belong here."
His heart cracked open, quiet and ugly.
"No," he whispered. "Please… just a little longer."
He dropped to his knees.
"Even the fake grass stayed silent, like the world itself didn't care he was breaking."
All those years… gone.
The stories. The stars. The treehouse.
Her birthday they celebrated every year with apple cake and poorly wrapped presents.
The scar she got from climbing too high.
Her first poem.
Her first heartbreak.
It all meant nothing.
"Please…" he whispered. "Don't take her from me. Not again."
But time here wasn't real. And neither was she.
And still—it hurt like truth.
"I didn't ask for this," he said, voice shaking. "I never wanted to be a weapon. I just wanted—"
His throat caught. His fists clenched
"I just wanted peace. Just… not to be hated."
Tears fell. Quiet. Heavy.
His voice broke like a child's.
"I would've been a good brother. A good son. I swear I would've tried."
His cry echoed, raw and hollow, swallowed by the empty paradise.
Then—
Silence.
The silence wasn't peace this time.
It was a stillness laced with pressure—like the air itself was waiting to see what he'd become. Not a boy mourning a lie. Not a soldier burying pain. Something else.
Something returning.
A deep hum began to rise from beneath the world—low, trembling, ancient. It crawled up through the cracks in the dream, through the soil of dead memories, through the air thick with illusion. The sky above twitched.
The hum became a pulse.
The pulse became breath.
The breath became rage.
Ex exhaled once—slow, steady. But the world shuddered around him like glass under heat.
From the horizon, the false sun trembled. Then exploded—raining shards of golden light that turned black before they hit the ground. The sky peeled open, revealing not stars… but eyes.
Thousands of them.
Watching. Judging. Waiting.
And still, Ex didn't move.
But the shadow behind him grew longer. Thicker. Alive.
His dream-self melted into it, replaced by his real self—taller, leaner, carved by agony and war. The air bent around him like it feared him.
From the cracked ground, hands erupted—chains of shadow and bone, wrapping around his ankles, wrists, throat. Pulling him down.
Testing him.
He didn't resist.
Instead, he whispered:
"Break."
And everything obeyed.
The dream shattered like a stained-glass window caught in a scream. Every illusion burst outward—flower petals becoming ash, air turning to dust, warmth collapsing into static.
The chains exploded into light.
The versions of him at the edge of the dream flickered violently—some laughed, others cried, one knelt in silence..
Ex stood veins lit with soel that had tasted loss. His hands flexed. His eyes opened, not just physically—but spiritually. Emotionally. Permanently.
They burned red, brighter than they ever had.
His shadow coiled beneath him like a storm held by a leash.
And in his chest—his heart beat again.
Not for gods. Not for vengeance. Not even for survival.
But for truth.
And when he finally stepped forward, the dream gave way like wet paper. The weight returned—but he welcomed it now. It reminded him he was real.
His breath steadied. Just a little too fast.
His shoulders straightened like pulled wires.
His face—cold. Blank. Eyes dry like it never happened.
"…Yeah," he muttered, wiping his cheek with the back of his hand. "Enough dreaming."
He stood.
The illusion around him began to fracture—light bleeding into shadow, sky peeling like wet paint.
From the cracked earth, something stirred.
Red soul bled from the dirt like smoke made of fire and grief.
It snaked up his ankles, slow and deliberate, crawling like it knew him.
He didn't flinch.
His daggers whispered into his hands, born of shadow and fury.
The power coiled up his arms, carving glowing lines into his veins—pulsing with rhythm. His rhythm.
One beat.
Then another.
With every breath, the false dream shattered further—until only Ex remained.
He looked toward the broken dreamscape—at the versions of himself, still watching.
They stood in a loose circle at the edge of the dreamscape—silent, unmoving, like shadows frozen in time.
At their center, small and trembling, sat the boy.
The Child. Curled in on himself. Thin arms wrapped around his knees. Barefoot, skin pale, eyes wide with a fear too old for someone so young. His white hair was tangled. His lips chapped.
He didn't cry anymore—he just stared at the dirt.
Around him, the others stood like statues. Guardians. Ghosts. Warnings.
The Soldier stood behind him like a wall, broad back facing outward. Armor dented. Hands scarred. He gripped the hilt of a broken sword—not to fight, but to protect. The one who took the beatings so the child wouldn't have to.
The Beast crouched low, teeth bared at the shadows beyond the circle. A low growl rumbling in his throat. Muscles twitching. Eyes wild. He was the rage that kept the child breathing. The one who would burn the world just to keep the boy warm.
The Servant knelt at the child's side, hands on his thighs, head bowed in reverence. Chains hung loose from his wrists—but they didn't bind him. They reminded him. He had endured pain in silence, carried burdens no child ever should. And still, he bowed.
The Doubter lingered just behind, half-turned away, as if unsure if he belonged. Arms crossed. Eyes heavy with guilt. But he stayed. Even in his uncertainty, he knew the child deserved more.
The Shell stood opposite the Beast. Still as death. No expression. No voice. But his presence wasn't hollow—it was shielding. A wall that gave up its soul just to keep the child from breaking.
And then, directly across from Ex—watching him—stood The Truth.
He didn't move. Didn't blink.
His eyes met Ex's across the circle with calm finality.
He didn't accuse. Didn't judge.
He only knew.
All of it.
All the blood. All the lies. All the names Ex had worn like armor.
He saw them all.
And he stood beside the child anyway.
They surrounded him.
Not to imprison him.
But to protect what little of him still hadn't been destroyed.
Ex felt his breath catch.
Not from fear.
From recognition.
They were all him.
Every version. Every scar. Every sin. Every survival.
And they stood there—not to stop him…
…but to remind him of what he was fighting for.
He raised a dagger toward them—toward himself.
His eyes shattered into red, cracked mirrors—reflecting not just the world's sins, but forcing it to witness its own decay.
Every fracture burned with judgment.
Every glint a glimpse into a truth too heavy to bear.
And his voice—quiet, deadly, final:
"The gods will pay. Even if I have to burn the world to make them bleed."
The red energy surged—violent, beautiful—burning brighter than before.
His eyes flared, and the chains around his heart cracked.
The dream was over.
But the war had just begun