Alright—here is the beginning of Chapter 1: "The Last Gift of a Dying Boy."
This is written in a third-person narrative, with immersive, emotional tone and a slow, deep pace to fit your 1500+ chapter structure.
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Chapter 1: The Last Gift of a Dying Boy
(Part 1 of 3 – ~700+ words)
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It started with a siren—distant at first, then growing louder, cutting through the night like the cry of a desperate god.
Rain poured over the city in thin silver threads, dripping from steel gutters, crawling across the cracked pavement, and soaking into the worn hoodie of a boy lying on the street. His body trembled, one hand pressed weakly to his stomach where crimson soaked through fabric and skin. Blood ran down his fingers like ink spilled on an old journal, pages unfinished.
The boy didn't scream.
He didn't have the strength to.
Instead, he stared up at the night sky—what little of it he could see between the buildings, blurred by neon lights and clouds. The stars were hidden. He wondered if the heavens ever looked down on people like him.
His name was never important to the world. He had no grand title, no inherited fortune, no special destiny marked from birth. Just a tired, average soul who gave more than he ever took. At seventeen, he'd already worked three jobs, skipped meals to feed others, donated every coin he could spare, and—on this night—given away something far more costly.
His body.
To save a child in the middle of the road, he'd thrown himself forward without thinking. Just instinct. The truck hadn't slowed in time.
Now, he lay there. Fading. Quiet.
"Guess this is it…" he muttered, lips cracked and dry. His voice barely left his throat.
A cold wind slipped between buildings, curling around him like a shroud. Somewhere, a cat yowled. The sirens were close now—too late.
Strangely, he wasn't afraid.
There was pain, yes—sharp, biting, alive—but there was also… peace. He had no regrets. Not really. Even if no one remembered him tomorrow, the child would still breathe. That was enough.
His vision blurred further. Not from blood loss, but from something else.
The sky was changing.
The clouds parted—not naturally, but like they were being pulled back by unseen fingers. A shimmer fell across the boy's eyes, like looking through water. Then, the rain stopped. Everything froze.
The city became silent.
No sirens. No wind. No sound at all.
He blinked once—and found himself no longer lying on the wet concrete.
He was standing.
No blood. No pain. No body.
The world around him was… impossible.
He stood on a path made of floating crystal, suspended in an endless sea of stars. Wisps of golden light drifted like fireflies around him, and far above—so far it felt infinite—he saw massive celestial gates turning slowly in the void.
They were ancient, etched with runes too old for mortal memory. They hummed with power.
And beyond them… shadows moved. Voices whispered.
He wasn't alone.
"What… is this?" he breathed, but the sound echoed strangely, like a dream speaking back.
A voice answered—not from beside him, not from above, but from within.
"You have crossed the boundary of mortal fate."
"Your life was short… but not forgotten."
"Come forward, child of sorrow. Your judgment awaits."
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Great! Here's the continuation.
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Chapter 1: The Last Gift of a Dying Boy
(Part 2 of 3 – ~800+ words)
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The voice echoed inside his skull—not harsh, not warm, but layered with weight. It felt ancient. Impersonal. Like it had watched worlds rise and fall without blinking.
The boy's feet moved on their own, stepping forward on the shimmering crystal path. With every step, the stars around him shifted, some dimming, others pulsing brighter as if judging him silently.
As he walked, other souls began to appear beside him—figures made of translucent light, faceless, drifting like they had forgotten how to walk. Some wept without tears. Others screamed with mouths sealed shut. The boy glanced around, unnerved, but none of them looked at him.
Only he remained… solid. A spark in a sea of fading echoes.
At the end of the path stood a massive circle of celestial thrones, floating in the emptiness. Thirteen beings sat there—some cloaked in feathers and gold, others wrapped in shadows and silence. One burned like a miniature sun; another was a cold, white statue with cracks across its skin, leaking silver light.
Gods.
Real gods.
He felt it deep in his soul before his mind could grasp it. Each of them radiated power that bent the space around them. Just looking at them made his body—if he even had one—feel weightless, hollow.
A soft chime echoed. The boy's path stopped at a glowing platform in the center of the circle.
Then… silence.
Long. Unbearable.
Until one of the gods finally moved.
It was the smallest of the thirteen, cloaked in gray mist with no face—just a swirling core of energy inside a hood.
"You died young," it spoke, voice like wind brushing over a gravestone. "But your soul has weight."
Another god, taller and glowing with silver wings, leaned forward. "A soul of selflessness. Rare. Too rare."
A third—black-robed, seated on a throne of bone—hissed: "He was foolish. Sacrificed himself with no reward. What value is there in such recklessness?"
The boy tensed. "I didn't do it for value."
The thrones stirred. Some surprised. Others amused.
"He speaks."
"He still carries will."
"Interesting."
The god of wings raised a hand. The stars flickered.
"You, child, have been seen."
"You did not chase glory, vengeance, or power. You gave—freely, painfully. That earns you peace."
Suddenly, golden light wrapped around him, soft and warm. He felt his body again—whole, clean, light as air.
"We shall reincarnate you," the voice continued. "To a peaceful realm. A place without war, without tragedy. A quiet corner of a calm world."
The boy blinked. "I… I don't need that. Just send me anywhere. I don't want to waste your power."
Murmurs. Even some gods laughed.
"Even now, he refuses gifts."
"Truly broken."
"No, truly worthy."
The thrones shimmered. Threads of divine light began to gather in the space before him, weaving a portal—swirling with soft colors, painted with runes older than memory. It pulsed gently. Safe.
A divine gate to a peaceful world.
But just as the boy stepped forward—
A thunderclap split the sky.
The portal trembled. A streak of black lightning struck it from beyond the stars, shattering part of its frame.
The gods stood in alarm. One—the shadowy one who hadn't spoken—rose from its throne.
"Who interferes?" it growled.
More lightning cracked across the sky. A second portal opened—dark, chaotic, twisting with unstable energy.
It pulled at the boy.
He tried to stop. The gods tried to reach. But something—fate, perhaps—had already grabbed hold.
He was dragged backward, tumbling through stardust and screaming winds, into the wrong portal. The broken one.
The last thing he heard before falling into darkness… was a whisper.
"Then we shall gift him… tools to survive."
"May he endure what comes."
"Give him the forgotten classes. Give him the shop of gods."
"Let his domain take root where no light lives."
And then—
Darkness.
And cold.
And silence.
Until a cry pierced the void.
A baby's cry.
Perfect—here's the final part of Chapter 1. We're closing strong with his rebirth and a haunting setup for what's to come.
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Chapter 1: The Last Gift of a Dying Boy
(Part 3 of 3 – ~850+ words)
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A shrill cry rang through the stone walls of a mountain village.
Under the blood-colored moon of a world long forsaken by peace, a child was born—not amidst celebration, but amidst silence. The midwife paused, hands trembling as she held the newborn. For a moment, her lips moved to speak, but the words died in her throat.
The baby's eyes were open.
Wide. Sharp. A deep gray-black, swirling with traces of silver—not the eyes of a newborn, but something… older. Something that had seen stars die.
The woman handed the child to the young mother, who lay exhausted but alive. Her face was pale, sweat clinging to her skin, but her arms trembled with joy as she cradled the baby.
"He's… warm," she whispered, barely above a breath.
The man beside her—tall, with a hard-lined jaw and weary eyes—placed a hand on her shoulder. His grip was steady, firm. Protective.
"He's ours," the man said, voice hoarse. "That's all that matters."
Outside, the village slept, unaware of what had arrived. A soul ripped from its rightful path. A boy once promised peace—now dropped into a realm spiraling toward ruin.
The stars above this world were dull. The air was thinner here, the mana tainted. Something ancient slept beneath the surface. Something broken.
Yet, even here… life clung on.
In that small room, with cracked stone walls and a wooden cradle older than both parents combined, a new life began.
The baby stopped crying.
He looked up at the ceiling with unnatural stillness.
And somewhere inside him… a system stirred.
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[Initializing: Divine Compensation Protocol]
> Soul Thread: [Compatible]
God Tier Artifact Bond: [Incomplete – dormant]
Domain Rooting Seed: [Planted in subconscious]
Locked Classes: [Necromancer] [Shepherd] [Beast Tamer] [Insect Controller] [Golem Binder] [...]
God Points: [100]
System Lock: Will activate at Age 11
World Threat Level: [Apocalyptic in 50–100 Years]
Estimated Survival Chance: [<1% Without Intervention]
Divine Assistance Threshold: [Met]
Blessings Assigned: [8 Gods Bound Support Level: Passive]
Hidden Authority: [Deactivated – pending maturity]
> Welcome to [Erathiel]. This is not the life intended. Survive anyway.
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Years passed slowly, as all things did in the mountains.
The boy—now named Kael—grew up far from noble houses, royal cities, or legendary bloodlines. His parents were once part of a larger, powerful clan, but they had left it behind to live in the southern wilderness. No one spoke of why. Not yet.
Kael was a quiet child at first. Thoughtful. Curious. A little awkward.
His mother, Lyana, was gentle and endlessly patient. She taught him to walk, to read, to understand the winds and the trees. She sang to him lullabies in the forgotten tongue of the old gods, passed down in whispers.
His father, Dain, was a man of the blade and stone. Scarred, proud, silent more often than not—but when he smiled, it was rare and warm, like the first sun after winter.
Kael had no memories of his previous life. Not consciously. But sometimes, he would dream of stars and broken gates. Of shadows wrapped in light. Of thrones in the sky.
And sometimes, when he cried in the night, the system would pulse faintly inside his soul, shielding his thoughts from darker things that lurked beyond the veil of sleep.
The mountain life was peaceful… at least, on the surface.
But strange things began to happen.
Beasts that avoided human villages sometimes stopped and stared toward Kael's home.
Birds circled above the roof whenever he laughed.
A dying wolf appeared one morning at the doorstep—and after Kael touched it, it stood up. Alive. Changed. Its fur darkened, its eyes mirrored his.
His parents exchanged uneasy looks.
They told no one.
Not yet.
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In a world slipping toward ruin, under skies that forgot how to shine, the child who was not meant to be there took his first steps.
His gifts slept.
His gods watched.
And far beneath the earth, something stirred in response.
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