Orion Sheath sat in his room, the dim morning light filtering through the half-drawn curtains. The room was cramped, the walls cracked, the floorboards creaking beneath his weight. A narrow single bed occupied one corner of the room, its threads worn thin from years of use. His clothes were draped over the back of a worn-out chair, his shoes beside the bed, too scuffed to look presentable. He rubbed his face, a mixture of exhaustion and determination in his eyes. The house was silent, save for the soft, distant hum of the refrigerator in the next room.
There were times when he longed for something more—something beyond the endless cycle of chores, school, and taking care of his younger siblings. His world had shrunk to the four walls of this house, to the demands of his family, to the ever-present weight of responsibility. At eighteen years old, Orion had learned early that life didn't come with a manual. And though it was supposed to be a time for youth, adventure, and exploration, his days had long since lost that innocence. Instead, he was the pillar holding the crumbling structure of his family together.
He glanced over at the framed picture on the nightstand, the edges frayed and yellowed with time. It was a picture of his family taken years ago—before everything changed. Back when his father was still in the picture, before he walked out of their lives without explanation. Before Orion had to step into a role that no child should ever have to.
He stood up from the bed, stretching his tired limbs. His mother had always tried her best, but the burden of raising six children on her own had taken its toll. Orion knew she had her moments of weakness. Who wouldn't? But someone had to be strong, and in their family, that someone was him.
With a sigh, he made his way to the hallway. His footsteps echoed in the quiet house, a reminder of how empty it sometimes felt, even when it was full. He gently knocked on the door to his younger siblings' rooms. Each knock was a soft plea to maintain the normalcy of their chaotic life.
"Rise and shine," he called softly. "Time to get ready for school."
The first to appear was Lucas, his second youngest brother, groggily stumbling out of his room. Lucas had inherited their father's messy brown hair, though he wore it more like a helmet of untamed curls. He mumbled something incoherent, eyes still half-closed, before sitting down at the kitchen table.
One by one, the others followed suit. Ethan, the youngest, with his small, wide-eyed face, shuffled in, still rubbing his eyes. Emma and Lily, the two middle children, were bickering over something trivial as always—who would sit next to who, who got the last of the bread, or whose turn it was to do the dishes.
Orion moved through the kitchen, opening the fridge to assess what little they had. The shelves were bare, with only a few eggs, some bread, and a lone carton of milk left. He grabbed what he could, starting the process of making breakfast. It wasn't much, but it was enough to feed his siblings. That was all that mattered.
"You boys need to eat," Orion muttered as he cracked the eggs into a sizzling pan. "Make sure you're not late again."
Lucas grinned, rubbing his stomach. "I'm starving, Orion. You're the best."
Orion didn't reply. Instead, he focused on the cooking, careful not to let the stress of the day overwhelm him. He could feel his mother stirring behind him, but he didn't turn to look. She was still in her bathrobe, her hair uncombed, and the weight of the world pressed heavily on her. She smiled faintly at Orion as she sat down at the table, but her eyes were distant, unfocused. The glow of hope that once used to shine in her gaze had faded with time, replaced by the dullness of fatigue.
"Morning, Mom," Orion said, trying to keep his voice light.
She nodded slowly. "Morning... How's everything going?"
"I'll take care of it," he said, already sensing her exhaustion. There were bills to deal with, more overdue notices stacked up in the corner of his room, and not enough money to go around. But they had to keep going, right? His mother had always believed in the power of perseverance. But Orion knew there were limits to that. No amount of persistence could fix a broken system, a broken family.
The younger ones were at the table now, eating, arguing over the smallest of things. Emma grabbed the last of the bread and passed it to Lily, who scoffed but didn't protest. Ethan, only eight, was making a mess with his food, smearing butter on his face with a grin.
Orion smiled to himself despite the worry gnawing at his gut. This was the reality of his life—focusing on the needs of his family, keeping the peace, ensuring they didn't go hungry or cold. He was used to it, but there were days when it felt as if everything was too much. Too many responsibilities for one person to handle, too many tasks left undone. But Orion wasn't the type to give up. His siblings needed him, his mother needed him.
As they finished breakfast, Orion got up to grab his bag, making sure the kids were ready for school. He checked the clock. It was already 7:15 AM—he needed to hurry. Lucas and Ethan were still picking at their plates, while Emma and Lily were already bickering again.
"Come on, guys, let's get going," Orion called out as he grabbed his coat. "We don't want to be late."
His mother looked at him wearily. "Are you sure you don't need help, Orion? I can—"
Orion smiled, though it didn't reach his eyes. "I've got it, Mom. Don't worry."
He grabbed his keys, and with one last glance around the house, he left, stepping out into the cold morning air. The city was a blur of faces, a mix of hurried strangers all focused on their own lives. Orion could feel the weight of the world pressing down on him as he walked, the familiar noise of the city becoming background noise to the constant churning of his thoughts.
School. A place where he felt out of place. Orion wasn't the social type. He didn't fit in with the other kids. He wasn't interested in the latest gossip, the latest trends. What did it matter when he had so much more pressing on his mind? His peers didn't know the weight of the world like he did. They didn't have siblings depending on them, a family falling apart at the seams. He wasn't like them, and he wasn't sure he wanted to be.
At school, he sat at the back of the classroom as usual. The teacher began the lesson, but Orion wasn't really paying attention. His mind wandered back to his family—the bills, the rent, the groceries, his mother's tired eyes. He took out his notebook, absentmindedly scribbling in the margins, creating the faint outlines of a drawing that he'd never finish. Art had once been his escape, but now it felt like a distant dream, one he couldn't quite reach.
His classmates were laughing, talking, so carefree. They had their whole lives ahead of them. Orion couldn't even remember the last time he allowed himself to dream. Every time he closed his eyes, all he could see were the faces of his siblings, his mother, the bills, the house that was slowly falling apart. There was no room for dreams.
Later that evening, after school, Orion returned home, carrying a small sack of groceries—barely enough to get by for the next few days. He had spent the last of his allowance on food for his siblings, but he knew it wouldn't be enough for long. His mother sat in the living room, staring blankly at the TV. It was a ritual. A moment of escapism for her, something she could do to numb herself from the reality of their situation.
"Mom," Orion said as he placed the sack of groceries on the counter. "I need to talk to you about the rent. We're a few months behind."
She didn't respond at first. She didn't even glance at him. Orion's heart sank as he saw the vacant look in her eyes. He hated this. Hated seeing her like this—helpless, tired. It wasn't her fault. It was the world, the system, the circumstances they couldn't control. But he couldn't ignore it. He had to do something.
"I'll figure it out," Orion said, his voice firm but tinged with frustration.
His mother finally looked up at him, a sad smile playing on her lips. "I know you will, Orion. You always do."
But that didn't stop the gnawing feeling in his gut. He was tired. Tired of carrying the weight of everything on his shoulders. He wanted to scream, to shout, to run away from it all. But he couldn't. He had no choice but to keep going.
As the night grew darker and the children settled into bed, Orion found himself alone in the kitchen, staring at the half-empty fridge. Tomorrow would be another day, another round of responsibilities. Another day of living up to expectations he never asked for.
He sat down at the table, opening his sketchbook. His hands hovered over the pages, but he couldn't bring himself to draw. The images were all too familiar—the dark outlines, the shadows creeping in. It wasn't the escape it once had been.
He closed the book with a sigh, running his fingers through his hair. Tomorrow would come, and he would rise to meet it. He had no choice. He had to.
But for now, he allowed himself a moment of quiet, a brief respite from the endless storm.
And in that moment, Orion Sheath, the burdened son, the unwilling protector, closed his eyes and tried to forget.
The morning light cut through the cracked blinds, tracing narrow golden slits across the peeling paint of Orion's bedroom walls. His alarm buzzed faintly beneath his pillow, muffled by layers of worn cloth. He didn't stir. The real alarm hadn't been mechanical in years. It was the clatter of his younger siblings stumbling over breakfast, the clinking of mismatched silverware, the shriek of his youngest sister pretending to be a dragon.
That was what woke him.
Orion Sheath rolled out of bed slowly, as though the weight of responsibility had grafted itself to his bones overnight. He rubbed his eyes, swung his legs over the side, and sat for a moment, listening.
There it was — the familiar chaos of a house stretched too thin.
The apartment was small, technically three bedrooms, but the back utility room had long since become a makeshift fourth, and the attic space above the kitchen served as a crude fifth. Orion's mom was already up, moving between stove and sink like a conductor of some barely-held-together symphony.
"Morning, sleepyhead," she greeted, not looking up.
Orion mumbled something back, kissed the top of her head, and began helping with the plates. He was seventeen, broad-shouldered from labor but still lean, with dark eyes that always seemed to be scanning the horizon — for hope, or for trouble, depending on the day.
His siblings attacked the breakfast table with the energy of wild animals. Tam, the second-oldest at fourteen, was trying to explain how his science fair volcano would definitely work this time. The twins, age ten, were arguing over who got the last spoonful of syrup. The youngest, Ellie, was wearing her dragon pajamas and breathing smoke — or trying to, anyway — by sipping milk and spitting it through her teeth.
Chaos. Love. Survival.
After breakfast, Orion pulled on his secondhand jacket and slung his worn canvas bag over one shoulder. He kissed Ellie on the forehead, bumped fists with Tam, and mouthed a quick "thanks" to his mom, who handed him a sandwich wrapped in wax paper.
"You have that job interview today, right?" she asked.
He nodded. "After school."
"Don't be late. I can't cover rent alone, even with overtime."
"I know."
She smiled. "I'm proud of you."
That made him pause. He didn't hear it often.
"Thanks, Mom."
He stepped outside into the brittle autumn air, the city stretching out in every direction — tired, rust-colored buildings, cracked sidewalks, buses groaning along their routes. He walked to school through a sea of faces that never looked up.
Classes were a blur. Orion was smart, but he didn't stand out. He answered when called on, aced his tests without making a show of it, and always offered his notes to the students who needed help.
There was only one person who made him nervous.
Her name was Alina.
She sat two rows in front of him in History, always with a pen tucked behind her ear and a distant look in her eyes like she was reading stories only she could see. She laughed with her friends, but there was a sadness in her smile that Orion recognized — it was the same one he wore when he thought no one was looking.
They'd never spoken. Not properly.
Once, she'd dropped her notebook in the hallway and he'd picked it up. Their hands brushed. She'd smiled.
He'd replayed it a hundred times.
That evening, after school and the interview — which he thought went well, though the manager seemed skeptical of his lack of experience — Orion stopped by the grocery store to grab milk. He counted coins carefully, even skipped the candy aisle though his sweet tooth ached.
He left just as twilight painted the sky in streaks of bruised orange.
Then he saw her.
Alina.
Walking home alone, her bag slung over one shoulder. She took a shortcut through an alley — a move Orion had made a dozen times, never thinking twice.
But tonight, someone was waiting.
A man stepped from the shadows. Hooded. Pale hands. A flash of silver.
Orion didn't think.
He ran.
She hadn't even seen him coming — the mugger, or Orion. The man grabbed her arm. She yelped.
"Hey!" Orion's voice cracked the air.
The mugger turned.
Too late.
Orion tackled him. The knife lashed out. Pain tore through Orion's side, but he didn't let go. He punched, kicked, twisted until the man stumbled back and bolted into the dark.
Alina was kneeling beside him.
"Oh god—oh god—you're bleeding—"
He smiled through clenched teeth.
"Guess… you finally noticed me…"
Her eyes widened.
"Hold on! Stay with me! Please!"
But he was already fading.
His last thought wasn't of pain. It was of her. Of his siblings. Of the warmth of a home too small for dreams, but big enough for love.
And then, silence.
Darkness stretched endlessly in every direction.
Orion's consciousness floated—drifting in a space where time lost meaning. There was no up, no down. Just silence. Just stillness. He couldn't remember when he first awoke here… only that he had. And ever since, he had done little else but think.
Of his family. His mother's tired smile, the way she always made do with less. His younger siblings, clinging to him during thunderstorms, asking if the monsters were real.
Of her. The girl who lived a few blocks away. The one he never found the courage to speak to—until that night. That night, when he'd finally stepped forward.
And died.
He remembered the cold in his chest. The shock of pain. The relief when he saw she was safe. The final breath that slipped past his lips like a whisper.
"Was it worth it?" he had wondered in the endless dark.
He didn't know. But he hoped… he hoped she lived.
It felt like decades had passed.
Then, a whisper stirred the silence.
"...Already awake?"
The voice was gentle. Feminine. Warm. It echoed in the space around him like the soft rustle of wind through leaves.
"You weren't supposed to be conscious yet," it said again, full of wonder.
A shimmer of light bloomed in the void—soft at first, then growing into a radiant figure. Not harsh or blinding, but ethereal, like moonlight wrapped in spring petals.
"You… you're not bound," she murmured, peering at him with curiosity. "Your soul fell between the cracks—slipping from the cycle of life and death… into this place."
Orion blinked, his form slowly stabilizing as her presence anchored him.
"Where… am I?" he asked, voice hoarse as if unused for centuries.
"The Void Between," the woman answered, folding her hands over her heart. "A place meant for no one. You were supposed to arrive in the afterlife, guided gently to your next rest. But… somehow, you drifted here instead."
She moved closer, eyes glowing with ancient compassion. "Forgive me. I should have reached you sooner. Time doesn't flow the same in this place. From your perspective… it's been a very long while."
"…Years," Orion murmured. "Decades, maybe."
She nodded solemnly, then extended a hand. "May I?"
Orion gave the faintest nod. The woman gently touched his forehead.
His memories flashed before her eyes—his struggles, his sacrifices. The comics he devoured. The anime he binge-watched on rainy weekends. The light novels and manhuas that carried him away from hardship into fantasy. Heroes with systems, climbing towers, exploring dungeons.
The goddess's lips curved with gentle sorrow. "You suffered so much in silence. Escaped into pages because your world offered so little peace."
She bowed her head. "I'm sorry. I truly am."
Orion's voice trembled. "Why are you showing me this?"
"Because I want to make it right."
Her voice deepened with promise. "I cannot return you to your old world. The laws of existence forbid it until you have ascended. But I can send you somewhere new. Somewhere shaped by the very stories you loved. With rules and powers you once only imagined."
Orion blinked, stunned. "What… what do you mean?"
The woman smiled softly. "A new beginning. A transmigration."
His heart lurched. "No… wait. Please. I still have people I need to protect. My family. My siblings. The girl…"
"I know," she whispered. "But I'm sorry. Returning is impossible now. Not until you climb high enough to challenge the Tower itself. Only then can you return to your origin."
She paused, then gasped—eyes shining with realization. "Yes… I know the perfect world for you. A world that still permits ascension. You will not be locked away forever. You *can* find your way back—if you're strong enough."
His breath caught. A sliver of hope pierced the void.
"Will I ever see them again?" he whispered.
She smiled. "Yes. But I cannot tell you when, or how. Just climb. Survive. Ascend."
"…Then tell me," Orion said, voice steadier now, "tell me about this world."
The light grew around her. She stepped forward fully—divine aura coalescing into shape.
"I am Elaria," she said. "The Everheart Matron. Goddess of Life, Death, and Reincarnation."
Orion felt warmth wrap around his soul like a healing balm.
"Once, I was like you," she continued. "Mortal. A healer from a proud world that rejected the Tower. We thought we were strong… until the Tower sent dungeons. Then sieges. My home crumbled. My people died. I stepped into the Tower not to conquer—but to preserve."
She raised her hands. "I climbed not with blade or war, but with compassion. I healed. I sacrificed. I brought peace where others brought ruin. And the Tower… acknowledged me."
Elaria's image changed—showing her standing beneath a twilight forest, rivers of light flowing beside her.
"After centuries, I claimed a Domain Floor: 897. The Evergarden. A sanctuary of rebirth. Where souls of the selfless are honored. Where you, Orion, belong."
He was silent, humbled by her presence.
"I cannot give you a system," she said gently. "That belongs to the Tower. When it arrives in a world, those who *choose to climb it* gain the system first. If they refuse, the Tower sends dungeons fifty years later—and those who enter them receive the system then. Another fifty years of refusal… and sieges begin. The survivors of those also gain the system. That is the Tower's law. Not mine."
"Then what… can you give me?" Orion asked.
Elaria smiled. "A gift. One only I can offer."
"What kind of gift?"
"The power to make wishes," she said simply. "A minimum of two. The number depends on the strength of your soul—and yours has grown greatly from enduring the Void. You cannot ask for anything that would destroy a world or greater, nor can you wish to return home directly. But anything else within your soul's capacity… is yours to request."
Orion's eyes widened. "I can make wishes…?"
"Yes. But not yet. Before you transmigrate, you may speak them. For now, you must understand what lies ahead."
He straightened, steady for the first time in ages.
"Then… tell me about the world."
The void pulsed with light as Elaria raised her hand, weaving the threads of fate.
And so, her tale began.