The world was silent in his final moments.
His name had long since become legend—whispered in war camps, sung in taverns, feared in royal courts. He was the man who could split mountains with a single stroke, who once fought an army alone under the crimson moon. But now, he bled alone on a broken battlefield, surrounded by corpses and fire.
He had no name anymore. Not in this moment. Only the title remained—Sword King.
Steel cracked in his chest. A poisoned lance buried itself deeper with every breath. Even so, his fingers clenched tightly around the hilt of his sword. His body, weathered by countless battles, trembled. Not from fear. From regret.
"…So this is it, huh."
His voice was ragged, yet calm. There was no pain in his eyes—only a distant ache. Not for his life, but for a world he could no longer change. A kingdom betrayed him. Comrades abandoned him. In the end, the blade he had devoted everything to could not shield him from treachery.
The sky darkened. Not with clouds, but with something beyond mortality.
The air bent. Reality shivered.
And from the tears in space came light—neither warm nor harsh, but divine. A silhouette descended. Cloaked in stars, adorned in flowing ribbons of ethereal light, the figure looked down upon the dying man.
She did not speak at first. Her presence was truth itself. Her eyes were galaxies—burning with fate.
"Are you… death?" the Sword King asked, coughing blood.
"No," she answered. "I am Aeliatlonia, Goddess of Realms, Warden of the Threads. And you, fallen king of blades, are not fated to end here."
He raised an eyebrow. Even now, skeptical. "Never thought a goddess would waste divinity on a broken tool like me."
"You were never a tool. You were a blade forged for change… but your world was too brittle." Her voice echoed like a choir and thunder in harmony. "So I offer you a second chance. A new realm. A new name. A new destiny."
A swirl of starlight formed before him. A sword—not his old one, but something alive. Its edge shimmered in an abyssal black, leaking motes of darkness that seemed to consume even sound. It pulsed with power, far beyond anything mortal or divine.
Voidrender: Mugen no Kurayami.
"A Soul Gear," she said. "Born of chaos and finality. You alone can wield it. And with it, you shall silence the gods, unmake fate, and shatter all illusions of power."
The Sword King stared at it, eyes narrowing. "Why me?"
"Because you died a man without purpose, but lived a life that defied gods." She extended her hand. "Take it. Reforge yourself. And remember—your true strength lies not in how many you can kill… but in what you choose to protect."
He reached out.
The moment his fingers touched the hilt of Voidrender, the world dissolved. His pain, his memories, his very body unraveled—torn from flesh and reborn in light and shadow.
And then—
He cried.
Not as a warrior. Not as a king.
But as a newborn child, beneath the twin moons of a foreign sky.
Wrapped in silk and royalty. Surrounded by voices calling him—
"Prince Serenil Aetheryn."
The Sword King had died.
A prince was born.
And the legacy of the void had only just begun.