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A shadow could be seen scurrying away from something in an empty, dark, and lonely alley. The torrential rain muffled the person's footsteps and heavy breathing as their shadow disappeared.

If one looked closely at the pavement from where the shadow had come, the rainwater flowing there was mixed with something else. It was hard to determine what mingled with the grime washed away by the rain, but as one stepped closer to inspect, the smell of rust and iron could be detected in the air by anyone passing by.

The source of that smell was a pool of blood merging with the rain as if the blood's source could produce an infinite supply. It flowed nonstop, the color changing from bright red to dark red as more blood gushed from the source.

Deep in the alley, devoid of light and warmth, lay a body—a human body. One would assume it was a corpse, but not yet. A slight movement from its chest showed that the owner of the body was still alive.

The body sprawled lifelessly on the cold, wet pavement, its clothes tattered, and shoes, worn and torn over the years, were thrown a distance from the body.

Everyone living in the city could hear thunder alongside the pitter-patter of the rain. It was always followed by lightning, the only source of light for this alley and this body.

Based on the body's masculine features and secondary sexual characteristics, it was a male, about twenty to thirty years of age. The body showed signs of severe malnutrition, suggesting he might be older than he appeared.

His exposed skin was littered with old and new injuries, evidenced by fresh wounds and old scars from already-healed injuries. The injuries were a mixture of slash and blunt force wounds.

Blood was flowing from his abdomen, with multiple wounds visible. He had been stabbed several times in different quadrants of his lower torso.

Humans instinctively cover their wounds to apply pressure to lessen or prevent bleeding and promote blood clotting, but the man did not do so. He might have severed some nerves, causing his limbs to be paralyzed.

The man's chest rose and fell with force, showing his determination to live. Other than his chest, his eyes moved, his golden irises glowing with anger.

He looked at the heavy clouds covering his beloved moonlight, trying to bury his body. He could only feel the rain on his face as the world tried to wash away his existence.

"No. I refuse. I refuse," the owner of the body thought strongly.

The rise and fall of his chest slowed down, and his eyes lost their luster.

"I will live!"

He lost too much blood as time passed, and his internal organs began shutting down one by one.

"I will live!"

Even with his strong will, his body was exhausted, and his chest stopped functioning.

"I will live!"

With his last breath, he whispered a word.

"𛲠⃞⃞⃞⃞⃞⃞⃞"

In his desperation, he remembered the most memorable and only happy moment of his childhood.

Someone, perhaps his father, was reading a children's book beside him while he was warmly tucked in bed by that person. He forgot what the children's book looked like, but he could still remember its title until now.

The Myth of the Nameless God.

His eyes were watery as Mr. Sandman visited early that night, and he had eaten his fill before brushing his teeth.

He was tired from playing with all his favorite toys and had spent the whole day with that person.

It was the one and the only happy moment in his life: Eight hours out of three hundred six thousand and six hundred hours of being alive.

Before his brain stopped working, he heard a question.

"What is your wish?"

…

The body lost all signs of life as the last remaining warmth left it.

Next to the body stood another man—the one who asked the question.

He had long black hair reaching his soles that did not reflect the lightning's brightness. He wore a metallic rose gold-colored loose robe that exposed his upper body and loose dark trousers that looked comfortable to lounge in.

In addition to metal and gem jewelry, he wore nothing else, not even footwear. However, he didn't need shoes or slippers since his feet did not touch the ground.

The rain seemed afraid of him because no water touched any part of his body or clothes.

He was standing when he asked the dying man the question but was now crouched near the body.

His androgynous, handsome, jade-like face wore a bewildered expression, and his pale complexion was even paler than before.

"What was your wish?" the man asked the lifeless body again.

He asked the second time, not because he hadn't heard the wish but because, in his opinion, it was absurd. This was the first time someone had requested such a wish.

Earlier, the dying man didn't need to utter a word or think of his wish. The wish came from his soul—the center of his soul's origin.

The wish?

"Let's live a happy life in a fantasy world, Father."

The wish granter plucked the soul and sniffed it to understand the vague wish he had just heard.

The wish?

"To be reborn in a fantasy world with you as my father who loves me dearly until the end of my natural life."

Achoo—

"F*ck."

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