Merlin immediately got up from his bed, his gaze immediately locking onto the mysterious gate that had appeared out of nowhere. In the stillness of the night, it stood like a piece of the sun itself had descended into his room. Bright light poured from within, but strangely, it didn't illuminate the space around it—its glow was contained, as if it had boundaries beyond which it couldn't reach.
What… is that? His heart and mind raced. Did I die? Is this the end? The gate to heaven? He calmed his breath… No, this isn't right. If I am dead, where is the pain? Where is the judgment, peace, or punishment? This is not death.
As if to mock his skepticism, the air became more intense, pressing down on him like an unseen force. Then, Merlin saw it. Inside the gate, amidst the blinding light, a colossal eye, just observing. Its pupil, surrounded by ever-shifting rings, was unnervingly vivid. Its gaze, disturbing, watching, waiting.
Merlin's chest tightened. "What in the hell…" he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. The weight of the eye's gaze was suffocating. Yet, for all its intensity, it bore no malice—just a profound, unsettling curiosity. Its gaze was as if trying to reach outside, to no avail. Merlin wasn't even sure if it looked at him.
This is absurd. A gate like this doesn't just… appear. Not on Earth. Not anywhere… His thoughts quickly turned into theories, each more foolish than the last.
But why would a gate open here? Why me? Then it struck him… It may be the dagger, no, actually that phrase… "As Above So Below, Fate Beholds No truths." The words echoed in his mind, resonating like a bell tower's ring.
His thoughts were racing, flipping between questions and half-baked theories as he felt a strange pressure on his senses. The silence in the room was suffocating; only his own silent breaths and cautious footsteps filled the void as he got closer to the gate.
At last, he stood just before it, trying to peer inside, to see what might lie beyond the gate, but the illuminary light made it impossible to see beyond for him, only leaving the watchful eye, staring vividly.
Just before Merlin reached out to the gate, he froze, realizing he was still in his pajamas and had forgotten his dagger.
"Oh? Going inside while wearing pajamas and being watched like this is a little embarrassing, so I think it would be better if I got dressed."
He turned back towards the bed, intent on grabbing his clothes and the dagger, but then stopped immediately, terrified. There, lying still beneath the moonlight… was his own body.
He gasped. "Am I actually… dead?"
He began panicking as he stumbled towards his own body, trying to make sense of the scene. What? He laughed lightly, but there was no meaning in it. "This can't be it, right?"
He reached out, his hand trembling as he moved it towards his chest. However, his fingers moved through his body without making contact, and Merlin felt a chill run down his body. "Ah!" He let out a childish scream as he backed out.
"This isn't looking good… I might actually be dead," he muttered, though he wasn't ready to believe it. But then an idea hit him. Maybe I'm dreaming… Maybe this isn't real.
If this was a dream, there would be some inconsistency, some way to prove it. He opened his eyes and looked around, trying to focus on details. Everything felt far too vivid, too precise to be the product of his subconscious. The room was unchanged—the bed, the wardrobe, the faint glow of moonlight streaking through the window—all tangible, all real.
With one last hope, Merlin held his hands in front of him. In dreams, they were never quite right, so he started counting.
One, two, three, six, nine… ten. He had ten fingers. Merlin clenched his fists, taking a slow, steadying breath… This isn't a dream, but it's not death either.
He got closer to his own body, to his face, and listened. He was still breathing, slowly but surely. He was alive. A strange relief washed over him as he noticed the slow rise and fall of his chest.
My body is still here; it's just… asleep. This must be something else. My soul, separated from my body, free-roaming or spectating?
He backed up and attempted to touch the dagger beside his body. As before, his hand passed right through it, confirming the surreal truth once again.
He wanted to take a closer look at the dagger to see if it had any unusual changes or if it really was the cause of the gate's opening, but he gave up on the idea for obvious reasons.
He sighed in resignation, his gaze shifting back to the gate. "If I can't interact with anything in this state, then I have no other choice…"
Merlin soon fell silent. He turned back to the gate and stepped closer, the light from within illuminating his form. The pressure from the gate grew heavier, the eye's silent observation a constant, oppressive presence.
With one final breath and a last glance at his sleeping body behind him, he stepped into the light, leaving all certainty behind.
…
The night sky stretched infinitely above him, a sea of stars glowing with an ethereal brilliance. The Crescent Moon hung in the heavens, its silver light illuminating everything in a soft, otherworldly glow.
It was neither day nor night—it was a time suspended, an existence caught between moments. And Merlin, or the man who used the nickname "Merlin," had just taken his first step forward.
A pain surged through him. He had felt this before—when he first woke in this borrowed body. Was it his head that was in pain, his thoughts, or his flesh?
No. His soul was throbbing with the sharp, tearing sensation of pain. Something unknown and unseen pulling the core of his very soul. He was uncertain and afraid. He felt like he was going to lose his mind. But then, he opened his eyes slowly.
Beneath him stretched a surface that defied understanding. Was he standing on water, a dense fog, or was he standing at all?
He did not know. It was solid enough to hold him yet intangible, like standing on the edge of a fever dream.
Merlin's gaze wandered, drawn to the endless sea of stars shimmering above, then, his gaze moved below on the ground, it was as though he stood on fog made of water. Around him was the unyielding sea of fog, blending beautifully with the starry reflections on the ground.
Above, illuminating all was the Eternal Crescent Moon, solitary in the sky, its silver glow touching every corner, dissolving shadows wherever its light reached.
"Beautiful…" he whispered, his voice barely audible. For a moment, he was distracted by the sheer majesty of it all. The sky, the stars, the fog—they were so achingly beautiful that they seemed almost as if crafted deliberately by a divine hand.
Then, he felt it.
The gaze.
It wasn't the quiet observation he had sensed before. This was direct, piercing, as if his very soul had been stripped bare. The source was unmistakable—the eye. It hung above, looming with an unnatural clarity.
Merlin was now standing in the center of a harsh, unyielding spotlight that isolated him from the endless sea. He was the actor on the stage, the puppet under the gaze of a cruel puppeteer.
It didn't move. It didn't blink. But it saw.
So, Merlin took another step forward, and the spotlight followed him. He had no direction, no clear destination. He moved guided by instinct alone, the faint pull of something deep within him. He did not wish to question nor to speak. He merely continued walking forward, slowly.
With the third step, The energy drained from his body as if the very act of movement wasted his life force. He did not want to move forward. He had no motivation.
Merlin was about to stop, but then, in the distance, he saw it—a throne. A faint, delicate shape gleaming under the moonlight. He was yet to be emptied from his determination, so he continued.
He stepped again.
The fourth step brought regret. The hope sparked by the throne's appearance was extinguished, replaced by bitterness and dissatisfaction.
Why had he come here? Why had he stepped through the gate? He felt the weight of his choices pressing down on him, suffocating and inescapable.
Strangely enough, the throne was much closer than before. Nothing made sense, yet Merlin kept moving forward.
Merlin took another step—his eyes reflecting the moonlight, getting much closer to the throne yet again, and the spotlight still following him.
Each step brought him nearer. By the fifth, he was almost there. His mind was clouded with anxiety, he was unsettled, and he was worried, worried that everything was naught and nothing was imaginary.
He saw more now—large, indistinct columns standing abreast at each side, a large round table close to the throne, and seats all around it.
By the sixth step, the throne was within reach, but his mind was fading away. He could feel himself unraveling, his sense of self breaking apart like sand scattered by the wind. He didn't even notice the laurel wreath resting upon the throne until he stood just before it. Merlin could now only think of reaching the throne.
But why was he feeling like he was about to die? Was it worth it? He wasn't even sure who he was anymore. But he kept going.
And then, the final step.
He reached for the laurel wreath. It was simple yet elegant, glowing faintly under the moonlight.
Etched on the inside were two words: "Vanitas" and "Zenon". His fingers brushed over the letters as if touching them might awaken something long forgotten.
His breath caught. These were not just names—they were "his" names. The truth of who he was, buried deep beneath layers of borrowed identity.
But in that moment, he didn't care.
Driven by instinct and the need to complete this journey, he placed the laurel wreath on his head and sat on the throne.
Calm descended upon him like a still ocean after a violent storm. His thoughts cleared, his spirit settled, and for the first time, he felt whole. He took a deep, long breath, the air tasting of clarity and liberation.
He was "Merlin" no more. He was Vanitas Zenon, fully conscious and aware.
Then came the scream.
A horrid, guttural sound pierced the silence as the eye above began to crumble, and the spotlight began fading away.
The black pupil melted like wax, streaks of darkness pouring downwards. The iris, once a vibrant blue, was veined with blood, and the concentric rings surrounding it cracked and fragmented.
After a few seconds, the grotesque disintegration reached its peak in an instant of blinding light—an explosion as brilliant as the sun.
And then, silence.
The sky remained as it was, a sea of endless stars. The Crescent Moon still hung beautifully above. The strange twilight was calm, timeless and serene.
Vanitas Zenon finally sat in his throne, alone, the light of the Eternal Crescent casting long shadows around him.
…
"This is my first day…" Vanitas muttered to himself, a chuckle escaping his lips as he leaned back on the throne.
The absurdity of everything he had experienced left him no choice but to laugh. He was feeling a strange mix of disbelief and acceptance within him.
What is this place? What was that eye? No, most importantly… He reached up and carefully removed the laurel wreath from his head, holding it up to examine it more closely.
"This is my real name."
Why would my name be inscribed on a laurel wreath in a place like this? How is that even possible? I do not understand at all.
Vanitas frowned, trying to piece together the puzzle.
"Did Solomon know?"
It was entirely plausible. Solomon could have chosen not to write Vanitas' name on the parchment even though he had claimed ignorance about it.
With a sigh, he placed the laurel wreath down gently on the round table in front of him and rose from the throne.
His crimson gaze roamed around—the throne's intricate design, the gleaming silver round table, the towering columns stretching into the endless sky, and the serene moonlight casting everything in an ethereal glow.
Vanitas looked up, searching for a trace of the eye that had been observing him, But there was nothing—only the infinite stretch of the starry night sky.
The eye had vanished, leaving no sign of its existence. Had it been destroyed? Had it fled? Or perhaps it had never truly existed.
The answers wouldn't come from mere speculation. Vanitas lowered his gaze, his thoughts swirling, and began to walk around.
His steps led him first to the silver round table. His fingers brushed across its surface, tracing its smooth, clean surface. Then, Vanitas turned his attention to the throne itself, drawn to its rigid, commanding presence.
Moving closer, he placed his hand on its surface, feeling the intricate craftsmanship beneath his fingertips.
Circling behind it, Vanitas paused. There, carved into the back of the throne, was an elven star—its seven points etched with an extraordinary precision into the silver surface.
The design caught his breath. It was a shape he knew well, one that he used in a specific ritual before he transmigrated.
Vanitas extended his right hand towards the star, his fingers hesitating just before touching it. The pattern was unmistakable.
"This is the shape I used in that ritual…" His thoughts rushed, heavy with disbelief. "There's no way this star and my half-baked 'ritual' are connected. Right?"
But as his hand drew nearer, his gaze shifted towards his wrist. The mark that had always been there, a serpent devouring its own tail, was gone.
His eyes shifted between the bare skin of his wrist and the star carved into the throne. The realization struck him like a thunderclap, leaving him more puzzled than ever.
"Where did the mark go? I never paid much attention to it, but if I remember correctly, it symbolized the cycle of death and rebirth. But why would it vanish here, of all places?"
He clenched his fist, his frustration raising by the minute. Everything was happening too quickly—too many revelations, too many questions, and not a single answer. His thoughts were in chaos, the weight of it all threatening to break his composure.
Vanitas sighed deeply, the sound echoing faintly in the vast emptiness around him.
"There's a reason for everything. There has to be."
Yet, as he stood there, staring at the elven star and the unmarked wrist, the room seemed to press in closer. For the first time, the throne felt less like a destination and more like a question—a riddle carved in silver, one he was nowhere near ready to answer.
With the intention of clearing his thoughts and calming down, Vanitas took a seat on the throne. He sat and began pondering as he watched the stars. He was feeling more and more tired with every second that had passed.
"Let me go over this whole damn thing," Vanitas muttered, a faint chuckle escaping his lips. "I read something carved on a damn piece of blade, and magically some kind of portal opened. Then, I discovered that I became a ghost. I stepped through the gate, some crazy shit that I don't understand happened to me, and I finally ended up here…"
"This is too tiring." He sighed loudly as he continued watching the stars. "Question after question after question, and not even a single answer. And honestly, I doubt there's anyone out there who can answer me right now."
As he pondered, his eyes wandered across the heavens, tracing the endless constellations. Then, something unusual caught his attention—a star among the sea of lights. Unlike the rest, this one shone more brightly, unnaturally so, than the others.
The star pulsed as if alive, its light almost pleading, as though trying to call him, to communicate something.
"What a beautiful star." Vanitas said in a soft manner.
Compelled by its glow, he raised a hand towards it, his fingers outstretched as though trying to grasp it. A faint smile crossed his lips as he clenched his hand into a loose fist.
Vanitas slowly lowered his arm, letting out a quiet sigh. He couldn't just sit there doing nothing—he didn't even know why he was in this strange place. He needed to find a way out.
But as he turned to look around, something caught his attention. The brightly glowing star he had been watching was gone.
He froze, staring up at the sky. How could a star just disappear? His mind raced through possible explanations. Maybe the star had burned out, and he had somehow witnessed its death. Or perhaps something had blocked his view, or a black hole had swallowed it.
Still, none of it made sense. The time it would take for the light from the star to stop reaching him was far too long for it to vanish so suddenly.
"Heh, it's like I just stole the star," he muttered with a small chuckle. The idea was absurd, but the thought lingered, oddly amusing. "It'd be pretty funny if I actually did."
Curious, he looked down at his closed hand. Slowly, carefully, he opened his fingers.
His breath caught.
Sitting in his palm was a tiny, glowing orb of light. It pulsed softly, like a heartbeat, shining with an intense brilliance that made his surroundings seem dim in comparison.
"There's no way," he whispered, his voice filled with disbelief.
But the evidence was right there in his hand. His shock quickly turned into laughter—loud, unrestrained, and full of amazement.
"There's no fucking way!" he said again, staring at the little star in his palm, its light warm and alive.
Then, as Vanitas held the glowing star, a scenery appeared in his vision—a girl with white hair, lying peacefully under sunlight by a calm lake. She looked serene, untouched by the chaos that surrounded Vanitas' thoughts.
Without giving Vanitas much time to think about what was happening, the little star began floating, slipping from his hand and moving towards the round table.
With each passing second, it grew larger, its light expanding and becoming more bright. Then, the star descended gently into the nearest seat to the right of the throne.
Its light softened, the light materializing into the girl Vanitas "saw."
She now sat there, her white hair falling down over her shoulders, her expression calm as she slept peacefully.