Luka had always been pitiful. From the moment he first picked up a sword, it was clear he was born lacking the natural grace and strength that defined a warrior. But somehow, fate—or perhaps cruel irony—had placed him at the queen's side.
The memory of meeting her was seared into his soul, a beacon of light in an otherwise bleak existence. It was the first time someone had seen him, truly seen him, beyond his trembling hands and faltering steps.
The day they met had been a fluke. He was no one then—just a scrawny recruit barely scraping by in the ranks of the kingdom's soldiers. The other men had made a sport of him. They called him names, tripped him during drills, and shoved him into the mud. Every bruise, every scrape, was another reminder of his inadequacy. He was the runt of the pack, the one no one believed would last a day on the battlefield.
And yet, she had chosen him.
The memory unfolded vividly in his mind, as if he were reliving it. It was a crisp morning, the kind where the air carried the faint promise of winter. Luka had been practicing alone in the courtyard, his wooden sword clutched tightly in his hands. His arms ached from endless repetitions, the sting of humiliation driving him to push harder, train longer, until his body gave out.
"Why do you keep at it?"
The voice had startled him. It was soft yet commanding, the kind that demanded attention without raising in volume. Luka had turned to find her standing there, her gown shimmering in the early sunlight, her gaze piercing yet kind.
He froze.
She wasn't supposed to be there. A queen didn't wander into the soldiers' training grounds. Yet there she was, watching him with an expression he couldn't quite place.
"I—" His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard, gripping the wooden sword tighter. "I'm trying to get better, Your Majesty."
Her lips curved into a faint smile. "Even when no one believes in you?"
Luka's grip faltered. The question struck a chord he hadn't realized existed. He looked down, ashamed. "Especially then," he muttered.
Her laughter was soft, a sound that warmed the cold edges of his soul. "Good," she said, stepping closer. "You'll need that."
To this day, he didn't understand why she had chosen him. Perhaps it was pity. Perhaps she saw something in him that no one else did. Whatever the reason, she had insisted he become her guard. It was a decision that shocked the entire court.
"Luka?" one of the senior guards had sneered, his voice dripping with derision. "The queen must have lost her mind. He can't even hold a sword properly without shaking."
The laughter that followed had been cruel and cutting, but Luka endured it. He didn't care what they thought. All that mattered was serving her, proving that her faith in him wasn't misplaced.
But proving himself wasn't easy. The other guards made sure of that.
They left his armor dented and his weapons dull, sabotaging him at every turn. During sparring matches, they didn't hold back, taking pleasure in beating him down in front of everyone. They called him the queen's pet, a joke, a disgrace to their ranks.
And yet, he stayed.
Every insult, every blow, only fueled his determination. He trained long after the others had gone to bed, his muscles screaming in protest as he repeated the same drills over and over. His hands bled, his body ached, but he kept going. He had to.
For her.
He told himself it would be worth it. That someday, he would stand between her and danger, a shield she could rely on. He clung to that hope, even as the years passed and his progress remained pitifully slow.
It wasn't enough.
When the attack came, he was still the same trembling boy in a soldier's uniform, clutching his sword like it was the only thing tethering him to reality. He had sworn to protect her, to give his life for her if necessary. But when the moment came, all he could do was watch as they tore her world apart.
Luka's thoughts spiraled, each memory dragging him deeper into the abyss of his failures. He remembered the countless nights he spent training until his body gave out, the bruises he endured, the shame he swallowed. All for nothing.
I thought I could save her.
The weight of that realization was crushing. He had poured every ounce of himself into becoming stronger, into being the man she deserved by her side. But in the end, he was just as weak as everyone said he was.
His monologue wove through his mind like a ghost, a haunting echo of everything he had lost. I was a fool to think I could protect her. A fool to believe I was anything more than a broken, useless boy pretending to be a soldier.
His death had been meaningless, a pathetic end to a pathetic life. He hadn't saved her. He hadn't avenged her. All he did was fail, again and again.
As the weight of his failures pressed down on him, something shifted.
A sliver of sensation pierced the void, sharp and undeniable. Luka's awareness stirred, like a spark struggling to ignite. He dismissed it at first, convinced it was some cruel trick of his mind.
But then his eyes fluttered open.
He saw... darkness.
A darkness so absolute it felt like a suffocating weight pressing down on him. For a moment, he wasn't even sure he had opened them at all. His chest heaved, his breaths shallow and uneven as he struggled to make sense of where he was.
Am I alive? Dead? Somewhere in between?
His fingers twitched against the cold, smooth surface beneath him. It wasn't stone, wood, or dirt—nothing tangible or familiar. It was alien, like glass but softer, warmer. He sat up cautiously, every muscle in his body aching with the phantom weight of a blade that had already taken his life.
Then, it appeared.
A faint glow pierced the oppressive darkness, shimmering like an ember ignited in the void. It grew steadily, taking shape in front of him—a screen, glowing with pale, silvery light. The letters on it were sharp and angular, almost alive as they flickered in and out of focus. Luka squinted, his heart pounding as he read the words that slowly formed.
Welcome, Luka.
This is your second chance.
He froze, his mind spinning.
Second chance?
The words blurred as he blinked, the glow casting harsh shadows across his pale face. More lines materialized beneath the first, each one striking like a dagger to the heart:
A game has begun.
Only the winner earns the right to return.
For a soul as pitiful as yours…
Victory is your only hope.
Luka's breath hitched. The screen's glow seemed to pulse, as if responding to the rapid beat of his heart.
"Pitiful," he whispered, the word lodging in his throat like a splinter.
It wasn't wrong. He had spent his entire life being told he was pitiful, worthless, a mistake. Yet seeing it there, cold and indifferent, etched into this strange screen, made something inside him crack.
More words appeared, and this time, they shattered him completely:
The winner has a second chance at life.
That single, stark sentence made his body tremble. His lips parted as a shaky breath escaped, his vision swimming with unshed tears.
Second chance at... Life.
It was so simple, so profound, that it didn't seem real. Luka's hands clutched his chest, fingers digging into the fabric of his tunic as though grounding himself could make this tangible. He tried to speak, but no words came. Instead, the tears spilled over, warm and unrelenting, carving paths down his cheeks.
His shoulders shook as the floodgates opened, the sobs tearing through him like a storm he couldn't stop.
All the shame, the failure, the hopelessness he had carried through his life—it poured out of him, raw and unfiltered. He didn't know if he cried out of relief or despair, but in that moment, he didn't care.
Because for the first time, Luka felt something he had thought he had lost forever: hope.
It was fragile, like a candle's flame in the wind, but it was there. It burned brightly in the darkness, illuminating the shattered pieces of his soul.
His lips trembled as he forced out a whisper, the sound breaking in the stillness. "A second chance… to save her?"
The screen didn't respond. It remained silent, its eerie glow casting an otherworldly light over his tear-streaked face.
Luka didn't need an answer. The words were etched into his mind, into his very being. He wasn't sure if he deserved this chance, but the mere possibility of redemption, of proving himself worthy, was enough to make his broken heart beat again.
He wiped at his face with trembling hands, his breaths still uneven. He felt weak, unworthy, but also… alive.
Luka stared at the screen, his tears drying as resolve slowly replaced despair.
The winner has a second chance at life.
It wasn't just a promise—it was a challenge.
Whatever this game was, whatever it demanded of him, Luka would see it through. He had failed so many times before, but this time, he wouldn't. He couldn't.
The thought brought a bitter smile to his lips.
The screen flickered, its glow intensifying as new words appeared:
You have one choice.
Play… or disappear.
Luka swallowed hard, his pulse pounding in his ears. Disappear. The finality of that word sent a chill down his spine. If he chose not to play, it wouldn't just be death—it would be oblivion.
His hands clenched into fists, his knuckles white against the faint light. He couldn't go back to nothingness. He wouldn't.
He took a deep breath, his voice steady despite the storm raging inside him. "I'll play."
The screen responded instantly, its glow shifting to a brilliant white. Luka winced, shielding his eyes as the light engulfed him.
A low and haunting voice echoed.
Welcome to the game, Luka.