huff... huff...
A figure dragged itself across the sand.
The sun was setting, bathing the world in shades of amber and gold. It was beautiful. Perfect, even. The kind of sunset that made people stop and stare, that made them write poetry or take pictures or call their loved ones.
huff... huff...
The figure's name was Nero. Nero Sylla.
Today, Nero had decided he was going to die. By drowning, specifically.
It was supposed to be peaceful, poetic even - just him, the waves and that perfect sunset. Instead, he'd somehow managed to get attacked by a troll.
A troll, of all things, on his carefully chosen quiet beach.
The irony that he'd fought so hard to stay alive against something that could have done his job for him wasn't lost on him. But getting his head repeatedly smashed against rocks hadn't been part of the plan. He had standards, after all.
Except now his body had failed him. Again. Just as he'd finally dealt with the troll and worked up the courage to finish things properly, the chair's systems had crashed. And now here he was, crawling through blood-stained sand, unable even to die right.
The final reading of the connected wheelchair flashed through his mind:
CRITICAL SYSTEM FAILURE
Mana Stability: 12% [DANGEROUS]
Neural Sync: ERROR
Life Support: OFFLINE
Connection Lost...
At least he'd made it to the beach.
He couldn't breathe right. Each gasp tore through his lungs like broken glass, leaving the taste of blood in his mouth. The sand felt wrong under his hands - coarse and wet with something that wasn't just seawater.
His legs wouldn't work. Hadn't worked since the fall, or maybe it was the explosion. Everything after the screaming started was a blur. He forced another handful of sand behind him, dragging his body forward.
The sea breeze carried salt and rot and the beach stretched out ahead, empty except for the bodies. So many bodies. The tide was trying to take them, pulling at uniforms and civilian clothes alike. A knight's armor, somehow still pristine except for the dark stains, bobbed in the surf.
War didn't care about perfect sunsets or final moments. War just left things broken.
Another push. Another few inches gained.
His chest hurt. The diagnostic warnings had gone quiet minutes ago. Or hours. Time wasn't working right anymore.
"Just... a little... more..."
His voice also didn't sound right anymore. Too weak. Too old. Each word cost him more breath than he could spare, but the silence was worse. The silence meant hearing the waves lap against dead things.
Something massive lay half-submerged near the pier. Probably a leviathan. Best not to look at it. Best not to remember what it did before the artillery finally brought it down. Best not to think about the sounds it made.
Blood dripped onto sand. His blood, this time. A cough wracked his body, and for a moment the world went dark around the edges.
It hurt. It hurt so much.
But he kept crawling. One hand in front of the other. Away from the bodies. Away from the thing in the water. Away.
Just a little more.
He could almost hear the echoes of laughter, see the ghostly outlines of those long-gone structures. The phantom sensation of sand between his toes, the warmth of the sun on his skin, the salty air that engulfed his lungs - all these memories washed over him, as relentless and bittersweet as the tide itself.
Seventy-nine years of life. A lifetime for most, an eternity for some.
Few were those who could boast of such longevity, and fewer still who'd want to, given the circumstances. Nero Sylla's case was, to put it mildly, a surprise to everyone - himself included.
At 79 years old, Nero had been sick for 67 of those years. A record, perhaps, though not one anyone would be eager to claim. It had started when he was 12, a persistent cough that refused to go away. By 13, he was spending more time in hospital beds than his own. The disease - a rare magical malady that fed on his very life force and mana pool- had been his constant companion ever since.
Despite the odds, Nero had carved out a brilliant career as a mage. Was it talent? Determination? Or just sheer, pig-headed stubbornness? Whatever the reason, the man had refused to give up, even as his body slowly crumbled around him.
He outlived so many people. Family, friends, acquaintances. Had accomplished so many things as a mage.
Yet, Nero felt he had nothing but disappointments to show for it. Disappointments in himself, in others, and something else. Something he couldn't quite put his finger on. Oh well, it would come back to him later. If there was a later.
There wouldn't be.
Unfulfilled dreams, too. So many of those.
This was Sam's dream, actually. To die by the beach.
His vision blurred, then sharpened suddenly, mind crystallizing with a clarity he hadn't felt in years. Ah. Sam. There was a name he hadn't heard or pronounced in... how long? Like Mother. Like Father. All long gone now, so long he couldn't even remember their faces anymore. Just impressions, feelings, the ghost of memories that refused to fade.
A bird picked at something that might have been a decapitated head nearby. Right there, that exact spot - that's where he'd had his first ice cream. Every Sunday, mother and father would bring him here. And there, where that massive thing lay dead in the water, that's where his mana had manifested for the first time.
"This is so cool!" The echo of a voice, young and excited. Sam. His best friend back then.
What had happened between them? They'd been so close. He could still hear Sam's voice, the way he'd tease him constantly, how they'd practice dueling behind the school. How they'd get beaten up by the stronger kids just because. Just like that.
He should have stood up to them.
"Should've... stood up..." The words came out as a wheeze, followed by another cough.
Ah. There it was. The something else he couldn't remember earlier.
Regrets.
Yes. That's what his life could be resumed to.
They piled up like the bodies on this beach, didn't they?
His hearing started to fade, replaced by the thundering of his own heart. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Each beat slower than the last. A countdown he knew too well.
Sweat mixed with blood on his face, despite the cool breeze. Above, a shadow circled - patient, waiting.
Thump-thump.
Fifty-six heart attacks throughout his life. Fifty six near-death experiences. Not many people could put that on their resume. Each one had taken something from him - a bit of liver here, kidney function there, pieces of himself left behind in hospital rooms that became more familiar than his own bedroom.
His arms shook as he tried to pull himself forward again. Failed.