The first time Shree Heng died, it was sudden and ordinary—a simple accident, a moment of carelessness. The screech of tires, the shattering of glass, and the heavy silence that followed marked the end of a life unremarkable. He was a student, nameless in the grand scheme of things, destined for a life of mediocrity. And yet, in that fleeting moment, as his vision blurred and the world faded, Shree Heng felt something stir deep within him.
Death, he realized, was not an end.
He awoke in a place that defied comprehension—a world both vivid and cruel, where the air itself carried the weight of despair. Rana. A world so brutally indifferent that every breath felt like a rebellion against its merciless design. Here, survival was not a right but a privilege, earned through blood, cunning, and the sacrifice of others.
Shree Heng was no hero. In the first 200 years of his existence in Rana, he was little more than prey—hunted, broken, and forced to endure unspeakable horrors. The weak in Rana were not simply discarded; they were consumed, their suffering a spectacle for those strong enough to watch without flinching. But Shree Heng endured. Not because he was strong, but because he refused to vanish.
Time passed, and with it, Shree Heng's fear turned to resolve, his suffering to ambition. He became something else—a being shaped by the cruelty of Rana, a man who shed every illusion of morality to embrace the brutal truths of survival. Yet even as he clawed his way to power, there remained a hunger within him, a gnawing void that no victory could fill.
Immortality. Eternal life. Freedom from the illusion of Rana.
These were the dreams that consumed him, even as the world mocked his ambition. In Rana, nothing was eternal. Not power. Not life. Not even the gods who ruled from their lofty heights. But Shree Heng was not deterred. If the world offered no path to eternity, then he would carve one himself.
He sought the forbidden, delving into ancient ruins and forgotten tomes, bargaining with spirits that thrived on the despair of mortals. He experimented with life and death, bending the fragile line between them until it was unrecognizable. And when the world pushed back, when it sent its most terrible creations to snuff him out, Shree Heng stood unyielding.
Six hundred years later, he had become a shadow of the man he once was—a coward, haunted by the ghosts of his failures, clinging to fragments of power in a world that had long since consumed his hope. But then came the garland, a relic of unimaginable power, hidden within the depths of Rana. Legends spoke of its ability to reverse time itself, to offer its bearer a second chance.
With a Rana insect as his guide, Shree Heng found the garland and grasped it with trembling hands. In that moment, as time unraveled and the weight of centuries lifted, Shree Heng made a vow:
This time, he would not falter. This time, he would not cower.
The illusions of Rana would break beneath his will, and he would claim the eternity he so desperately sought.
Even if it meant destroying the world to do so.