Serian sat by the still waters, watching as the gentle ripples spread across the surface. He did not move, nor did his expression change. His silver hair fall over his shoulder, strands shifting with the faint wind. His violet eyes, calm and unbothered, reflected the world before him—another world at its end.
The recording device in his hands pulsed faintly, absorbing the final moments of this world's history. It was an ancient artifact, shaped from the heart of Ygdrassil itself, its smooth surface etched with intricate symbols that only he could read. The soft glow it emitted was the only illumination in this dark, crumbling place.
Above him, the golden leaves of Ygdrassil drifted downward, landing silently upon the grass. The great World Tree loomed overhead, its massive roots weaving through dimensions, its branches stretching far beyond what the eye could see. It had stood since the beginning, its presence unwavering. Just like Serian.
He lifted his gaze slightly, observing the desolate horizon. The cities, once vibrant and full of life, had turned to ruin. Twisted monsters roamed the streets, remnants of what was once human. The air was thick with the remnants of destruction—echoes of screams, distant fires, and the slow collapse of civilization.
Serian had seen this many times before. He had recorded countless worlds, watching them rise, thrive, and inevitably fall. It was nothing new.
A quiet sigh escaped his lips. He turned his attention back to the device, fingers gliding over its surface as it continued to capture the world's final moments.
"Another one," he murmured, speaking not to himself, but to the presence beside him.
The wind carried his words through the silent space. The golden leaves stirred. And then, a voice—ancient, deep, yet neither warm nor cold—whispered in response.
It is fate.
Serian's violet eyes flickered slightly, but his expression remained unchanged. Fate. The same answer as always.
His fingers paused over the glowing surface of the device. "Fate," he repeated, testing the word as if it were foreign to him. "Is that all it is?"
Ygdrassil's leaves rustled in response, a hum of energy vibrating through the air.
It is the way of all things. The cycle continues. They rise. They fall. It is as it has always been.
Serian tilted his head slightly, as if considering this. His gaze returned to the ruined city in the distance.
"The same pattern, again and again," he mused softly. "They build, they fight, they destroy themselves. No matter the world, the result is always the same."
The air around him shifted, as though the very essence of Ygdrassil responded to his words.
They are bound to their nature. This is their fate.
Serian let his gaze linger on the destruction before him. He did not feel sadness, nor anger, nor disappointment. Only curiosity.
"They strive so hard," he observed, his tone neutral. "Even in their final moments, they struggle. Even when there is no hope, they continue to move forward."
The hum of Ygdrassil deepened, as though acknowledging his words.
Because they do not know their fate. They believe in choice. In hope.
Serian remained silent for a moment, then blinked slowly. "Hope…" He tested the word, letting it settle in the air between them. "An illusion?"
Perhaps.
He did not respond immediately. Instead, he continued watching, recording, observing.
Minutes passed. The final remnants of civilization flickered out one by one. The fires dimmed. The last human cries faded. The monsters, aimless without their prey, wandered through the ruins.
The world had fallen.
Serian, as always, recorded it all.
When the device in his hands finally dimmed, signaling that the process was complete, he leaned back against Ygdrassil's massive trunk. His gaze lifted to the sky—a sky without stars. Only emptiness stretched above him, an endless void reflecting the silence of a world that had reached its end.
He sat there, unmoving, unfeeling. Just existing.
Then, after a long pause, he spoke again.
"Ygdrassil."
The tree responded with a faint, melodic hum.
Serian's voice remained quiet, even, his words neither urgent nor heavy with emotion. "Why do they always destroy what they create?"
The wind stirred, the golden leaves drifting once more. The air itself seemed to pause, as if considering his question.
Then, at last, the voice of Ygdrassil answered.
Find out for yourself.
Serian blinked once, slowly. His violet eyes reflected the falling leaves, their golden glow catching in the dim light.
A gentle breeze passed through the space, carrying the scent of ancient earth and distant worlds. He did not react, nor did he show any sign of surprise. Instead, he simply processed the words.
For a god who had only ever observed, it was an unfamiliar answer.
But he did not reject it.
Serian lowered his gaze, looking once more at the quiet ruins before him. His fingers brushed against the surface of his recording device, but he did not activate it again.
For now, he simply sat in silence, staring into the remnants of a world long gone.
*****
Serian's eyes fluttered open, greeted by the dim glow of morning light filtering through the curtains. He remained still, his mind adjusting to the strange sensation of waking up—something he had never truly experienced before. He had always existed, observing, recording, never needing sleep. Yet now, as a mortal, sleep was necessary. Uncomfortable, but necessary.
He slowly sat up, his violet eyes scanning his surroundings. The room was small but well-kept, with a simple wooden desk, a chair, and a single bed that he now occupied. The walls were plain, painted in a neutral tone, and a closet stood in the corner. It was an ordinary space, one that belonged to a student.
His gaze landed on a strange device on the desk. A sleek, rectangular object with a dark screen. He tilted his head slightly, reaching for it with careful fingers.
A smartphone.
That was its name. He had seen it before, in the hands of countless humans across different worlds, but never had he held one himself. He tapped the screen, and it flickered to life, displaying a series of numbers, symbols, and moving images. The date caught his attention.
Year 2124.
So, this was the current era of this world. A time when technology had advanced far beyond the primitive ages he had recorded long ago. His fingers swiped across the screen, exploring the various icons and applications. News articles appeared before him, headlines flashing in bold letters:
"Another Outbreak in Zone 5—Authorities Struggle to Contain It."
"Hero Academy Announces Selection for New Recruits."
"The Collapse Continues—Is Humanity Running Out of Time?"
Serian watched silently, absorbing the information. So, even in this era, humans were still fighting against their own destruction.
"Ygdrassil."
His voice was calm, barely above a whisper, but the presence of the great World Tree responded immediately. A faint hum, felt rather than heard, echoed in his mind.
"What kind of world is this?"
For a moment, silence. Then, the familiar voice answered, carrying the weight of ancient wisdom.
"Watch it yourself."
Serian's fingers stilled on the screen.
So, that was his answer. Ygdrassil would not tell him everything. He was meant to observe, to experience. To understand.
He set the smartphone down, his gaze drifting to the mirror across the room. Rising from the bed, he stepped closer, studying his reflection.
A mortal body.
His silver hair, remained unchanged, yet his frame was different. Slim. Almost fragile. His skin was pale, and his violet eyes, though still sharp, lacked the ethereal glow they once held. He reached up, brushing his fingers through his hair before carefully combing it with his hands.
It felt strange. This form, this body—it was limiting.
With a quiet breath, he turned away from the mirror and made his way to the small sink in the corner of the room. He washed his face, the cold water refreshing against his skin. The sensation was grounding, reminding him once again of his mortality.
Then, a knock at the door.
Serian lifted his gaze. The knock was firm, impatient. Without hesitation, he turned and opened the door.
A man stood before him, tall and rigid, with short dark hair and sharp features. He appeared to be in his late twenties, his expression unreadable—cold, almost distant.
Serian blinked, waiting.
The man's gaze swept over him before he spoke. "Pack your things." His voice was flat, carrying no warmth.
Serian remained silent, his violet eyes meeting the man's unflinchingly.
The man sighed, as if exhausted. "Our parents are dead."
Serian did not react. He had no memories of these 'parents.' If they had died, it meant nothing to him.
The man—Adrian—watched him carefully, as if expecting some kind of response. When none came, his brows furrowed slightly, but he continued.
"You're my stepbrother. That makes you my responsibility now." His tone made it clear that it was an obligation, not a choice.
Serian tilted his head slightly. "Why?"
Adrian's expression hardened. "Because that's how it works."
Serian's gaze remained calm. "You do not seem pleased."
Adrian exhaled through his nose, irritated. "I'm not." He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "I didn't want this. But the will states that I take care of you, and I don't have a choice."
Serian observed him. There was no hostility in Adrian's words, only frustration. He was doing this because he had to, not because he wanted to.
"How old are you?" Adrian asked suddenly.
Serian considered the question. His current body was young, a student's age. "Seventeen."
Adrian clicked his tongue. "Figures. You're still a kid."
Serian did not respond. He was older than Adrian could ever comprehend, but in this world, in this body, he was indeed 'seventeen.'
Adrian straightened, looking at the room behind Serian. "Is this all your stuff?"
Serian glanced around. "I believe so."
Adrian sighed. "Then pack up. We leave in an hour." He turned away, but before walking off, he paused. Without looking back, he added, "I don't expect us to get along, but try not to make my life difficult."
With that, he walked away, leaving Serian standing in the doorway.
Serian remained still for a moment, processing the interaction. Then, he turned back into the room and began gathering his belongings.
Though this world was unfamiliar, though his mortal body felt foreign, one thing remained unchanged—he was here to observe.
And so, he would watch.