God's Sole Reincarnate (神の唯一の転生者)
"Before you, two paths unfold. The first demands your weary steps, forcing you to tread upon its fractured stones, each footfall a battle against the earth itself. The second whispers promises of freedom, of weightless abandon, where struggle is but a distant memory…"
Chapter 1: To Be Saved
A tattered cloak draped over a skeletal frame. The boy beneath it, barely old enough for primary school, carried the frailty of someone long past his years. Sunken eyes, hollow like a starless night, peered forward—not with curiosity, nor fear, but an emptiness that swallowed all light. His fingernails, cracked and caked in filth, spoke of hardship unbefitting a child.
His shackled ankles scraped against the ivory marble ground, chains rattling with each sluggish step. Sparks flared where cold iron met consecrated stone, fleeting embers swallowed by the vast sanctity of the temple. The weight of his restraint was neither new nor unbearable—just another burden in a life already steeped in them.
A single white fleck drifted through the silent air and landed on his forehead. He flinched. The sensation was foreign, cold yet delicate. Snow. He did not yet know the name for it.
The disturbance, however minor, was enough to rouse the attention of the priest leading him forward.
The man—tall and broad-shouldered—was clad in a pristine white robe that did little to hide the powerful frame beneath. A streak of moonshade silver cut through his otherwise jet-black hair, a sign of wisdom beyond his youthful appearance. He exuded discipline, a figure sculpted from the very faith that bound this world.
Yet, for a moment—just a moment—his rigid expression softened as he glanced at the boy.
"Like leading a lamb to slaughter."
The words escaped him in a whisper, a quiet breath that turned to frost in the frigid air. As it dissipated, the boy's gaze followed the wisp of vapor as it drifted upward—until it reached the statue.
Towering above the courtyard stood a monolithic effigy, a deity frozen in time. Its head bore a crown, eerily similar to the shape the priest's breath had taken. Its robes, sculpted in exquisite detail, mimicked the priest's own—though far grander, more divine. Yet the most striking feature was neither its face nor its adornments. It was the hand.
Its right arm stretched forward, sleeve billowing as though caught in an unseen wind. Beneath the folds of marble fabric, the sculpted sinews of its forearm tensed in quiet strength. The bicep flexed, not in exertion, but in intent. The tendons of its wrist stood subtly defined, leading to a single outstretched finger—poised, yearning, almost desperate to reach something unseen.
It was reaching for him.
The boy stiffened. A chill, far deeper than the winter air, ran down his spine.
"It's reaching for me."
A hoarse whisper. A mistake.
The priest stopped. His gaze, once fleetingly gentle, turned sharp as a blade.
"Speak ill of our divinity," he said, voice devoid of warmth, "and I will gladly send you to meet Him."
The boy did not respond. He did not need to. The air itself did.
"I do believe that is outside of your jurisdiction, Neha Yutaka."
The voice came from behind them—light, yet commanding. A melody woven with something more than mere sound.
At once, the tension shattered. The priest—Yutaka—twitched. The rigid lines of his body eased, his breath hitched, and without hesitation, he turned and left.
Not a word of protest. Not a glance of defiance.
The boy barely had time to process the sudden absence before he turned toward the voice's source.
A woman stood before him, her presence impossible to ignore.
She was beautiful, but not in the way beauty was usually described. There was a symmetry to her face so precise, so absolute, that it felt almost mechanical—less a product of nature, and more a concept perfected by unseen hands. Her hazelnut hair, unmarred by the dampness of snow, framed her fair complexion with effortless elegance.
She did not move toward him. Space itself folded between them, the distance melting away as if reality sought to obey her will. Even the snow, so relentless in its descent, hesitated midair—allowing this moment to exist untarnished.
"Come closer."
She did not need to repeat herself. The command wove through the air, wrapping around him, cradling his very being. His feet obeyed before his mind could process it.
The next thing he knew, she had reached for him.
A gentle hand guided his head forward, pressing it against her chest. Warmth. So foreign, yet so familiar. The scent of myrrh and something else—something indescribable—filled his senses. He did not resist. He could not.
"It's warm, isn't it?"
Her voice was softer now. No longer a command, but an invitation. A solace he had never known.
Something in him cracked. His fingers curled into the fabric of her robe, clutching desperately. Tears burned in his eyes before he even understood why.
"Masumi."
The name was spoken not as a revelation, but a promise.
"I am the Reverend Mother. Neha Masumi."
If warmth had a name, it would be hers.
The boy did not know what it meant to have a mother. But in that moment, he imagined this was how it must feel.
He wanted to tell her his name. But he had no such thing to give.
A child born from duty is no child at all.