The night was thick with rain, the city beneath shrouded in a tapestry of neon lights and endless darkness. Atop the tallest building in the school district, a lone figure stood with his cloak—no, his school blazer—whipping wildly in the wind. His arms were outstretched, his fingers curled as though grasping at the very fabric of the universe. His eyes, burning with imagined power, scanned the crowd of students gathered below.
A storm was coming. No, not a mere storm—an omen of the abyss.
Lightning streaked across the sky, illuminating his silhouette in a flash of brilliant white. He tilted his head back, letting the rain cascade over his face as he exhaled slowly. The time was near. He could feel it, the pulsations of the world's true form thrumming beneath his feet. His sealed power, buried deep within his soul, would soon awaken. The fools below could never comprehend the weight of his destiny. The truth that lay beyond mortal comprehension. The coming of the Crimson Eclipse.
His lips curled into a smirk. He extended one hand, fingers curling in an unseen grasp. "Foolish mortals!" His voice rang out, clear despite the downpour. "You dare to defy the Crimson Eclipse Tyrant?! To think you could stand against one who has gazed into the abyss and returned unscathed!"
A boy in the crowd, dressed in the same school uniform as him, muttered under his breath. "Oh god, he's doing this again…"
"Shhh, just let him finish," another whispered. "You know he won't stop unless someone interrupts him."
Oblivious to their words—or perhaps fueled by them—the self-proclaimed Crimson Eclipse Tyrant continued, his voice carrying the weight of countless delusions.
"Tonight, the seals binding my power will shatter! The celestial chains that have shackled my soul shall break! And when the final thread of fate unravels, I will—!"
His words died in his throat.
The roof was slick.
His footing wavered.
For a moment, time seemed to stretch into infinity. He saw the stunned faces of his classmates, their expressions morphing from mild amusement to horror. He saw the way the raindrops blurred together in a curtain of shimmering silver. And he felt, with an agonizing slowness, the shift in gravity as the edge of the roof disappeared beneath his feet.
He was falling.
This… isn't how it's supposed to go.
The abyss did not welcome him like an old friend. There was no dramatic surge of power, no unseen force pulling him to safety. There was only the howling wind, the weightlessness of the plunge, and the fast-approaching pavement below.
As the world blurred into a dizzying spiral of lights, he had only one final thought.
Ah… maybe I should've chosen a different monologue.
The first thing he felt was pain.
No. Not pain.
Pressure.
A suffocating, all-encompassing force squeezing from every side, pushing, pulling, crushing. It was wrong. Unnatural. Terrifying.
He tried to move, but there was no space to move. He tried to breathe, but there was no air. There was nothing. Only warmth, an oppressive warmth that smothered him completely.
His mind—once brimming with the boundless fantasies of a self-proclaimed abyssal ruler—was now blank with primal panic.
Then, suddenly—
Light.
It came in blinding, overwhelming brilliance. A sharp contrast to the comforting darkness he had known moments before. Cold air rushed against his skin. His lungs burned, empty, waiting—
And then, he screamed.
No, not a scream—a wail.
The sound was shrill, raw, and completely uncontrollable. He was shaking, flailing, gasping, struggling against hands that held him steady. Huge hands. Larger than they should be. A deep voice chuckled somewhere above him.
"A strong one," the voice rumbled. "She'll be a handful, I imagine."
She?
That wasn't right.
He wasn't—he couldn't be—
A chorus of voices, murmurs, the warmth of a heavy cloth being wrapped around his body. Too much was happening. He couldn't process it all. His eyes, though bleary, struggled to adjust, barely making out the towering figures above. Their faces were indistinct, mere shadows outlined by the dim glow of lanterns.
And then, a cry that was not his own.
A baby's cry.
He wasn't alone.
He turned—or at least, tried to—toward the source of the sound. Another infant, just as small and helpless as he was, wrapped in similar cloth. She, too, was wailing, though her cries were quieter, softer. Calmer.
A woman—their mother—cradled the other baby, her face glowing with exhaustion and tenderness. Her silver hair, damp with sweat, clung to her face, and her violet eyes shimmered with warmth.
"Aria," she whispered. "Aria Fontaine. That shall be your name."
Aria.
The name settled in the air like a gentle promise. The woman—his mother—pressed a kiss to the infant's forehead, smiling as the baby quieted in her arms.
Then, she turned to him.
His wailing had not ceased. How could it?! Nothing made sense! He wasn't supposed to be here! He wasn't supposed to be—
His body betrayed him. His limbs, though flailing, were weak. His voice, though loud, was nothing more than a newborn's cry. The realization sent a fresh wave of distress through his tiny frame.
His mother only laughed softly. "This one's got quite the spirit."
A deep chuckle joined hers—his father's. The man was large, intimidating, his presence radiating an authority that sent unexplainable shivers down the newborn's spine.
"And what shall we name her?" his father asked. "This fierce little one?"
His mother looked down at him, amused affection shining in her gaze. "Aria and…"
She hummed, tilting her head as though listening to something only she could hear.
"Avia," she finally said. "Avia Fontaine."
He—or she, now—froze.
Avia.
The name was wrong. Foreign. Not his own. Not him. But no matter how much she thrashed, no matter how much she screamed in defiance, the name had already been spoken, sealed into the world by the warmth of a mother's voice.
And just like that, the Crimson Eclipse Tyrant was no more.
In his place, wrapped in soft blankets, wailing helplessly in the arms of a noblewoman, was Avia Fontaine.