It was raining.
Not a soft drizzle or cleansing mist — but the kind of rain that seeped into your bones. Cold, heavy, and relentless, like the sky itself was grieving something it couldn't name.
In a narrow alley tucked between quiet shops and homes, a man walked barefoot through the storm.
His armor, cracked and scorched, clung to him in fragments. The deep blue cloak that once billowed behind him now hung in heavy, rain-soaked tatters. Old blood stained its edges — blackened in some places, silver in others.
His white hair stuck to his forehead. Two long scars traced around his eyes like claw marks burned into his skin. His expression was blank, unreadable — not dazed, not in shock, just… quiet.
He didn't flinch at the thunder.
He didn't wonder where he was.
Because for him, survival was just another cruel form of punishment.
He had lived through a world that tore itself apart.
He had watched the skies fall, gods die, and love disappear.
He bore the weight of thirty billion deaths.
His name was Alaric Veyne.
But no one here knew that.
And he wasn't about to remind them.
So he walked, until his legs could carry him no further.
He fell.
Not dramatically — just folded forward, as if even gravity had forgotten him. His body hit the cold stone of the alleyway with a dull splash, landing face-down in a shallow puddle.
The rain didn't pause. It just kept falling.
Then… a door creaked open.
Warm, yellow light spilled out from a nearby building — the kind of glow that made you think of late dinners and laughter. Soft music drifted through the doorway, along with the scent of baked bread, grilled meat, and something gently sweet, like orange peel or cinnamon.
A man stepped out.
He was broad-shouldered, wrapped in a worn sweater with an apron tied across his chest. His hands were calloused from years of work, but his face was kind — lined more from smiles than age. A tired, but peaceful man.
He spotted the figure collapsed in the rain.
"What the hell…?"
There was no panic in his voice. Just quiet concern.
He stepped out into the rain without a second thought, boots splashing softly as he knelt beside the fallen man. His hand pressed gently to the man's neck.
A pulse. Slow, but steady.
"Still breathing… good."
The man looked over his shoulder at the warm light coming from the doorway behind him.
Inside, a bar buzzed with soft, comfortable life. A teenage girl moved behind the counter, humming as she wiped down glasses. A boy no older than twelve rushed past with a tray, nearly dropping it before catching himself and grinning sheepishly. Laughter came from somewhere in the back — a woman's voice, familiar and happy.
It wasn't a grand place.
But it was a safe one.
A home.
The man turned back toward the stranger and sighed.
"Rough night, huh?"
He grabbed Alaric under the arms and hoisted him up with practiced ease. The weight was nothing new. Hunters passed through here all the time — some drunk, some bleeding, some just too tired to stand.
But this one…
This one felt different.
"Let's get you outta the rain."
He carried him inside, the door swinging shut behind them with a soft thud.
And outside, the rain kept falling.
Perfect. This is a tight, emotionally heavy scene that lets us:
Showcase Alaric's trauma beneath the silence
Highlight his detachment from the living world
Contrast past joy with present hollowness
Establish the bartender's kindness without pushing too hard
Here's the full scene, written to carry weight without melodrama:
He awoke to silence.
No screaming.
No steel clashing against bone.
No roar of monsters or dying gods.
Just the soft crackle of a heater… and the distant sound of rain.
Alaric's eyes opened slowly, scanning the room like muscle memory.
Four walls. Wooden beams. Curtains drawn. A dresser. A standing mirror.
His body… didn't ache.
Not the way it should've.
His limbs were whole. His skin, young. Smooth, unmarred save for the scars curling around his eyes — pale reminders etched in familiar shapes.
He swung his legs over the bed and sat up.
The floor creaked faintly under his bare feet as he stood. His movement was effortless, quiet, practiced. Like a soldier scanning for threats — even in peace.
His gaze fell to a neatly folded set of clothes on the dresser.
Simple. Clean. New.
No armor. No blade. Just fabric meant for living, not for war.
He stepped toward the mirror.
And stopped.
There he stood — tall, strong, whole… and young.
That face. That face he hadn't seen in over two thousand years. The silver-white hair. The sharp jawline untouched by age. The calm, storm-silent gray eyes.
And for a moment — only a moment — the mirror showed him something else.
A memory.
They were laughing.
She had flour on her cheek, arms crossed as he stood behind her, brushing it off with a teasing smile. She swatted his hand away — laughing harder, pulling him into her warmth.
Her hair smelled like lavender.
Their daughter, still a child, peeked through the kitchen doorway with a grin, her hands covered in dough, ready to sabotage them both.
It was soft.
It was stupid.
It was everything.
Alaric blinked. The memory vanished.
He reached up and touched the corner of his eye, almost out of reflex.
No tears. He was too hollow for that now.
Instead, he dressed.
Every motion was slow, deliberate. Not because he was injured — but because there was no rush. No enemy. No final battle to charge into. Just… time.
He sat again on the edge of the bed.
And then he heard it.
Laughter.
Light, youthful voices carried from downstairs. One was clearly a child. The others — older, playful, carefree.
He listened.
Not with curiosity. Not with longing.
Just listened — like a ghost standing on the edge of life.
Then—
Knock. Knock.
A pause.
"You up?"
The voice was deep, steady. Familiar now.
The door opened just a little, and the man from the rain leaned his head in. The scent of fresh coffee followed.
"Hey… I'll be damned. You're up. And dressed. You clean up real nice, kid."
Alaric looked at him, silent.
The man gave a warm chuckle and stepped inside with the ease of someone used to taking care of people who didn't ask for it.
"You were in bad shape, y'know. When I found you out there… I thought you weren't gonna make it."
He scratched the back of his neck.
"You've been out for three days. You sure you should be walking around yet?"
Alaric lowered his eyes, then gave a small nod. No words.
The man didn't push.
"Alright then. I made some stew. When you're ready, come down and eat. No charge. Name's Brehn, by the way. I run this place with my family."
Brehn smiled — not a forced one. Just honest.
"Take your time, alright? You've been through something. I can see it in your eyes."
He stepped back toward the door, then paused.
"Glad you're still here."
The door shut gently behind him.
And once again, Alaric was alone in the room.
Only this time, there was warmth under his feet. And food waiting downstairs.
But inside him?
Still silence.
The floor creaked as I stepped out of the room.
The warmth beneath my feet was… wrong. Foreign. It didn't belong to me. I was used to ash, to dust, to silence. This place smelled like roasted meat, sweet herbs, and something comforting—too comforting.
Peace has a scent.
And I've been drenched in blood so long, I don't know if I can breathe in peace without choking on it.
I moved down the stairs slowly, one hand trailing the banister. Half out of habit. Half because I didn't trust the ground not to fall away beneath me.
As I descended, my eyes narrowed.
A familiar pressure tingled behind them. I blinked once, and my vision shifted — pale white light filling the edges of my sight. I felt the presence of four people moving within the room below. None of them dangerous. All of them… warm.
Too warm.
One was pacing — erratic, small. A child.
Another, steady, with practiced steps. Carrying something.
Two more. Stationary. Conversing. Relaxed.
I blinked again. The glow receded.
Whatever this world was… it didn't want to kill me.
Not yet, anyway.
Why am I alive?
That question hadn't left me since the rain stopped.
How am I alive?
My last memory was a blade in my chest… and my daughter's voice in my ear.
What is the point of survival… when I've protected no one?
My wife. My child. My people. My world.
Thirty billion lives, and I stood at the top — only to watch it all fall.
I was a demigod.
A legend.
The sword against the tide.
And still… I failed.
So why am I here?
Is this punishment?
Or worse—was this mercy?
I reached the bottom of the stairs.
A boy sprinted past me with a wooden sword, slicing the air with wild swings. His voice echoed like a horn in the quiet, unaware of how sharp it felt to someone like me.
"I'm a B-rank! No—a S-rank! Dad, I just solo'd a dungeon!"
He spun toward the bar and nearly crashed into a girl carrying a tray.
"Watch it, dummy," she said, bumping him with her hip and rolling her eyes.
She was about sixteen. Apron tied carelessly. Confident but tired. The kind of girl who'd grown up with noise and family and a roof over her head.
They didn't notice me.
I stood still, watching them.
Not out of interest. Not curiosity.
Just… stillness. Because stillness is all I know.
I don't feel emotions anymore. I remember them — like someone reading a letter from a dead friend.
A voice pulled me from the silence.
"Ah, look who's awake."
Brehn.
Same tired sweater. Same relaxed voice.
He was behind the bar, polishing a glass like it meant something.
"You sleep okay?"
I nodded. No words.
"Good. You've been out for three days, y'know. We weren't sure if you were gonna make it."
He placed a bowl in front of me. Steam rose from the surface — stew, thick and rich. Meat and potatoes. A smell that hurt more than it comforted.
I sat down quietly.
"No questions today," Brehn said, voice gentle. "Just eat. Talk when you're ready."
I didn't respond. I didn't need to.
I wasn't ready.
I might never be.