Ever since I was given the privilege of forging memories and thoughts, I have been daunted by a few lingering questions.

Was there ever truly a point if fate and destiny existed? And if so, what was it?

Was it fate that led me down this cobblestone path—coincidences and unforeseen events colliding, shaping a journey I was always meant to follow? Or was it destiny—my own choices and desires, my will imposed upon an unchangeable world, only to arrive at the same destination regardless?

If I was both fated and destined to walk this path, why was I cursed with awareness—forced to observe and endure the harrowing horrors of this world? Why was I given the ability to form opinions and feelings, to fabricate meaning where none may exist? If I was fated to love someone but destined never to be with them, then what was the point of my feelings?

Could I simply place the blame for my sins upon fate itself? If so, would I still be allowed into heaven? After all, I had no choice—it was destined. Did heaven even exist? It was a lovely, deeply human concept—fragile yet profound in its design, even as it brushed against the edges of something vast and inhuman. Heaven offered solace, a soft refuge from the unbearable weight of grief. It gave meaning to the hollow ache left behind when a loved one died, a balm for wounds that might otherwise never heal.

The thought of eternal peace, of reunion, of something beyond this transient existence—it was a beautiful idea.

But the alternative was terrifying, a cold and unyielding void. The idea that someone, once vibrant and full of life, could simply cease to exist was a chasm too vast to comprehend. Just gone. Their laughter, their voice, their presence—erased, as if they had never been at all.

Perhaps heaven was born from humanity's refusal to accept this finality, a desperate reaching for permanence in the face of an existence that often felt fleeting and fragile. Or maybe, just maybe, it was real. A glimmer of hope that death wasn’t the end but a transformation, a doorway to somewhere better.

And could it coexist with fate? If every thread of existence was already woven into the grand tapestry, if every choice and every path were predetermined, then what was the point? What purpose did sin and forgiveness serve if the outcome was already decided?

With this natural flow of thoughts, a long-forgotten memory—a story buried in time—surged back into his mind.

There was once a boy named Elias, born under a blood-red sky. The village seer called him The Fated One, the child who would one day save them all. No one knew how, but fate had spoken, and fate never lied.

Elias hated the title. He was not special—just another boy in a village of starving farmers. Yet, every whisper, every glance reminded him of the prophecy. His life was not his own. He was not allowed to leave, not allowed to dream of anything else. His destiny was to save them.

Then came the day the prophecy was fulfilled.

A great fire swept through the valley, and with it came invaders—merciless warriors who burned fields and cut down those who stood in their way. Panic spread, but Elias… he did not run. He could not run. He knew what was coming. He had already seen it in his dreams.

The invaders stormed the village square, where the last of the survivors huddled together. And there stood Elias, gripping a rusted sword with trembling hands. He did not want to fight, he didn't want to hurt anyone. He wanted to run, to live– fall in love and experience every mundane joy that a normal person did. He wanted to be anything but the hero fate demanded him to be.

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Yet, his body moved on its own. Because it was always meant to.

Blow after blow, he fought, his sword striking true. The villagers saw him as fearless, but inside, he was numb. He was simply a piece of fate’s design, a puppet fulfilling a script written long before he was born.

One by one, the invaders fell, until the last of them drove a blade through Elias’s chest. He collapsed, blood staining the earth beneath him, soaking the dirt with a deep crimson hue. The villagers wept, calling him a hero, swearing songs would be sung in his name.

But as his vision faded, Elias had only one thought:

“Why was he fated to die here? Why did these people get to live, see the sunrise, and share a meal tomorrow?”

Elias's expression was grim—filled with anger, sorrow, and horror. But more than anything, he was scared. He was scared to die. And then… he was gone.

And the village, saved by a hero who never wanted to be one, forgot the weight of his question.

With these thoughts flooding his mind, Kael finally reached his destination and stepped into the building. It was a beautiful corner cafeteria, adorned with cherished photographs of family and friends from past generations of owners. The windows, painted a deep royal green, cast magical reflections on the wooden furniture inside, creating an atmosphere as serene and inviting as a forest.

It was not necessarily luxurious, but it was well-known and loved by the residents of Farkath. People often fancied the owner’s homemade pastries—treasured delights crafted from a generational recipe.

Today, the café was unusually crowded, forcing Kael to stand in line and wait for his turn to order. He didn’t mind. The space was filled with a diverse mix of people—teenagers, students, couples, and those in their late middle ages, all adding to the lively atmosphere.

Behind the counter, a young woman in her early twenties—around the same age as Kael—moved with practiced ease. Her golden-blond hair fluttered each time the door swung open, and she wore a bright, welcoming smile. It was clear that the owner had trained her daughter well in the art of customer service.

With swift efficiency, she took orders, barely pausing to glance at each customer before moving on to the next. Yet, despite the rapid pace, she never forgot a familiar face. She remembered the old priest who always ordered coffee on Sundays after church, the student who never asked for anything but hot chocolate, and the young man who thought she didn’t notice the way he stole glances at her when he believed she wasn’t looking.

There was always a pattern to their visits, and she noticed them all. This was also the reason she immediately realised the man in front of her had never visited the cafeteria before. He was a young man with black hair cascading almost to his shoulders and styled in a middle part, his appearance was not meticulously groomed but it still exuded a sense of care and attention. He had a handsome, approachable appearance that made him stand out in a crowd. His features were well-balanced, with a strong jawline and eyes that, though kind, held a hint of coldness that drew people in. While not flawlessly perfect, his looks were enough to turn heads and leave a lasting impression.

He wore a black coat draped over his shoulders and had a cane made out of dark wood neatly placed under his arm. In his deep green eyes, reminiscent of ancient emeralds, one could discern not only wisdom and curiosity but also profound traces of dejectedness, regret, and helplessness.

She greeted him with a warm smile, her natural friendliness shining through as she leaned in slightly to take his order. It was the first time she’d spoken to him, and there was a genuine warmth in her voice, a subtle invitation to connection.

“Lovely day today, isn’t it? What would you like to orde—”

Her words trailed off as she noticed the young, handsome man in front of her raise his hand. His palm faced toward her, fingers pointing upward, and from its center, a faint yellow light began to glow.

Without warning, a solid yellow rod materialized, shooting forth like a bullet. The rod had a flat, blunt front, like a piece of metal freshly sawed off. It struck her squarely between the eyebrows, passing effortlessly through her skull. The force of the impact tore through her brain, before exiting through the back of her head, leaving a streak of pinkish-gray matter splattered across the walls and paintings behind her. Just as suddenly as it had appeared, the rod vanished into thin air, only leaving a fine yellow like dust dancing in the air.

The young woman crumpled to the floor with a dull thud, lifeless.

Kael, his expression unchanging, removed the cane from under his arm. He turned and walked out of the cafeteria, leaving behind only the aftermath of his silent, inexplicable violence. Panicked voices and hurried footsteps echoed behind him. Though their words were indistinct, he knew exactly what they were searching for—reason, understanding, some explanation for why this had happened to the young woman.