On a serene evening, in a quaint village nestled amidst rolling hills, the tranquil silence is broken by a sequence of firm, resonant knocks on the weathered wooden door of a modest stone cottage. The sun has just begun to set, casting a warm golden hue over the landscape. Inside, a short, young woman with flowing blond hair, dressed in a simple but elegant dress, cautiously approaches the door. Her expression is a mix of curiosity and apprehension.

As she opens the door, she's greeted by an imposing figure: a tall, broad-shouldered man clad in battered armor, telling tales of many battles. His face, though shaven, bears the rugged lines of a warrior, and his short blond hair is tousled, giving him a weary yet determined demeanor. He stands solemnly, holding a battle-worn helmet in his gauntleted hands, which seem to tremble slightly with the weight of untold stories.

With a hesitant voice, the woman inquires, "Yes? How may I assist you, sir?"

The man's gaze, intense and somber, meets hers as he asks, "Are you the mother of Julius?"

The woman's heart skips a beat. "Yes, I am. What has transpired?"

In that moment, the peaceful ambiance of the home is pierced by the innocent voices of children. A little girl, no more than six, with curls as golden as the setting sun, dashes to the door, her eyes wide with curiosity. "Mommy, who is this man?" she asks, tugging at her mother's dress.

Close behind, a sleepy-eyed boy, perhaps a year older, ambles to the doorway. Rubbing his eyes and yawning, he echoes his sister's inquiry, "Yeah, who is this?"

Observing the children, the soldier's expression softens momentarily. "Ah, you have more little ones," he remarks, before the weight of his message returns to his voice. "During the fierce battle against the eldest sisters of the Mourning Moon, your son, Julius, fell as we retreated. Here is his helmet," he says, extending the helmet towards the mother, his hands trembling with the gravity of his delivery.

The mother's hands shake as she receives the helmet, a tangible remnant of her son. The man continues, his voice laced with respect and sorrow, "His body now rests in the desolate expanse of the Tussen Lands, and the Petra lands lie in ruins. Despite knowing the inevitable approach of death, he fought with the valor and courage of a true soldier."

The setting sun casts long shadows, as the family stands at the threshold, grappling with the news. The children, sensing the gravity of the moment, cling to their mother, their innocent eyes filled with confusion and fear. The soldier stands before them, a solitary figure bearing the heavy burden of war and its painful truths.

As dusk envelops the village in a blanket of twilight, the air is charged with a palpable tension. The soldier, a towering figure scarred by the ravages of war, extends his arm towards the mother, offering the helmet of her son, Julius. His voice, tinged with a mix of solemnity and compassion, breaks the heavy silence. “Here you are, ma'am. Unfortunately, many other mothers will not have the privilege of holding their children's belongings as you do. But I hope this can provide some solace in your grief.”

The mother, her heart shattering under the weight of the news, gently takes the helmet. It's a poignant symbol of her son's bravery, his spirit, and the life he lived. As she cradles the helmet, a tangible connection to her son, she collapses to her knees, overcome by a torrent of tears. Her anguish fills the room, a raw and unfiltered expression of a mother's love and loss.

In her despair, she cries out to the heavens, her voice a blend of anger and sorrow. “Ariel, you demon child!” she wails, cursing the cruel fate that has befallen her son. Her voice then softens, a plea to the divine, “Exaldera, bring back my son. I beseech you!” But her grief soon overwhelms her, and she erupts in a loud, heart-wrenching yell, “I beseech you, father! Bring back your lowly child, my child.”

The commotion stirs the attention of a tall, burly man with hair as blond as the fields of wheat surrounding the village. He rushes towards the house, his face etched with concern. As he enters, he's confronted by the scene of his wife, engulfed in sorrow, and the solemn soldier standing as a bearer of grim news. “What is all the commotion about, darling?” he asks, his voice a mixture of worry and confusion.

Through tearful eyes, the mother looks up at her husband, her voice barely a whisper, choked with emotion. “Julius, our son, he has died,” she manages to say, each word laden with an unbearable weight.

The husband, struck by the enormity of the news, feels a deep, empathetic pain echoing in his wife's eyes. He moves to her side, his large, calloused hands gently enveloping her in an embrace. His own eyes, now glistening with the onset of tears, convey a shared sense of loss and an unspoken promise of support and love. In this moment of profound sadness, he stands as a pillar of strength for his wife, offering solace and comfort in the face of an unimaginable tragedy.

In the aftermath of the devastating battle that claimed Julius's life, the area surrounding his final resting place undergoes a remarkable transformation. Situated a quarter of a million miles northeast, the once desolate and blood-soaked battlefield gradually evolves into a bustling hub of activity. Amidst this metamorphosis, the memories of the conflict and its warriors are eternally etched into the landscape.

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As days turn into weeks and weeks into months, the barren lands are reborn as a thriving town, eventually swelling into a vibrant city. This new city becomes home to thousands of Tussen, a resilient community who not only rebuilds from the ruins but also ensures that the sacrifices made are never forgotten. They erect statues, monumental tributes to both the heroes and horrors of the war.

The statues of Ariel, renowned for her beauty, stand in stark contrast to the somber reminders of the battle's brutality. These anthropic figures capture the cowardice of some and the bravery of others, like Julius. The bronze statues of the valiant soldiers stand as a constant reminder to the Tussen of the bravery and sacrifices made. These silent sentinels tell a story of courage and loss, a narrative etched into the very soul of the city.

Meanwhile, Julius's spirit embarks on its own journey. He traverses the heavens, observing the passage of time and the transformation of the era he left behind. Eventually, he arrives at the gates of judgment, where his soul will be assessed.

A kind man greets him with a simple inquiry, "Hello! What's your name?"

Julius responds with a sense of solemn pride, "I am Julius, son of Selene and Lino. After six years, my helmet has been delivered to my mother, a remnant from the war over the river of Penelope." As he speaks, a single tear escapes his eye, a testament to his enduring love and connection to his family.

The man at the gate reassures Julius with a smile, "Oh, goodie, you aren't an inbred or demon. It's unfortunate that you have died, but at least you can enter a perfect place and continue to watch over your family, unlike the soulless Tussen inbred and the demon torrential, condemned to an eternal void."

Julius finds comfort in these words, "You are right. I am grateful that I can watch over my family for eternity and dwell with Exaldera forever."

The man at the gates of the afterlife concludes with a note of finality, "Don't forget to praise him five times a day; he loves hearing all the praise from his children." As he sifts through his papers, his eyes widen with a sudden realization. "Oh wait, you are special. Your body has been chosen to be taken upon death by someone. The cries from your mother have been heard by Exaldera."

As the echo of these words dissipates, the scene shifts. From the celestial realms where souls are weighed, we descend back to the earthly realm, where the struggles and dramas of everyday life continue to unfold. In stark contrast to the ethereal gates of judgment, we find ourselves in a small, dimly lit convenience store – a microcosm of the mundane yet complex tapestry of human existence.

Here, amidst aisles lined with ordinary goods, stands Martin, a 28-year-old man of large build and somewhat unfit demeanor. He browses through the magazine rack, his expression one of mild annoyance mixed with resignation. "Damn, there's nothing inside this store," he mutters to himself, his voice barely audible over the hum of refrigeration units. He selects a magazine, a trivial decision yet one that offers a brief respite from the inconveniences of his life – like the current blackout in his apartment.

Martin folds the magazine and slips it into the pocket of his hoodie. He ambles towards the register, his thoughts preoccupied with the inconvenience of the power outage at home. The store, quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator units, feels unusually empty.

As Martin queues behind an elderly lady with a basket, the store's tranquility is shattered. A man in a black hoodie, his face obscured by a mask, strides in with a sense of urgency. He quickly grabs a small package off a shelf and takes his place in line, just behind Martin. The old lady, oblivious to the tension building, completes her transaction and shuffles out of the store.

Without a word of warning, the hooded man thrusts the item he grabbed onto the counter and reveals a weapon, pointing it menacingly at the cashier. The air in the store thickens with fear. "Here. And all the cash in the drawer too," he demands, his voice muffled but threatening. "Click cash, press the exact amount, and put the cash, and the product in the bag. If not, you're going to be Swiss cheese."

The cashier, visibly shaken and without the protection of a barrier, complies with trembling hands. Meanwhile, he discreetly presses the emergency button, hoping for a swift response.

Martin, overhearing the exchange, is gripped by a mix of fear and a sudden urge to act. Despite his self-doubt, heightened by his physical condition, he decides to intervene. With a surge of adrenaline, he charges towards the robber, intent on thwarting the robbery. However, in his haste and due to his lack of fitness, Martin's attempt to tackle the assailant goes awry. He slips and falls to the ground, his heroic effort ending in a clumsy tumble.

In the fraught atmosphere of the convenience store, the tension escalates dangerously. Martin, sprawled on the floor after his failed attempt to intervene, hears the robber's taunt: “Hey, fatty, that wasn’t funny.” The word "fatty" hits him hard, a cruel echo of the insults that haunted his younger years. Lying there, Martin is flooded with a mix of fear, humiliation, and a bitter sense of irony. The derogatory term, once a source of ridicule, now seems like a grim prelude to a tragic end.

The robber, with a menacing tone, warns Martin, “Now stay down. Or you will be Swiss cheese too.” The threat is clear, and the danger palpable. Martin, grappling with his fear and physical pain, remains on the ground, too scared to move and risk a fatal shot. Yet, amidst this overwhelming fear, a defiant thought crosses his mind: life, no matter how short, is worth standing up for.

Summoning a reservoir of courage he never knew he had, Martin decides to take a stand, literally and figuratively. With a determined effort, he wiggles and struggles to his feet, driven by a newfound resolve to be a hero, to make his life count in these fleeting moments. In a swift, unexpected move, he lunges at the robber, intent on disarming him.

The store erupts into chaos as Martin and the robber grapple in a desperate power struggle. Martin, fueled by adrenaline, attempts to wrest the gun from the robber's grip. But in the heated scuffle, a shot rings out, echoing through the store. Martin feels a searing pain in his chest as the bullet finds its mark.

In a surreal twist of fate, the scene shifts dramatically from the harrowing events at the convenience store to an entirely different realm. From the heart of a vast field, where golden wheat sways gently in the breeze, a hand emerges, breaking through the earth's surface. It belongs to a man who has been deceased for an indeterminate length of time. As he pulls himself out of the ground, his head and body emerge into the open air, revealing his form, which bears the unmistakable signs of decay characteristic of a long-dead corpse.

This sudden awakening is met with confusion and disbelief. The man, finding himself amidst the expansive sea of wheat, is overwhelmed with a barrage of questions. Was everything that transpired in the convenience store merely a dream? Is this strange resurrection into a decayed body the reality? These questions flood his mind as he grapples with the disorienting situation.

Remarkably, this man, now resurrected in a decayed form, retains all the memories of his previous life, including the recent events in the convenience store. This bizarre twist suggests that his soul, complete with all its experiences and memories, has somehow been transported into this new, albeit decayed, body.

The situation is both bewildering and miraculous. He finds himself in a paradoxical state – alive in a body that has seen death, and conscious in a reality that feels both alien and familiar. The field of wheat around him stretches as far as the eye can see, a tranquil yet eerie setting for such an extraordinary resurrection.