Italy, Gothic Cathedral, nightfall
A solemn silence reigned within the vast stone nave. Gothic arches stretched upward like frozen arms, bathed in the hues of stained glass saturated with a crimson ocean as the sun unraveled on the horizon. Golden rays filtered through, casting streaks of sacred light onto the checkered floor, heightening the uneasy grandeur of the place.
At the center stood a man, twenty-four years old. Yet he looked older — carrying the calm, unsettling aura of someone who had seen too many nights. His slender figure stood outlined against the stained glass, copper hair tied back in a low tail. A golden halo kissed his head, flickering with the shifting light, giving the illusion of holy fire.
His sculpted face remained still — a mixture of blessing and threat. A straight nose, lips curled in an ambiguous smile, round glasses framing amber eyes that could pierce through souls. He wore a flawless black cassock, its clerical collar pure white. Around his neck hung a fine golden cross, baroque in its elegant delicacy.
He knelt, hands clasped, head bowed in prayer. His proud bearing betrayed an inner discipline, nearly martial. He looked like a fallen angel performing an ancient rite.
— Hello…
The voice rose from a cold breath. He lifted his gaze slowly.
— Who's there?
No figure appeared. But the invisible wings of a divine presence stirred the sacred air.
— I am the Messenger… sent by the Universe.
He rose, leaning on his clasped hands, his fists closing.
— You're… an angel?
Silence answered. Then:
— That's one way to put it.
The voice continued, now ceremonial in tone:
— You have been selected as a candidate.
He glanced toward the statue of Christ, then murmured:
— I don't see what God wants from me.
— Accept to be a candidate.
He tilted his head, hesitant.
— If God wills it…
— Strange. With the others, it comes as a hallucination. But here… you believe.
— Then it's a sign.
— Elio Vescari, what do you wish to become? I will help you.
His smile turned dark. He smoothed back his copper hair, and his eyes flared.
— I want to be God.
— And what is a God to you?
— One who watches men collapse… and makes them guilty. God's mistake? He stayed silent too long. I've come… to fix that.
A sacred chill passed through the cathedral air.
— I accept. I will help you.
A bluish interface appeared before him:
Name: Elio Vescari
Age: 24
Class: Unknown
Level: 1
Strength: 6
Speed: 6
Intelligence: 6
Endurance: 16
Current Skill: None
He lowered his eyes. A glint passed through his golden gaze.
I am the messiah.
---
Paris, late afternoon
The light skimmed the narrow streets, golden and grave. At the end of an alley, Mathis Blanchard, thirty-three, stood tall. His crisp blue uniform veiled the armor of a worn man — solid arms, broad chest. A badge glinted; a crackling radio clung to his shoulder. A faint beard framed his jaw, and his dark eyes carried starless nights. The spiral tattoo on his forearm told a silent promise, a past waiting to resurface.
He removed a glove, placed his fingers on the window of a patrol car, and felt the cold metal. His gaze swept the street, alert, bound to duty.
Then:
— Hello, dear candidate.
The voice vibrated inside his skull. He stepped forward, blinking.
— What? What's that voice… I've been stuck in this damn car for thirty hours…
— You are not mad. I am the Messenger.
Mathis tensed.
— Stop. I don't need this.
— You have been chosen.
He exhaled sharply, visibly shaken.
— I don't care. I'm a cop. I've got a wife, two kids. That's all I've got.
The voice replied, distant:
— The Universe is counting on you.
— What kind of scam is this?
Then the air shifted. A vision seared before his eyes: Earth overrun by monsters, the universe dissolving. He clenched his teeth.
— When's this happening?
— In 101 days.
His breath caught. His body trembled.
— So that's the end?
— Yes. What can you do to stop it?
He stiffened.
— I refuse. I'd rather stay with my family. Live every day.
A few seconds of silence.
— Choice accepted. Thank you.
He felt something hollow settle in him, as though something had been taken away.
— Can you erase my memory?
— Done.
He blinked. The voice faded.
His phone vibrated. A call was coming through. He answered. His son's voice:
— Dad, when are you coming home?
His jaw trembled.
— Soon. Can I get us some pizza?
— Yeah, four!
A familiar, gentle light wrapped around him. He breathed in, and the echo of everything returning to normal lingered in the air.
---
Madison Square Garden
Abandoned street, pitch-black night
The snow had stopped. Only the stubborn redness remained. A figure lay motionless in the street — emaciated, mutilated, her body soaked in blood that had become a dark river.
The stars were dead. The moon was veiled.
A blue pulse tore through the sky. A cold voice rang out:
Candidate analysis…
Jinra, without arms or legs, lay in the crimson snow. Her breath came in ragged gasps, each exhalation scraping her lungs. The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth. An invisible blade pierced her — not a wound, but a fracture. She was shattered… and yet conscious.
Analysis complete. Status: deceased.
The void returned.
Resurrection: authorized.
A jolt of electricity, a burst of white energy pierced the darkness:
1%… 15%… 35%… 77%… 99%… 100%
Jinra convulsed. Her nose reformed, reborn. Her right arm regrew. Then her legs. Each limb returned, piece by piece, shard by shard, with agonizing slowness — cinematic in its unfolding.
She collapsed into the snow, as if placed there for the very first time. One breath. Then another.
Above her stood a man dressed entirely in black — immaculate suit, dark glasses, face unreadable. He watched her. The moon lit his features, carving shadows beneath his cheekbones.
— Call an ambulance, please.
His voice was calm, distant — terrifyingly human.
A siren began to wail, faint in the distance.
And in the white shadow of blood, Jinra parted her lips, gasping:
P.S. Thank you for over 1k views in just 48 hours! 🙏