The Greatest Sin is Weakness
It began when I was a child.
Not with prophecy, or fate, or celestial signs.
Just loss.
The kind of loss that hollows you out.
I don't remember what my mother looked like, not exactly. I remember the warmth of her hands, the way she sang in the mornings—soft and out of tune. I remember my father's calloused fingers tightening around my shoulder as he left for war, his voice firm but trembling when he told me, "Protect the others."
They never came back.
Demon wars. Always the demons. As if the world hadn't bled enough.
I remember standing in the ashes of my village, sword in hand—too large for me then—barely able to lift it. And yet, I did. When the monsters returned to finish what they'd started, I fought.
That day, I awakened.
They called it "talent." An affinity for the blade that bordered on divine. As if I'd been born for it.
As if losing everything was part of the gift.
They called me a prodigy. The youngest to ever be knighted. The boy who cut down shadows with a smile. I bathed in their praise, until I forgot what humility tasted like. With each victory, I stood taller. With each kill, I smiled wider.
Pride grew like a second spine.
Soon, I wasn't alone.
Six companions, each as mad as I was for strength. They weren't my friends—not at first—but in time, we became something more. Brothers. Sisters. Fools.
We chased power like dogs chasing stars.
We slaughtered demons, elves, orcs, dwarves, even humans. It didn't matter who stood in our way. Only what we could take from them. Relics, soul cores, forbidden spells. All in the name of strength.
But strength was never enough.
The more we gained, the more hollow it felt. It wasn't power we were chasing—it was something deeper. Something we couldn't name.
And so, when we heard of the sleeping god in the mountains beyond the world, we didn't hesitate.
We challenged it.
Mortals, pointing their swords at divinity.
We thought we could win.
We were fools.
The god didn't speak.
It laughed.
As if we were insects who dared to bare our fangs.
I still remember its face—if you could call it that. Too many eyes. A grin that split its head in half. No blood. No warmth. Just glee.
It didn't kill us right away.
That would've been mercy.
No, it played with us.
Like a cat breaking birds' wings just to watch them crawl.
I watched as Juno—brave, reckless Juno—was folded in half like paper. Bones snapped, then vanished.
I screamed.
Then Elarin, our mage. Her head bloomed like a crimson flower. I felt the spray of her blood on my face.
I screamed again.
Ray tried to run. The god let him. Gave him ten full steps before it snapped his spine with a flick of its nail.
They all died like that.
One by one.
No matter how loud I screamed, the pain didn't stop.
I begged.
I begged.
"Take me. Spare them. Please—"
But gods don't bargain.
They decree.
It was only at the very end—after I'd lost them all—that I reached it.
Somehow, through broken limbs and torn flesh, I stood.
I struck.
A single cut. Barely skin-deep.
But it bled.
That was enough to make it angry.
And anger, from a god, is not a thing mortals survive.
It laughed louder. The mountains shook. The sky cracked open. The dead wept.
Then it spoke—just once.
"Let us see what the unworthy learn when they are made to suffer again… and again… and again."
Then came the pain.
Then came the curse.
Eternal Regress.You will relive your failure.You will rise, and fall, and rise again.Until your soul forgets how to scream.Until you kneel, not in defiance… but in surrender.
I died.
And then I woke up.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Each time, a little earlier. A little weaker.
Each time, clawing my way toward a future already written in blood.
I don't know how many times it's been.
I only know one thing.
The god will fall.
And this time—
This time, I won't scream.