Chapter 2: Prayer
An endless expanse of darkness, adorned with countless galaxies, each swirling in silent rhythm to the heartbeat of the universe.
Symbols, words, and letters from countless languages—gigantic and colorful—floated through the fabric of space.
Their forms fluctuated—growing vast, then shrinking like thoughts fading in a dream.
Their vibrant glow buzzed—their hues faded, warped, and bled together like paint in an abstract masterpiece.
They moved like dancers in a cosmic ballet—chaotic, yet graceful.
Each of those symbols represented a fragment of reality—while the objects they stood for were merely shadows, imperfect manifestations of the truth they encoded.
Then, something stirred.
Consciousness rose like a ripple from the abyss. His awareness returned—not suddenly, but like breath filling lungs after near-drowning.
Am I truly… back…? The thought echoed.
But something was wrong.
He could see—behind him.
Not by turning, not through mirrors—he simply knew what was there. Yet he had only two eyes. Neither was on his back.
I must be still half-asleep…
He reached up to run a hand through his hair—but his fingers slipped through his head like a ghostly fog.
Panic flickered.
Contact—he should've felt it.
This was absurd.
Am I… a ghost? The thought seeped into his mind.
He stared at his ghostly hands—blue, translucent, and slowly shifting—like a fire.
Then, amidst this strangeness, a whisper stirred—a voice, soft and distant, like a murmur reverberating within his brain.
It seemed to be someone calling his name—or specifically calling him.
He rose, feeling light as vapor.
The world still hummed with the weightlessness of a dream.
He began to move—unconsciously, following the voice until he reached a certain spot and was engulfed by a radiant light.
What is happening—? The thought never finished.
A veil, unseen but undeniable, washed over him—blurring his presence, as though even existence hesitated to define him.
Reality rippled in his mind.
The infinite stars collapsed inward, the galaxies dimmed—and in their place, a broken temple emerged from the void, as though he had always been there.
Before him knelt a boy, murmuring prayers beneath his breath—a name not his, yet one that stung the edges of his mind.
He calmly analyzed his situation.
A boy murmuring a name in an ancient dialect—his tone indicates desperation and reverence.
The boy seemed to invoke the help of something otherworldly—be it a Deity, a Demon, a Spirit or something else entirely.
What it was, he did not know.
Despite that, the boy was met with silence—either from the apathy of the otherworldly being or the fact that they had fallen long ago.
Now that I ended up being summoned—
He paused, correcting himself.
No, I was not summoned, but rather… I answered their call, their prayers.
He stared at the praying boy—his eyes were as empty as an endless well—devoid of warmth or coldness.
It was strangely human.
His mind raced.
He had been a human all his life.
Now he was dead—and revived, like something straight out of a novel.
The strangest part was that he didn't even spare any thought about it, an abnormal calmness.
Maybe, since he woke up, he hasn't been who he once was.
At the very least—not a human.
He decided to take the spotlight—to become a God, even if pretending to understand his own situation and where he was.
He spoke—his voice had changed; like a heavy rain: serene, peaceful, and beautiful.
"Boy, are you the one that chanted that name…?"
Startled by the sudden voice, the boy lifted his head to witness a translucent, luminous humanoid mass of mana—it exuded a divine presence.
He couldn't believe it—something answered his prayers.
Father said that the Gods were cold—apathetic toward our lesser beings but I was answered.
He felt relieved.
He gritted his teeth—he doesn't want to lose this rare opportunity.
"God, may I please make a request?"
He asked, voice laced with desperation.
"You may."
Nathaniel's answer was short.
"Dear God, grant me strength, whatever it is, I want to murder them with my own hand, I want to claim what's rightfully ours—rightfully mine, as the heir of the Whitecrow family!"
He exclaimed, his voice shaking uncontrollably as he reminisced about the moment his parents were killed and everything they owned was taken away.
Bastards! Just you wait in your blood-stained mansion—I'll find you, and end all of your pathetic lives myself.
His expression was tense, jaw clenched, hands balled into a fist.
Whitecrow… Ah, am I truly inside that novel?
Nathaniel rubbed his blue, translucent chin, the edge of his white crescent-shaped mouth curled upwards.
"What is your name?"
He asked to make sure of something.
Hm? Did it ask for my name—ah! How rude of me to make them wait!
He quickly composed himself and parted his lips.
"My name is Klein Whitecrow, the eldest son of the late Whitecrow Patriarch and his wife, Johan Whitecrow and Melissa Grayson Whitecrow." He said with a stern expression.
Klein Whitecrow, an extra that died two years before the story even started, a failure of the Whitecrow lineage, the elder brother of one of the protagonist's mentors—Jeanne Whitecrow. Such an interesting coincidence!
Nathaniel managed to recall the complete information regarding his identity—an insignificant character that only fueled the motivation of a side character.
And if I truly ended up in Sovereign of Decay then… What about the system? It has been silent since I was reawakened… He thought, wondering about his system's whereabouts—he only had a vague memory about the process that leads to his reawakening previously.
"Whitecrow, huh? And you said you wanted power?"
He deliberately paused, to maintain an air of mystery.
Klein didn't respond, he instinctively knew it wasn't a question.
I don't have anything to give him… He thought, listing everything that he currently possessed—assuming the system doesn't exist, he had nothing but knowledge to offer.
Should I give him the knowledge of the future, about the story? But I wonder what he will pay me with, I'm curious.
The crescent-shaped white mouth widened its grin.
"Say child of Whitecrow, what do you offer for that 'power'?" He said in a teasing tone, curiosity evident in the voice.
Klein's voice refused to budge.
He hesitated, mind racing through several options and then landed on the answer—souls, his own being.
As he was about to say it, Nathaniel interrupted.
"Are you sure?"
He spoke, voice deep and heavy.
He must be thinking about souls, at least I hope that was the case.
At that moment he had taken a slight risk—a gamble that his assumption was valid but he purposely made the statement to be that broad as a contingency.
Klein rethought his decision, but he came to the same conclusion and gritted his teeth.
"I'm sure. In exchange for the power you can give me, I shall offer my loyalty, my soul, and my entire being to you." He calmly stated, his voice was unshaken, like a mountain untouched by the wind.
To be continued…