Chapter Two: The Dark Angel?
Consciousness returned to him like a slow tide creeping over a deserted shore. There was no sharp transition—just a gradual fading of the absolute black void that had consumed him, replaced by a faint sensation of existence. He felt the cool, dewy grass beneath his body, heard the rustling of wind playing through unfamiliar leaves, and sensed the warmth of a strange sun on his skin. It took him moments—maybe minutes—to grasp the astonishing truth slowly forming in his hazy mind: he was alive. Breathing.
How? It shouldn't have been possible. He had felt the stinger of the giant insect pierce his heart. He had seen his end—and his sister's—with his own eyes. Was it all a terrible nightmare? But the memory of the pain, the scent of blood, the image of Elene... it was painfully real, engraved into his soul like an unhealing wound. His body trembled—not from cold, but from the overwhelming shock and confusion flooding his system.
Slowly, cautiously, he raised his hand before his face. What he saw made his breath catch. It wasn't the hand he knew, not the one scarred and dusty from a life of hardship. His skin… was gray. Not dirty—this was its actual color, the cold, dead gray of ash. He examined his arm, then the rest of his exposed body. The same unnatural shade covered him entirely. His heart began to race—not necessarily out of fear, but from the sheer strangeness of it all.
Then he felt something else. A strange weight, an unfamiliar presence on his back. He hesitated, then reached a hand behind him. His fingers touched something silky, yet strong and flexible. Feathers. Pitch-black feathers. He turned his head slowly, straining, and caught a glimpse of a massive wing—black as eternal night—folded behind him. Spinning quickly, ignoring the dizziness that followed, he saw a matching wing on the other side. They were real, part of him, sprouting from his shoulder blades. Their texture, their massive size, their shadowy hue… everything about them screamed both alien and powerful.
He stumbled to his feet, which—surprisingly—felt stable despite everything. Nearby, a pool of clear water reflected the pristine blue sky and the strange surrounding trees. Driven by a primal urge to understand what had become of him, he moved toward the pond in hesitant steps. He leaned over its edge, staring into his reflection.
What stared back at him wasn't quite the Ren Alistair he remembered. The face had the same basic features, but something had changed. The thick black hair remained, but the gray skin gave him a ghostly appearance. His eyes held a deeper intensity, a sharper clarity. And hovering just above his head was a pitch-black halo—a ring made of concentrated darkness, not radiating light, but seemingly absorbing it from around it. His black wings reflected behind him like a cloak of night. This body felt like a suit that didn't fit, foreign and unfamiliar in every detail—something he had never worn and could never truly belong to.
In that moment, staring at the strange creature he had become, the memory of his sister's death surged back with brutal clarity. Her head exploding, the grotesque insect tearing her apart, his final scream filled with despair and helplessness. He remembered the cruelty of the world, the injustice they had endured, and how the last warmth and love in his life had been ripped from him. He couldn't take it anymore. His fragile defenses crumbled, and he broke down in bitter sobs. He collapsed to the ground by the pond, tears running down his gray cheeks—the weeping of a child who had lost everything, the cry of a boy reborn into a nightmare he couldn't comprehend. He cried for nearly an hour, purging the sorrow, rage, and confusion that had built up since the moment he awoke—since the moment he died.
When his tears finally dried, leaving behind an overwhelming emptiness and deep fatigue, he wiped his face with the back of his gray hand. The storm of emotions within him had calmed, replaced by a cold, decisive clarity. He looked at his reflection once more—at the black halo, at the dark wings. He made a silent vow, whispered with quiet but newfound determination: he would never be weak again. He would not allow himself—or anyone else—to be crushed under the weight of injustice. No one would be denied the chance to live, not if he could help it.
Yet as this resolve settled into his soul, a troubling question surfaced, disturbing the relative calm and dragging him back into confusion. Why? Why was he here? Why had he been granted this second life, in such a strange form? What was the purpose of his existence now? In his past life, his goal had been simple, though difficult: work, survive, protect Elene. That had been his guiding star in the darkness of their world. But now… Elene was gone. There was no one left to support or care for. He no longer knew what to do—or where to go. He was lost in a new world, in a new body, with no clear purpose.
He decided the first step had to be understanding this new body—and adapting to it. He looked at his massive wings. Could he truly fly with them? Focusing, he tried to recall how birds moved, what it felt like watching them soar, then attempted to imitate them. He jumped into the air, flapping awkwardly. He rose a few meters... then lost control and crashed down. He braced for pain, maybe broken bones—but instead, upon hitting the ground, he heard a crunch and felt the earth tremble beneath him. Looking back, he saw a small crater where he landed. He hadn't felt any pain! This body was stronger, sturdier than he had imagined.
A small smile—his first in a long time—broke across his face. There was power here. The power he had once dreamed of. He spent the next hour training. Jumping, flapping, falling, creating more small craters. Bit by bit, he began to feel the rhythm, sensing the new muscles in his back and shoulders respond to his will. He managed to stay airborne for longer—then for a full minute. It wasn't graceful flight yet, but it was flight. He had finally started to adapt reasonably well to his new body and its fledgling abilities.
Now, it was time to explore. He had to understand where he was, and what kind of world this was. He stood at the edge of the towering cliff where he had awoken and looked down upon the vast forest sprawling below. It was a dizzying height. In his old body, he might've hesitated a thousand times. But now—with wings that granted confidence and a newfound toughness—he felt less afraid. He took a deep breath, then leapt.
Air surged upward to meet him. He flapped his wings—this time with more confidence—guiding his descent, maneuvering through wind currents until he landed with relative grace among the towering trees of the forest below. As soon as his ashen feet touched the ground, covered with moss and decomposing leaves, he noticed something strange. Every non-predatory creature—squirrel-like animals with feathered tails, colorful little birds, six-legged lizards—fled at his approach, making faint panicked sounds and vanishing into the underbrush. Why? Was his appearance that frightening? Or was something else emanating from him—something they could sense?
He found no answer. He kept walking cautiously, senses alert for any sign of danger. Suddenly, a sharp, high-pitched whistle tore through the air by his ear. Without thinking—faster than thought—he twisted his body. A sharp sting grazed his arm. He looked and saw a long scratch, slightly bleeding, where something sharp had skimmed past. Just a few steps away, an arrow was embedded in a tree trunk, its feathers still trembling.
He was under attack! He turned quickly, taking a defensive stance, wings spreading slightly on instinct, eyes scanning for the attacker. Then he heard a voice—from beyond the dense trees ahead. It was feminine, young, and slightly trembling—either with fear or surprise:
"A-a dark angel! Here? What's a dark angel doing in a place like this?"
Before Ren could even process the words or respond, another female voice called out—this one more confident, maybe even mocking:
"You fool! If he were a real dark angel, do you think a mere arrow would have even scratched him?"
Ren remained frozen, the sting in his arm burning, and new questions swirling in his mind. A dark angel? Is that what he was now? And who were these girls—hiding in the trees and firing arrows at him?