Everything went blank.
One moment Pryce had existed within the abyss, a soul shredded by a voidstorm so vast it had carved its shape into the marrow of his consciousness.
Every phantom socket of his non-eyes had burned with molten agony, every inch of his essence gnawed by the currents of that impossible storm.
And yet, in the next heartbeat—or an eternity—he was elsewhere.
He felt it first as a strange pressure in his chest, subtle and impossibly light, a whisper of sensation crawling along the edges of a body that had been absent.
It was there—his legs, trembling at first, then solid beneath him, pulsing with the stubborn insistence of existence.
He felt the ground, soft and yielding under bare feet, toes pressing into something that was real, alive, something that moved and gave way with his weight. His hands flexed, knuckles brushing grass so foreign it smelled faintly of life itself.
He blinked, and the fog of the void dissolved further, leaving behind the sudden, staggering awareness of having a body—his body—complete and whole, unscarred by the horrors of the storm.
The pain he had carried through that endless abyss—the molten, unrelenting torment, the gnawing erosion of his very self—was gone. It left no mark, no echo in his muscles or his bones. The memory of it lingered like smoke from a dream, distant and unreal, as though it had never truly occurred at all.
The air hit him next, and for the first time in years, it was not poisoned. No metallic tang of ozone, no acrid bite of smoke or scorched flesh. It rolled over him like a bribe, clean, sweet, absurdly perfect, carrying the quiet perfume of wildflowers and rain that had never fallen in Veyra's Fringe.
His lungs drank it greedily; the rhythm of breath a novelty that made his chest ache with disbelief.
Pryce drew in another deep gulp, tasting life itself and marveling at its insolence, the sheer audacity of being allowed to feel so… normal.
He looked down. The lean, wiry frame of a street rat greeted him. Arms stretched thin but alive, knuckles marked by the past but untouched by the torment that had just ended, dirt clinging stubbornly as if it had decided to follow him even here.
His bare feet sank slightly into the impossibly soft grass, and a shiver of absurd pleasure ran up his spine—the faint sensation of being a creature with weight, balance, and the full comprehension of having legs, toes, knees, and hips, all working together.
It was overwhelming in a quiet, almost comic way.
When he lifted his head, the world opened before him. Endless green fields rolled to horizons without end. The sky stretched impossibly blue, unblemished, violent in its perfection. There were no edges, no city haze, no dying buildings, no choking smoke.
Just unbroken serenity, a place that seemed to have been painted by some divine hand drunk on whimsy and excess.
Pryce snorted, a sound half-laugh, half-breath of incredulity. "Yeah, this is definitely the part where I wake up in a med-bay with a guild invoice for 'heroic resurrection services.' Pass."
But then suddenly the light came.
Not violently, not like the crack of a cataclysm, but precise, deliberate, the sort of golden-white brilliance that made every blade of grass and every molecule in the air seem to sparkle like a private audition for the sun.
Six wingsunfolded into existence above the radiant figure descending through the impossible perfection of sky.
Each feather shimmered with a molten blend of gold and silver, catching every angle of light as though the cosmos itself had been asked to lend its sparkle.
Robes flowed over a form that might have been carved from marble, each fold of cloth alive with the quiet insistence of gravity bending itself to obey. Face sharp, unfairly symmetrical, eyes molten amber capable of judgment, mercy, and sarcasm all at once.
Hair spilled like sunlight in rebellion over shoulders broader than reason allowed, the aura of divinity wrapping the field around him in a gentle, irresistible pull.
Pryce froze. For two heartbeats, his entire chest and stomach squeezed tight, awe slamming into him like a physical weight, though his newly reclaimed body pulsed with sensation in every fiber, insisting he was real, alive, whole, intact.
Magnificent didn't cover it. Nothing could.
The figure's descent was slow, deliberate, inevitable, each movement the quiet assertion of authority.
Grass did not bend, wind did not shift; the world seemed to hold its breath in recognition.
And then the figure smiled—a gesture so serene and perfect that the absurdity of it made Pryce snort in disbelief.
"Rejoice, mortal," the angel said, voice like distant bells dipped in honey, reverberating across the endless green. "You have been chosen to become a hero. A champion of an angel—"
"No thanks, feather-duster," Pryce interrupted, arms spreading as if to embrace the audacity of the situation. "Hard pass."
The angel blinked.
A fucking blink. Seraphim did not blink.
This one did. Pryce grinned wider, teeth flashing, all teeth.
"To make it worse,"he continued, voice rising to full chaotic confidence, "as if the cliché introduction diarrhea wasn't already overflowing—you're a dude. A six-winged, glow-up, male-model dude. Who greenlit this script? I die shielding my sister from a guild's pet psychopath, and the afterlife reward is… bromance with discount Michael?
"Where's the hot Seraphim babe from every trash isekai dream sequence? Where's the cleavage? Where's the thigh-high holy armor? I got robbed."
The angel's perfect composure cracked just enough to register confusion. Lips opened, closed. Buffering.
"Okay, just a crack in your angel composure, huh? I was low-key hoping for the classic Xianxia spit-take," Pryce went on, grinning, "you know—insulted ancient master coughs up a liter of blood, face turns eggplant, dramatic finger-point. Come on, give me the full trope package. I earned it."
Finally, the angel spoke, velvet with a sharp edge of bewilderment. "Do you… realize how unreal this is? You stand before a divine entity of incalculable power, personally chosen for a second life, god-tier abilities, the chance to rise above every mortal who wronged you—and your response is not gratitude, not reverence, but… rudeness, sarcasm,complaints about my gender presentation?"
Pryce shrugged, hands in nonexistent pockets, eyes scanning the endless fields as if he might poke the edges of reality.
"Buddy, reverence is for people who haven't watched their little sister get flash-cooked by a so-called hero winking at them while doing it. Gratitude? That's for suckers who think the system gives a shit. And yeah, I'm rude. It's my brand. Deal with it."
The angel's wings twitched, almost imperceptibly. Even divinity had limits.
"You hate heroes," the being said softly, voice low as if the air itself feared to interrupt. "The Thunder Saint. The Fringe. Your sister. The deliberate chase into civilian zones. The calculated destruction masked as justice. I know your file, Pryce. Every scar. Every scream. I simply… did not anticipate quite this level of immediate, unfiltered insolence."
"Welcome to the premium street-rat experience, glow-boy," Pryce replied, spreading his arms wide. "Since we're apparently skipping the groveling montage and going straight to banter, I'll take the mic—"
"Actually," the angel interrupted with serene authority, "this is my personal dimension. All conversational rights, metaphysical authority, and narrative control reside with—"
"Dude!" Pryce barked, laughter ricocheting across the improbable horizon. "Don't get petty on me. I didn't mean it literally. Where's your sense of humor? Did they issue you six wings but zero chill?
"Also—newsflash—it's my soul, my afterlife knockoff, my therapy session from hell. I get all the talking rights. You just stand there looking majestic and mildly disappointed."
The angel stared. Long. Silent. Six wings folding slowly, the radiance dimming into a gentle halo. Finally, he exhaled. Human, almost resigned.
"Very well," he said. "Speak your piece."
Pryce's grin went feral. "Oh, we're gonna have so much fun ruining your day."
****
A/N:Now there is the real Pryce... also if you expected a soft and gentle and divine-ass kissing MC, sorry not sorry to disappoint.