Prologue

A requiem not of surrender—but of defiance and flame.

A faint voice starts to get loud slowly.

Where were you when I was so miserable?

Did you know what I went through?

Her voice was calm, but every syllable hit like a blade.

Helen stood in a realm beyond time—blood still clinging to her hands, memories clawing behind her eyes. Her body ached not from battle, but from abandonment. From betrayal. And from the weight of a world that had used her, broken her, then cast her aside.

Before her floated the boy.

Or… was it even a boy?

He looked young—innocent, even. Who claim to be a god and he is Too smooth, too serene. Like he had never felt the sharp edge of grief in all his existence.

He laughed nervously.

“Haha… I—I can’t interfere with fate…”

Fate?

The word snapped like a rusted chain around her neck.

Helen scoffed, voice dripping with contempt.

“Fate you say? You think my misery was fate?”

The boy—or whatever force pulled his strings—seemed to shiver. He drifted back, his eyes flickering, uncertain. As though her rage itself disrupted the very laws he followed.

“See… I know you suffered. To compensate for that… I’m giving you an offer.”

The void around them pulsed. Glitch-like streaks of red thread spiraled around her limbs—wrapping her wrists, slithering across her throat like a binding curse. A voice echoed behind his own. Not his, but older, wiser, inhuman.

“This is your Requiem Protocol. Accept this path. Reclaim what you lost. Rewrite your tragedy.”

She didn’t speak.

Her eyes drifted to her hands—calloused, blood-stained, trembling.

Remembering her past that happened to her that made her the way that she didn't even wanted to become.A faint voice echoed in her mind,"Helen, My best friend.I will there for you always my dear-"

Without her realizing, her one hand got to raise above her head, crimson threads tangled between her fingers like puppet strings. Her other hand gripped the hilt of a sword—long, blackened, stained with blood not entirely her own.

Beneath her, a pool of blood spread endlessly, as though she floated in the very consequences of the life she left behind. Around her, thorn-covered vines twisted like a frame, like fate itself was coiling tighter around her story.

But she smiled.

Not with hope.

With resolve.

“You say this is compensation? I call it your guilt. But fine. I’ll play your game. I’ll accept your offer. But understand this—”

She pointed the sword downward, letting its tip pierce the surface of the blood pool with a slow, deliberate hiss.

“This time, I decide how the story ends.Not you-”

“And I swear—by the thorns that crown me, by the blood that birthed me, and by the song that bears my name—this world will remember me not as a villain or a fool…”

“But as their requiem.”

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