In that blinding flash, a flood of memories washed over him, fragments of his past life swirling together in a chaotic vortex. He saw himself, a desperate child huddled in the corner of his room, his hands clasped together in fervent prayer. He remembered pleading with every deity he could name, every god he had ever read about, every celestial being whispered about in ancient texts. He had devoured dusty tomes, poring over forgotten rituals, searching for the key to unlock divine favor.
He recalled begging for a sign, a miracle, anything to alleviate the relentless suffering that had defined his existence: a glimmer of hope, a spark of kindness, a single act of grace. But his prayers had been met with silence. The gods had remained aloof, indifferent to his plight. The heavens had remained closed. No answer, nothing – he was merely left to suffer.
He remembered feeling like his body had grown heavier and heavier, to the point where he would drag himself to go to places just for the purpose of living.
He saw himself growing day after day. He remembered the increasing disappointment he felt as he realized that he was a bit closer to death every year he lived.
The memory brought on rage: rage for being betrayed, and rage for the unfairness of his whole life.
As the memory came to an end, his body felt as if it had no life, as if he were a lifeless shell.
Even as he stood before Enma-Daiō, on the precipice of a new life, the bitterness lingered, a corrosive acid eating away at his soul. The divine beings, the celestial guardians, the gods and goddesses, they were all the same: detached, uncaring, ultimately useless. The celestial beings merely laughed at him as he reached the bottom of the pits of despair.
As rage filled him there was another feeling, motivation. A motivation that would drive him to no let what had happened to him ever happen again.
The light intensified, threatening to consume him entirely. But amidst the chaos, a new resolve hardened within him, a defiant spark that refused to be extinguished: Never again.
Never again would he grovel before any higher power. Never again would he place his faith in the hands of indifferent gods. Never again would he allow himself to be a pawn in some cosmic game.
He would forge his own path, by his own strength, by his own will. He would become the master of his own destiny, beholden to no one, celestial or otherwise.
He remembered Enma-Daiō's words, the offer of rebirth, the promise of suffering: a twisted bargain, a cruel manipulation. But he would use it. He would seize this new opportunity, this second chance, and turn it to his advantage.
He would do anything, whether moral or not, to achieve his goals If his path required him to do so, he would gladly and without hesitation proceed with his plan, and he would never give mercy to those who stood in his way.
His actions would define his path. Whether good or evil, it did not matter to him; only the results of being stronger and reaching the top mattered to him.
He no longer wished to pray, and his new purpose was to obtain strength so he would never be crushed again. Tsuihō embraced the chaos, his heart filled with a cold, burning determination. He would be reborn, yes, but he would be reborn on his terms. He would defy the heavens, challenge the hells, and carve his own destiny into the very fabric of existence.
The hall shook violently once more. As the hall shook, Tsuihō was sucked towards what seemed like a bottomless pit. As the hall was about to fully disappear, so was Tsuihō, and with him, it vanished, as if it had never existed in the first place. He knew his next goal was to become stronger than the gods themselves as soon as he could, and he would not forget that he was going to use every means possible to do so, in order to defy them.
Then, as Tsuihō fell even faster, a deep voice reverberated around him. The echo repeated itself, saying, "Trust no one, otherwise you will die a death that will have no meaning. You will never depend on or trust anyone; trust only your power."
As this echo continued, he was suddenly transported to what he assumed was another world, where he was left alone. As he looked around, the new world was in complete chaos; the place was a war zone.
As he observed the situation, taking in the scene with his peripheral vision, he noticed two distinct groups engaged in a brutal conflict. Even from the vantage point of the mountain peak where he found himself stranded, far removed from the immediate chaos, the violence was palpable. He couldn't discern their exact characteristics, the details blurred by distance and the swirling dust of battle, but the ferocity of their engagement was undeniable.
The air crackled with the distant sounds of explosions, and the desperate cries of the wounded. Billows of smoke rose from the ravaged landscape, staining the sky a sickly grey. Even at this distance, Tsuihō could feel the vibrations of the earth beneath his feet, a constant reminder of the devastation unfolding below.
He focused his gaze, trying to make sense of the scene. One group, clad in what appeared to be tattered uniforms, fought with a desperate, almost frantic energy. They seemed outmatched, their movements uncoordinated, their weapons antiquated. The other group, by contrast, moved with a cold, calculated precision. They were clad in sleek, dark armor, their weapons gleaming under the dim sunlight, their attacks swift and merciless. They were systematically dismantling the opposition, their advance seemingly unstoppable.
Then, as he watched, a devastating attack unfolded before his eyes. A series of explosions ripped through the ranks of the struggling group, sending bodies flying through the air. The ground erupted in flames, consuming everything in its path. The cries of the wounded intensified, then abruptly ceased. The attack was swift, brutal, and utterly decisive.
Tsuihō stared, a cold knot forming in his stomach. He had witnessed death and destruction before, but this was different. This was a scale of devastation he had never imagined, a complete disregard for human life that chilled him to the bone. It was a stark reminder that this new world was not merely war-torn; it was a charnel house, a place where survival was a constant struggle, and where death lurked around every corner.