“Finally, it looks like you died.”

  That was a strange thing to hear. Especially while standing on a rainbow-colored bridge that looked like a mix of fire and ice—without the sensation of heat or cold.

  The boy—dark brown hair, lightly tanned skin, looking around 16 years old—stood blinking in confusion.

  “I don’t mean that in a bad way,” came the voice again. “You just lived so long, it felt like forever before you got here.”

  Turning his head, the boy saw a man behind him—tall, strong, with piercing golden eyes and a slightly amused expression. Despite the situation, he looked friendly.

  “Who are you?” the boy asked, giving the man a curious glance that quickly turned to confusion. “And why do I sound so young?”

  The man smiled and bowed with a flourish.

  “Allow me to introduce myself. While I have many names, you would know me best as Heimdall, guardian and watcher of the Bifrost Bridge, which connects the mortal realm and the heavens.”

  The boy blinked and looked around again. A ghost of recognition passed across his face.

  “Ah. That makes sense then. I suppose I have died. Odd that this is the first place I become conscious of—it’s not what I expected.”

  Heimdall’s expression darkened. The friendliness faded, and his tone grew serious.

  “Yes, and that, my young friend, is the problem. You must be confused as to why you look so young—after all, you just celebrated your 115th birthday. Quite the achievement, even in your era.”

  He paused. “There is much to discuss. But perhaps we should make ourselves more comfortable?”

  The scenery shifted. The rainbow bridge vanished, replaced by a quiet, cozy study.

  The boy recognized it instantly.

  “This is my study on Earth. I spent so much time here in my later years—reading, writing… but why here?”

  Heimdall, now relaxedly seated in a familiar lounge chair, gestured around.

  “I didn’t choose it,” he said. “You did.”

  Surprised, the boy thought for a moment, then nodded.

  “Ah, I see. You said we should make ourselves more comfortable, and this is the place that came to mind. So… this is the astral realm. A place where thought shapes reality.”

  Heimdall nodded, now stern again.

  “Yes. And this is where the problem begins. You understand the nature of this place. Even freshly dead, you’re aware of its rules. You spent years writing about this very realm—and now that you’re here, you can bend it to your will.”

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  The boy tilted his head thoughtfully.

  “Mmm… so what I wrote all those years ago has become my reality. Does that mean… I’ve become your apostle?”

  Heimdall smiled, the tension easing.

  “Indeed. It was your nature to be an observer—so naturally, you’ve become a Watcher. And since you portrayed the Wyrd Sisters so faithfully in your stories, they’ve blessed you in return.”

  The boy bowed slightly, a mischievous smile on his lips.

  “Master, I thank you for your favor—and for stepping in on my behalf with the other gods. I must have caused quite a dilemma.”

  Heimdall grimaced, remembering the chaos that had unfolded in the celestial realms.

  When the gods discovered that this man—this boy now in appearance—was nearing death, it stirred panic. His belief in his own writings had grown so powerful over time that it transcended mere fiction. The world he had imagined, written, and refined for decades had become more than a story. It had taken root in the astral plane.

  And that was a problem.

  Normally, when a soul dies, it passes through Samsara—the cycle of death and rebirth. Memories are wiped, identities lost, and the soul is reset for another life. But not him. He had bypassed that cycle entirely. His awareness was intact. Worse, he had arrived in the astral realm with a full understanding of how it worked—and the ability to shape it with his thoughts.

  That alone could have unraveled the balance.

  The gods had invested deeply in the structure of the astral plane. It wasn’t just a spiritual resting place—it was a battleground for influence, a world governed by their apostles, fueled by mortal belief. And now, an unbound soul with the power of creation had appeared, outside the control of fate.

  The God of Light and Order had wanted to destroy him outright. That, Heimdall had expected. Order feared disruption, and this boy embodied it in pure form.

  The evil gods, on the other hand, had sensed opportunity. They wanted to twist the boy’s power for their own gain. The world had been in peace for far too long, and with peace came a troubling imbalance: the heroes had grown too powerful. Fueled by centuries of virtuous stories and ideals, their strength had overwhelmed the evil gods’ influence. Their apostles had been hunted down and defeated—only one remained.

  The newly born Demon Lord.

  He was the embodiment of all the evil apostles’ remaining energy—an amalgamation of darkness and wrath. The gods feared he might be the last gasp of evil… or the beginning of something worse. Already, the world trembled under the weight of this new imbalance. Destruction loomed on the horizon, hidden beneath the illusion of calm.

  The boy’s arrival threatened to tip the scales further. With his imagination manifesting reality, he could easily become a force beyond control.

  It had taken every ounce of Heimdall’s influence to persuade the divine council. He argued not for the boy’s destruction, but for his containment—by making him his apostle.

  He had positioned the boy not as a threat, but as a Watcher. A neutral observer. One who could act only when the world’s fate itself was at risk. It was a clever compromise. Apostles could wield divine power, but under divine law, they were still bound by limits. And by binding the boy to the Wyrd Sisters—those mysterious weavers of destiny—Heimdall ensured that the boy’s actions would align with fate, not defy it.

  The gods agreed. Reluctantly.

  Some found comfort in the idea that Heimdall already had an apostle. Splitting his divinity meant neither apostle could overpower the others. It was balance, enforced by limitation.

  But in truth, Heimdall knew it was a gamble.

  The boy had written this very setting into one of his old stories—a once-popular isekai series where a man dies and awakens in a world shaped by thoughts, gods, and divine politics. Heimdall had read it. He had enjoyed it. And now, that fiction was becoming prophecy.

  What the boy did not yet realize was how deeply the gods had staked their power in this new world. How fragile the veil of order had become. How one wrong move—one selfish thought—could bring everything crashing down.

  Heimdall looked at the boy, now seated comfortably in the familiar armchair of his old study.

  He still had the soul of a writer.

  But soon, he would need the heart of a god.