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"You either die a hero or live long enough to see yourself become the villain."

Rozell's now back on O&C's Replenishing Drinks, sitting like a punished kitten on the bar stool. Taking Oxen's role is Opus, who wipes the bloodstained glasses with his wolfish fangs snarling at his visitors. At his left is Mielle, clad in a grieving cloak with her face devoid of life and grasping a glass of cracked icicles. He calls her name, but merely a croak escapes him. And she barely glances at him too.

Sitting around the tables are his parents, Grandpa, a few Avoridge townsfolk, and some Mountkirk villagers—Ren, Oxen, and Mr. Clam. Their eyes are ghostly like they're trying to pierce through the mental shield Rozell has put up.

The arrival of a blinding white startles Rozell. Occupying the farthest table in the hut is Grandma. She merely smiles as she puffs her bobbing gray hair, which now looks like a nest for fireflies.Memories of her tighten Rozell's chest. If only he can shrug lose his fear of the bartender; he might run straight into her arms and weep.

Would Grandma take him along with her—back to where she now resides?

"Do you agree, Cottage Boy?" Opus sneers with malice as he slams the glass onto the counter.Behind him, Rozell's painting of the Day-Lynx turns alive. The creature writhes under the crowd's scrutiny that its antlers get bent at one point. "Now you're here, undead. Everyone sees you as a villain, unlike the hero I am."

"I am not a villain." Rozell's voice cracks at the edges as if a puppeteer abruptly slaps his mouth shut. "And I won't be one."

"How could you keep this from all of us, Brother?" Mielle's accusation tickles his ears like the tongue of a snake. With her fingers now pointing at him, her eyes roll to the back of her head. Her skin withers like the leaves in autumn, turning her into nothing more than a skeleton wrapped in a black canvas.

"Mielle!" Rozell shudders as he jumps away from her misshapen form. Another cry rips through Rozell's throat as the crowd also shares the same fate. Rozell tries to escape out of the hut, but his ankle is bound to the counter. "I am not a villain!"

Their haunting voices close in on him. The wind sheds their black attires away, blowing their bones into dust. Only their skulls remain as they hover in the air. And each of them has a severed leg stuck on it.

"I am not a villain!" Rozell gasps, crouching down the counter as his tears blind him. "I didn't choose to be a Day-Lynx. And I didn't mean to kill anyone!" From above the counter, a brandished ax is ready to shave Rozell's head off his neck. With his remaining breath, he cries out, "Death had asked me to protect those animals and the forest. You can't kill me!"

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Outside the cottage, a snowstorm rages. It knocks on Rozell's window like a homeless man begging for shelter. But not even the brutal storm can chase the stiff, mantled figure perching at Rozell's door frame; he can only watch helplessly as his grandson endures a torment he doesn't deserve.

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"You could've died when you were nine," a different voice whispers, reminding Rozell of gravestones and ash.

When he opens his eyes, he's no longer in the stuffy hut. The same trees he saw before his death loom over him instead. The air whooshes in a calm movement as if an unseen creature is drifting around him.

"But you didn't," the voice taunts again, like a master luring his pet with a bait.

Rozell tries to heave himself off the snowy ground, but a blinding pain stabs his ankle—at the same spot where the blade struck him. But his neck is clean of blood, though Opus had already cut it in two.

He touches his face. The light wrinkles are gone, back into his nine-year-old smoothness. Time has blown his light stubble away, and also the uneven freckles he used to scratch out of his cheeks.

They're all gone. And now Rozell's back into another nine-year-old.

A flood of memories tries to knock on his brain's door, but he blocks them away. "You're Death, aren't you?" His last words before Opus slaughtered him taste bitter on his tongue. "I hadn't remembered anything until Opus killed me."

The forest hums in a grieving melody while welcoming a flock of harpy eagles. Following them are stealthy vultures as black as Rozell's hair. But nothing threatens Rozell more than the blood-eyed jackal crawling into the scene like a judge in a trial. With its reddish-brown and tawny fur standing out against the pure snow, the coyote growls furiously, bulking its muscles, and prepares to launch at Rozell.

"I had once considered to put you here: not on Earth, but alive," Death says, still whooshing around the scene. "I was supposed to have everyone's names in my death records, but your name didn't exist." A faint sound of glossed-over pages slips through the air. "Even until today, you still don't. Like you're not supposed to be dead, you know?"

Rozell yelps tearfully as the coyote pounces on him, pushing him deeper into the snow with its massive paws. "Please, let me get out of here!" The snow starts to melt and trickle into Rozell's nose, freezing his breath. The pain on his ankle worsens when the birds stare at the exposed meat like they haven't eaten anything in years.

"And here you are, living a second life. But still so determined to die."

Rozell whimpers as his arms flail over the beast, trying to shrug off its grip. "Living as a hunted beast is not what I expected!"

"But do you have a choice?" Again, Death uses his taunting tone. "You begged to me for a second life. I gave it under one condition: protect Borealm Woods and its inhabitants at all costs."

The wet snow has entered Rozell's ears, chilling it to the core. His teeth can't chatter, for only sobs remain in his mouth. "Did I truly agree to that?" he whispers. "Then I'm sorry. I will try better. I won't imagine what it feels like to be dead—" He claws through the empty air as the coyote shoves his face down into the cold water, where the snow has formed a deep puddle. With chunks of his feet now being pecked on as well, Rozell can't hide the anguish that tears through his body. "Please, let me go back to life! I'm sorry!"

The unseen being clicks his tongue. "Being my favorite doesn't make you feel grateful enough, huh? And you also let that fool man's words get into your head?"

The water seeps through Rozell's senses and numbs them with more aches and sting. A pair of legs soon grabs him out of his torment. As he coughs weakly, Rozell collapses on the dry ground, tears and cold water mixed into one.

"Have you no shame? I am no god, for I only list down the guests of the afterlife. But I can see an ungrateful soul"—his abrasive tone makes Rozell curve over into a smaller ball—"and a weak mind when I see one. You shouldn't have let that man control you. Though you played a part in his decease, I had already listed down his fate before he got into Borealm. Only half of it was your fault."

The birds flutter back to their branches with unsatisfied pleas. The coyote also joins them, still keeping a watchful eye over Rozell. Together, they look like Death's pets.

"Your memories won't return at once, but I assure you, I have never promised that your second life would be easy."

Closing his eyes, Rozell fills his lungs with the sweet-scented air, knowing his privilege won't last any longer.

"Here's something to help you remember: at nine years old, you swore to me that nothing mattered more than keeping your family proud. Especially your old cottage buddy."

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The snowstorm ceases its fight when the sun slowly peeks from the mountain's peak. As the harsh wind gives way to the morning breeze, the snow bustles around to secure a spot on the grounds. Yet, they're not enough to cover the turmoil the storm had brought over the land.

In the cottage where two restless souls lie, the earlier gust had blown up all the lanterns. A brutal coldness coats around the home, reaching the bones and nerves of the inhabitants.

But none of them stirs from their sleep: one young man nestled up in a tangled blanket, while the elder one leans against the door frame and ignores his old back's protests. Both have entirely different worlds inside their minds.

But if there's something both the worlds can relate with, it's how Death gets to play as both a puppeteer and god within them.

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Total Word Count: 21,425