𖤓°. ⋆"I don't need a purpose or meaning, I'm just a cog inside the system till the day I stop breathing."⋆. °𖤓

⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧

The Deliverer

The title "Deliverer" was meant to be an honor, a bastion of hope whispered in hushed, reverent tones. It signified a place of prestige, a blessing to the masses who saw only the promise of a savior, the one destined to finally shatter the perpetual cycle of destruction and rebirth. Yet, to the man behind the name, it was a curse he was struck with since he was first reborn. The first sin before many to come.

He was a boy, once, brimming with the naive optimism of the chosen. When the elders first called him Phainon, The Deliverer, he had felt a surge of pride. He threw himself into the rigorous, brutal training with the fervent hope that he could be the one. He would master every blade, every strategy, every ounce of power they poured into him. In his youthful dreams, he saw himself saving his people, breaking the god's vicious cycle, and carving his name into the eternal memory of a grateful world.

Those dreams were now ghosts that mocked him, turned to ash millions of cycles ago. The hope that once fueled him had long since molded into a thick, suffocating despair. Each rebirth was not a fresh start, but a deeper plunge into the same relentless nightmare. The faces never changed, the names of the empires shifted like sand, but the script remained agonizingly the same. An evil would rise, a plea would be made, and he, The Deliverer, would be thrust forward to meet it. The weight of it all was a physical thing now, a pressure on his chest that never eased, a leaden cloak he could never shrug off. He had stood on mountains of the slain, his own hands the cause, all for the "greater good." He had challenged tyrants on their thrones and toppled demi gods from their celestial pedestals. He had burned his own body to ash, a human torch to light the world's darkest hour, feeling every searing agony with the promise that this time, this sacrifice, would be the last.

And every single time, it was for nothing. The world he bled for would forget. His name, his deeds, his very existence would fade like smoke on the wind, erased from memory and stone. He was a ghost haunting history, a footnote that was never written, a gravestone never made. Then would come the cold slumber, the brief respite of nonexistence, before being spat out once more into a new body with the full, crushing burden of every past life as an unholy hymn in his mind.

He was so profoundly, soul-shatteringly tired of it. The admiration of the people he was meant to save felt like stones thrown at him. Their pleas were like nails raking across his sanity. He would look into their hopeful eyes and see only the faces of the countless dead he had failed to save permanently. The fire to be their hero was long extinguished, leaving only the cold, bitter embers of obligation. He was no savior. The cycle would continue, and he, its eternal prisoner, would be forced to play his part, loathing every breath, every victory, every defeat, and every pointless, forgotten sacrifice.

HIHIHII JUST KNOW THAT THIS IS HEADCANON!! ik Phainon's actual lore, but I think it's more tragic to have everyone around him die, then sacrifice himself for a better world that doesnt come (which kinda happens anyway LMFAO)
iirc he doesnt remember the cycles, i basically just changed that detail here lololo