I was Reborn as a God Candidate in a Dead World

Noah hadn't meant to fall asleep so fast, but the bed had been stupidly comfortable for a cursed ruin. No ghosts screaming into his dreams. No black thread mages looming over his chest. Just deep, uninterrupted sleep—probably the best he'd had since arriving in this dumpster fire of a world.

When he opened his eyes, soft gray light seeped through the cracked shutters above. Dust floated in the air like lazy snow, and for a brief, perfect moment, Noah didn't feel like he was in a monster-infested hellhole.

Then his legs cramped, his mana core throbbed from overuse, and he remembered that he had almost died the night before. Again.

Lovely.

He stretched, groaned, and shoved himself upright. His new mage robes were wrinkled, his cane had rolled halfway under the bed, and he looked like death microwaved. But at least he was alive.

A soft knock came from the hallway.

Abel, of course.

When Noah opened the door, the prince was already dressed, already serious, already irritatingly handsome.

"Ready?" he asked, voice as calm as ever.

Noah squinted. "You slept, like, two hours. How do you look like that?"

Abel didn't answer. Just turned and started walking.

"Right," Noah muttered, grabbing his gear. "Stoic hotness is apparently a personality trait now."

They regrouped in the hallway, exchanged a few quiet words, and without much ceremony, started walking toward the western side of the castle—the path Abel remembered that led toward the royal gardens.

The deeper they went, the quieter it got.

At first, Noah didn't think much of it. The castle was massive, and ghosts weren't exactly known for punctuality. Maybe they were on break. Maybe they unionized. But the silence kept growing heavier the further they walked, pressing down on his chest like damp wool.

He stopped, eyes narrowing. "Hey… is it just me, or is our cheerfully haunted murder-castle starting to feel… underpopulated?"

Abel, walking a few steps ahead with the same cold posture as always, didn't look back. "There are fewer spirits."

"Oh, great. So not just me hallucinating due to exhaustion. Love that." Noah quickened his pace to fall in line with Abel. "Do we know why? Or are we chalking it up to haunted house logic?"

Abel glanced sideways at him. "We're close to the royal gardens."

That made Noah slow down a bit. "Isn't that supposed to be, like, the relaxing part of the castle?"

Abel's lips twitched. Barely. "It was."

The corridor twisted sharply left. Noah followed, boots crunching softly on fallen plaster and cracked stone. Here and there, the walls were covered in ivy that had grown through broken windows, twining around torn portraits and rusted sconces. The only light came from faint green bioluminescence clinging to the moss lining the floor.

The air was colder now.

Too still.

Noah scratched the back of his neck. "So let me get this straight. We've passed the screaming walls, the ghost maids, the flesh puppet wolf, and the cursed chamber of your tragic mother—and now we're entering a haunted garden that's too peaceful?"

Abel said nothing, but the set of his jaw tightened.

Noah sighed. "Cool, cool. Nothing says 'I'm sure this is fine' like a vibe shift straight out of a horror game."

There were no ghosts now. Not even flickers. No footsteps in the walls. No whispers behind doors. Just the echo of their own breathing and the distant creak of wood swaying where there should be no wind.

Noah shivered.

He tried a little joke. "Maybe the ghosts just hate flowers."

Nothing.

Okay. Tough crowd.

They kept walking.

And for the first time since entering the castle, Noah caught himself not looking for threats—but looking at Abel. Really looking. He didn't flinch at the quiet. He didn't ask questions. His sword was strapped at his back again, and his eyes were fixed forward like a compass that only pointed at pain.

Noah cleared his throat. "You know, you're a lot more talkative now."

"I'm still not talking much."

"Yeah, but compared to the 'cold knight brooding in silence' act earlier, this is practically a podcast."

Abel exhaled through his nose. Maybe it was almost a laugh. Or just irritation. Hard to tell.

But he didn't shut Noah down. And somehow… that was enough.

Noah didn't say it out loud, but he kind of liked this version of Abel.

The one that didn't pretend not to hear him.

The one who kept walking, no matter what ghosts—or kings—waited ahead.

The deeper they went, the more the castle changed.

Stone turned soft with moss. Roots broke through marble tiles, winding like veins across the floor. Vines crawled over shattered portraits and swallowed rotting tapestries until only colors remained—faded reds, forgotten golds. Everything smelled damp, old, like the earth itself had started eating the castle from within.

Noah slowed. "It's… too quiet."

No footsteps except theirs. No angry ghosts. No whispering spirits. Just the distant sound of wind rustling leaves—though they were deep underground.

He eyed the corridor ahead warily. "I'm starting to miss the ghost attacks."

They passed a series of statues along the hall. Knights, maybe. Or servants. Too detailed. One had a hand outstretched, frozen mid-scream. Another's face was twisted like it saw death coming and had time to regret every life choice.

Noah stopped walking. "Okay. That's not weird at all."

Abel glanced at the statues but didn't stop. "Don't touch them."

"Wasn't planning to." Noah hurried to catch up, whispering, "Did they always look like this?"

Abel was quiet for a second. Then: "No. They were just statues. Decorative. My father liked having things made in his image. Stories. Figures. Silent company, he called them."

"Right," Noah said. "Because nothing says totally mentally stable like commissioning an army of horror movie props."

Abel slowed his pace. His voice was lower now. "He came here when he didn't want to be found. No one followed."

Noah glanced ahead. The air felt heavier. Thicker. The corridor arched into roots and green shadow, as if the garden had swallowed part of the palace whole. He heard something then—a faint, soft sound. Almost like humming. Or wind. Or a voice just at the edge of hearing.

"…Do you hear that?"

Abel didn't answer.

Noah looked back at the twisted hall behind them. The statues were still there. Still frozen. But he swore one had shifted slightly.

They stepped through the archway, and the castle ended.

Or rather, it gave way—to something that used to be beautiful.

The garden stretched wide beneath a cracked dome of bioluminescent stone, pale light spilling like moonwash over twisted vines and shattered stone benches. Thorny roses bloomed in unnatural shades—deep, velvety blacks, bruised purples, wine-dark reds that looked too much like dried blood. The air was thick, humid, and smelled like rotting fruit and funeral flowers.

Noah's boots squelched on something wet.

He looked down. A pool of still water. No wind, but ripples spread across the surface like something had just touched it. He stepped back quickly.

The silence was different here. Not empty—held. Like the garden was listening.

Noah cleared his throat. "Wow. You know, I used to think haunted houses were overdone. Now I'm kinda nostalgic for a door that just creaks when it shuts."

His voice echoed slightly, then vanished, swallowed like everything else.

Abel walked a few steps ahead. Slower now. His shoulders were tenser.

"This place…" he murmured. "He used to bring my sister and me here. Before."

Noah glanced around. The decay clung to everything like mold. An old tea table lay overturned in a bed of crawling moss. Statues of birds—once marble—were now cracked and twisted, their beaks open in silent screams.

"You okay?" Noah asked, voice softening. "We can stop if it's too much."

Abel didn't look back. "No. We have to keep going."

There was something in his voice. Something wounded. But unbending.

Noah said nothing more. He just followed, keeping close, trying not to step on any of the thorns curling like snakes across the path.

Then the garden… changed.

The light dimmed. The shadows stretched longer. The air grew colder, and the flowers—those twisted roses—began to curl closed, as if hiding from what was coming.

Noah's breath caught.

"Something's wrong."

Abel already had his hand on his sword.

And from far ahead—through the walls of ivy and hanging moss—came a sound.

Metal.

Dragging.

Scraping.

Like a blade against stone.

The scraping sound got louder.

Not rushed. Not clumsy.

Deliberate.

Noah felt the hairs on his neck rise. The garden itself seemed to recoil, the vines twitching, the stone sweating cold.

Abel stepped forward, his sword now fully drawn. His knuckles white.

From between two crumbling archways choked with ivy, something emerged.

At first, it was just a shadow. A shape too large, too broad. Then came the details—armor blackened with age and corrosion, pieces cracked and broken, hanging on by rusted straps. His chestplate was torn open over the heart, as if something had burst out—or been shoved in. No helmet. Just a gaunt, skeletal face half-covered in ash-white hair, streaked with dried blood and rot. His eyes glowed faintly red. Not with fire, but with grief.

And dragging behind him, a massive sword. It wasn't just chipped. It was ruined. But it still cut into the earth with every slow, grinding step.

He didn't speak.

Didn't groan or scream like the ghosts.

He existed. That was enough.

Noah stood frozen. Every instinct told him to run. Hide. Beg.

But Abel just… watched. Motionless. Breathing slow.

The Death Knight finally stopped at the far edge of the garden, in front of what had once been a stone fountain, now dry and cracked open like a wound.

And he looked at them.

Not with recognition. Just emptiness.

Noah whispered, "...That's your dad?"

Abel didn't look away.

"Not anymore."