I was Reborn as a God Candidate in a Dead World

The door didn't want to open.

It wasn't just locked—it resisted. Thick vines, twisted and dry like veins, clung to the frame. They pulsed faintly, as if feeding off the sick silence that bled from the other side.

Noah pressed his hand to it and felt a chill under his skin, like something inside was waiting for them. Not alive. But not dead either.

Abel stood beside him, jaw tight. "It wasn't like this before."

Noah raised an eyebrow. "You mean when you were eight and crying on the throne?"

Abel shot him a look. He deserved it. But Noah didn't retract it. Sarcasm was easier than grief. Always had been.

"Right," Noah muttered, stepping back. "Big guy. You go first."

Abel nodded, stepped forward, and gripped the handle with one hand while the other drew his sword. The vines hissed and curled like worms touched by flame. With a grunt and one powerful pull, he yanked the door open.

It groaned like a wounded animal.

The air inside hit them like a wall—musty, warm, and heavy with the kind of rot that wasn't physical. Something old and wrong lingered. Noah stepped in first, even though every part of him screamed to turn back.

The chamber was big. Opulent once, maybe. Now, everything was faded and dust-choked. Tapestries had rotted down to threads. Glass stained with forgotten saints let in no light.

The bed was at the center. And on it—motionless but breathing—lay the queen.

Noah's breath caught.

Her face was pale and thin, mouth parted like she'd been frozen mid-whimper. Her fingers twitched now and then, and her eyelids fluttered in shallow REM cycles. Not a peaceful sleep. Something worse.

"She's… awake," Noah said quietly. "Sort of."

Abel walked past him, slowly. "She always was. In pieces."

He knelt at the side of the bed, his large form hunched over like he was trying not to break the moment. He reached for her hand, but didn't take it.

"She sang to me when she was sick," Abel said. "Even when she forgot my name. Even when the king stopped visiting. Even when… he locked this door."

Noah stayed back. This wasn't his moment.

"I thought if I stayed a child, I wouldn't have to make this choice," Abel whispered.

Then he stood up. Drew the sword.

Noah didn't stop him. He couldn't.

The queen's eyes opened for just a second—clouded, unfocused. But her lips moved. Noah didn't hear words. Just a breath.

Abel leaned forward, touched her forehead with his lips, and in one smooth motion, drove the blade into her chest.

Her body didn't jerk. Didn't resist. She just… let go.

The vines on the walls shriveled instantly. The rot in the air cracked like a broken mirror. Light—soft and silver—washed over the room from nowhere, then faded again.

She was gone.

And Abel stood there, sword in hand, trembling.

Noah walked up behind him. Said nothing. Then, after a few seconds, awkwardly reached out and rested a hand on his shoulder. He could feel the tension in the man's frame like stretched steel.

"I'm sorry," Noah said. It was barely audible. Probably stupid. But it felt right.

Abel didn't answer. But he leaned forward until his forehead pressed into Noah's shoulder.

He didn't cry.

Neither did Noah.

But for a long moment, they just stood like that—two strangers caught in something too heavy for words.

The silence lingered.

Until Noah's knees gave out.

He dropped into a graceless sit on the cold marble, exhaling hard. "Okay. That was a lot."

Abel had pulled away and stood near the bed again, his back rigid like stone. No words. Just grief—silent and heavy and swallowing the air like smoke.

Noah gave him a beat, then two, then said, "So. Funeral rites aside… we should probably talk about cursed zombie dad. Unless we want to keep the family tragedy bingo going."

Abel didn't smile. Obviously.

Noah sighed and rubbed his face. "Alright. Fine. Be broody. I'll carry the personality for both of us."

He pushed himself up with his cane and started limping toward the broken doorway.

And then it hit him.

"Oh shit. Stats."

Abel turned his head slightly. "What?"

"I evelled up after murdering your oversized furry trauma demon and completely forgot to dump my goddamn points."

He opened the system screen mid-stride, the usual golden-glow interface flickering into view like a guilty reminder.

[LEVEL UP!]

You are now Level 27.

+20 Stat Points Available.

You may distribute them freely.

Noah frowned. "Alright. Let's not fuck this up."

He scrolled through the familiar categories:

Agility: 17 Endurance: 13 Luck: 20 Strength: 5 Intelligence: 5 Charisma: 5 Will: 5

He added:

+3 to Endurance (he needed to not die after two staircases)+5 to Intelligence (he was using magic now, apparently)+7 to Agility (never enough dodging power)+5 to Charisma (he deserved it for sheer flirting effort)

[New Stat Total]

Agility: 24 Endurance: 16 Luck: 20 Strength: 5 Intelligence: 10 Charisma: 10 Will: 5

The screen closed with a hum.

"Okay," he said aloud. "I'm now officially a charming, half-brainy, slightly less squishy noodle."

Abel was already walking, his steps slower than usual. Noah followed.

The corridor out of the queen's room led into another wing of the castle—one Noah hadn't explored yet. It felt less like a palace and more like a forgotten fortress: heavy iron sconces, worn murals of war, thick layers of dust untouched by time or servants.

Eventually, the hallway opened into a courtyard.

Or what was left of one.

It was still underground, but the ceiling had collapsed partially, letting pale blue light from above leak in through cracks. Vines crept across shattered statues and broken weapons. A massive training ground stretched out beneath them—faded paint lines, old racks of ghostly armor.

And standing at the center, as if waiting for them?

A figure in black robes.

They didn't move.

Noah's breath caught in his throat.

One of the Weavers. Finally.

The air dropped five degrees instantly.

The mage's face was completely hidden by a veil of shadow. Only their mouth was visible—stitched shut, like it had been sewn with wire.

Abel drew his sword without hesitation.

Noah stepped beside him, swallowing hard.

"I'm gonna guess this one's not here for a chat."

The air behind the mage shimmered.

Dozens of thin, metallic threads unfurled from their sleeves and back—long and twitching, like spider legs made of razors. They moved like they had thoughts of their own.

Then came the voice.

But it didn't come from the mouth. It came from everywhere—a whisper layered a hundred times over, vibrating through bone.

"Thread one... frayed."

"Thread two... resistant."

"Thread three... needs cutting."

Noah raised his hand slowly, summoning the familiar glow of his card spell.

Abel stood firm, blade lifted high.

The mage lifted a single arm.

And the training ground erupted into chaos.

SYSTEM ALERT

⚔ MAJOR BOSS ENCOUNTER INITIATED ⚔

Name: The Black Puppet

Class: Weaver of the Hollow – Threadbound

Difficulty: High

Threat: Fatal

Victory Rewards: Unknown

Noah didn't need the glowing red text flashing in his vision to know he was about to get completely fucked.

Because the sky—if you could even call the cracked cavern ceiling a sky—was now gone.

In its place: threads.

Dozens. No—hundreds of gleaming, metallic threads poured out of the Black Puppet's body like a living storm. They danced in the air like they had minds, slicing through the empty space with shrill, high-pitched whines. A net. A web. A grave.

Noah took a single step back. "Oh that's… fun."

Then the threads fell.

"Move!" he shouted, and both he and Abel darted away just in time to avoid getting diced like vegetables.

The threads hit the ground with terrifying speed, splitting stone like it was paper. One carved straight through an old marble column, and it kept going. These weren't magic tricks. These were weapons. Real ones.

Noah conjured a card and flung it mid-dodge, aiming roughly toward the mass of thread-tentacles.

Boom.

The explosion lit up the courtyard for half a second—and in that brief flare, Noah saw it.

Half the threads didn't even flinch. They shimmered. Fuzzed. Flickered. Like static.

Illusions.

His eyes widened. "They're not all real!"

He rolled behind a chunk of rubble as more threads came down in a screaming spiral of death. Abel deflected one with his blade and nearly lost his grip from the force.

Noah's mind snapped to the card he'd just drawn.

Arcana XVIII – The Moon (Upright)

"Reveals hidden illusions once per day."

"Right—shit, right!"

He shoved his hand into the satchel at his side where the Tarot deck sat, glowing faintly. His fingers brushed against the card. Cold. Smooth. Familiar.

He yanked it free and held it out in front of him, eyes wide.

"Come on, Moon. Light the damn path."

The Tarot shimmered. Then burned with silvery blue light.

For a second, everything stopped. The threads froze mid-air. The Black Puppet tilted its head in that unnatural, jerky motion—like it felt something ripple in the air.

And then the world shifted.

The fake threads vanished. One by one, they popped like glass bubbles. What was hundreds was now ten. Maybe eleven. All spaced unevenly, still deadly—but visible. Real.

Noah blinked and gasped. "Abel!"

The prince was already fighting again, barely dodging a real thread as it cut the edge of his shoulder. "What?!"

"They're illusions! I used my Tarot—they're down to ten!"

"Good."

Abel charged.

Now it was a fight.