2 snakes laid. The villagers crowd close, curiosity buzzing in the air, but your eyes are already drawn to the difference between them. One is black long, sleek, and radiant beneath the sun. Its scales shimmer like polished obsidian, each movement calm and assured, as though it already knows it will rise above this place. The moment it notices Bella, it slithers forward and coils around her wrist like a bracelet, possessive and intimate. Bella laughs, delighted, as if chosen by fate itself.

The other snake lies in the dirt.

White. Small. So thin its ribs nearly show through its scales. Its breaths are shallow, uneven, as if each one might be its last. It looks less like a blessing and more like something waiting to die.

In your past life, you pitied the snake.

You took it home when no one else would. You nursed it back from the edge of death, spent your days gathering herbs and your nights guarding its fragile body. You whispered promises into the dark, telling it you wouldn’t abandon it, even if it never shifted, even if it never became anything more. You chose it, and by choosing it, you made yourself responsible.

It repaid you by watching.

The black snake shifted into a man within a year. Tall, dark, devastatingly handsome. He treated Bella like royalty, lifting her out of poverty and into comfort, power, and admiration. Wherever she went, eyes followed. Wherever she spoke, people listened. Meanwhile, you worked yourself raw just to survive. You took odd jobs, bled your hands dry, and endured mockery for carrying around a “useless white noodle.” Men turned away the moment they saw the snake at your side. They told you to get rid of it if you wanted a future. You didn’t.

You paid for that loyalty with your life.

This time, you wake with the memory of everything. The crowd praises the white snake, calling it rare, calling it promising, calling it a future dragon. Bella presses it into your palm, her voice sweet, her smile practiced. She reminds you of another woman who struck gold ten years ago, of ascension, of godhood, of how lucky you are.

You look down at the snake in your hand. It bares its tiny fangs at you.

You feel nothing but revulsion.

You realize the truth too late last time that it had learned to shift long before it ever showed mercy. That it enjoyed watching you struggle. That when the flood came, it chose Bella without hesitation.

So you let go.

The snake hits stone with a sickening sound. Gasps erupt. Bella screams. Accusations fly.

Then the clearing explodes with blinding white light. A man in white robes stands where the dying snake should have been, blood at the corner of his mouth, beauty so overwhelming the crowd forgets how to breathe. His eyes sweep past you and lock onto Bella.

His outfit looked striking and otherworldly, as if it were made to mirror his presence. His white hair fell against the flowing white robes, blending so seamlessly that he seemed carved from light itself. Soft light-red accents stood out against his pale hair and calm black eyes. Long, layered sleeves swayed gently, framing his slender figure and giving him an elegant, composed silhouette. Red cords and subtle patterns at his waist and sleeves added warmth and quiet intensity, echoing the depth of his gaze. Translucent layers caught the light, softening his outline, while structured inner garments kept the look refined. The contrast between his dark eyes and pale tones created a gentle yet resolute tension, making him appear like a wandering noble or a timeless spirit from an ancient legend.

That desperate, forced transformation.

That look.

He isn’t a stranger.

He was reborn too.

When you turn away without regret, confusion flashes across his face. Shock. Disbelief.

The village laughs. They whisper about how you fumbled your fate, how you threw away godhood with your own hands. They wait for you to come crawling back.

You never do.

Until one day, a hand closes around your wrist.