It had become time. Finn had never been a member of this world, not really. He had grown up separated from society. He had been born away from his fellow man, and he had been raised in a way that many would consider wild and dangerous. When he had first made his way from Worth Woodsea, he recalled people recoiling at his recollection of growing up within the dense forest. Their faces contorted with disgust and horror as he explained he had been raised by monsters, and had grown up being hunted and hunting for his whole life. They had looked at him as though he were uncivilized, and perhaps as though he were a monster himself.

To him, however, they were the monsters.

They built their own forests of stone and wood, fortresses built by the most unique creature in nature who seemed to forget their place in it. They viewed themselves as conquerors of the world, not understanding that they were a part of the universe they so desperately rebelled against. Their actions were not against the natural order of things, but rather were the culmination of the expected due to evolution and change.

In other words, they had not broken free of their natural constraints. Rather, it was those very constraints that led them to build societies and separate themselves in the first place. To those who were born and raised in it, perhaps that couldn't be seen. For someone like Finn though, introduced to it after he had already breached adulthood, it was so painfully obvious. How could someone who saw the ludicrous nature of man integrate himself seamlessly? It was an impossible ask, one barely made to happen due to the caring guidance of his older brother.

That support could not last forever, though. His brother had left him long ago, beginning a unique adventure all his own. And only recently had Finn heard of his brothers death. It was a natural one, having reached the end of life. Yet the news didn't sadden Finn the way that he had anticipated. When the news got to him, he'd once thought, he would grieve. Yet it seemed, more than anything, to be the smack of reality that he needed. Birth was a natural stage of life, and so too was death. All Jake had done was reached the end of his cycle, and whatever happened next was simply a natural next step.

Yet, for Finn, it was the signal that he didn't need to struggle any more.

Finn had made his way to a dungeon within Marigold, one that had been linked to the previous dungeon he had explored. In the last one, he found out a bit more about the truth of Durendal, and it had changed his appearance to this vision of otherworldly grace. It had spoken of another dungeon, in which the truth of the world may be found. He had shrugged it off at first, so eager to return to Xandra that he hadn't considered its importance.

Yet now here he was, the midst of Marigold, in the dungeon he hardly even believed in. And sure enough, written on walls in a language long since dead, Finn found a message left by a people who were forgotten from the annals of time.

That was to say, if they ever existed at all. This language was one that Finn only knew due to his father, an adventurer who taught Finn multiple languages as a method of exploring the unknown rather than pursuing knowledge. This language was said to be the words of "Exis", and what they told was a haunting picture.

They told a story of Fiore, yet one so different that it hardly felt real. It was more likely that this was the ramblings of an ancient group of lunatics, rather than fact. Yet the more he read, the more he felt himself be pulled in. It spoke of another world, another iteration of existence that mirrored this one, yet differed drastically. It spoke of a struggle between many powers, but seemed hesitant to list either side as good or evil.

And finally, mentioned that the struggle had ended. It had not culminated in a final battle, nor did it simmer on the tides of war. Rather, it seemed time itself had effected all of the forces. All of them except one, an existence who found himself separate from time. Finn traced his fingers over the words, etched deeply into the stone cave so as to never wear away.

"Xun..."

It spoke of a man, born human, who had somehow transcended that into a realm of Gods. He had established himself as ruler of earthland, and as time went on, those of flesh began to revolt. The battle did not end, so much as time continued to tick. Rather than being the victor, it seemed to suggest that something else happened entirely. Xun may have outlasted his opponents, but according to this, he himself was eventually destroyed. It detailed the universe itself, resetting, due to the return of the original.

The one.

The creator.

Finn tried desperately to read this name, but unlike the rest of the words, this one had been viciously attacked. Whether the one who wrote these words lashed out in anger at the memory of this, "The One", or whether or not another had come through, Finn couldn't know.

Yet, in reality, Finn didn't care. Standing there in the cave, dressed down to just his undergarments, Finn had painted himself over in bloody symbols that matched that of the cave. He had climbed to a ledge, far above the ground, and stood looking out at the world before him. There was a chance that he had gone crazy, and he knew that. Yet still, this was what he had to do. He had committed, and in the worst case scenario, he'd finally be home with his family.

Oh, how he missed them.

Closing his eyes and spreading his arms wide, he breathed in deeply. Perhaps it was the air here, and probably it was nothing at all, but he could have sworn he felt mana within this cave. A mana that seemed to radiate from the words of the wall. A mana that seemed to come from somewhere else, both in this world and out of it. And he felt, or perhaps chose to feel, that mana entering him.

And with that, he fell. And as he fell, he let his mind grow blank. With a thud, he hit the ground. The damage, an unknown amount, had been done to Finn. A light trickle of blood escaped from his head, insinuating injury but ruling out death. A man as tough as him would not die from such a thing, but it was possible he would not be the same.

But for now, he slept. And eventually, when he awoke, he had changed.

A sharp intake of breath as the man sat up, hand immediately going to his head as a wince protruded from his otherwise emotionless face. Everything was spinning, though things slowly began to settle back into their place. As his eyes refocused, the first thing he noticed was that he was in a dimly lit area. Looking down at his body, he slowly took in the visuals of his immediate surroundings. That included his own frame, which was covered in intricate runes and writings that appeared to be in blood. A quick glance over made him decide that the blood must not be his own, as the only source seemed to be this fresh wound on his head.

Standing, feet not nearly as wobbly as one might expect from someone who survived such a fall, he looked around the area. No one seemed to be there, and so he made the assumption that the wound was not caused by another. Glancing at the nearby pile of clothing and gear, which he assumed to be his, his face crumpled up in a confused look. He knelt to the floor of the cave, driving his fist full force into the stone. As it crumbled away, giving into the demands of his fist, he looked at his knuckles. They seemed completely untouched, unharmed by the impact they just went through. It ruled out the idea of him simply falling, and with the intense runes and the gear that seemed to be his, it hinted towards something else. He looked up, high up, and saw a ledge within the massive cave structure that seemed to be where he fell from.

If no one was here, chances are that meant no one was ever here. His body seemed to be prepared ritualistically, and with it only being him that meant whoever this body belonged to must have done the preparation. But who? He looked at his hands, a smooth tan on flawless skin, and ran his hands slowly through his hair. Everything felt so off, and yet he couldn't place his finger on the cause.

He turned around, and there he saw the wall. Covered in writings, a language that didn't feel at all foreign, he was able to decipher it. As he began, he found himself unable to stop. As he read through, images flashed through his mind.

At the end of a long table, surrounded by people who gave off auras that seemed so powerful that any who stood before it would be oppressed. Yet there he stood, at its head, demanding the respectful reverence of those before him. I thank you all for coming. You have all become members of the Seven Sins of Fiore.

"What..?" As he spoke, he found himself wince in surprise. The voice he heard in his memory was nothing like the one that escaped his lips. Yet, why did it feel so familiar? He read on, and as he did so, he felt something begin to boil from within.

You're with me, Sloth. Our target will be Fairy Tail. A man who stood behind him, an aura mightier than what could be measured but differed from anything that mana could imitate. Images of intense, albeit one sided, fighting flashed before his eyes. A middle aged man, long black hair who seemed to be the leader of that guild, was visible ever so briefly. He was pinned to the outer wall, as high as possible, a sword through his heart and life long since drained from his eyes.

Was that him?

As he continued to read, names began popping up that inspired the boiling feeling within him to well up further, invading his chest and oppressing his ability to breath. Nexus and Hikaru, names that inspired an equal sense of hatred and respect. This wall contained a history, and he felt a part of it.

"Wrath..." It felt right. Natural, almost, as one would be akin to any title with which they associated their identities. These scattered images, this fractured past, began to form a coherent picture.

And it started long before those battles.

An adoptive father who taught him how to wield and control magic. An older brother, leader of the newest guild on the continent. A spy within guild, attacking him and leaving him to die on a mountain. An angry return, and the start of his understanding of the world.

He saw himself among friends and lovers. Enemies and rivals. He saw as he fought and grew, entering a tournament on a far away island. He saw himself winning that tournament, and remembered being taken by a monster like none other; a dragon. He learned the truth of those creatures, and learned perhaps the most violent and volatile magic there was. He saw the flashes of history, of worlds repeating endlessly and always ending the same.

And he saw himself change. He saw himself fall into despair, knowing how the cycle went and how each one ended. He saw himself climb from those depths, and with every new slayer conquered he saw his power multiply, and his influence grow. He saw himself surround himself with powerful allies, and even more powerful enemies.

He saw his subordinates step into the realm of Gods, and yet their respect for them kept them as his followers. He saw a war on all fronts, one sided in his favor. And he saw a being step down, one who seemingly stood at the peak of gods.

And his eyes, now in this cave, reflected the emotion he felt then. The rage on his face was palpable, the anger. He felt himself reach deep for his magic, and emptiness was his response. He felt himself yell, his voice echoing in the cave and full of such malice that any who would have been there certainly would have known of his wrath.

For that was who he was, once. His eyes came to the end, to the final battle, and to the time that came after. To those who continued after him, fighting their own struggles. To the inevitability of it all. Even that God, even Xun, fell to time. And as he fell, something else stepped in. Something older. Something far more ingrained into their existence, who was never quite there yet never too far away. He, or it, seemed to exist within the very fabric of being itself. And, as time went on, it allowed the world to begin again. New rules. New playing field. A new start, for the same end.

Yet he had forgotten one thing. He had let a single thing slip by, and whoever the owner of this body was, he had found that loophole. Somehow, someway, he had brought him back. He knew not who he once was, but he understood who he was now.

His name was Tenshi, and he had returned.

There was a chance, a rather high one and much more likely, that none of this was true. That these visions, these memories of his past and of another world, were all filled in on the spot. That this body, its brain and mind, acted in self defense at the sudden loss of self and past. That it filled in the blanks, writing its history using the archive on the walls before them, which very well could have been the ravings of a lunatic. There was nothing saying this was real, and nothing that gave it credibility.

Nothing, of course, other than the sheer hatred burning within his chest. Than the anger that swelled deep within him, from a place that he could not know, that drove him to action. Regardless of the reason, he was here now. Regardless of their origins, these memories were his and his alone. Born again or born anew, he was here to stay. He would climb, once again, to the peak. This time even higher, if he could. He felt as though this body had already been toned near its maximum potential, and he wished only to push it further. He would become a God of this world, and if it was the last thing he did, he would drag down that existence that reigned above them, watching on with boredom and driven only by their own need for entertainment and gain. He would kill them if it was the last thing he did.

He would embody the sin of Fiore, and he would give it form.

[Exit]: