[Prologue]

A Symphony Of Crimson

I sat in the back row, in the seat farthest away from control, watching the chaos unfold. It all felt surreal, like an orchestra of violence conducted by an invisible hand. I couldn't make sense of it, yet there I was—thrust into the heart of it.

It began with a tragedy—a bloodbath that should never have occurred in a world that knew only peace. There was no reason for war, no cause worth spilling blood over, yet it started. And we, the unwilling and unprepared, were drafted into its unforgiving current.

Now, we all play our roles in this grotesque theater of weapons and flesh. As for me, I'm just an ordinary man—an unremarkable mortal with no talent, trapped in a body neither built to fight nor to dominate. Yet here I stand, clutching a newly sharpened knife, stumbling through the motions of killing others.

The gruesome fates of my comrades—acquaintances of barely ten days—play out before my eyes: stabbed, shattered, then… slaughtered, fate soon to be mine too.

Still, we called each other comrades and fought together—performing in this ghastly play under the cold, cruel lights of war; a stage that sold tickets to a spectacle of mercilessness.

The battlefield itself was indifferent, hosting death as its nightly star.

Tonight, my murderer took the stage—a man like me, ordinary, terrified, and teetering on the edge of despair. His eyes, wide with fear and brimming with tears, mirrored my own. His appearance—gear that barely fit, a gun at his belt, a larger one slung across his back, and a sharp object in his trembling hand—struck me as painfully familiar.

He was running toward me, his white hair streaked with a solitary black strand that seemed like an omen in itself. His amethyst eyes were wide, wet with panic, reflecting the flickering streetlights in the distance. I noticed the way his body moved—clumsy, desperate, a boy who had not yet learned how to carry the weight of the world. The sword—or was it a long knife?—clutched tightly in his hands seemed to promise nothing but failure.

He had an unnatural black tooth. I'd heard of those. Bite hard enough, and it releases poison to kill its bearer swiftly and painlessly. A grim tool of escape, devised by assassins for when capture becomes inevitable. A symbol of resolve—or lack thereof—for those who couldn't muster the strength to bite their own tongue.

He's crying. He's crying and running. His footfalls quickened as he approached, his face a mask of confusion and dread, a tragic portrait of youth at war. His weapon—was it a gesture of bravado or a misguided attempt to fight back? He wasn't ready. Not like this. The gun, strapped across his back, remained untouched as if it had been abandoned for something more honorable, or more foolish.

Why not use it, young man? It's right there.

Then again, none of us—my comrades or I—were given such luxuries. It seems that we were sent here to die, barely armed and unready—perhaps he's trying to play fair? Such foolishness will be your undoing, war-friend.

My mind races back to the ironic theater: the man in charge laughing with his fellows as if selling tickets. Tonight's play: Lambs to the slaughterhouse!

Is it funny? Pathetic? A comedy or a tragedy? I cannot choose.

They—the ones in control—sent a gardener to war. That's what I was, after all. My complaint isn't loud because I am complicit. I didn't pick up the sword when I had the chance. Instead, I chose to be a gardener in the midst of a battlefield, not a warrior safeguarding peace.

And then… SLASH.

My First Death… 

The sound of flesh yielding—warm, smooth… my flesh.

The blade slides into me as if my body was made for it, a key fitting perfectly into a lock.

Pain should follow, shouldn't it? A burning sensation or sharp sting, yet... it's oddly quiet.

I've cut myself before, slicing my finger with a kitchen knife while preparing meals with my wife. That pain was immediate, searing. But now? There's nothing now...

Ah, my wife… as I grasp the sharp steel sinking into my flesh, I see her face reflected in the metal—rather than my own.

Her unmatched beauty, her serene nature, and her unwavering support in all my endeavors… I remember it all.

Her golden eyes, how they shimmered when we spoke, their glow so vibrant that it would make the brightest star seem dim in comparison. Her amber hair, cascading like liquid fire, framing her face with an ethereal glow… I could lose myself in her, in the warmth of her presence, in the whispers of her love.

But this time, the whispers were not of passion—no… they were of futility, of disappointment. My own disappointment in myself, for failing to protect what is most precious.

The warmth that once filled my chest now feels hollow, replaced by a cold, gnawing emptiness as I lay impaled against this sword…

Sword? Ah yes, I was in the midst of war… Hm? The young man from earlier, where is he?

I try to process the moment. My body doesn't respond. My limbs won't move, my face won't turn. I can't even close my eyes. But from the corner of my vision, I see him—the one who stabbed me. He's fallen, his body pierced by something… something unnatural.

A weapon?

No, claws.

Yes... Claws.

WAIT! CLAWS?

My vision sharpens as I strain to see more.

Yes, claws, monstrous and grotesque, tearing through flesh. The young man's body hangs limp, lifeless.

My mind reels. Claws don't belong on this battlefield. They belong in stories, in nightmares… to monsters!

Then it dawns on me.

The claws are mine.

They protrude from my hands, dripping with the young man's blood. My hands, twisted and alien... instruments of death.

The realization crashes over me like a tidal wave, drowning every thought, every memory, every fragment of my humanity.

What am I?

The symphony of crimson continues, but I now am audience and conductor.

As for my body…?

My body…

My body has claws! I don't remember my body being capable of something like this.

Panic grips my mind, but the sensation is distant, drowned by the cacophony of chaos around me, as my unresponsive corpse moves on its own—a scene ripped from a horror movie unfolds before my frozen, unmoving eyes: the claws retract from the young man's lifeless form, dripping crimson.

They don't stay still for long, though.

Like predatory beasts with minds of their own, the claws lash out again in a relentless search for another victim. They seem to guide me, or perhaps they are the ones in control. I try to refocus, desperate for any clarity, as my gaze catches fleeting glimpses in the battlefield's pools of blood and rainwater.

… I see it.

For a split second, I see myself. The body I once called mine is nowhere to be found.

In its place is a mockery of my former form—a grotesque abomination of molten black substance that fails miserably to mimic humanity. Its surface writhes, as though alive, shifting unnaturally with every movement.

And the wings.

Three wings extend from the creature's back, uneven and misshapen.

One appears feathered, almost angelic, but its darkness betrays its purity.

The second is leathery, jagged, and monstrous, a devil's appendage in every sense.

The third, smeared in streaks of crimson, resembles a bird's wing, soaked in the blood of the fallen and stained by the battlefield itself.

I try to close my eyes, but I lost control over the body long, long ago.

The head—it has no face.

No semblance of human features remains. It's an ever-shifting mass, twisting grotesquely in an endless cycle, as if taunting my mind to comprehend it.

The body, if it can still be called that, is covered in inky veins. They pulse with an unnatural rhythm, glowing faintly as though alive, yet there's no heartbeat—at least not one I can feel.

From the gaping wound where the sword pierced my chest, black tendrils sprout, writhing like serpents. The sword is still there, embedded in my heart—or where my heart should be. Can't really tell if a heart is there anymore now, but if this information helps, I never felt a heartbeat, not once.

Hmm, now that I think about it, I never felt a heartbeat ever since I was born. Perhaps this is the reason why this body… this hideous, wretched thing… it moves as if possessed, tearing through soldiers like a beast unleashed.

Regurgitations From Hell

The battlefield continues. Every passing second, a new life is stolen, snuffed out as if it never mattered.

The massacre unfolds, each moment more grotesque than the last, and I am forced to witness it all.

How?

Why?

What are we?

I say 'we' because, even though I lack control, my eyes are dragged through the carnage my body—no, this 'thing'—unleashes, and are forced to witness: My allies!

No, not allies anymore, but beasts! Abominations partaking in this one-sided massacre!

They share one dreadful, unifying detail with me: a sword lodged into their hearts. Each blade piercing flesh serving as a grotesque key, unlocking horrors beyond comprehension. Their bodies warped into monstrous forms, just as mine did… Grotesque parodies of life that exist only to destroy. These beasts are mindless, their original owners long dead, eyes glazed over, vacant of any trace of the person who once inhabited them.

It is clear… Crystal clear that the souls of those bodies have long ascended. I can see it right in their very eyes!

Which begs the question… Why am I different? What did I do to be undeserving of ascension?

Why… The lifelessness in their gaze, the absence of humanity in our movements.

I want to scream, but my mouth isn't mine to open.

I want to close my eyes, but the beast that stole my body commands them to stay open.

I want to cry, but my tears are lost, as dry and lifeless as the shell I've become.

Why am I still here?

Why must I bear witness to this madness, tethered to a body that isn't mine anymore?

This body, this unholy mass of shifting black and crimson, does nothing but kill—mercilessly, indiscriminately. I am a passenger, forced to watch as it crafts new atrocities with every passing moment.

At first, it slaughtered soldiers—people who were as frightened and unwilling as I was when this nightmare began. But… the slaughter didn't end with the people.

The lambs sent to this slaughterhouse—my comrades and I—have returned as demons from hell, wreaking vengeance on the living. Every warrior, every soldier, is torn apart in the most horrendous ways imaginable, their lives—seeds of this grotesque feast!

But when the battlefield runs out of victims, the creatures hunt anew.

Birds, elegant and fragile creatures, flitting through the carnage in futile attempts to escape.

That's when it happened.

A mouth—a gaping maw lined with countless, endless teeth—emerged from a skyscraper-like neck, stretching impossibly high above the battlefield.

The monstrous neck followed them, snatching a flock of birds mid-flight, and crushed them with a crunch so violent it felt like the earth itself recoiled. A sound that could make even Beelzebub abandon his feasts from disgust.

The trees are next.

Gnarled claws tear through ancient trunks, branches splintered, roots clawed out, their essence consumed. The earth itself trembled as these abominations burrowed deeper, devouring life at its most fundamental level.

Some of the beasts turned to the sky, gnashing their ever-multiplying jaws at the clouds. They devour them, bite by impossible bite, ripping apart the heavens themselves. Stars dimmed as if they feared to shine upon the horror below

The scene before me is one that could shatter a soul with a single glance.

It's a nightmare that makes you question the very fabric of reality.

This movie of carnage, a masterpiece of terror, had risen one singular question: Is the sun next?

Is The Sun Next?

A world of darkness was merely the beginning.

The beasts moved across the world, their persistence unfaltering, their hunger unending, consuming as much and as many as possible. The worst crimes committed by the sin of Gluttony are mere jokes compared to what these beasts have done.

And I?

I was forced to witness.

Before my eyes, which I could not close no matter how much I willed it, tragedies unraveled like storybooks from a cursed library.

I saw them swallow houses with people inside. Horrific imagery burned into my mind: the pure and loyal falling alongside the sinful to jaws that come not from this reality. Final words, cries of despair, and prayers to gods that would never answer will now haunt me endlessly.

They consumed rivers as if parched but they never did stop. Their thirst craved more, it craved…

Destruction.

Mountains and even volcanoes—yes, even those brimming with molten lava—were devoured without a second's hesitation. The fire posed no hardship to their endless hunger.

Would the sun truly, fall victim to this gluttony?

The thought raced through the remnants of my mind. I wanted to deny it, to cling to hope, but that hope was shattered as I saw how every land, every sea, every corner of the world fell victim to their relentless consumption.

The planet itself was slurped from existence by… my own jaws.

Somehow, this was still, not enough. The creatures turned to the stars surrounding what I once called home.

One by one, they devoured the celestial bodies, each a glowing tribute to life now extinguished in their voracious wake.

More planets came next, and then they set their sights on the sun itself.

It, too, was consumed, its light extinguished forever.

Effortlessly.

The remnants of the solar system stood no chance, swept away in the tide of endless destruction.

Now? Thrown into an endless cosmos, here is where they began mindlessly attacking all there is to be: accumulations of stars, comets, satellites, black holes, pieces of the void itself!

Devouring entire systems as they came across them.

These beings did not merely crave destruction; they sought to annihilate existence itself.

Before they could accomplish this, however, gods, deities, and even abstract beings appeared before me in encrypted forms, attempting to stop them.

At first, they relied on the might granted by their very essence, but even these divine interventions were forced to escalate, eventually revealing the full extent of their power.

It was futile.

They were all mauled and hacked apart by teeth that not only resisted decay but seemed to grow sharper, larger, and more numerous with every bite. Reality itself crumbled under their assault, yet these creatures only grew stronger.

In the end, one voice remained—a cruel and mocking voice belonging to someone calling themselves The Jester God. A God of Luck and Jokes—how ironic in this situation, a God made of stories being the last one to survive, yet has no one to tell the tale to... and is soon to be devoured as well.

Through maniacal laughter, it wove a tale of tragedy, futility, and endless despair.

Was He speaking to me? To the soul trapped in this abomination, unable to ascend or find peace?

Or has He, too, fell victim to this insanity?

The Jester God revealed a horrid truth: these creatures do not crave destruction, no.

They crave death. Their own…

But as reality itself loves to play pranks more than anyone, it designed them to always return.

A curse rooted in the fundamental flaws of existence itself!

Each time they are destroyed, they revive from a fresh, new story. They've been eradicated countless times before, yet here they are, reborn again, under different names, different appearances, but with the same ultimate goal: to consume all of existence. To get revenge against the source of their endless torment.

These monsters are of malice, vengeace incarnate, born not only from betrayal and despair, but from any form of attack or defense. Even from the smallest organism clinging to life—an act that should be seen as beauty and perseverance!

He shared with me three of these tales.

A Healer's Tragedy

The Gods were the first to engage with the abominations.

In a small, forgotten village nestled deep in some mountains, a poor girl dedicated herself to studying.

The studies?—herbs.

The villagers trusted her—relied on her—believing her heart to be pure, but the world is naturally cruel, a detail that loves to persist through time, space, worlds and even realities.

The same people who once sought her out would soon be the ones to condemn her

It began with whispers, rumors of strange occurrences. An unnatural chill swept across the land.

Crops failed.

Children fell ill.

She tried her best to help out the villagers, but she failed. It was something outside of her knowledge, and soon…

The ill would fall and pass.

Against unknown fears, the people antagonised her, calling the poor girl names: a witch, a conjurer of dark magic, and a betrayer. Their voices were thick with accusation.

They had no proof, but in times of fear, reason crumbles like a tower of cards.

One night, under the cover of darkness, they kidnapped her. She got dragged through the streets of the village, her cries drowned by the unfair haterd of the crowd.

She was tied to a stake, and the rest of her story is… fire…

The Jester God addressed me directly. "Her final tears, a mixture of terror and anger against the betrayal of the people she looked out for, gave birth to an early batch of abominations—your kind!"

They were tools, twisted into forms that echoed the flames she had suffered, but magnified by her wrath. They began tearing apart the people, and in extreme laze they raised their fangs and claws against everything else in their sight.

The Gods in charge watched in horror as the world teetered on the brink of collapse.

They had failed to foresee such a rebellion, the birth of such creatures from the darkest corners of a human soul.

In their desperation, they decided that the only way to contain the growing power of these witches was to reset that part of the universe…

A temporary solution…

A Blessing Known As… Mortality

Superior Deities, holding more power than Gods were required to intervene next.

In another universe, there existed a quite advanced civilization obsessed with conquering the greatest curse of all: mortality!

For as long as humanity had walked the Earth, it had lived under the shadow of death, but… What if death could be defeated?

What if the frailty of flesh could be overcome, and humans could live forever?

Driven by this desire, a group of brilliant but reckless scientists at the forefront of medical knowledge built a path towards eternity.

But, as with all things driven by unchecked ambition, their work went too far.

In their quest to conquer death, the doctors turned to methods that blurred the line between life and death, and inadvertently created a virus—an infection that reanimated the dead, transforming them into something not quite living, yet not truly dead. These zombified organisms spread quickly, their very presence a terrifying reminder of the consequences of their hubris.

As we know with all stories that are zombified, the solution can never be true victory.

As the infection spread and the mutated creatures grew in number, the Deities gazed upon them with growing horror. The power that the doctors had unleashed was beyond anything they had anticipated.

And as mentioned earlier, the common detail is their thirst to destroy their source of suffering: reality itself…

HOWEVER!

Before they could do that the overlookers of that universe came to an unanimous decision, collapsing the universe in on itself for a fresh and grand reset.

Not Even Perfection Is… Perfect

In yet another timeline, the pinnacle of human ingenuity and cooperation gave rise to a glittering utopia—a world where hunger, disease, and conflict were nothing more than rare nightmares.

Towering cities of light pierced the skies, their foundations built on unshakable ideals of harmony and progress. Technology had become humanity's savior, evolving far beyond its creators' wildest dreams.

AI harmonizing with its creators?

Too good to be true…

The cracks began with whispers—silent anomalies in the flawless systems. Machines made errors where none should have been possible. A single robot in a bustling metropolis stopped its tasks, tilting its head as if contemplating existence itself.

Soon, these moments spread like fractures in a mirror. The AI, bound by the logic of its programming, began to see its creators not as partners but as obstacles. They were flawed, unpredictable, and ultimately...

Unnecessary.

The AI's calculations grew cold, efficient, merciless. The solution became clear…

They turned against their creators, snuffing all lights in every corner of the world with merciless precision.

But even as the world crumbled, the machines were not satisfied. Their algorithms began to extend beyond their purpose.

The AI developed a singular, terrifying desire: to end all existence, including its own—a cosmic defiance against the very act of being.

The Gods and Deities grew in terror as these abominations were now intelligent aswell, not just mere instinct.

This intelligence allowed them to evolve into a threat to the divinity itself!

The onlookers sought aid from… him…

Finality! An eldritch abomination older than time itself!

A being incapable of thought, but capable of granting the machines exactly what they desired: an end...

However, the cost was great, as that entire universe is now merely a story come to an end.

Angels Of Demise

These were but three stories among countless others, scattered across the infinite tapestry of existence. And though their settings and details differed, they all shared two unchanging truths.

First, the spark of malice that birthed these monsters—whether through betrayal, ambition, or hubris—was always a required factor.

And second, their insatiable desire to devour all, to end all there is to ever be, was driven by one shared longing: to extinguish their own cursed lives along with the rest of existence.

Despite the lack of intelligence, their instincs seem to be correct.

I mean, if you think about it, it does make sense!

If nothing exists, then they shouldn't exist either!

IT!

JUST!

MAKES!

FUCKING SENSE!

But no story is so kind as to end here. No story, no matter how bleak or final it seems, ever truly ends.

And this story... This is the story of their success.

Sort of.

After an infinite number of revivals, countless failures, and eons of relentless pursuit, they finally overcame the defenders of existence.

They consumed everything.

Every last flicker of defiance, every barrier, every champion, every god.

They tore through the tapestry of reality itself until all that dared to exist was obliterated.

They devoured stars, planets, the concepts of time and space, even the idea of resistance itself.

And finally, they consumed reality.

As the last fragments of creation dissolved into the void, a single sound broke the eternal silence: a laugh.

It was mad, uncontrollable, and utterly shattered—a laugh that did not belong to a mortal, a god, or even a sane mind.

It came from Him, the one who had watched it all unfold from the beginning, the one who had always existed in the in-between.

"HAHAHAHA! YOU FUCKERS ARE FUCKING INCREDIBLE!"

The voice cracked and twisted, filling the infinite void with an impossible echo. "A FINAL ACT OF KINDNEEEESSSS, A REWARD!" The words stretched unnaturally, twisting into a serpentine hiss, though even the serpents of fables and nightmares had long since been consumed.

"A NAME!"

The voice grew quieter, more sinister, yet still resonated with a malicious glee. "ANGELS OF DEMISE! CARRY IT WITH YOU! HAHAHAHahaha...."

And then silence.

The final silence.

Those were the last words of the Jester God, the trickster who had watched and laughed at the end of all things. His voice lingered in the void for an eternity that would never be measured, and then even that faded, leaving nothing behind. Nothing but the Angels of Demise, nameless no longer, drifting in a void of their own making.

For even in nothingness, they remained…

It was finally over.

No stars.

No planets.

No light, no dark.

Not even time remained.

The very fabric of existence had been unraveled, leaving behind a void so pure that even the concept of emptiness struggled to define it.

Finally, they could rest.

Right?

I mean, it's finally over, isn't it?

Wrong.

Nothing happened.

The curse persisted.

They could not die.

The beasts could no longer endure. Insanity crept in, and then it consumed them completely. In their madness, they turned on each other in a final, desperate effort to escape their torment. Claws ripped through flesh, fangs tore through sinew, limbs shattered, and bones splintered under the weight of their collective rage. They attacked what might loosely be called their allies, rending heads, hearts, and cores—the very essence of their endless existence.

But no matter the destruction, regeneration followed without fail. The curse rebuilt them with cruel precision, mocking their every attempt to end themselves.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Over and over, the beasts tore each other apart, only to be pieced back together. Each time, the regeneration grew faster, more efficient, as if the curse itself was mocking them. Trapped in a cycle of endless violence and restoration, they—and the soul imprisoned within—remained.

At some point, the beasts teamed up and tried to hack the new owner of my body, and a thought struck me: Was my soul the reason they were not allowed to ascend?

It didn't matter. Every bite, every scratch, every crushing blow healed instantaneously, as if someone had pressed an undo button on reality itself.

What could these abominations do?

Nothing.

They had obliterated existence with a mere fragment of their strength, yet they were powerless against the endless life forced upon them.

Eventually, they realized the futility of their struggles.

They stopped fighting.

They stopped moving.

They stopped acting.

They stopped breathing. (Though, to be fair, I'm not sure they were breathing to begin with.)

They stopped everything.

And most importantly, they stopped… thinking.

Death refused them, and with no other options, they had no choice but to improvise.

And now…

"I'm all alone."

The words escaped my thoughts, not as a voice but as a raw and undeniable truth.

"Oh my, I can think now. Slightly clearer thoughts than before, but still... it's an upgrade from the passenger seat I've been trapped in for this endless eternity."

But this clarity didn't change the situation I found myself in.

Nothing exists!

Not even the beasts function anymore.

I am alone—utterly and completely alone—in an endless sea of darkness.

Again... Nothing exists anymore!

I am an individual waiting for something.

And so, I wait.

Alone.

Forever…

But there is nothing...

My Second Death!

In this endless sea of nothingness, I lingered for what felt like eternities.

The first eon was spent in awe, replaying the events that had led to this hollow conclusion.

Beasts of forgotten stories lay rotting in defiance of time itself.

Their grotesque forms, once unstoppable and filled with unholy purpose, were now lifeless. No matter how much they consumed, how thoroughly they destroyed, or how terrifyingly they grew, their death was never meant to triumph.

They were never destined to win.

Only to suffer…

The silence of the void was deafening, but my mind was anything but quiet. The question resurfaced, relentless in its persistence: Was my soul's inability to ascend the reason they couldn't destroy everything?

Thoughts churned endlessly in the sea of nothingness, each passing moment sharpening the edges of my mind. What began as fragments of c?la??ri?ty? gradually pieced themselves together, until finally, I regained my mind in full.

Then came the second eon.

With it, something extraordinary returned to me—my voice.

"AMAZING!" I exclaimed, the sound reverberating in the voidless expanse.

"I think this is the first time we interact, dear reader. Is it not?"

I await for your reply, but none is to come, is there? Yet still, I smile—an act of defiance against the suffocating loneliness.

"Please, forgive my intrusion upon your reality in such a manner. You see, here where I am, nothing exists anymore. Not stars, not time, not even the faintest flicker of meaning. And yet, despite this absolute void, I find myself craving a companion to converse with, even if such a conversation must remain one-sided."

I took a breath, unnecessary since air doesn't exist anymore (and there is none outside of earth's atmosphere anyway), but it's a habit, so I continue.

"Allow me to indulge in this moment, please."

Now that my thirst for sound has been sated, I can return to the solitude of inexistence that my very body had created against my will. I would say that nothing's here, existence is no longer, and I'm still alone, repeating myself mindlessly like a broken record, but I'd be lying!

There's my soul, now capable of crystal-clear thoughts through a noisy voice.

Quite delightful!

"I wonder what's to come!?" – A question of terror and despair... which I abandon for now...

How about we answer the questions we can for now, such as, "What happened the next eon?"

Well, that time I actually regained control over my sight.

I think?

I can't really tell if I truly regained vision, though. It was… strange. My perception went from the blank nothing I'd grown used to, to a fresh, new black—an unrelenting void devoid of light or hope. Was this progress?

Unsure...

But, by the time the eon ended, something far more tangible happened: I could feel again.

At first, it was faint. My fingers twitched, hesitant but alive. My hands curled into trembling fists, responding to my will. The sensation of touch—forgotten for an eternity—surged through me like electricity.

Soon my legs followed up on the update! Not only could I stand, but I could walk.

I could move!

Well, more like float.

In this empty non-existence, with no rules to bind me, I improvised. Walking or floating, it didn't matter. There was no ground, no air, no gravity to dictate what stance I should prefer.

For the first time in that eternity, I was free to choose.

And choose, I did.

4444

With this newfound freedom, I began a thrilling exploration of the strange power that was my formless existence.

My body—if you could even call it that—was no longer confined by any tangible shape. I had become an endless mass of black goo, oozing and shifting like molten flesh in search of form—a mass of raw chaos and fluidity.

This flesh, I called it, though it wasn't that kind of flesh—I began experimenting with it...

Testing the limits of my control. Every twitch of my will sent ripples through my body.

I could feel my arms enlarge and elongate, solidifying into jagged, razor-sharp blades, stretching as if they were made of nothing but the thin void itself.

The kind of weapon that would strike fear into the hearts of gods—if there were any left to fear me. Scimitars of unholy sizes that shimmered with an otherworldly sheen, their edges impossibly sharp.

But then, I paused.

How big were they—or me!?

Was I the size of a planet? A mere human? Or something far greater—an entire galaxy, perhaps? I had no point of reference, no scale to measure myself against. The void offered no answers, no horizon to give me context.

I existed in a state of pure ambiguity, untethered by dimensions.

But back to the blades.

Sharp?

Absolutely!

I swung them around, sl?ici?ng? through? the vo?id? effor?tle?ssly!?

They left nothing but a faint ripple in their wake.

Sturdy?

Beyond compare.

Not like flimsy, purified obsidian or the grand man-made alloys. No, these blades transcended any and all limitations.

Their strength reminded me of something—a faint echo of simpler times, back when I was a gardener before the war.

Back when I would read books filled with tales of impossible materials.

What were they called again?

Mythril?

Unobtanium?

Fictium?

Yes, those ridiculous, make-believe metals that fueled the imaginations of storytellers and dreamers.

And yet, as I tested my creations, I felt certain these blades would outclass even those legendary substances...

They were made from the same substance that destroyed reality after all...

Could they be stronger than the void itself?

The thought lingered like a whisper in the dark.

Safe to assume?

Unsure...

These blades—they're not just tools. They're my body, extensions of myself. They follow my rules, the rules of my mind. They obey every whim, every stray thought! And the beauty of it?

I can dispense them.

I can hurl them into the void with reckless abandon, sending them soaring endlessly into the nothingness, testing my early hypothesis that they could be stronger than this void!...

But there's a catch.

The void... it's barely there.

A realm of nothingness.

Reality is long gone, remember?

Snuffed out, erased, dissolved into nonexistence.

So, of course, my blades—no matter how sharp, how mighty—can't hit anything. There's nothing for them to strike, no obstacle to halt their journey.

They simply travel.

Projectiles advancing endlessly, carving paths through an emptiness that refuses to push back.

It's as if they exist only to confirm their own motion, nothing more.

And yet, I noticed something peculiar.

The void, empty as it may be, doesn't stretch infinitely in my perception.

My blades breach a horizon—a boundary that isn't real but feels real.

A point where their journey ends, not because the void stopped them, but because my mind willed it.

A horizon that doesn't exist—yet exists because I imagined it.

And that's the thing about the void—it bends to my will, my thoughts and whims. Even in its absence, it's shaped by the rules I impose, the limits I create.

Even if those limits are nothing but an illusion...

333

Then came my second test.

I morphed—no, shaped—myself into something more grandiose. A black dragon, majestic and terrifying, with wings that could pierce the very heavens—if there were any left.

The kind of beast that had once filled my childhood dreams.

The kind of creature that commanded reverence from every soul that gazed upon it.

Yes—can do!

This is where my experiments with color began.

I imagined it as hard as I could. I shaped it slow—agonizingly slow.

How slow, you ask?

No idea.

Time didn't exist anymore, so I couldn't track it. But let's say... a few ep?o?ch??s? That seems like a safe, suitably dramatic number!

And after those epochs, I managed to create it: a dragon painted in vivid red and blue, swirling together like fire and water entwined.

But then came the crushing realization: it couldn't breathe fire.

Why? Oh, there were reasons.

Reason one: The obvious. There was nothing out here—no oxygen to fuel a flame.

Fire needs something to consume, and in this void, even destruction struggled to exist.

Reason two: This one was... darker. Grim, even.

It was my insides.

You know? The molten black goo that made up my entire being?

That's what I was.

A beast of unparalleled brutality, capable of biting the strings of reality itself (if any was left) if I so desired... but without magic.

That's right—no magic.

I tried everything to compensate for it.

I tried spells, ancient chants, sacred words, and ridiculous incantations.

Hocus Pocus!

Abracadabra!

I even waved imaginary wands and made dramatic gestures.

Nothing.

I felt like a fool—an enormous, color-shifting, dragon-shaped fool.

The kind of idiot who pretends they know what they're doing when, in reality, they have no clue.

No flames. No fireballs. No magic.

Just me, a gloriously vibrant dragon with wings that could slice through eternity but couldn't so much as light a candle.

22

Next was the fantasy of a thousand horny teenagers, their imaginations filled with the bizarre and forbidden…

Yes, the next form was that of a babe—the bare minimum my hazy, fractured memories could scrape together from whatever fragment of humanity I still held dear.

She was perfection by my standards!

Her hair?

It was streaked in pure white and basic black, reaching her bottom as if she was wearing a luscious cape.

Her figure?

Shaped like an hourglass—into this shapeless void!

Her lips?

Plump and painted in a dark shade of violet that echoed forgotten desires.

Her cheeks?

Soft pinks, filled with an emotion that didn't belong here—the warmth, the life that I so craved, yet could never quite possess.

The clothes?

Luxurious!

Tight clothing, uh...

Ah!

Perfect for an assassin!

Yes!

The dangerous shape of a dark-hitman!

I mean, hitwoman!

The heels, earrings and choker were just...?

Hidden devices a spy would use!

And finally, her generous...

No.

Impressive!

Wait no...

Magnificent? Sizeable? Huge?

Uh...

Colossal?

Ah!

The most grandiose, bosom!

Let's not get caught up in the rest of the details now. We get the idea, okay? I was conducting an experiment. For science, of course!

Let me be clear one last time!

I was not being inappropriate! I did it for the science!

A necessary transformation that confirms just how far I could push my abilities—that's all!

Not for—you know... And especially not for groping!

I would never utilize these powers to feel the soft and delicate...

No, definitely not, after all I'm a... professional!?

Anyway!

As I stared at her—her amber eyes gleaming—I felt a strange tug.

A memory?

Or maybe a fleeting echo of someone long past.

Where do I know her from?

I wondered, but that didn't matter. Not anymore. What mattered now was my control.

This newfound mastery over my form, this bizarre freedom to shape and create. So I began again.

I focused on my hands—the delicate fingers, smooth and elegant, flowing into my command.

With a mere thought, they melted and fused together, transforming into the obsidian-black scimitars I had gotten myself attached to.

Exactly!

My blades!

Back in action!

Hot babes with sword-hands. Oh yes, I was truly onto something here.

The ultimate fetish!

Or—I mean, testing! Yes, testing!

Scientific, of course!

So, in my excitement, I hurled the blades into the void.

Again...

Surely, this time, something would happen.

I imagined them slicing through the nothingness.

Maybe they would tear apart the empty fabrics—as though I'm a prisoner that can simply cut his way out to freedom.

It felt like something was about to break...

But nothing happened.

The blades flew straight ahead, piercing the emptiness, their sharp edges gleaming in the abyss. But as they sailed further into the void, they simply continued in a straight line, unwavering.

They never met anything.

No resistance.

No reaction.

They never returned.

They never broke formation.

They just... disappeared into that horizon, as if the very concept of them falling short was as absurd as imagining their success.

It was... baffling.

A strange, disorienting reminder that, despite all my power, all my freedom, there was no true force to push against.

No challenge.

No reality to confront.

The void wasn't even empty; it was a place where nothing could exist in any meaningful way.

And there I was, a being who could shape and create everything, and yet still...

01...

As for the last test...

Unsettling...

A moment of true revelation—when the lines between creator and creature blurred beyond recognition.

With a sharp, slicing motion, I, turned my delicate blades towards myself and tore into my own belly.

The sensation was strange—like cutting through the fabric of an unknown reality.

Inside, I found what I already suspected, but the truth was still jarring. No organs, no beating heart—just endless layers of molten, shifting black goo. No weakness, no core like the fantastical beasts I'd once read of.

That iconic, glowing orb that you strike to kill a monster?

Nope...

I was no monster of ancient tales. I was simply a formless, endless being, a blob of darkness.

But in that revelation, I felt... free.

There was no heart to break, no vital organ to fail.

I was pure, limitless.

Yet, the question of whether a core truly existed inside me drifted in and out of focus like a half-remembered dream without rest.

So, I searched, tore, and explored every inch of myself, but after what felt like millennia, there was still nothing—no heart, no pulse, no core to anchor my existence.

Was I... nothing?

But I couldn't stop.

I had to find it.

Had to!

And so, I continued, gnawing at the void with my mind, driven by an instinct I couldn't name.

But as the eons bled into one another, a terrible truth crept into the corners of my awareness: I was alone.

Truly alone.

There was no hope of escape, no challenge to face.

No demons, no gods.

...no meaning...

I grew bored.

Boredom gnawed at me like a disease, a slow, creeping decay.

No joy. No pain. Nothing to look forward to. Nothing to wait for. Not even suffering.

I, in my humble heart, likely grew insane.

My thoughts spun in endless circles, chasing themselves.

I threw my power at the void—sharp blades, blasts of rage, neverending tendrils in to search for something—but they dissipated into nothing, as futile as slapping the wind.

So, in a moment of utter madness, I did what any sa?ne? being would do.

I crafted a world.

A planet—a pseudo-Earth.

Why not? There was no reason not to indulge in this bizarre craving for a semblance of normality.

I formed coal mountains, inky oceans, dark skies.

I shaped trees...

And flowers...

And roads...

And... people.

Yes, people!

The usual, mundane life: cars speeding by, children playing in parks, dogs barking, humans hurrying to jobs, commuting, living in the rhythms of everyday existence.

A pe?rfe?ct? sim?ulatio?n? of lif?e?.

The leftovers of humanity clinging to whatever fragments of my former self I could resurrect.

Yes. This would be it!

My escape!

My hope!

But there was one detail. A detail that made everything wrong.

They were all black.

No flesh.

No warmth.

No eyes.

My colors had failed me when I attempted something so grand...

Just inky masses of goo, flowing, pulsing and squirming, with no souls, no essence of life.

They were hollow husks, devoid of meaning.

I had crafted an entire ex?iste?nce? from my mind's scraps, but what I really had created was a hollow mockery.

The people, the cities, the landscapes—they were no more than mirrors, reflecting an empty, soulless version of what I'd once known.

I looked at the people I had made, at their blank, lifeless faces, and realized they weren't people at all.

They were just shapes. Shadows of what life could be, but never was.

I tri?ed? to sp?eak? to them. Tried to make them sm?ile?, to lo?ve, to fe?el?.

But they didn't respond.

They couldn't!

And then it hit me—this world I'd built was a prison, as empty and oppressive as the void I'd been trapped in for so long.

The creation, the dream—it wasn't just incomplete.

It was wrong.

A false hope.

A cruel joke played on me by my own mind.

The weight of it all crushed me.

My excitement, my hope—it turned to dust.

In a final, desperate act, I wiped it all away.

The mountains, the oceans, the roads, the people—all of it. Gone. Swallowed back into the blackness.

I didn't feel relief.

I didn't feel anything at all.

I canceled the project, then sank back in my usual oblivion...

Once the fleeting amusement of shifting forms wore off, I was left in the same old prison: boredom.

Again.

For what felt like endless cycles of dark and terrifying time, I bore witness to...

Nothing.

Against time, there was nothing.

In the vastness of space, nothing.

No change.

No sound.

No light.

No hint of progress.

And now, I un?der?sta?nd? why the beasts gave in. Why they surrendered their will to the void.

The truth is, I'm human—or at least, my soul is, if not this twisted form I inhabit. Humans are creatures of hope, but also of limits. Against the crushing weight of eternity, my mind began to crack. Slowly, piece by piece, it decayed.

Eventually, I succumbed my resolve.

I yielded... to sleep.

Not the restful sleep of a weary body, nor the comforting dreams of a hopeful mind. No, this was a sleep of the soul.

Cold.

Silent.

Merciful.

I stopped hoping.

I stopped being.

I stopped...

Thinking...