11: Unveiling the Essence

Nullus stepped out of his temporary refuge and into the labyrinthine streets of Novi Era. With each step, a strange awareness seeped into his consciousness—a clarity that transcended ordinary vision. It was as if the universe itself whispered its secrets directly into his mind, inviting him to see beyond matter, to gaze into the very names and abstract truths of things.

At first, he noticed a little girl running through an alley, moving lightly through the misty morning light. But when he focused his gaze on her, her physical image dissolved, replaced by shifting letters and symbols. There, before him, he no longer saw a human body but the word Human, flowing with an eerie grace as if it were a living entity. It was not merely a linguistic label but a representation of her very existence.

For a long moment, he watched in sheer fascination, realizing that what he saw was not just flesh and blood but a complex tapestry of meanings.

When he turned his eyes toward the bustling market, the transformation happened again. He no longer saw a crowd of individuals but a shifting network of floating words. Every person was surrounded by a translucent layer of text, repeating the word Human, as if life itself were being written in real-time before his eyes.

Then, driven by curiosity, he focused on a group of merchants standing beside a cart. And there, he saw something deeper. Within the concept of Human, smaller words appeared—finer, more precise—gently pulsing within the aura surrounding each individual. Merchant, Father, Loves carrots, and countless other details that defined and shaped each person. It was as if the entire world was nothing more than an open script, invisible pages upon which the essence of every being was inscribed.

This vision stirred a storm of questions in his mind. With every step, he tested his newfound ability, attempting to probe its depths. He stared at objects, at people, at the smallest details of daily life, only to discover that everything bore a name—that nothing was merely a shape, but a meaning made tangible.

And with this realization, a thought began to take shape: If he could see the essence of things, what about himself? Was he just a text as well? And if so, could he rewrite it? Could he reclaim the memories he had lost?

The idea grew clearer—his key to remembering the past, to reclaiming his power and dominion, lay in understanding himself. At least, that was the only path he could see now.

He recalled the moment he had named himself Nullus—he hadn't chosen the name consciously; it had clung to him, like a shield protecting him from oblivion. A name that meant nothing, yet it was all he had. Now, with this deepening vision forming within him, he wondered: Was this name itself the key to his existence? Was it a reflection of his truth, or merely an illusion he had adopted?

A shiver ran through his body as he considered the possibility of being an unstable entity, a story rewritten over and over. But instead of fear, a new resolve was born within him.

If the entire universe was made of words, then his fate was not yet written. If names defined things, then he could find his true name—his true self.

And with that thought, he continued walking through the streets of Novi Era, guided by his newfound awareness toward an undefined destiny. He knew only one thing:

"I am what I choose to be. I am Nullus."

And with that certainty echoing within him, he stepped into the unknown, ready to reclaim himself—word by word.

---

Five Months Later

It had been five months since Nullus embarked on his journey of self-discovery, experiencing life in the ever-shifting world of Novi Era. Each month brought a new trial, a different job that required no official certification—only a chance to test life, to meet different people. Every experience left a mark on his soul, whether through opportunities or disappointments.

In the first month, Nullus worked as a cleaner in a small workshop filled with old machines and the relentless hum of equipment. The task was not only exhausting but also gave him a glimpse into the struggles of others. He saw the faint glimmer of hope in the workers' eyes, mixed with quiet sorrow, making him wonder about the fate of humanity in this decaying world. Yet Nullus was not just seeking empathy—he was collecting details of life, preserving them in his memory like unfinished pictures waiting to be translated into meaning.

In the second month, he tried working as a delivery truck driver, transporting goods across the city's sprawling districts. Here, in the congested streets of Novi Era, he encountered the stories of those who lived on the fringes of society—stories filled with both hope and despair. He listened to the cries of street vendors, the murmurs of weary travelers, and he found himself wondering: Is life just a series of fleeting encounters, or does every person have a role inscribed in the ledger of this world?

By the third month, he found himself employed in a small café, where the scent of coffee blended with the nostalgic aroma of aged pastries. The customers exchanged conversations in diverse accents, and Nullus was more than just a server—he was an observer of life's rhythm. He saw an entire world within their laughter, a realm of memories and longing for days gone by. Every cup carried a story, every spoken word a fragment of a greater mosaic.

Yet, the question continued to haunt him: Who am I among these countless stories?

In the fourth month, things took an unexpected turn. He became a mail courier in one of Novi Era's old districts, where life flowed at a slower pace, etched into the crumbling walls of ancient buildings. He delivered letters and parcels, wandering through narrow alleys and shadowed streets, meeting people who expressed themselves without masks. He had no expectations for this job, but it drew him in unexpectedly; its simplicity, its quiet routine, had a strange allure.

Until one night, while navigating a dimly lit alley, he saw something unusual.

In the depths of a shadowy passage, he witnessed a man in a black cloak strangling another. The victim gasped for help, but his cries were swallowed by the murmuring wind. Nullus froze, his heart pounding.

In that narrow alley, where only the faint glow of distant streetlights pierced through cracked walls, Nullus found himself staring at a scene too surreal to believe.

A man dangled between life and death, his legs convulsing in empty space as if searching for solid ground to save him from the abyss. His eyes were wide with a terror that could not be put into words, his hands clawing desperately at the thick rope tightening around his throat like a living serpent. His lips moved in desperate pleas, but the air had already betrayed his voice.

All that remained was a single, silent gaze—tear-filled, pleading, speaking without sound: Help me.

On the other side stood a man cloaked in black—a silent figure who treated life as something disposable, as if he could erase it with a mere gesture. His face was obscured beneath the shadow of his hat, but his posture spoke for him: unwavering confidence, an indifferent hand tightening the rope, adjusting it as though he were fixing a piece of furniture—not taking a life.

Nullus did not move.

Something within him struggled to grasp this moment. He tried to understand its meaning, but the words did not come. He saw the hanging body, the trembling hands, yet he could not fully comprehend the idea itself.

"Murder?" He had heard the word before. But now, seeing it firsthand, it felt different. It appeared as if it were nothing more than a process, an abstraction unfolding before him—without explanation, without emotion.

When he focused his deep vision, the world around him peeled away, revealing a transparent layer of reality beneath.

He looked at the suspended man and saw a single word clinging to him, merging with his veins and flesh as if it were an inherent part of his being: Victim.

Then he turned his gaze to the cloaked figure and saw another word, floating above him, wrapping around his form as if it was him—as if it defined his very existence: Killer.

The words flickered, pulsed faintly, as if they were undeniable truths.

Nothing else mattered. No names. No memories. No remorse.

Only these two absolute concepts: Killer and Victim.

But… what did this mean?

Why did Killer and Victim exist? Was murder just a designation, or was it something more—something Nullus could not yet grasp?

He could think. He could analyze. He could search for meaning.

But he did nothing.

He did not interfere. He did not even look away.

He only stood there, watching, following the moment until it ended.

When he finally moved, his steps were slow, as if his body had grown heavier.

Inside him, one question echoed, filling the silence left behind by that scene:

"Why didn't I understand?"