ã€ŠNo Stars in the Labyrinthã€‹


 We Who Are Written in Blood

    My hands were shaking. It was obviously due to the samsara, or what remained of it. I could hardly remember the details anymore, but it didn''t matter now. As we ascended, a searing pain ran through me, like my skin was being peeled away, layer by layer. My Rune trembled. I wasn''t dead. Not yet. I could still feel Veldrin''s presence.

    The torments of the Grandula were relentless, but the agony was nothing compared to the weight of our past. Killing Houden of the Ashes¡ªit was never meant to be easy. And though we had always prepared to sacrifice one of us, neither of us had to fall. Yet now, here we were, standing on the edge of the end, the culmination of everything we had been through, everything we had fought for.

    The shaking, the static around me, all of it stopped. A strange, almost comforting stillness took over. I felt myself levitate, just for a moment, as though the ground had abandoned me. Slowly, my feet met the floor with a soft thud, the silence hanging thick in the air.

    I heard a voice inside my head, though it wasn''t like before¡ªno guidance, no clarity. It simply confirmed what I already knew, a cold certainty: We had entered the 99th level.

    I opened my eyes. The scenery before me was barren, almost identical to a few levels before this. The red smoke and mist stretched out endlessly, as if the world itself were consumed by an infinite abyss. There were no stars, no lights in the sky. The void above us twisted and churned, alive, eager¡ªwaiting for whatever was about to unfold.

    "We''re finally here," Veldrin''s voice broke through the shrill ringing in my head, rough and steady .

    "I''m afraid so," I replied, my voice quieter than I intended.

    I started walking. Where? I couldn''t say. I moved forward, my feet heavy. The atmosphere around us shifted. I didn''t sense anyone else nearby. The tablet confirmed it. No one. Not a soul.

    The Nyu required to ascend to the end¡ªit was incomprehensible. Nearly double what I had. I almost thought I had misread it, but no. Had someone already reached the end? No. The achievement was still unclaimed. The 100th level remained beyond anyone''s grasp. And now, here we were, standing alone in the silence of this desolate place.

    A doubt crept into my mind. I checked the tablet again. This time, there was something new¡ªsomething that made my stomach tighten.

    Achievement unlocked: The First Step at the Edge of the End.

    My heartbeat slowed.

    "Guess no one''s here, huh?" Veldrin''s voice broke through again, a trace of something I couldn''t place in his tone.

    "We are the first. Or maybe we were the first," he scoffed, a strange edge in his words. "I didn''t think we''d make it this far, XXXXXX."

    I turned to him then. My eyes met his, and for the briefest moment, I imagined he was smiling that smile I always hated¡ªthe one that carried no real recognition of what was to come. But no. He wasn''t smiling. Not this time.

    He was looking at me, straight into my eyes.

    The silence stretched out. I could feel it in my chest, the weight of it all. The memory of everything we''d done together¡ªeverything we had been¡ªflooded my mind. And with that, the truth settled in.

    Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

    One of us had to die.

    We couldn''t avoid it. We couldn''t keep pretending.

    I closed my eyes, letting my head fall.

    I felt it again. The shift in the void. The awareness. Something watching us, anticipating the inevitable. I could almost hear the soft giggling in the depths of the labyrinth, its unseen eyes waiting for what would unfold next.

    I looked up at the sky¡ªthe endless void, stretching above me, vast and consuming. It shifted, slow and ominous, as if it knew. As if it was waiting.

    The thing is¡­ I am cursed. Not just any other curse. Immortality. One of the worst curses a human can bear.

    I am immortal.

    Veldrin isn''t.

    No matter how many times we fight, no matter how many times he kills me¡ªI can''t die. I won''t die.

    That is my curse.

    And I hate it.

    Hate that it means I can never escape this cycle. Never rest. Never be free.

    I''ve never wielded it by choice, but used it to cut down enemies, to climb levels, to reach this place.

    But that''s all it has ever been¡ªsurvival.

    I am not the strongest. Not the fastest. Not the smartest.

    I''m just... immortal.

    I looked at him one last time. And this time, there it was¡ªhis smile. Quiet, resigned, knowing.

    He knew.

    If anyone was going to die here, it was him. If anyone could ascend to the end, it was me. But I didn''t want it. Not like this. Not at the cost of him. Not at the cost of what we had been.

    I could feel the weight of his gaze on me, heavy with unspoken understanding.

    I tried to think of another way. Any other way. Even if it was the last thing I did.

    But there was nothing.

    Nothing but the inevitable.

    I looked at him, trying to smile. My hands trembled slightly, barely noticeable, but enough for me to feel the weakness creeping in.

    "You know¡­" My voice came out quieter than I intended. "Why don''t we just wait?"

    Veldrin tilted his head slightly, but he said nothing. So I forced myself to keep talking.

    "We can wait for someone to reach this level after us," I said, the words feeling hollow even as I spoke them. "Then we''ll kill them. We''ll get past this level together."

    I already knew it wouldn''t work. Even if, against all odds, someone managed to reach this place, there was no guarantee he would have enough Nyu for the both of us to ascend. Onlyoneof us could ascend. Onlyonecould step forward.

    And how long would we have to wait?

    It had taken useonsto reach this level.Eons.And that was with my immortality.

    No one else had ever possessed a rune like mine. No one else had defied time like we had. No one else had killed literal Gods. How could I possibly expect another to follow our path?

    Veldrin knew.

    His smile didn''t fade.

    It never did.

    "Stop it," I whispered. Then, louder, "Stop it!"

    That damn smile.

    "Do you know how much it would hurt me to kill you?" My voice cracked, and I hated it. "I would ratherdieby your hands a hundred times before I eventhinkabout killing you."

    The words left me breathless. I almost laughed at the absurdity of it all.

    I had ruled dynasties. Built empires. Had people I called my own. Yet there was no one¡ªnothing¡ªI valued as much as Veldrin.

    The silence between us stretched, growing heavier with every second.

    And then he spoke.

    "Then," he said, voice as steady as ever, "I just have to kill you a hundred times, right?"

    I froze.

    That smile. That same, maddening smile.

    I clenched my fists. I shut my eyes. I wished¡ªprayed¡ªthat there was something else I could say. Something else I could do.

    But I heard it.

    The sound of a sword being summoned.

    A hum in the air. A shift in the atmosphere.

    Excalibur.

    The light from the blade cut through the darkness, its radiance devouring the mist around him. I felt its sheer presence pressing against me, weighing down on my body, demanding that I acknowledge it.

    And so I did.

    With a slow breath, I called forth my own blade.

    Veldrin had always been ahead of me. In strength. In speed. In skill. Even without a rune, even without immortality, he had always been better.

    I had no doubt.

    He could kill me a thousand times.

    And he knew it.

    "Well then," he said softly.

    I didn''t meet his eyes. I couldn''t.

    "Let''s battle for eternity," he murmured, and I could hear the smirk in his voice.

    A pause.

    "Or until I die."

 Ephemeral Cataclysm

    "Dreams are the quiet architects of the impossible. They start as fleeting thoughts, whispers in the back of the mind, dismissed as fantasies until one day, someone dares to chase them. And in that moment, the line between the impossible and the inevitable begins to blur. Everything we take for granted today was once just an absurd idea in someone''s head. The idea of flight was once ridiculed¡ªuntil the Wright brothers defied gravity with little more than wood, fabric, and sheer obsession. Electricity was once thought to be a passing novelty¡ªuntil Tesla and Edison waged their war over it, lighting up the world in the process. Even civilizations, the ones that now dictate the course of history, were built on the backs of visionaries who refused to accept the world as it was.

    And yet, for every name that echoes through time, there are thousands¡ªmillions¡ªwho never reached that far. Because dreams, no matter how grand, do not guarantee success. Hard work alone is not enough. Talent is not always rewarded. The world is not a fair judge of ambition. Some men claw their way up from nothing and carve their names into history, while others, just as brilliant, just as driven, are forgotten before they even begin. How many artists died in obscurity, only for their work to be celebrated long after they were gone? How many inventors had their ideas stolen, their names buried beneath those who had more power, more money, more luck?

    And then there are the ones whose dreams destroy them. The ones so consumed by their pursuit that they burn out before they ever reach the summit. How many have spent their lives chasing something that was never meant to be theirs? How many have ruined themselves for a future that never came? Dreams inspire, but they also deceive. They give people hope, but hope is not always kind. It can be a drug, a slow poison, convincing a man to keep running even when the road ahead leads to nowhere.

    <i>There have been dreams that changed the course of history¡ªvisions so powerful they transcended the individual and shaped the fate of entire nations.</i>

    <i>That¡¯s the thing about dreams. Some become movements. Some reshape history. And some, no matter how noble, remain just that¡ªdreams</i>.

    However¡­ what¡¯s the alternative? To stop dreaming? To accept things as they are and never dare to want more? That, too, is a kind of death¡ªa quieter one, but no less tragic. Because the truth is, even knowing all this, people will still chase their dreams. Not because they are blind to the risks, but because to dream is to be human. Because sometimes, against all odds, the impossible becomes real. And because, in the end, it is better to have reached and fallen than to have never reached at all."

    This would be my answer if I were asked about dreams in a test today. Would I write it? No. Why? Was it because I didn¡¯t truly believe it? Because I stole the idea? Because I was too afraid to articulate my real thoughts, wary that I might offend someone?

    No. None of that.

    If someone were to ask me my honest opinion on their dreams, their grand visions for the future, I wouldn¡¯t scoff at them, no matter how improbable their ambitions might seem. I wouldn¡¯t dismiss them or call them foolish. In fact, who am I to do so? If anything, I would recognize and appreciate both the person and the enormity of their aspirations. Because at the very least, they have something to hold on to¡ªa sense of direction, an unyielding belief in something greater than themselves.

    But would I support them? That¡¯s where things become more complicated. Some believe that every dream deserves unwavering encouragement, that to stifle ambition is to commit a moral transgression. I don¡¯t share that sentiment. Not every dream is noble, and not every pursuit leads to something good. Many of the world¡¯s most intelligent minds stood in opposition to Oppenheimer, warning that his vision would bring catastrophic consequences. The pragmatic saw the danger. The greedy saw an opportunity. The result was history irreversibly altered, not by fate, not by necessity, but by the sheer will of one man and those who enabled him. His visions became reality, and the world paid the price.

    Now, who am I to have an opinion on this? Who am I to pass judgment on events far beyond my influence, on choices made by minds infinitely greater than mine? I am no philosopher, no scientist, no figure of authority. I hold no power, no remarkable knowledge, no prestige. I am, at best, an observer¡ªan 18-year-old student attending a university that holds no reputation, coming from a background that holds no significance. I am neither wealthy nor remarkable. I exist in the same faceless crowd as the millions who drift through life, offering their opinions from behind the safety of a screen, comfortably detached from consequence.

    So, does that mean I have the right to speak about dreams? Perhaps. Or perhaps the only reason I dwell on them is that I am too afraid to admit that I lack one of my own.

    That would make sense, wouldn¡¯t it?

    Maybe. Because the truth is, I have no dream. No grand ambition, no burning passion, no path laid out before me. I do not know what career I will pursue, what purpose I will dedicate myself to, what future awaits me. I possess no exceptional talents¡ªmy academic performance is unremarkable, my athletic ability is passable at best, my social skills are forgettable. Even my interests are fleeting, my likes and dislikes so inconsequential that they hardly warrant acknowledgment.

    I do not chase. I do not yearn. I take life as it comes. I let the days pass as they always have, without resistance, without expectation.

    That is how I have lived for the past 18 years.

    I am Ryan Mitchell.

    The sound of my footsteps echoed through the stairwell, each step resounding off the empty walls. I didn¡¯t try to muffle them. There was no need. The corridor was mostly deserted, with only a handful of students still lingering near the classrooms¡ªsome flipping through their notes, others lost in idle conversation. It was always like this after a test. Those who finished early had long since left, eager to shake off the weight of the exam, while the rest, like me, were among the last to turn in our papers.

    I didn¡¯t rush. I never did.

    What are dreams?

    That was the question. A question that should have invited depth, reflection, something personal. But I hadn¡¯t written my real thoughts on that paper. Not because I had nothing to say¡ªI had plenty. But because I had already studied the answer straight from the back of the textbook, word for word, exactly as it was meant to be written.

    "If you write this, you¡¯ll almost certainly get full marks,"

    the teacher had told us. "Of course, you¡¯re free to express your own opinions, but I can¡¯t guarantee you¡¯ll score as high."

    So, was that why I held back? Because I feared missing out on a perfect grade? No. That would be too simple, too easy an excuse. The truth was, if I had written my own thoughts, it would have set me apart from the rest of the class¡ªthirty-three students who would, without question, submit the exact same answer. And if I stood out, I would have to sit through the teacher reading my words aloud. Or worse.

    It wasn¡¯t fear of being wrong. It wasn¡¯t fear of losing points. It was the discomfort of being noticed.

    And yet, as I left the classroom, I wasn¡¯t the only one who had lingered until the last possible second.

    "Guess you wrote your own opinion like me, huh?"

    The voice came from beside me, casual, effortless, as if he already knew the answer. I turned my head slightly.

    Nathan Collins.

    He walked at my pace, hands in his pockets, a faint smirk on his face. I wasn¡¯t surprised that he had finished late. He wasn¡¯t the type to follow the script. And in a way, I envied that about him.

    I suppose I could call him my friend. Not because we shared some deep connection, not because we had years of memories tying us together, but simply because it was better than having no friends at all.

    And sometimes, that was enough.

    <i>"I just wrote what I studied,"</i> I replied, keeping my tone neutral, respectful.

    I wouldn¡¯t deny it¡ªI was a little jealous of him.

    Why? The answer was simple. The fact that he could so easily write his own opinion on something as controversial as dreams spoke for itself. He wasn¡¯t afraid of standing out. He wasn¡¯t afraid of having his words picked apart by a room full of people.

    Naturally, Nathan was good at everything. His grades were excellent, he excelled in sports, and he was arguably the most well-liked student in our class¡ªmaybe even beyond it. The kind of person others gravitated toward without effort. Someone like him shouldn¡¯t have had any reason to associate with someone like me. And yet, for some reason, he did. Why? That was still a mystery to me.

    <i>"Oh? Did you have trouble remembering the answer, then?"</i>

    he asked, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. <i>"Since you took all the time you had."</i>

    Of course, he wouldn¡¯t judge me for it. He wasn¡¯t the type to look down on people for doing what the majority would have done.

    <i>"Yeah,"</i> I replied simply.

    We descended the stairs, falling into an easy rhythm of conversation. It wasn¡¯t anything deep¡ªjust idle chatter, something to fill the silence as we made our way down. Strangely, talking to him was easier than talking to anyone else. When he was alone, at least. Maybe it was because he never made a big deal out of things, never pushed too hard.

    But that brief comfort didn¡¯t last long.

    The moment we stepped onto the ground floor, a group of students noticed him and immediately approached.

    Nathan, of course, greeted them in that effortless way of his¡ªcasual, friendly, as if he belonged among them. They returned the greeting, but only to him.

    I knew how this went.

    He turned slightly, lifting a hand in a small wave, as if to say goodbye. But I pretended not to notice. Without breaking stride, I walked past them, slipping away before anyone had the chance to acknowledge me.

    You could call me an introvert, though I wasn¡¯t incapable of holding a conversation with strangers when necessary. I just didn¡¯t see the point in lingering where I wasn¡¯t needed.

    And in a crowd like that, I never was.

    I walked along the pavement, offering a nod to the university gardener¡ªan old man with a weathered face and a quiet presence. Our relationship wasn¡¯t anything significant, nor was it anything secretive. Just an unspoken understanding formed over a moment that, to others, might have seemed insignificant.

    It had happened a few weeks ago.

    A puppy had wandered onto the university grounds, barely more than a small heap of white fur against the thick green of the bushes. It lay there, unmoving, its breathing so shallow it was almost imperceptible. People passed by without a second glance. Or maybe they did glance, but their eyes didn¡¯t linger long enough to let it register as <i>their</i> problem.

    That was the thing. The mind works quickly in these moments, running through a chain of thoughts that, more often than not, lead to inaction.

    First, <i>¡°Do I have time for this? Don¡¯t I have a lecture to attend?¡±</i>

    Then, if they do pause¡ªjust for a second, just long enough for doubt to creep in¡ªcomes the next thought:

    <i>"Even if I wanted to help, what could I actually do? It¡¯s not like I¡¯m a vet.¡±</i>

    And then the rationalizations begin.

    <i>"It¡¯s just a stray. I¡¯ve never seen it before. Someone else will probably take care of it."</i>

    <i>"Maybe it got lost. Maybe it¡¯ll find its way back."</i>

    <i>"Maybe this is just the way things are."</i>

    And by the time those thoughts settle, their feet have already carried them past the bushes, past the dog, past whatever moment of hesitation they might have had.

    Within minutes, it¡¯s gone. Forgotten, like it had never even existed in their world to begin with.

    I don¡¯t claim to know what truly went through their minds. I¡¯m not a mind reader. I¡¯m not some enlightened thinker who understands the hidden mechanisms of human morality. But I do know one thing¡ªsome of those very thoughts had passed through my own mind, too.

    I had walked right past the puppy, past the gardener working quietly on the bushes, past the scene as if I hadn¡¯t seen anything at all.

    And maybe I could have kept walking.

    Maybe I could have let those thoughts settle, let them sink into the rhythm of my daily life, and let the moment slip away just like the others had.

    But instead, I stopped.

    Not to act. Not to rush back and play the hero.

    I stopped <i>just</i> to think.

    It was strange. The moment my feet halted, it felt as though the entire world around me had frozen. Time, normally so relentless, stretched out, turning fluid and weightless. The voices in my head¡ªthe ones telling me to keep walking, to mind my own business, to forget¡ªfell silent.

    And in that silence, something became clear.

    How many others had walked past this spot before me? How many had noticed the lifeless shape in the bushes and gone through the same cycle of thoughts? How many had made the same calculations and concluded that inaction was the best, or at least the easiest, choice?

    If all of us had the same thoughts, if we all hesitated for the same reasons, then wasn¡¯t it predictable? Wasn¡¯t it <i>ordinary</i>?

    And if that was the case, then breaking free was simple.

    All I had to do was turn around.

    But why?

    Why do something that so many others had already rejected? Why stand out? If I turned back, maybe someone would notice, maybe they¡¯d whisper, <i>¡°What a kind-hearted person.¡±</i> Maybe they¡¯d give me a small nod of approval before continuing on, just as indifferent as before.

    But in that moment, standing still in a world that never stopped moving, something strange happened.

    I felt¡­ weightless.

    No hesitation. No fear of judgment. No nagging voice urging me forward. But no voice telling me to go back, either.

    It was as if, for that single instant, I was free of everything¡ªthe pressure to act, the pressure <i>not</i>

    to act, the expectations, the unspoken rules that dictated when to care and when to turn away.

    For the first time, the choice was entirely mine.

    And so, without thinking, without debating, without hesitation, I turned back.

    The gardener was the only one who followed up after me. I hadn''t expected anything from the others anyway. It was enough that, for once, I had made a decision entirely my own. That, and the simple fact that I couldn''t have treated the puppy alone even if I wanted to. A vet check-up was out of the question¡ªI didn¡¯t have the money for it.

    The old man had apologized that day. Said he was a coward for not doing what a teenager could. It felt strange hearing that from someone who had lived so many more years than me. We treated the puppy together, and when it recovered, we left it at a pet shelter. A little boy and his family adopted it soon after. I had seen the kid once¡ªtiny, maybe six or seven, his hands barely big enough to hold the leash. But his smile had been genuine, filled with something I wasn''t sure I''d ever had.

    I thought about that as I walked.

    The school gates were already open by the time I reached them, their rusted hinges groaning against the wind. A few students were still lingering near the entrance, waiting for their rides or chatting in small groups, their voices blending into a low, indistinct murmur. None of them paid me any mind.

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    Stepping past the gates, I turned onto the cracked sidewalk that stretched along the street. The sky had settled into an ashen gray, the last remnants of the sun bleeding into the horizon. Cars passed by, their headlights cutting through the dimming light, and for a moment, I watched the people inside¡ªsome alone, some talking, some staring blankly ahead as if moving on autopilot.

    I kept walking.

    A convenience store stood at the corner, its neon sign flickering between life and death. I stopped there briefly, not because I needed anything, but just to let the moment stretch a little longer before heading home. Inside, the cashier sat behind the counter, scrolling through his phone, barely looking up when the door chimed at my entrance. I wandered through the aisles, running my fingers over plastic packaging and cold cans, letting the artificial hum of the refrigerators press against the silence in my head.

    I didn''t buy anything.

    When I stepped back outside, the streetlights had started to buzz to life, casting fractured shadows across the pavement.

    Home wasn¡¯t far, just a few more blocks. The familiar route unfolded before me¡ªpast the bakery that had long since closed for the day, past the narrow alley that always smelled of damp concrete, past the same old stray cat that perched on the fence like it owned the whole street.

    And then, home.

    It wasn¡¯t anything special. Just a small apartment complex with walls that had seen better days. The front door creaked as I unlocked it, stepping inside to the familiar scent of detergent and the faint trace of my mother¡¯s perfume.

    What did I do at home?

    Read books. Watch videos. Scroll through the endless noise of the internet¡ªthe thoughts and opinions of millions across the globe, all screaming into the void. I wasn¡¯t particularly into the news, but I glanced at it now and then, just enough to stay aware.

    I made myself some hot chocolate. The scent of cocoa lingered in the air, mixing with the faint chill seeping through the apartment walls. I took my time, stirring the drink slowly, watching the surface ripple before bringing the cup to my lips. The warmth spread through my fingers, down my throat¡ªa quiet kind of comfort. It kept my mind light, helped me unwind.

    I don¡¯t live alone. My mother comes home from work around 10 PM, always exhausted but never showing it outright. She smiles, asks about my day, makes small talk like any other parent would. But beneath that, there¡¯s something else¡ªsomething I don¡¯t think she ever lets slip.

    My father, though¡­ he¡¯s been gone for a long time. An accident took him before I even entered middle school. It¡¯s strange. When people lose someone, they talk about remembering¡ªholding onto the past so it doesn¡¯t slip away. But I don¡¯t have anything to hold onto. My father exists to me as a concept more than a person, a name rather than a presence. Whatever memories I should have are either too faint or never existed to begin with.

    But my mother remembers him. She remembers everything.

    She tells me stories, details the moments they shared, the things he used to say, the way he laughed. Sometimes, she talks as if I should remember too, as if the memories are buried somewhere inside me, waiting to be uncovered. I don¡¯t know how to tell her that they aren¡¯t there. That they never were.

    ¡°It¡¯s alright,¡± she told me once when I admitted I couldn¡¯t remember. ¡°Not having memories of him might be easier for now.¡±

    Easier for whom?

    I don¡¯t ask. I just nod, sip my drink, and let the conversation fade.

    My eyes drift to the manga lying open on my desk. The pages are slightly curled from the way I left it, a half-finished story waiting to be picked up again. I¡¯m not really into anime, cartoons, or manga. At least, I wasn¡¯t. Nathan was the one who introduced them to me, practically forcing a stack of books into my hands one day, claiming I¡¯d be missing out if I didn¡¯t at least try.

    ¡°It¡¯s pretty popular,¡± he had said. ¡°Just give it a chance. You might like it.¡±

    I humored him.

    I could see the appeal. The sheer variety alone was overwhelming¡ªsingle-volume stories, serialized epics, fantasy, romance, horror, psychological thrillers. There was something for everyone. And somehow, out of everything, the one that caught my attention was this: <b>"Requiem for the Summoned."</b>

    An isekai. A reincarnation story.

    One of the most overdone, oversaturated genres out there, yet somehow, it never gets old. People love the idea of being transported to another world¡ªof dying in one reality and waking up in another, stronger, luckier, unburdened by their past mistakes. A clean slate. A second chance. A new identity in a world that doesn¡¯t know who they used to be.

    It¡¯s wishful thinking wrapped in fiction. A fantasy people secretly hope could be real.

    I wouldn¡¯t say I love it, but I won¡¯t deny how easy it is to get hooked. These kinds of stories pull you in fast, demand little in return. The setting shifts, the rules bend, the logic gets rewritten at the author¡¯s convenience. No need to worry about realism¡ªif something doesn¡¯t make sense, just chalk it up to ¡°another world, another system.¡± It¡¯s the perfect genre for escapism.

    And maybe, in its own way, that¡¯s why it thrives.

    I set my cup down on the table, the faint clink of ceramic against wood barely registering in my ears. Leaning back, I let my head sink into the chair, my gaze drifting upward. The ceiling fan spun in slow, rhythmic circles, its whirring hum filling the silence of the room. At first, the sound was noticeable¡ªa constant mechanical drone¡ªbut the longer I stared, the more it faded into the background, becoming something distant, almost forgotten.

    Then, my phone buzzed against the armrest. The vibration sent a dull tremor through the chair, a small reminder that I wasn¡¯t completely alone in this quiet space.

    I exhaled, dragging my hand over to grab it, unlocking the screen with a slow swipe. A message from Nathan.

    <i>"Yo, wanna come to a party? Lucas is hosting. He said I could bring someone, so come with me."</i>

    A party.

    I read the message twice, maybe three times, before setting the phone down on my lap. Nathan had invited me out before, but I rarely said yes. Crowds, loud music, people talking over one another¡ªit never really appealed to me. The idea of standing there, drink in hand, pretending to be invested in some conversation I didn¡¯t care about seemed more exhausting than anything else. And yet, Nathan always asked. Maybe he thought one day I¡¯d surprise him.

    I glanced at the message again before typing out a response.

    <i>"Got a headache. Think I¡¯ll just rest."</i>

    The reply came almost instantly.

    <i>"You sure? Might be fun. You barely go out, man."</i>

    I stared at the screen for a moment before locking the phone and tossing it onto the couch. Not tonight. I wasn¡¯t in the mood.

    I shut my eyes, trying to let the silence take over. The warmth of the hot chocolate still lingered on my tongue, and my limbs felt heavy, weighed down by the kind of fatigue that didn¡¯t come from physical exhaustion, but from something else¡ªsomething harder to name.

    I¡¯d just sit here for a while, let the quiet settle around me, let my mind go blank.

    But it didn¡¯t.

    Instead, my thoughts circled back to Nathan¡¯s message. A party. A change of pace. A reason to be somewhere other than this apartment, staring at the ceiling or skimming through random videos online.

    I told myself it didn¡¯t matter, that I wouldn¡¯t enjoy it anyway. But still, the thought lingered.

    Five minutes passed like that¡ªeyes closed, thoughts drifting, debating something as trivial as whether to leave my apartment for a few hours. Then, before I could overthink it any further, I reached for my phone.

    My fingers hovered over the keyboard for a second longer than necessary before I finally typed the message.

    <i>"I¡¯m coming."</i>

    I sent another message to my mom.

    <i>¡°Going out with Nathan. Will be back soon.¡±</i>

    The screen¡¯s glow cast a faint light over my hands. I watched it for a while, waiting, hoping to see the familiar vibration of a reply. Nothing. The time at the top read 5:49 PM.

    I exhaled, locking the phone and setting it down. She was probably busy. Or maybe she hadn¡¯t checked her phone yet. Either way, there was no point in waiting.

    I reached for the jacket lying over the washing machine. It was mine¡ªlight, comfortable, still carrying the faintest trace of my mother¡¯s perfume. A scent that had lingered on it ever since the last time she did the laundry. I held it for a second, then put it back.

    Instead, I turned toward the bedroom, my steps slow and deliberate. The closet door creaked slightly as I pulled it open. My fingers brushed over the familiar fabric before gripping it fully and pulling it out.

    A leather jacket. My father¡¯s.

    It had been here for years, untouched. The material had softened over time, though the edges had started to crack. The scent of old fabric and something faintly metallic still clung to it.

    I stared at it for a long moment before slipping it on.

    It was heavier than I expected, a bit too big on the shoulders but not uncomfortably so. The sleeves covered my wrists perfectly. I flexed my fingers, adjusting to the weight, then let out a breath I hadn¡¯t realized I was holding.

    I glanced at my phone again. 5:56. No reply.

    I walked back to the kitchen and ran the tap, rinsing out the lone cup in the sink. The water was colder than I expected, sending a sharp sting through my fingertips. I let it run for longer than necessary, the white noise filling the quiet space.

    By the time I was done, the clock read 6:00 PM.

    I grabbed my phone, stuffed it into my pocket, and stepped out. The lock clicked behind me, the sound oddly final in the stillness of the hallway.

    Outside, the air was crisp, carrying the lingering dampness of an earlier drizzle. The pavement was still dark in some places, the moisture reflecting the glow of passing headlights. The sky was shifting¡ªa deepening blue, teetering between day and night, where the first stars were just beginning to push through.

    Nathan¡¯s place wasn¡¯t far. They could¡¯ve picked me up, but I saw no reason for it. I preferred the walk.

    The streetlights flickered on as I moved. A slow rhythm of footsteps against concrete, the occasional hum of a car passing by. The city wasn¡¯t loud here¡ªnot like the main roads or the busier parts of town. Just the soft rustle of wind through the trees, the distant sound of someone¡¯s television playing through an open window.

    I walked without rush, without urgency.

    Maybe I was stalling.

    It wasn¡¯t like I had never hung out with Nathan before, but this was different. A party. A house full of people I didn¡¯t know. Loud music, small talk, the pressure of socializing.

    I wasn¡¯t the type for these things.

    But maybe I¡¯d meet someone new. Maybe I¡¯d even talk to some girls.

    I scoffed at the thought, shaking my head. <i>Dreamy.</i>

    A car rumbled past, momentarily breaking the quiet. I kept walking.

    Nathan¡¯s place wasn¡¯t much farther now.

    I reached Nathan¡¯s house just as the streetlights fully flickered on, casting long shadows over the pavement. His place was a bit farther from the main road, tucked into a quieter neighborhood lined with similar-looking houses¡ªmodest, with small porches and dimly lit windows.

    A black sedan was parked out front. The music coming from inside was faint, just a distant thrum behind closed doors. I stopped at the edge of the driveway, adjusting my father¡¯s jacket slightly.

    I wasn¡¯t in a hurry to go inside.

    The thought of stepping into a room filled with unfamiliar faces, forced conversations, and the weight of being an outsider pressed at the back of my mind. I didn¡¯t regret coming, but I wasn¡¯t eager either.

    I pulled out my phone. 6:17 PM. Still no reply from my mom.

    The wind had picked up slightly, carrying the scent of damp pavement and distant smoke from somewhere. I rubbed my hands together briefly, stuffing them back into my pockets.

    The door swung open a minute later.

    Nathan stepped out first, a grin already forming when he saw me. His hair was slightly messy, like he¡¯d been moving around a lot inside, but his shirt was crisp, and his cologne was just strong enough to notice.

    Behind him, two other guys followed¡ªDarren and Jason. I recognized them from school, though we¡¯d never talked much. Darren was taller, with a build that suggested he worked out regularly. Jason, on the other hand, had that casual ease to him, like someone who never really stressed about anything.

    Nathan clapped a hand on my shoulder as he reached me. <i>¡°Damn, thought you weren¡¯t gonna show.¡±</i>

    I shrugged. <i>¡°Almost didn¡¯t.¡±</i>

    Jason chuckled. <i>¡°Well, lucky for you, we¡¯re heading somewhere better.¡±</i>

    Darren unlocked the sedan with a quick press of his key fob. <i>¡°Lucas'' new house. Out in the middle of nowhere.¡±</i>

    Nathan shot me a glance. <i>¡°You cool with that?¡±</i>

    I wasn¡¯t sure what I expected when I agreed to this, but I also wasn¡¯t about to back out now. I gave a small nod. <i>¡°Yeah, whatever.¡±</i>

    Nathan smirked. <i>¡°That¡¯s the spirit.¡±</i>

    We got into the car, Jason taking the front passenger seat while Nathan and I settled in the back. The leather seats were cold at first, but the heater kicked in shortly after Darren started the engine.

    The drive started off quiet, just the low murmur of the radio playing. City lights faded behind us, replaced by longer stretches of road lined with trees. The deeper we went, the fewer cars we saw, until it was just us and the occasional flicker of headlights in the opposite lane.

    Somewhere along the way, Jason¡¯s phone buzzed. He checked it and grinned. <i>¡°Girls are ahead of us.¡±</i>

    Nathan perked up. <i>¡°Which ones?¡±</i>

    Jason smirked. <i>¡°Lucas'' friends. He said they left a bit earlier, but they¡¯re already on the road.¡±</i>

    Darren huffed. <i>¡°They better not have gotten lost. The turnoff to that place is a nightmare.¡±</i>

    The neighborhood streets were quiet, bathed in the soft glow of streetlights. Rows of houses passed by in a blur as Darren¡¯s car rolled smoothly over the asphalt, the tires humming beneath us. The world here felt familiar¡ªrows of neatly spaced homes, the occasional flicker of a television behind curtained windows, the distant barking of a dog. But as we neared the edge of town, that familiarity faded. The last gas station slipped past, its neon sign flickering weakly against the growing dark. The road stretched ahead, empty, leading straight to the highway.

    Darren merged smoothly, the car picking up speed as we hit the open road. The streetlights disappeared, replaced by the vastness of the night sky. The hum of passing vehicles was distant, scattered, the occasional pair of headlights flashing by in the opposite lane. The music from the radio played low, barely cutting through the steady rush of air slipping through the cracked windows. The further we went, the fewer signs of life there were¡ªno gas stations, no diners, just the dark silhouette of trees in the distance, swallowing the sky.

    Then came the turnoff. A narrow, single-lane road branching off from the highway, its entrance barely marked. Darren took it without hesitation, the car bumping slightly as we left the smooth pavement behind. The road twisted ahead, winding its way into the forest, the trees pressing in from either side. Their shadows stretched long, reaching toward the car like fingers in the dark. A thick silence settled in, only broken by the faint rustling of leaves and the distant chirping of insects.

    It felt like we had crossed some invisible threshold. The town, the highway, everything familiar¡ªit was behind us now. Ahead was something different. Isolated. Nathan turned to me. <i>¡°You good?¡±</i>

    I glanced out the window. The sky was darker now, the road ahead stretching into what felt like endless black. The trees on either side loomed taller, their silhouettes barely visible against the night.

    I exhaled. <i>¡°Yeah.¡±</i>

    Nathan grinned. <i>¡°Good. Let¡¯s have some fun.¡±</i>

    The road ahead stretched into darkness, flanked by dense trees that loomed over us, their bare branches intertwining like skeletal fingers. Streetlights had long since disappeared, leaving only the high beams of Darren¡¯s car to cut through the thickening night.

    I shifted in my seat, the hum of the engine a steady backdrop to the low murmur of conversation between Jason and Nathan. Darren, behind the wheel, drove with the confidence of someone who had done this a thousand times¡ªone hand relaxed on the steering wheel, the other tapping idly against the gear shift.

    Jason, always restless, was fiddling with the radio, flipping through stations that fizzled in and out with static. Every now and then, a song would start playing, only for him to huff in dissatisfaction and switch again.

    Nathan, leaning against the window, was quiet. His gaze was fixed outside, watching the dark blur of trees passing by. There was something about the way the trees stood, motionless and dense, that made it feel like we were driving into something untouched¡ªsomething separate from the world we knew.

    The isolation settled in. The deeper we went, the more distant everything felt.

    Then, up ahead, a pair of red taillights glowed in the distance¡ªa car, moving steadily but slower than we were.

    Jason smirked. <i>"Think we should pass them?"</i>

    Darren let out a short laugh, flexing his fingers over the wheel. <i>"No doubt. Watch this."</i>

    Nathan turned slightly, glancing at me with a raised brow. <i>"Hope you don¡¯t mind a little fun."</i>

    Before I could respond, Darren pressed down on the accelerator.

    The car rumbled beneath us as we picked up speed, the glow of the taillights ahead growing closer, larger. The air inside the car shifted¡ªthe quiet hum of conversation giving way to something more electric, an unspoken excitement that hung between us.

    Darren edged closer to the vehicle ahead. The car¡¯s sleek exterior reflected our headlights, its brake lights flickering as it held its steady pace.

    Jason leaned forward. <i>"Just go for it, man."</i>

    Darren didn¡¯t need the encouragement.

    The tires gripped the road as he veered slightly into the side, the growl of the engine deepening as we pulled up alongside the other car.

    For a brief moment, we were side by side.

    Their interior lights flickered as we passed, revealing four figures¡ªa driver and three passengers. All girls.

    The girl in the passenger seat turned her head, her dark eyes locking onto ours. A moment of surprise flickered across her face, but it was quickly replaced by something else¡ªsomething playful.

    She smirked.

    And then she mouthed something.

    I couldn¡¯t hear it over the engine, but I didn¡¯t need to. The meaning was clear enough.

    Jason laughed, nudging Nathan. <i>"Oh, they¡¯re not gonna let that slide."</i>

    Darren pulled ahead, cutting back into the lane.

    Nathan turned in his seat, watching the car behind us. <i>"They¡¯re speeding up."</i>

    Headlights flared in the rearview mirror.

    The girls¡¯ car swerved to the left, slipping into the side just as we had. But this time, they weren¡¯t just passing.

    They <i>blitzed</i> past us, their tires kicking up small flecks of gravel.

    Jason let out a whistle. <i>"Damn, they¡¯re fast."</i>

    Darren grinned, his hands tightening on the wheel. <i>"Think I¡¯ll let them win?"</i>

    He floored the gas.

    The engine roared as we surged forward, chasing the red taillights ahead. The road twisted, winding through the forest like a serpent, the trees blurring past in streaks of darkness. The girls¡¯ car remained just out of reach, their laughter barely audible over the rush of wind and the growl of the engines.

    The thrill of the moment swallowed everything else. The tension of the night, the unfamiliarity of the place¡ªall of it faded, replaced by the reckless joy of the chase.

    Nathan was grinning now, the quiet, reserved expression he usually wore replaced with something looser. Jason whooped as we gained ground.

    The girls¡¯ car swerved slightly, teasing us, their silhouettes flickering through the rear windshield. The passenger¡ªthe one who had smirked at us¡ªturned slightly, raising her hand in a casual wave.

    Darren narrowed his eyes, gripping the wheel.

    And then¡ª

    The fog rolled in.

    Thick. Heavy. Almost unnatural.

    One second, the road was clear. The next, everything was swallowed in a dense, pale mist.

    The headlights ahead blurred, their glow smothered by the fog. The trees on either side of the road became hazy shadows, their outlines distorted.

    Nathan sat forward. <i>"Shit. Where¡¯d they go?"</i>

    Jason squinted, peering ahead. <i>"I don¡¯t see them anymore."</i>

    Darren slowed slightly, the tension shifting. <i>"They¡¯re probably just¡ª"</i>

    The brake lights exploded from the fog.

    The girls¡¯ car was <i>right there</i>, stopped dead in the middle of the road.

    No time to react.

    The impact came in an instant.

    A violent jolt. The world tilting. The screech of metal against metal.

    Something slammed against my chest¡ªhard¡ªstealing the breath from my lungs.

    The sound of shattering glass.

    The sensation of weightlessness, of the car lifting¡ªspinning¡ªcrushing¡ª

    Then¡ª

    Darkness.

    <hr>

    Hours had passed.

    A peddler had been walking the roadside path when he spotted the wreckage. His steps slowed, the dim glow of his flashlight catching twisted metal and shattered glass scattered across the pavement. He took a sharp breath, his gut tightening at the sight before him¡ªtwo vehicles, crumpled and broken, steam rising in the cool night air.

    It didn¡¯t take long for the sirens to wail through the silence. Flashing red and blue lights bathed the road in flickering color, police vehicles and ambulances pulling up to the gruesome scene. Officers stepped out, hands resting on their belts, eyes hardened at the sight of the mangled remains. The paramedics moved first, approaching with stretchers they wouldn¡¯t need.

    The stench of gasoline lingered in the air, mingling with something more metallic¡ªblood.

    The headlights from the emergency vehicles illuminated the bodies. Some were still in the cars, others had been thrown from the impact, sprawled lifelessly on the cold asphalt. The driver of the first car, a young man, lay slumped over the steering wheel, glass embedded in his cheek, blood trailing down his arm. A girl had been thrown through the windshield, her body lying motionless a few feet ahead, hair matted with dirt and crimson. The others¡ªscattered, some tangled in their seatbelts, some resting against the trees like discarded mannequins.

    A police officer stepped carefully through the wreckage, his eyes scanning the scene before settling on something small, something clutched in the hands of a boy who had landed face-up on the road, his fingers frozen stiff around it. A phone.

    He knelt down, prying the device from the boy¡¯s grip. His uniformed colleague looked over his shoulder as he pressed the side button. The lock screen blinked to life.

    A notification.

    <b>"Sure, dear. But please return home by 9 PM." </b>

    The officer glanced at the time. <b>11:59 PM.</b>

    The seconds ticked down. <b>12¡­ 11¡­ 10¡­</b>

    He exhaled slowly, his breath visible in the cold air. Around him, the medics shook their heads, confirming what was already obvious.

    The boy wasn¡¯t going home. None of them were.

    <b>9¡­ 8¡­ 7¡­</b>

    The officer stood, tucking the phone into an evidence bag. The screen dimmed again, casting the world back into shadow.

    <b>6¡­ 5¡­ 4¡­</b>

    The sirens continued, an empty sound in the hollow night.

    <b>3¡­2..1.</b>

 Tenebrous Singularity

    Requiem for the Summoned

    Reincarnation. A second life. A fresh start.

    A man, crushed by debt, hollowed by solitude, exhausted beyond repair, finally decides to let go. He throws himself off a rooftop, not expecting salvation, not hoping for miracles¡ªjust an end. A release from the weight pressing against his skull every waking second.

    But then he wakes up. Not in hell, not in an abyss of nothingness, not in the void of oblivion he had prepared himself for.

    Instead, he opens his eyes to a throne beneath him, a kingdom at his feet, and a family that loves him. The weak, broken man of his past life erased in an instant, replaced with a ruler, a protector, a savior.

    A happy ending.

    The idea alone was enough to make people sigh in longing. A world beyond this one, offering absolution. A chance to cast off all burdens, to rewrite the script of life, to escape from mistakes that had piled too high to undo.

    Typical isekai nonsense.

    People romanticize the idea of a reset because they refuse to acknowledge the truth¡ªthat their suffering is not fate''s doing but their own. They pray for a miracle, for someone to reach down from the heavens and undo all the failures they let pile up. They cling to the illusion that their misfortune is someone else''s fault. That if only they were given another life, another chance, another roll of the dice, they would finally be free.

    But freedom isn''t given. It''s taken. Earned. Fought for.

    My life was not the worst. I had a home, even if it was small. I had a mother, even if she was distant. I had an education, even if I didn''t know what I wanted to do with it. To some, my life was a dream. To others, it was average. To me? It was something I never once considered running away from. Because I understood one thing:

    At some point, life stops being dictated by circumstances and starts being shaped by decisions.

    And the people who fail, the ones who complain, who blame everything but themselves, are the ones too weak to take responsibility for the choices they made.

    So don''t complain.

    New life isn''t real.

    Isekai is just a fantasy.

    Live a life without regrets, without excuses. Solve your own problems. Overcome hardships, or let them crush you. But don''t sit there, begging for another chance you don''t deserve.

    That''s what I believed.

    Yet here I was.

    Drifting.

    Weightless.

    Detached from all sensation.

    I couldn''t feel my body. Couldn''t hear my heartbeat. Couldn''t tell if I was breathing or if I even had lungs anymore.

    A dream.

    I wished it were a dream.

    But it wasn''t.

    I was suspended in something I couldn''t see, couldn''t touch. No walls. No floor. No horizon. Just an endless, abyssal void stretching in all directions. It was neither warm nor cold. Neither suffocating nor freeing.

    It was nothing.

    Was this what death felt like? Was this the end?

    A crack between space and time.

    I had no way of knowing how long I had been here. Seconds? Hours? Days? Did time even exist in this place?

    I tried to move. Nothing. No resistance, no surface to push against, no limbs to control. I was a mind without a body, a thought drifting aimlessly in the dark.

    Then it came back. The memory.

    The crash. The fog.

    I remembered the feeling first¡ªmomentum yanking me forward, my seatbelt biting into my chest. A sound followed¡ªthe gut-wrenching screech of metal twisting, of glass splintering into countless tiny shards. And then¡ªthe pain.

    A tearing sensation across my stomach, something sharp slicing into me. Blood. Warm, sticky, soaking through my clothes. My fingers had trembled, reaching for the wound, but the moment I touched it, the pain flared, white-hot, and I¡ª

    Everything went black.

    And now, I was here.

    Floating in the aftermath.

    No body, no sound, no way to scream or panic or struggle.

    Just thought.

    I tried to speak. No voice came.

    I tried to move. No body answered.

    I tried to breathe. No lungs expanded.

    So this was it, then.

    This mistake, this accident¡ªjust another consequence of my own decisions. I should have stayed home.

    Maybe this was what my mind did in its final moments¡ªfabricated a space, stripped it of sound, light, and sensation, and left me adrift in the void, weightless and unanchored. Perhaps this was how consciousness unraveled, not in a flash, but in a slow and deliberate descent into nothingness, where even the concept of time dissolved. A place where thought stretched thin, flickering at the edges like dying embers, resisting oblivion for just a little longer before fading, piece by piece, until there was nothing left of me at all.

    I didn''t expect this.

    And now, here I am, floating in this nothingness, wondering if the idea of reincarnation doesn''t sound so bad after all. I should have gone to the party with a little more enthusiasm, made an effort to talk to someone new. I should have tried to enjoy myself instead of being hesitant, unsure. I should have taken the chance to live, just once. But now, that choice has been stripped away, leaving only silence and stillness in its wake.

    Are these regrets?

    Perhaps.

    I wonder if my mother ever replied. If she read my message too late, long after I was already gone. What would she think when she realized that I had actually gone to my first party¡ªsomething she had probably wished for me, a small step towards normalcy¡ªonly to never return? I can almost imagine her unlocking her phone, expecting to see a follow-up message, only to be met with silence. Would she blame herself? Would she think she should have called me back home, that maybe I would have listened?

    The weight of guilt sits heavily in my chest. It''s strange. I have never really felt guilt before, not like this. There was never much to regret about my life¡ªbecause I had never really lived in the first place. Would I have been happier if I had just stayed home, browsing the internet, wrapped in the comfort of my usual solitude? If I had done what I always did¡ªexist without ambition, without drive, without wanting more¡ªwould I have been spared this fate?

    Maybe this is just nature''s way of erasing the unwanted, clearing away the specks of dreamless lives that serve no purpose.

    Reincarnation doesn''t sound so bad now.

    The thought lingers, and as time stretches, I feel my consciousness shift. My eyes¡ªif I even have them anymore¡ªsearch past the dark, desperate for something, anything. Isn''t this the part where some supreme being appears, offering me a new life in another world, bestowing power and purpose upon me like the stories say? I could almost laugh at myself. Even now, I grasp at fiction, hoping for a narrative that makes sense of this.

    But then, something changes.

    I can''t move my eyes, but I can sense.

    The darkness around me¡ªsolid, endless¡ªbegins to shift. At first, I don''t notice it. My mind is too numb, too detached. But as time stretches¡ªseconds, minutes, hours, or maybe days¡ªit becomes undeniable. The dark is not as still as I thought. It is moving. Stirring.

    Swirling.

    The endless abyss, once impenetrable, begins to twist in slow, deliberate motions, like ink dissolving in water. Black and gray bleed into one another, forming shadows that drift and fold into mist, into clouds, into something that almost breathes.

    And then¡ª

    A storm.

    It starts as a whisper, a disturbance at the edges of my perception. The swirling mist quickens, folding over itself, rotating around me in slow, calculated revolutions. It tightens, builds, growing faster, stronger.

    And soon, I realize¡ªI am at the eye of it.

    Was my consciousness finally letting go?

    I didn''t want it to.

    The thought of fading into nothing¡ªof dissolving like mist into the abyss¡ªunsettled me more than the idea of death itself. If this emptiness was all that remained, then I had to hold onto something, anything. A thought, a memory, a shred of self. But what if I had already begun unraveling, piece by piece, without even realizing it?

    I strained to feel something¡ªfear, pain, even regret¡ªanything to prove that I was still here. But the void was quiet. Indifferent.

    I hope not.

    Everything around me is moving. And I, weightless in the center of it all, am still.

    The black and gray twisted around me, shifting, curling, expanding in slow, deliberate swirls. There was no light, no flashes of lightning to break its form¡ªjust the ceaseless motion of the storm. It was hypnotic, an endless spiral that made my vision blur and my thoughts slip further from my grasp.

    I considered closing my eyes. Maybe if I shut them, I could ground myself, hold onto something real. But the thought terrified me.

    What if I lost myself?

    What if everything stopped the moment I did?

    What if I ceased to exist the moment my vision surrendered?

    The questions gnawed at me, irrational yet paralyzing. I couldn''t take the risk. Instead, I let the spiral consume my sight, dragging my mind deeper into its rhythm. The longer I stared, the more I felt my thoughts thinning, dissolving like sand slipping through fingers. My mind was going numb, my sense of time eroding. It might have been days. Months. Years.

    I tried calling out. My throat felt constricted, as if my voice had never existed. But somehow, I managed to let out a single whisper.

    Stop.

    A word barely spoken. Barely heard.

    But it listened.

    The storm froze. The spiraling mass of black and gray halted, its flow breaking into absolute stillness. It wasn''t gone¡ªthe dark clouds still hung thick, unmoving¡ªbut their motion had ceased. The silence that followed felt unnatural, heavy, pressing against me from all sides.

    Time passed. If time still existed.

    Then, the clouds began to shift again¡ªbut not as a storm. They receded, folding in on themselves, drawing back into a form, a shape. The shades of gray blended, stretched, and then¡ªI saw it.

    A face.

    It was crude, undefined¡ªnothing but shadows forming the contours of eyes, a nose, a mouth. But it was there, unmistakable. It loomed before me, its presence suffocating, its sheer scale vast beyond comprehension.

    At this point, I didn''t know what to make of it. My thoughts were sluggish, tangled in the numbness that had wrapped around my mind for what felt like an eternity. There was no rational explanation, no instinctual reaction that felt appropriate. I should have been terrified, awestruck, or even confused¡ªbut I felt nothing.

    This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    My body refused to move. My breath, if I was even still breathing, was shallow, barely noticeable. My heart should have been racing, but instead, there was only a dull, steady rhythm, as if my body had yet to understand the gravity of what it was seeing.

    So I just stared.

    My eyes, hollow and unfocused, remained locked onto the shifting, towering figure before me. I wasn''t processing it, not truly. It was simply there, an undeniable presence in the void, something beyond comprehension, beyond definition.

    It watched.

    And I, lost in the weight of its existence, could do nothing but watch back.

    And all of a sudden, as if something had driven a blade straight through my heart, a sudden, unbearable pain surged through me.

    I gasped¡ªno, I screamed. My voice returned in a soundless cry as my body, long stripped of sensation, came alive all at once. My thoughts roared back into existence, my senses reignited, my breath came in ragged gasps. I could feel. I could move.

    I could fear.

    Because what lay before me was not just a shape.

    It was a presence.

    An enormous, impossible shadow, drifting through oblivion, watching me with a gaze that reached beyond flesh and soul.

    A supreme being.

    ______________________________________________________________________________

    Through the fractures of time and the unseen threads of reality, where the echoes of forgotten worlds still linger, there exists a labyrinth¡ªvast, unrelenting, and unknowable. It is not bound by land, nor sky, nor stars. It stretches beyond the reach of mortal comprehension, winding through the marrow of existence itself.

    Some say it was placed there by a force beyond gods, a hand unseen, an architect without name. Others claim it was never made but has always been¡ªa law unto itself, a structure without origin, an inevitability that predates creation. A prison. A trial. A cruel jest upon all who are cast into its depths.

    It has been called by many names, across ages and civilizations now turned to dust. The Abyssal Coil. The Nameless Crucible. The Godslayer''s Path. The Maw of Eternity. The Evernight Labyrinth. The Cruel Game. Each world speaks of it in hushed voices, each tongue shaping its own warnings, but the meaning remains unchanged¡ªa place from which none return unchanged, if they return at all.

    Within its ever-shifting corridors, governed by laws beyond reason, exist those who were chosen, summoned, or simply taken. Not all were born. Some were shaped. Molded by unseen forces. Others were imagined, willed into existence by minds long since crumbled into oblivion. They do not belong to a single time, nor a single place. Their fates are bound to one purpose, though many do not yet know it: to seek the end of the labyrinth, to unravel its secrets, to grasp the key to its undoing.

    Yet, for all their struggle, none have seen its final gate. None have reached the threshold beyond which the labyrinth ceases to be. For each step taken forward, the path shifts. For every answer gained, new questions arise. It devours those who walk it¡ªmind, body, and soul¡ªuntil they are either unmade or become part of the endless machinery that drives its existence.

    How did the labyrinth come to be? Who laid its foundations upon the fabric of worlds? Does an end truly exist, or is it merely a lie whispered to keep the lost from falling into despair? If it cannot be ended, then can it at least be stopped? Halted before it consumes all that remains?

    There are no truths in this place. No righteous cause. No villainous scheme. No guiding hand of justice. Only shifting paths, endless corridors, and the slow, creeping suffocation of time. In this game of chaos, where the rules change with each breath, good and evil are meaningless. Right and wrong are illusions. To survive is the only law.

    And as the labyrinth spreads, consuming worlds, devouring futures, swallowing light itself, the stars begin to fade one by one.

    Until, at last, no stars remain.

    ______________________________________________________________________________

    The shadow spoke no words. Nor did I.

    As much as I wanted to recoil, to turn away, to retreat into the empty vastness around me, I realized something strange. I was not alone. And that, in a way I couldn''t fully understand, gave me a measure of comfort.

    The grotesque face¡ªif it could even be called that¡ªstared at me with a silence heavier than the void itself. No features, no expression, just an abstract formation of black and gray, shifting ever so slightly, yet never changing. It watched, and I watched back.

    My heart pounded in my chest, a lone rhythm in the endless quiet. I could move¡ªat least, I felt like I could¡ªbut there was no sensation beyond the boundary of my own body. No temperature. No air against my skin. No ground beneath my feet. Only the deep, resonant hum of the space around me, an oppressive vibration that seemed to come from the figure itself. A soundless sound, stretching across infinity.

    I tried to think¡ªto grasp the logic of this place, to piece together some understanding of what had happened to me. But thoughts drifted like mist, forming and dissolving before I could hold onto them. That was, until one solid realization surfaced.

    This all began when I whispered a single word: stop.

    That was when the storm had frozen. That was when the shifting void had given way to stillness. That was when it appeared.

    If my voice held that power, then maybe¡­ maybe the next step also depended on me. Maybe I had to speak again for something else to happen.

    But not yet. Not until I was ready.

    I had time¡ªendless time, or none at all. Either way, I had already spent what felt like years here. Or perhaps my senses had deceived me. I no longer knew the difference.

    So, I let time stretch further. My heart steadied. The fear that gripped me softened into something else. Not quite acceptance, not quite understanding¡ªjust an adjustment to the unnatural reality around me.

    The face did not move. The clouds did not shift.

    I tested my body, reaching out, stepping forward. But no matter how I moved, I remained in the same place. There was no resistance, yet there was no progress either. A space without direction. A place where action held no weight.

    I felt no thirst. No hunger. Even the concept of death, the natural fear of it, became distant¡ªan old memory of another life, barely worth acknowledging.

    What mattered now was this. The darkness surrounding me. The face before me. The silence stretching between us, deeper than the void itself.

    And so, after what felt like an eternity, I decided.

    To speak.

    To face whatever came next.

    To ask the figure before me¡ª

    What are you?

    There was no reply. No immediate shift, no visible reaction. The void remained still, its swirling mist unchanging, as if my words had dissolved into nothing.

    But then I noticed something.

    The face was not still.

    It never was.

    At first, I thought it was frozen¡ªan unmoving silhouette carved into the shifting void. But as time stretched on, I began to see it for what it truly was. It was not still. It was never still.

    The darkness around me churned, slow and ceaseless, like ink dissolving in water. Wisps of black and gray twisted and recoiled, threading through the abyss with a silent, unnatural rhythm. They coiled inward, forming the vague contours of a face, only to unravel, disassemble, and reform again¡ªnever truly solid, never truly whole. The more I stared, the more I understood that it was not taking shape for me. It was not a manifestation brought into existence by my presence.

    It had always been here. Watching. Waiting. Thinking.

    A constant presence in the void, aware of my arrival long before I became aware of it. I had been floating in blindness, in ignorance, assuming myself alone while it observed, silent and unyielding, waiting for me to speak first.

    Then, without warning, it moved.

    Not a twitch, not a sudden shift, but a slow, deliberate unraveling. The black mist stretched outward, parting and twisting into tendrils that arched through the abyss like grasping fingers. The contours of its face stretched with it, features warping, distorting, yet never fully breaking apart. The empty sockets where eyes should have been expanded, swallowing the space between us. The low, thrumming hum that had filled the silence grew deeper, richer, vibrating through my very bones.

    And then it spoke.

    A voice, or something close to it. A soundless echo that crawled into my mind, bypassing my ears, speaking directly into the hollow of my thoughts.

    I thought you weren''t capable of speech.

    The sound¡ªif it could be called that¡ªrippled through the abyss, shaking the fabric of this place, pressing against me like a tide. The sheer weight of its words sent a shudder down my spine. It did not speak like something encountering another for the first time. It spoke like something that had already considered me. Already judged me. Already known me.

    The thought settled deep within me, and for the first time, true fear took hold.

    It had been here long before I arrived.

    It had been watching.

    And it had only been waiting for me to break the silence first.

    Silence followed.

    It wasn''t silence. Not truly.

    The hum¡ªthe deep, droning vibration that filled the space¡ªhad changed. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it was there. A new resonance layered beneath the ever-present murmur, a slow, deliberate pulse threading through the void.

    And then, like ripples in stagnant water, the shadow stirred.

    Not in a sudden, violent motion, but with a creeping inevitability. The black mist coiled and stretched, its edges unraveling like threads pulled from a frayed fabric. The contours of its face shifted, not with any organic motion, but in an unnatural, almost deliberate way¡ªwarping, twisting, reshaping itself in a manner that felt thoughtful. As if it had been waiting. As if it had already decided how it would respond.

    A tremor passed through the airless void, sinking into my very bones.

    Then, without a mouth, without breath, without sound, it spoke again.

    The words did not echo. There was no space for sound to travel, no air for vibrations to carry. And yet, I heard it¡ªfelt it¡ªlike a tremor deep within my mind.

    The shadow, this presence that had lingered in silence, had been watching me. Measuring me. Not as something passive, not as some cosmic phenomenon responding to an anomaly in its space, but as something aware. Something thinking. Something waiting.

    The mist that shaped its hollow visage did not settle. Its form shifted, warped, reassembled. The more I looked, the less I understood¡ªlike staring at a shape that refused to be defined. Its edges rippled, stretching and unraveling like smoke caught in a wind I could not feel. And yet, the face remained. The empty sockets, the slant of its absent mouth, the vague resemblance of something once human but twisted beyond recognition¡ªit did not disappear.

    It had been waiting for me.

    Why am I here? I asked, forcing the words out.

    My voice sounded thin, distant, as though I were hearing myself speak from across an immeasurable void.

    The shadow did not answer immediately. Instead, it loomed, its formless body shifting in ways that made my mind ache to comprehend. When it finally responded, its voice carried no inflection, no trace of emotion.

    Because you are dead.

    A cold weight settled in my chest. I had already known. The moment the car struck, the moment my body twisted and the pain became unbearable before fading into nothingness¡ªI had known. But hearing it spoken aloud, confirmed by something that existed outside all reason, made it real in a way I hadn''t been prepared for.

    I swallowed, though there was nothing physical to swallow. My body was gone, yet my mind clung desperately to the illusion of form.

    And this place? I asked. What is this?

    The figure shifted again. The black mist that composed its shape unfurled, stretching into the darkness before collapsing back in on itself. Its presence pressed against me, as if the abyss itself had weight, had mass, had will.

    This is where the forgotten come.

    A pause.

    This is where the lost remain.

    The words carried a finality that sent something cold skittering down the hollow remains of what should have been my spine.

    The forgotten. The lost.

    I hesitated, staring into its shifting form, waiting for it to elaborate. It did not. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, suffocating without air.

    I had to speak.

    What happens now?

    For the first time since it had begun speaking, the shadow moved. Not just the shifting of its form, not just the eternal swirl of its existence, but moved. The distance between us shrank, though I had not seen it cross the space.

    It loomed.

    It was impossibly vast, yet unbearably close.

    You do not belong here, it said.

    I do not belong here.

    Of course, I knew that already. But hearing it said aloud, in that voice¡ªone that seemed to reverberate through the very essence of this void¡ªmade the fact settle into my bones. A cold certainty.

    Should I ask what it is? Would it take offense if I did? It seemed ancient, unfathomable. People who hold power, who exist above others, tend to expect recognition. Even in my world, the powerful didn''t tolerate ignorance; the higher one stood, the less patience they had for those beneath them. And this being¡ªthis shifting, endless form¡ªwas beyond anything I had ever known. If there was a hierarchy to existence, it stood at its summit.

    I hesitated, weighing my words, then asked, How can I leave this place?

    Silence.

    It did not answer, nor did it react. The void remained as it was¡ªunmoving yet constantly in flux, the darkness folding into itself in infinite layers, dissolving and reforming like waves crashing against an unseen shore. Time stretched, or perhaps it collapsed altogether. The only constant was its gaze¡ªif I could even call it that. That formless face had no eyes, no features to mark its expression, yet I felt its awareness pressing into me, dissecting my every thought before I could voice it.

    Did it even hear me? I wondered. Should I repeat myself?

    Before I could, laughter¡ªlow, guttural, and unplaceable¡ªrippled through the void. It wasn''t merely sound; I felt it, a vibration that ran through my entire being, as though the space around me itself was laughing.

    I heard you the first time.

    The voice carried amusement, but it was the kind that made my skin crawl. The kind that belonged to something far beyond my understanding, something that saw humor in my struggles the way one might find amusement in an insect crawling in circles, unaware of the foot poised above it.

    Get out of here? it mused, the words laced with an eerie curiosity. Where exactly would you go?

    The question unsettled me. I had assumed the answer was simple: Away. Anywhere but here. But the way it phrased it made me question myself. Where was I trying to go? Back to my world? Back to that mangled corpse in the wreckage, frozen in time beneath the glow of my mother''s last message? Was there even a world left for me to return to?

    What do you mean? I asked.

    The thing laughed again, softer this time, almost like a whisper passing through the void.

    This place¡ªthis Eternal Void¡ªis the highest domain of salvation. There is nothing beyond it. It is the peak of all worlds, the abyss that lies above the shadows and below the deep, ruled by The One Who Wanders in the Darkness."

    Its words were not merely spoken; they were imposed upon me, as though the knowledge had been carved into the very fabric of my being. The highest domain. The peak of all worlds. A place above existence itself.

    Then, was I already dead in every conceivable sense? Not just from my world¡ªbut from all worlds? Was this the true end?

    There is nothing beyond here, it continued.

    I tried to process its meaning, but the weight of those words pressed down on me. I understood, yet at the same time, I didn''t. No beyond? No elsewhere?

    Then where can I take refuge? I asked, my voice quieter than before. Where can I go?

    There is no ''outside'' to the Eternal Void.

    This thing¡ªwhatever it was¡ªheld all the answers, but it spoke in riddles, as if it enjoyed watching me struggle to piece them together. Then if I cannot go outside, I thought, can I go inside?

    You said this void covers the worlds, I pressed. Can I enter the worlds instead?

    For the first time, the shadow shifted in a way that felt intentional, deliberate. It leaned forward¡ªor at least, the darkness condensed, as though a great force was folding in on itself. The sensation was suffocating.

    Then, a sound¡ªone I could only describe as a snicker, though it carried the weight of a thousand dying stars.

    Entering and exiting worlds is a miracle done by gods. A puny soul like yours cannot do such a thing.

    A puny soul. The way it said it made it clear that, in its eyes, I was insignificant. A speck of dust clinging to the edges of a far greater existence. It had no reason to acknowledge me, yet it did. That alone was terrifying.

    But its words weren''t a denial. They were a boundary. A rule. Which meant there was some way for a soul to enter the worlds.

    Then¡­ is there any other way? I asked, carefully choosing my words.

    The shadow stirred, shifting like ink dissolving in water. It had expected me to give up. It wanted me to give up. But I didn''t.

    Silence stretched between us. The hum of the void grew deeper. Then¡ª

    You are a stubborn one, for sure.

    And for the first time, I felt something from it. Not amusement. Not condescension. Something far more dangerous.

    Interest.

    The void around me thickened, pressing in from all directions. The formless mass of darkness shifted once more, and though it had no face, I could feel it smirk.

    There is a way.

    The words slithered through the silence like a whisper in the dark.

    I swallowed, bracing myself. How?

    A pause. A lingering moment stretched between my question and its answer, but I already knew¡ªwhatever it was about to say would change everything.

    Then, finally, it spoke.

    The Labyrinth.

 Omniscient Paradox

    The Labyrinth.

    I knew the word. A complicated, irregular network of passages or paths, a place where one could lose themselves, where the way forward was as unclear as the way back. A maze, in essence. But this wasn¡¯t my world. The rules I knew didn¡¯t necessarily apply here. The meaning of words, of concepts, could twist into something unrecognizable.

    "Labyrinth?" I echoed, my own voice feeling small against the vast, oppressive silence.

    A chill ran through me, though there was no wind, no air, no temperature at all. It was something deeper¡ªsomething buried in instinct, in the marrow of my bones. Fear. Not the fear of pain or death, but something more primal. The fear of standing before something far beyond human comprehension.

    The shadow did not answer outright. It lingered in silence, shifting, rippling, dissolving and reforming without a single defined shape. I had the unsettling sense that it wasn¡¯t searching for the right words¡ªit was considering whether I was even capable of understanding them. Or perhaps, whether I deserved to hear them at all.

    Time stretched thin.

    I had already accepted that time in this place was meaningless. Seconds and centuries blended together, indivisible. My body was tense, but my mind was still my own. And as long as I held onto that¡ªonto my reason, my thoughts¡ªI would not break. If I let the terror of the unknown seep too deep, if I allowed the weight of incomprehensible existence to crush me, then I would no longer be myself. I refused.

    So, I stared into the void. And the void stared back.

    At last, after a lifetime, it spoke.

    "The Labyrinth¡­ is a doorway. A bridge between what is and what was. A thread woven through the fabric of reality, binding worlds together in ways beyond mortal perception."

    Its voice was not a single voice. It was many, layered upon each other, as if something vast and formless was speaking through countless tongues at once.

    "There are infinite gates to enter, but only one path to exit. It does not follow the logic of your kind¡ªit does not obey laws written by men or gods. It expands beyond reason, beyond time. It descends into the depths where no light reaches and stretches into the heavens where no shadow dares linger. The Labyrinth is all things, yet it belongs to no one."

    The shadows swirled around me, moving in patterns I couldn¡¯t quite grasp, like the motions of something shifting just beyond the edges of reality.

    "Within its corridors, there are beings of great power, remnants of those who once were, and creatures born of malice and ruin. Those who enter do so without promise of return. The Labyrinth is not a trial. It is not a game. It is the great tide, the silent pull of eternity, consuming all who step inside."

    The shadow paused. I felt its attention settle on me once more, heavy as the weight of the abyss itself.

    "And you, who stand at the edge, do you seek to enter?"

    I thought.

    Turned the words over in my mind, unraveling them thread by thread, piecing together what they meant¡ªwhat the Labyrinth truly was. A connector. A doorway. A passage linking the worlds.

    That meant¡­ I could find one of these doors. I could trace a path back to my world. Back to my life.

    It wouldn¡¯t be easy. The way had no map, no guidance. But it was possible. And possibility, no matter how slim, was enough.

    A quiet, desperate thought crept into my mind¡ªwhat if I could go back before the crash? Before I ever set out for the party? Before everything unraveled into this abyss?

    I closed my eyes, letting my thoughts settle, letting them take shape. If the Labyrinth touched all things, all places, all time¡ªthen why not before?

    Before it all went wrong.

    Before the regret, before the numbness.

    Before I lost him.

    The thought lodged itself deep in my chest, an ache I hadn¡¯t let myself feel in years. My father.

    Would it be possible? If the Labyrinth stretched across realities, could I step through a door and return to when he was still there? Could I fix everything? Would I even recognize myself if I did?

    I could see it¡ªan entire life rewritten. Not just my past, but me. The person I had been could be different. I could change the way I had lived. I could shape a life where I had always been present, where I had always belonged. I could know what a happy family felt like.

    The thought tempted me.

    Like a whisper curling around my heart, soft and suffocating.

    But then, as if to cut through the illusion I was weaving for myself, the shadow¡¯s words echoed again in my mind.

    "Do you seek to enter?"

    The answer should have been simple. Yes. A hundred times yes. If it meant having a second chance, if it meant undoing the emptiness¡ªwhy hesitate?

    And yet, something inside me resisted.

    Maybe it was the realization that what I truly sought wasn¡¯t return, but escape. Escape from the self I had been, from the mistakes I had made, from the hollow existence I left behind. If I returned, would I be any different? Or would I simply drift back into the same patterns, the same solitude?

    Perhaps instead of changing my old life, here, I had the chance to live an entirely new one.

    The thought unsettled me. And yet, it felt¡­ right.

    My fingers clenched slightly. A small action, but the first real movement I had made since coming here.

    I exhaled. There was still something I needed to know.

    "Do you know about the people who were with me when I died?" I asked.

    This time, the answer came faster.

    "Yes."

    My chest tightened.

    "Are they alive? Or are they somewhere in this abyss, drifting through time, speaking to a shadow such as yourself?"

    I had deliberately stretched the question, forcing it to give me more than a single-word answer.

    For a long moment, the darkness rippled in thought.

    "No," it finally said. "They are dead."

    Silence.

    I stared ahead, my face unreadable, but something inside me wavered.

    "They are not here. And there is no other such as myself."

    There was something final in the way it said it. Absolute.

    I wasn¡¯t sure why it stung. Maybe because I had so casually referred to it as a shadow, reducing it to something vague and unknowable, yet it had never once corrected me, never returned the insult. I had assumed it was indifferent, yet suddenly, I wasn¡¯t sure.

    I let the thought pass. There were more important things to ask.

    "Do you know where they are?"

    If they were nowhere in this abyss, then where?

    Another pause. Yet this one wasn¡¯t from hesitation or reluctance. The way it lingered, the way the shifting mass around me grew still¡ªit was considering how to answer.

    This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

    "They are far away."

    Far away.

    "Below us."

    Below? The abyss had depth?

    "Playing¡­ a game."

    The words struck something deep in me.

    I frowned. "A game?"

    Silence.

    A long, stretching silence.

    Then, it finally answered.

    "A vicious game, unfolding somewhere inside the Labyrinth."

    The shadows deepened.

    "A game beaten by nobody."

    A game.

    The word lingered in my mind, hanging there, weightless yet heavy. It felt¡­ misplaced.

    A game?

    The way it had said it didn¡¯t match the image that came to mind. A game was something trivial, something fleeting¡ªsomething people played for fun.

    But nothing about this place, this void, this thing before me, suggested anything lighthearted.

    "What do you mean by a game?" I asked, my voice steady, but my thoughts unraveling.

    It didn¡¯t answer immediately. Instead, the darkness around me stirred, curling in slow, deliberate motions, as if amused by my confusion.

    "A game is a game." The words slid out, smooth, weightless.

    That wasn¡¯t an answer.

    I felt an odd frustration settle inside me, like I was trying to grasp something slipping through my fingers. I wanted to demand more, to force it to explain, but I hesitated. There was something about the way it spoke, the way it let me think, let me pull the threads apart myself.

    A game.

    Was it a test? A trial? A punishment?

    Or was it something far worse¡ªsomething I couldn¡¯t yet comprehend?

    Before I could voice my thoughts, the shadow finally spoke again, and its next words sent a shiver through me.

    "Do you want to play the game?"

    A simple question. One that should have been easy to answer.

    And yet, I found myself frozen.

    The question lingered in the abyss, hanging between us like an unseen tether, thin yet unbreakable. Do you want to play the game?

    I didn''t answer immediately. I couldn''t.

    The word game felt almost ridiculous. Childish. A meaningless arrangement of letters, something to pass the time, something trivial. But the way it had spoken, the weight behind those words¡ªit was anything but trivial. A game beaten by nobody. That wasn¡¯t a phrase meant to excite or entice. It wasn¡¯t a promise of adventure or discovery. It was a warning.

    And yet, my mind grasped onto the idea, turning it over, searching for meaning.

    A game.

    Something played. Something with rules.

    Something with winners.

    Something with losers.

    But how could I trust that this game was anything like the ones I had known? In my world, a game was an escape, an illusion of control in a life that had none. It was a world where choices could be remade, where failure was never final. But here, in this abyss, there was no reset button. No second chances.

    So what was this game? Was it survival? Was it a war? Was it something beyond my comprehension?

    And more importantly¡ªwas I even meant to win?

    "If I play, what happens?" I asked carefully.

    "You step forward. Into the unknown."

    "And if I refuse?"

    The darkness stirred, shifting and shifting but never changing.

    "Then you stay here. Forever."

    A slow chill settled in my bones.

    Forever.

    This stillness, this nothingness¡ªwas that really all that awaited me? No purpose, no end, just an endless existence of floating in the dark?

    No.

    I couldn¡¯t do that. I couldn¡¯t let that be my fate.

    A thought came to me then, unbidden but sharp. Perhaps this was how every player had felt before stepping into it. Perhaps all those who had come before had asked the same question, taken the same long, uncertain pause. And perhaps, like me, they had eventually given in.

    Because what was the alternative?

    I thought back to my life. To the moments I had let slip through my fingers. The days spent drifting. The nights where I had watched time pass, unable to summon the will to change anything. My life had been stagnant, a still pond collecting dust.

    But here I was, at the precipice of something unknown.

    A choice.

    Stay in the abyss, forever floating in silence, or step into the unknown.

    I wasn¡¯t sure which was worse.

    Maybe that was the nature of life itself. We were all playing a game we never asked to join. We were all forced to make choices without knowing the outcome. And in the end, regret belonged to those who never moved forward.

    The idea of returning to my old life had been tempting at first. But the longer I thought about it, the more I realized¡ªthere was nothing to return to. Even if I could walk through one of those doors and retrace my steps, what then? Would I not become the same person who had once sat in his room, waiting for something to change? Would I not simply fall into the same patterns, the same thoughts, the same hollow existence?

    No.

    I had been given something rare. A choice.

    I opened my mouth, but no words came at first. I let the moment stretch, let the weight of the decision settle fully before I committed to it.

    Finally, after what felt like an eternity, I exhaled.

    "I''ll play."

    The shadow didn¡¯t answer. It lingered. Still.

    The shape of its form blurred, fractured, and reformed¡ªan existence without definition, shifting between what it was and what it could be. And for a split second, I saw it.

    A smile.

    Not a smile of warmth. Not one of cruelty. Something else entirely. A knowing smile. A patient smile. The kind of expression worn by those who had long since stopped being surprised by the course of events, as if it had always been this way, as if this moment¡ªthis exchange¡ªhad already played out a thousand times before.

    Something in my chest tightened.

    When I finally spoke, my voice felt small against the weight of that gaze.

    "How do I play the game?"

    The words echoed into the abyss, carried by something unseen, stretching outward into the nothingness. The silence that followed was vast, swallowing the sound until I could almost doubt I had spoken at all.

    The shadow did not answer at once. It observed me, its form shifting, the mist of its presence folding and unfolding, breathing in the void. As if it was considering not what to say¡ªbut how much to say.

    And when it finally spoke, the words were slow, deliberate.

    "To play a game, one must first know its rules. And yet, what is a game but a story we tell ourselves? A trick of order imposed upon chaos?"

    I frowned. That wasn¡¯t an answer. It was the first time it had said something that felt¡­ tangential. Something entirely different from what I had asked.

    "That doesn¡¯t answer my question."

    The void trembled with its chuckle. A sound that didn¡¯t belong in any world I had known. It didn¡¯t just echo¡ªit reverberated inside me, folding itself into my very being, shaking apart something in my core.

    Then it spoke again, not as an answer, but as another question.

    "Tell me¡ªdo you think this place is real?"

    The weight of the words pressed down on me.

    Real?

    I opened my mouth, then closed it. The answer should have been simple.

    Yet, my mind stalled, caught between the logic I had always known and the sensation of standing here, now, in this place that should not exist.

    Was it real?

    I could hear. I could see. I could think.

    Yet¡­ my body was not my body. My voice was not my voice. My heartbeat¡ªdid I still have one?

    I felt the pressure of my own presence, the weight of awareness itself. And wasn¡¯t that enough? Wasn¡¯t perception the proof of existence?

    But then, if I could doubt this place, what did that say about the life I had before?

    "Then is this place not real?" I asked instead, wary of falling into a trap.

    "Was the life you lived before real?" the shadow countered. "Were the moments you cherished? The regrets you harbored? The dreams you never spoke of?"

    The words cut into me like an incision made with absolute precision.

    I faltered.

    I wanted to say yes. I wanted to answer without hesitation, to dismiss the absurdity of the question entirely.

    But I hesitated. And in that hesitation, I felt the cracks in my certainty begin to spread.

    What was real?

    The hours I spent drifting from one thing to another, the people I passed by without a second glance, the expectations placed upon me, the way I moved through my days without purpose or meaning.

    Hadn¡¯t I always felt like a ghost, even before I died? Hadn¡¯t I spent my life as though I wasn¡¯t really in it? As if I were waiting for something else to start?

    Was my old life real simply because I was familiar with it? Because I had memories of it?

    And if so¡­ wasn¡¯t this place just as real now that I stood in it, felt it, breathed in its endless dark?

    There was laughter now.

    Laughter without warmth, without mirth¡ªjust a sound spiraling outward into the abyss, passing into the nothingness as if the void itself could mock me.

    It did not stop. It rippled, endless, unhurried, as though the question I had asked had been heard before. As though my confusion, my desperation, was merely another note in a symphony that had played long before I ever existed.

    And then, just as the laughter began to fade, the shadow answered.

    "To play the game, you must be broken."

    The words did not crash into me. They seeped, spreading like ink through water, like something inevitable.

    "Only the broken, the forgotten, the deceased¡ªsouls with doubt and confusion, souls with no master¡ªspirits and demons, kings and the fallen. These are the ones who may enter the labyrinth, and seek."

    My breath caught.

    "The game does not invite. It does not suggest. It does not whisper its name to those who do not belong. It must be searched for, sought by the souls of the damned."

    My mind reeled, spinning in on itself, grasping at meaning. Damned?

    "Where?" The shadow¡¯s voice deepened, stretching across the endless dark. "All lies lie in the labyrinth. And that is the place you belong. For nothing you see and saw, thought and experienced, met and known¡ªhas ever been real."

    I staggered, though my body did not move.

    "Everything you had known and had not, has been a lie and deception¡ªexcept me."

    The void seemed to tremble with those words, as though it had been waiting for them to be spoken.

    "I am the only one who remains."

    Something in the pit of my mind cracked, something foundational, something I hadn''t even known I had been standing on until it was wrenched out from beneath me.

    "The one who watches you when you crumble, desperate. When you watch your life¡ªyour soul¡ªdie."

    No.

    "I see, and I smile."

    No. No, no, no¡ª

    My thoughts collapsed in on themselves, folding into a chaos I could not comprehend.

    I wanted to deny it. To reject every word.

    But¡ªwhat did I have to deny it with?

    Memories? What were memories but flickering illusions in my own mind?

    Time? What was time in a place where eternity stretched into meaninglessness?

    My old life¡ªhad it ever belonged to me? Had it ever felt solid beneath my feet? Or had I simply assumed it was real because I had been too afraid to question otherwise?

    The foundation of everything I had been, everything I had ever known, had shattered. And now, I was left with nothing but the abyss swallowing me whole.

    I didn''t even realize I was falling¡ªnot physically, but deeper into my own mind¡ªuntil the shadow spoke again.

    "The game?" It was neither question nor statement, only inevitability.

    I barely registered it. My thoughts were static, spiraling into something ungraspable.

    "You will find it."

    The words cut through the storm of my thoughts like a needle through fabric.

    "In the labyrinth."

    The void pressed in. I could feel it now. Truly feel it. The weight of endless nothing. The knowledge that I was adrift in something vast, something unfathomable.

    "In your dreams."

    And then¡ªone last smile.

    A final gift. Or a final curse.

    "Sleep."