In a universe where even stars flicker into oblivion unnoticed, an utterly ordinary boy—the kind you pass daily without a glance—wrestled with a question that choked him: Why cling to life? He watched people grind through pain, chase coins that turned to dust at death's door, and weep over failures as fleeting as breath on glass. Why? The answer everyone else seemed to grasp danced just beyond his reach, leaving him stranded in clueless silence. He sought refuge in stories, devouring novels where heroes basked in golden endings and villains crumbled under plot-convenient stupidity. The pattern stabbed him: the Author's thumb forever on the scale, lavishing luck and insight on favourites while discarding the rest like narrative trash. He saw the machinery—the forced survival, the blind villains—and a cold hatred bloomed. Not hatred of the characters, but of the unseen Hand pulling their strings. This poison seeped into his bones, twisting his world. They spoke of a benevolent God, all-powerful and kind. He saw only the Author: capricious, cruel, playing favourites across history. His saints and kings were the protagonists, showered with divine plot armor. People like him? Less than cannon fodder—unwritten, unremembered, unseen. He didn't crave a hero's crown or a villain's infamy. He ached for a single line in the cosmic script, a footnote proving he existed within God's story. But the Author hadn't even granted him that. And so, in the suffocating silence of his insignificance, hatred became his only sacred text.
Some people dream of soaring heights; others, of simple comforts. He dreamt only of resonance within the indifferent narrative he perceived as reality. Human? The label felt ill-fitting, like the mask he wore – not for disguise, but as a declaration. Emotions washed over him: joy sharp as glass, anger like a furnace, sadness a cold stone in his chest. Yet their source remained a locked room. Love? Attraction? Alien concepts. Pain, however… pain was tangible. He feared its sting, yet sought it deliberately. Tolerance, he reasoned, was a shield forged in fire. While others aspired to be heroes crowned by fate or villains etched in infamy, he craved neither. To be mere cannon fodder was worse than oblivion. He saw existence as a tale penned by a bored, cruel god, lavishing favor on chosen protagonists while discarding the rest. His ambition was not to win the story, but to warp it. To be the jester whose laugh cracks the throne, the wildcard flipping the board. Morality was a script; chaos, his chosen instrument. Let the indifferent god watch. His sole wish: to matter enough to be seen, to force his dissonant note into the cosmic symphony. Whether this wish was his own, or merely another line in the god's script for its favored hero to trample… that remained unknown. But if sheer, grinding will – honed in despair, fueled by a perverse delight in chaos, and hardened by meticulously endured pain – could demand the universe's attention… well, that was a challenge worthy of a being who refused to be merely human, or merely nothing.
One mundane evening shattered. Not with sound, but with a crack in reality's skin. It consumed him.
One moment, the crushing mundanity of existence. The next—a crack. Not in glass, but in the fabric of everything. It swallowed him whole. After being swallowed him whole something happen. Agony seized him – a torment so profound that being devoured alive or slowly burned would have been a mercy
It was not transportation but utterly annihilation of his being not only body but that was not end but just start . After annihilation his body reassembled molecule by shrieking molecule, the agony of reconstruction as acute as dissolution. The moment it was whole, the disintegration began anew.
Space-time turbulence ripped through him like cosmic sandpaper. He felt it unzip his cells, molecule by screaming molecule, dissolving him into a nebula of his own pain. It was slower than burning, more intimate than being devoured. An eternity of unraveling. Then, the cruel twist: time stuttered, reversed. Tendons snapped back into place, bones knitted from stardust agony, nerves screamed back to life—only for the unraveling to begin anew. A loop of exquisite, meaningless torment. He thought why he was enduring this, what did he done to deserve this cruel treatment. He asked god "why i am experiencing this torment, Was is it because of my question or my life and its story is so boring that u decided to do this?
Decades? Centuries? Time was meat grinder. Only the pain was constant.
A thought pierced the white-noise scream: "This is it? The end? Not a footnote, not a smear on the page… just… un-written?" A laugh bubbled up, thick with blood and hysteria. It echoed in the void that was consuming him.
He forced disintegrating lungs to draw void. His reforming jaw clenched.
"OH GOD!" The scream tore at his reassembling throat. "HOW GREAT YOU ARE! HOW GLORIOUS!" Sarcasm dripped like acid. "IS THIS YOUR ANSWER? YOUR GRACE? TO HATE ME SO COMPLETELY? TO MAKE ME A QUESTION THAT EVALIVATED ITSELF?" A wave of disintegration hit, silencing him with a gurgle. He reformed, eyes blazing with the light of dying stars. "YOU MADE ME TO SUFFER LIVING… AND NOW YOU TORMENT ME DYING! FINE! BUT I. WILL. NOT. END. HERE!"
Panic was for those who accepted their roles. He had none. Only rage. Only will.
"YOU WON'T CAST ME IN YOUR STORY? His voice was raw gravel, forged in infinite pain. "THEN I'LL SCRIBBLE MY OWN ROLE IN THE MARGINS WITH BLOOD AND VOID! NOT YOUR HERO! NOT YOUR VILLAIN! I'LL BE THE JESTER! THE WILDCARD!" He spat a tooth, reforming even as it dissolved. "THE CHAOS YOU CAN'T CONTROL! THE LAUGH THAT BREAKS YOUR NARRATIVE! I'LL MAKE MYSELF SO ESSENTIAL, SO INFURIATINGLY REAL, THAT EVEN YOUR FAVORED PUPPETS WILL STUMBLE WHEN I CACKLE! ACKNOWLEDGE ME, AUTHOR! OR I'LL UNRAVEL YOUR PRECIOUS PLOT MYSELF!"
The void offered no answer. Only the endless cycle of agony. But within the dissolving flesh, a new fire burned. Not hope. Defiance. The Will of the Wildcard, forged in the crucible of cosmic indifference.
After an eternity measured only in cycles of agony, his consciousness frayed like rotten cloth, threatening to dissolve into the endless void. Then, a pinprick. Light. Not the cold indifference of stars, but a searing, overwhelming presence. Desperation, primal and wordless, surged. He willed his dissolving essence towards it, a moth drawn to an annihilating flame.
A sound ripped through the dissolving remnants of his being – a raw, guttural cry. Was that... me? The question echoed in the emptiness, alien and terrifying.
Suddenly, a voice, clear and resonant yet impossibly distant: "Madam, the child... it seems to be a boy."
Child? Boy? The concepts were alien shards piercing the fog. The light resolved into blinding shapes, overwhelming colors, and suffocating pressure. He forced eyelids – new eyelids, impossibly heavy – to open.
Panic, cold and absolute, flooded him. Confusion. Utter unreality. Towering above him loomed a being of impossible scale, holding his fragile, tiny form. His newborn vision swam, struggling to focus. Beyond the giantess, reclined on a surface he couldn't comprehend, lay another figure. Even strained, pale with effort, her beauty was staggering – not merely earthly perfection, but something luminous, almost divine in its composition. It felt... narrative. Intentional.
The horrifying, impossible truth slammed into his reassembling mind with the force of a collapsing star: Rebirth. Transmigration.
A hysterical laugh bubbled inside, silent in the physical world but deafening within his fractured psyche. "So, Author! Was this the punchline? Your grand design after the cosmic shredder? Or did even the indifferent Void retch me back out?" The concept was terrifying, absurd... yet it fit the horrific, mocking logic of his existence. "Fine. Play your game. But this board is different."
The old, seething defiance, forged in the furnace of endless pain and cosmic disregard, ignited anew, hotter than the birthing light. "This reality? I am the inkblot on your pristine page. The dissonant chord in your symphony. Not your hero, not your villain – the Wildcard reborn. I will carve my role from chaos, despair, and glorious, utter nonsense. And you, Author... you will see me. You will choke on my existence."