The Realm Beyond…
As the void stretched infinitely, neither the sky nor the earth defined its boundaries.
There were no walls or roofs, only a floor that resembled the surface of water. The silence in the space was profound and heavy. Yet, the darkness was not empty; it was as if alive, shifting like liquid glass beneath the feet of the lone wanderer…
In this vast expanse of an endless void, a Drifter tread on a surface that mirrored water.
Every step this entity took sent ripples through the endless expanse, each wave distorting reflections that should not exist.
Suspended in this abyss, countless glowing orbs floated, pulsing with an unnatural light.
They varied in size—some no larger than pebbles, others vast like dying suns—but all shimmered like stars brought too close, their radiance cold and watchful.
The being moved without effort, gliding between the lights as though gravity held no dominion over it. It was neither man nor beast, its form undefined, shifting between silhouettes that flickered in and out of existence. At times, it vanished from sight, only to reappear with no warning…
Eyes. so many eyes, opened and closed across its ever-changing body, observing the orbs, watching as if waiting for something to occur.
Then, it halted…
Something finally caught its eye, a few distances away…
One orb, distinct from the rest, pulsed with an irregular rhythm.
Unlike the others, it did not simply glow—it shrank and stretched. Its light was not passive but different, flickering between brilliance and dimness as if resisting some unseen force.
A smile curled across the entity's ephemeral face, though no true mouth existed. It spoke in a cryptic voice: "This one." The eerie, maniacal smile still plastered on its face, it reached out. Its fingers elongated and twisted unnaturally, stretching through the cloak that covered it.
As its fingers neared the orb, something stirred within. The light inside recoiled, dimming for an instant before flaring in defiance. A brilliant light emanated—blinding.
For the first time in countless eons, the void itself trembled.
A big maniacal smile spread across its now whole face.
The entity chuckled—a sound it did not expect to make, jagged and fractured, as though no laughter had ever been meant to come out of its face. It again spoke in that cryptic voice: "So, you struggle? Good, ..." Amused,
It opened both its arms, stretching them so its body revealed a giant mouth, with many holes inside but no teeth in sight, stretching from the head to below the stomach.
It pressed closer, its form unravelling and reforming, surrounding the orb like tendrils of living ink. The other stars shuddered at its approach, their radiance flickering with something close to fear.
From the many holes inside the mouth, tendrils emerged, grasping the orb and pulling it into the mouth, consuming it whole with a gulp…
The surrounding orbs flickered dimly, as if wanting to hide in the darkness but unable to do so. The entity ignored them. Its interest lay solely in the rebellious sphere it had already consumed.
With deliberate slowness, the entity traced unseen symbols into the void, the strokes lingering like burning afterimages. The space around it groaned in protest. Each mark carried an oppressive, unknown weight—a weight of laws long since buried beneath time's endless tide.
As the last unknown sigil was completed, the orb inside the entity's body let out a soundless scream as its last desperate move.
Silence…
Threads of reality unravelled.
The void convulsed, and one after another, all orbs in that space began to shake violently. Then, with a violent Crack, they shattered one after another.
A white substance emerged from each shattered orb, dropping to the floor and covering the entirety of the space.
In the center of it all, the entity stood, watching it unfold. A violent scream echoed around—it was the entity laughing. All its eyes were fixated on the void ahead. With a sign of the entity moving its arm, pointing a finger forward, it spoke in a cryptic voice: "Let it all begin."
In the aftermath, all the fragments of the broken orbs, which were suspended in the air, began to move in sync like an orchestra guided by a conductor. The entity began a recreation—something insidious and unravelling of its very existence, its essence spilling into the dark like ink dissolving in water.
The entity's form convulsed, caught in the recoil of what it had unleashed. But instead of alarm, its expression deepened into something almost euphoric.
The white, waxy substance from before, which lay on the floor, started to float. In time, the whole space was covered and ready for the stage that the entity had created for reasons unknown.
Its expression was euphoric till the very end.
…..
The mid-afternoon sun hung oppressively over the small city, transforming each street into a searing furnace. Heat shimmered above the pavement, a restless haze that made the air quiver like molten glass. The atmosphere was dense and humid, clinging uncomfortably to the skin and pressing heavily on every breath.
Shadows were short and sharp, pressed tightly against buildings, as if seeking refuge from the sun's unyielding glare. The scent of asphalt and dust mingled with faint traces from food stalls—oil, spices, something sizzling in the distance. Somewhere, a ceiling fan whirred lazily from an open window, too sluggish to offer relief.
People moved with reluctance, lethargically, their shoulders damp and shirts adhering to their backs. Some sought refuge under umbrellas or in shaded doorways; others simply endured, their faces flushed from the heat. Cars rolled by with windows slightly ajar, spilling fragments of music and voices into the stifling air.
It was the sort of afternoon that made the city feel slower, smaller, as if time itself was gasping in the heat, awaiting the evening's reprieve.
When Akira stepped out of the rental store, pushed open the glass door, and stepped into the warm, heavy air outside. Two grocery bags hung from her arms, their weight digging faint red lines into her pale wrists. Her loose denim jeans brushed against her ankles, and the light-blue shirt she wore clung to her back, already damp with sweat.
The second she stepped out, the difference hit her—inside, it had been cool and refreshing, but out here the sun felt like it was pressing down hard.
Sweat formed on her forehead and trickled down her cheek. She shifted the bags, trying to take a deep breath, but it came in shallow bursts, like the air didn't want to fill her lungs.
A lock of black hair slipped free, sticking to her sweaty temple. The strands caught the sunlight, showing a hint of brown when she turned her head. Her face, sharp and defined in the right light, looked even more tired in the heat. She squinted against the brightness, her dark eyes narrowing as she looked down the street.
the sun's fury engulfed her, like the breath of an open oven. Grocery day—her essential routine, the errand that prevented her from going to bed hungry. Yet today, the air felt merciless, as though summer had singled her out, testing her endurance before she collapsed onto the pavement.
Had her pantry not been completely bare, she would never have ventured out at such an hour. Every step felt punitive: her palms slick, her grip slipping against the plastic handles that bit into her fingers. Sweat pooled at her neck and slid down her spine, her clothes clinging like a damp second skin. Her head throbbed in rhythm with the cicadas' relentless chorus, a steady reminder of the day's lingering hours.
Even her hair refused to cooperate. Thick, black strands plastered themselves to her forehead, falling into her eyes with every step. She swept them back with the edge of her wrist, careful not to drop the grocery bags weighing down her arms. The city around her moved with a sluggish pace, people ducking into shadows, windows open to admit a breeze that never arrived. Yet there she was—under the unrelenting sun, a figure trudging through the heat with nothing but sheer determination to guide her home.
"Damn… should've picked any other time to come out here," she muttered, her words almost lost beneath the dry rasp of cicadas. A sluggish gust of wind brushed past her, stirring her hair into her eyes with an annoying rustle. It was the kind of wind that promised relief but arrived hot and heavy, like an oven door flung open. She groaned softly, "This heat's definitely going to be the death of me."
Yet despite the oppressive heat, Akira pressed on, determined to reach her home. Her resilience was a testament to the enduring spirit that thrives even under the harshest conditions. As the city sweltered and the sun blazed, she continued her journey.
"Well, it's alright. Since I've been saving up for a while now, and with just a little more time, I'll finally have enough cash. Then I'll be able to buy it."
A motorcycle!
Yes, that's what Akira wanted. Something swift, with an engine powerful enough to whisk her away from the oppressive heat, leaving the desert-like streets in a blur. She could almost picture herself atop one, the wind howling past, cooling her skin, and carrying her far from the scorching reality she trudged through.
As she tilted her head upwards, squinting against the blinding glare, she found no solace in the sky. Not a single cloud offered respite—just an endless, burning blue expanse. Could the universe not spare even a scrap of shade, a mere patch of mercy? she sarcastically remarked…
Realistically, Akira had no one to blame but herself. She'd allowed her food supply to dwindle, convincing herself she'd restock later. Easy enough, or so she thought. The shops were open around the clock. What she hadn't anticipated was the weather transforming into punishing hellfire, a consequence of her procrastination.
Now, she was trudging home, arms laden with groceries, sweat trickling down her spine, accompanied by nothing but regret.
"Well, it's fine," she reassured herself, "my apartment was thankfully close to the store, so I guess I shouldn't complain too much."
Akira continued forward, turning into a narrow street, the grocery bags pulling heavily at her arms. Sweat traced a line down her neck as a hot gust swept past, ruffling her hair. She drew in a sharp breath, then let it out slowly through clenched teeth. The air burned with intensity; every step felt like a Herculean effort, and the grocery bags seemed to anchor her to the ground.
Halfway down the street, she caught sight of it—a bookstore, its doors nearly obscured by a massive line curling around the corner.
Her first thought: "You've got to be kidding me." How are these people able to stand under this sun?
Her eyes darted around to find the reason for such a long line in front of a bookstore, a curiosity in itself. Then she finally spotted a poster on the side of the road, close to the shop's entrance.
From across the road, reading the poster was a bit tricky because of the light pouring in that made the poster look like shiny white cloth, but when she managed, it was a revelation.
She murmured, "Of course." The newly famous manga's volume was to be released today.
The poster's image reminded her of that manga, which had gained popularity over the week as it arrived, taking the entire industry and readers by surprise.
The volume being sold was a limited edition, stirring readers into a frenzy. Realization hit her when she observed the situation more deeply that the people in line far exceeded the number of volumes available, meaning only the fortunate few at the front would leave victorious, clutching their prize like treasure, while most would return empty-handed.
But that's reality, I suppose; not everyone gets what they desire, no matter how hard they work. Everyone has their own way of living, their struggles, their pace. Some face heavier obstacles than others, even when dealing with the same problem.
She glanced at the people in line. Some panted, sweat dripping down their foreheads under the relentless heat. Others were prepared, shielding themselves with umbrellas or cooling fans, carrying whatever little comforts they could manage. Just by looking, she could see that each person was different, each bearing their burdens in their own way—some suffering more, some less.
Her mind wandered. Perhaps one of them had risen at dawn, walking miles just to catch the subway before arriving here. Perhaps another lived next door, fortunate enough to stroll down the road and join the line without much trouble.
"Not everyone is lucky, I guess," she thought. After all, when people are born, some arrive with silver spoons in their mouths, while others clutch nothing but dirt.
As she was pondering this implication, a heavy sigh came out. Akira kept walking. She already knew which side she fell into: the one who discarded the silver spoon to grasp the dirt instead. And so, with a heavy heart, she continued moving.
As Akira walked back to her apartment, she found herself humming a tune that had been playing in her mind all day. She couldn't quite place where she had heard it, but it lingered, much like the stories that often captivated her thoughts.
Akira was fascinated by the art of storytelling, especially those that intrigued her with their plot and craftsmanship.
That particular movement, her mind was fixated on that manga she had discovered on the poster. It wasn't the story itself that consumed her thoughts, but the elements that contributed to its quick rise in popularity. She pondered the art style that made it visually engaging and the writing that kept the narrative simple yet suspenseful. Akira wasn't critiquing it; she was comparing it to her own work.
With a sigh of relief, Akira reassured herself that her work still remained unique, confident she hadn't accidentally copied anything directly. Still, the manga inspired her with new ideas she was eager to incorporate into her projects. Her analysis was driven by a desire to refine her craft and draw inspiration.
As she continued walking, she, for whatever reason, recalled the story about the monkey learning to pluck fruit by watching a human.
High in the canopy, a monkey clung to the branches, its sharp eyes fixed on a man below. The man reached for a fruit with a thick, stubborn stem. Instead of yanking, he twisted it, slowly, carefully, until the fruit slipped free, untouched and perfect.
The monkey tilted its head, curious. It scrambled to a nearby branch, grasped a similar fruit, and copied the motion—twist, twist, twist. To its delight, the fruit came off clean, without a tear to its plump, rosy skin. A spark of discovery glimmered in its gaze.
Another monkey, watching from a different tree, saw this strange technique. Eager to try, it grabbed a fruit, one not looks the same way. The twisting failed. Frustrated but determined, the second monkey adjusted—tugging, angling, twisting differently. At last, the fruit yielded.
From man to monkey, and from monkey to monkey, knowledge had leapt—a small chain of learning, bending and reshaping itself with each new hand that grasped it.
For Akira, this was a metaphor for her creative process. Humans learn by imitation, transforming existing ideas into something new. Was it wrong to be inspired by another's work?
Akira's musings deepened, her internal dialogue calm and contemplative. Every story, she realized, builds on those that came before. Originality, she concluded, is a myth; every creation is a variation on a theme. If this were true, how could her work be criticized for being what all works are—an echo, yet distinct in its own right?
Akira tightened her grip on the grocery bags, their weight a tangible reminder of her reality. She resolved that her approach to storytelling was not wrong but a means of survival in a challenging world. She was an author, though she often questioned if she deserved the title. She wrote web novels, contracting with small companies and relying on fan donations to make ends meet. It was her livelihood, though she often doubted her talent.
In writing, she believed one needed more than a creative mindset or divine inspiration. For Akira, success required differentiation. She knew that stories needed good pacing, emotional depth, and compelling characters. Yet, she longed for that unquantifiable "sparkle". it was a natural allure that captivated readers…
That sparkle…
She had seen it in the works of others countless times. And each time, the desire only grew—that one day, her works too might hold that same brilliance, but despite her efforts, her work seemed to lack this elusive quality.
Akira primarily wrote romance novels—soft, clichéd tales of fleeting confessions and mildly entertaining characters. Each story carried the hope of breaking through the sea of mediocrity, of finally catching fire. Yet, her reality was far less forgiving. Her works were modestly successful, but she remained largely invisible in the literary world. To herself, she was a failed author, shackled by the "Chains of Mediocrity."
She likened her life to that of a caged bird, not through tragedy, but through the slow suffocation of indifference. Even as she searched for new ideas, inspiration eluded her. She couldn't fathom why readers were captivated by the same tropes she spun. The appeal evaded her understanding.
Finally, as she reached the building of her apartment, a faint smile graced her lips.
Home…
The burden of groceries could be set down. She fantasized about a life where her stories afforded her luxuries like retirement from the life of a writer, but for now, she accepted her aching arms and weary heart.
As she approached the building's front gate, it looked sturdy enough. She nudged the door open with her foot, just enough to squeeze through with her bulging bags. But just as she was about to step inside, a deep, loud voice boomed from behind her, commanding her to "hold."
That loud voice almost caught her by surprise, and a wave of familiar anger and disgust washed over her like she had just stepped into something unpleasant. She knew that voice all too well. Unfortunately, her intuition was spot on—it was the guard assigned to the gates, and she knew what was coming.
The guard spoke, his tone dripping with the sarcasm she despised. "Ma'am," he said, stretching the word out, "this is a private residence building. You can't just waltz in without proof that you live here. So, Doll, show me your resident card."
She let out a huge sigh, her mind screaming in frustration, Not this again! "Don't you think this harassment you call flirting is getting a little old, Vetro?" she shot back, trying to keep her voice steady as anger bubbled beneath the surface. "And incredibly creepy, even for you."
Vetro, in his typical, infuriating manner, just laughed. "You've been avoiding me for a while now, haven't you, babe?
You don't even come out of your apartment when my shift starts. What's wrong, girly? Did I upset you on our last date?"
She laughed out loud at his words, but inside, her blood was boiling with pure rage and disgust. As she forced out another laugh, her mind reeled back to when she first moved into the apartment a year ago.
It was a typical evening, and the city lights were beginning to glow against the darkening sky. In the midst of the bustling streets, I found myself in front of the same apartment that was now, but it was in the past.
Back then, she needed help moving her belongings to her apartment on the third floor. Her large table wouldn't fit in the elevator, so it had to be carried up the stairs. The old guard couldn't leave the gate as it was his shift, but as the shift changed, Vetro arrived. The old guard asked the new, young guard—Vetro—to assist her.
Initially, Vetro wasn't keen, but then he saw her. That's when his unsettling smile appeared. She hadn't said anything at the time because she needed the help. But as they entered the building, he deliberately brushed his hand against hers, "a clear red flag".
At the time, she dismissed it as an accident. After he helped her, she thanked him and was about to close the door when he stopped it with his foot.
He said he just can't seem to control himself in front of such a beauty like me.
His initial charm seemed straight out of an old 3-star movie, complete with clichéd lines and over-the-top compliments. He claimed I was unlike any woman he had ever met, despite not knowing my name or much else about me.
His eyes repeatedly flickered downwards, betraying his wandering thoughts. As he continued with his flattery, I decided to play along with a touch of humour. When he asked for my number, I feigned forgetfulness and mentioned that my phone was conveniently out of battery.
Unfazed, Vetro then suggested coming in for a drink, I explained that I hadn't unpacked yet and had nothing to offer a guest. Yet, he persisted, stating that a simple glass of water would suffice. Smiling sweetly, I provided him with a cheeky suggestion, directing him to the Aqua Guard on every floor of the building. The quickness of my response left him momentarily stunned.
With that, I swiftly opened the door, catching him off guard and causing him to stumble back. It was the perfect opportunity to bring our brief encounter to a close.
Slamming the door shut.
Since then, he had been harassing me, from minor verbal comments to outright physical advances every time we crossed paths. Reporting him seemed futile since Vetro was the landlord's relative. And with her being short on rent for a month or two, she felt trapped in enduring his constant harassment.
Back to the present,
Vetro finally stopped his nonsensical rambling. She forced a smile onto her face. "Keep your mouth shut," she told him, her voice deceptively calm. "Nothing like that ever happened between us, so I don't mind some silence from you."
He grinned, that smug, confident grin. "Alright, feisty. Just how I like it. But now's not the time, I'm at work. So, keep the dirty talk to yourself."
She scoffed; her fake smile still plastered on. "Can you just stop now? You look pathetic trying that hard."
"Oh, yeah, baby," he chuckled, "I think I know when I'm going hard." He then actually dared to wink at me. Disgusted, her insides were at that time churning.
"Let me help you open the door," he offered, and as he did, he deliberately tried to brush his shoulder against hers. But she moved in time, slipping quickly into the building.
As she walked away, he called out, "See you later, Sweetheart!" She kept a small, cold smile and continued walking.
All the while, her mind was filled with vivid fantasies of her trying to fix him by first polishing his face with a crowbar, kicking him in the nuts to straighten him out, then smashing them with a brick, and bashing his skull into the gates over and over until it cracked open. And then bathing him with kerosene while starting a bonfire, and in the end, pissing on his burned, charcoaled body. "Oh, how I wished this imagination of mine could come true!"
Her mind was filled with fantasies of standing up for herself, but she knew she had to channel her energy into finding a real, lasting solution.
She stepped inside the building…
As she was reaching for the elevator, she noticed an elderly woman step inside before her. Rather than wait, she shifted course and began climbing the stairs.
As she trudged up the stairs, each step heavier than the last, until she finally reached the third floor. By then, her chest was heaving, her breath sharp and uneven, sweat clinging to her temples. Pride, she realized bitterly, was a poor substitute for patience. She could have waited downstairs for the elevator like any sensible person, but no—she had to prove she wasn't old, had to act young, stubborn, and strong.
The thought left a sour taste in her mouth. Muttering curses under her breath, she fumbled for her keys, slid one into the lock, and pushed the door open. Without sparing another glance at the hallway behind her, she stepped inside, closed the door with a dull thud, and let the silence of her apartment swallow her whole.
Ah, home sweet home at last.
She had finally arrived, retreating from the sun's relentless embrace. "Today, the sun really had been merciless. I really thought I was gonna melt out there," she muttered, wiping the sweat from her brow with a hint of sarcasm.
Her walk back from the grocery store had left her feeling as though her very essence had been wrung dry. As soon as the apartment door clicked shut, she exhaled a long-awaited sigh of relief. The grocery bags were cast aside as she made a beeline for the air conditioner, her fingers flicking it on with palpable desperation. The cold air cascaded down upon her, a sweet balm against her flushed skin. She sprawled across her bed, basking in the chill for a few blissful moments before mustering the resolve to rise and put away the groceries.
Buzz, buzz-buzz-buzz.
The persistent vibration of her phone broke the peaceful spell. "Oh, what now?" she grumbled, a worried expression clouding her face, tinged with a hint of irritation. It was a new email, from the web novel company she worked for. She didn't open it immediately.
"Not now, Later" she decided, dismissing it for now. There were more pressing matters to attend to—like peeling off her sweat-soaked clothes. Her body craved a bath, and she had no intention of denying it.
The cold water caressed her skin, washing away the day's heaviness and leaving her feeling refreshed. She slipped into her usual home attire—soft, light, and comfortable. It was three in the afternoon, and as she glanced at the clock, as she was about to sir down her stomach growled in protest.
"Okay, then. Even if it's not the appropriate time to eat this, I'm hungry, so who cares?" She tore open a pack of ramen and settled into the comforting glow of a K-drama. For a moment, life felt simple again.
Yet, there was a faint tug of unease. "I forgot something… didn't I?" she wondered aloud, pressing a finger to her temple but drawing a blank. "If I can't remember, it must not be important," she reassured herself, waving the thought away.
Later, as she bit into a piece of fruit, her gaze drifted to the window, where Mount Kogarashi loomed, its jagged silhouette cutting into the sky.
Before she could dwell on it, the phone buzzed again. Another email. She picked up her phone, curiosity piqued.
"What's with all this commotion?"As she opened the email, her expression shifted to one of shock. Her heart skipped a beat, but she quickly composed herself.
"This… this has to be a misunderstanding," she thought, her voice tinged with worry.
But then she sighed, "Today really isn't my lucky day," she thought.