Shiro stood frozen, his body trembling as he took in the devastation before him.
One word echoed in his mind, summing up the horror that surrounded him.
Terrible.
It was beyond terrible. It was a nightmare given form, a gruesome painting of pain and death.
His vision blurred, whether from the blood loss or the tears welling in his eyes, he didn't know. Through the haze, he could make out the broken bodies of a dozen or more people—some barely clinging to life, others already lost to the abyss. And among them, he was one of the most gravely injured.
The fact that he was still conscious, still aware, despite the unbearable agony wracking his body, was nothing short of a miracle.
No... not a miracle. A cruel joke.
Because how else could he explain the fact that he was still feeling—still existing—when his body had been cleaved in half?
He tried to move, but the effort was in vain. He could barely breathe, his chest rising and falling in shallow, ragged gasps. His fingers twitched, reaching for something—someone.
Then, a word left his lips, cracked and desperate.
"Mom…"
His voice was weak, barely above a whisper, yet it carried the weight of his despair. He wasn't ready. He didn't want this. He didn't want to die.
But before another thought could form, before the anguish could fully consume him, the darkness swallowed him whole.
…
In the boundless abyss of nothingness—where time did not tick and space did not stretch—a presence existed. Or rather, it did not exist. It was a paradox, an all-encompassing will that defied logic and definition.
It had been called by many names throughout the multiverse: The One Above All (Marvel), the Will of God (Tensura), the Original Creator (Lord of the Mysteries), and many more. These names, grand and mighty as they seemed, were but fragments—mere footnotes in the infinite pages of its existence.
It was omniscient, omnipotent, omnipresent… and, apparently, in the mood for a little entertainment.
Before it flickered a tiny flame—a soul, weak and fragile, yet stubbornly clinging to its identity.
It was Shiro.
The being gazed upon him, and in that instant, Shiro's entire existence—his past, his present, his uncertain future—was laid bare.
Like an open book.
A very poorly written, grammatically disastrous book.
Where… am I?
Shiro's soul shuddered violently, an instinctual reaction to the overwhelming pressure of the void.
He felt small.
Insignificant.
Like an ant that had accidentally wandered into a nuclear test site.
This place—whatever it was—was not meant for mortals. Not even gods could survive here for long.
If not for Super Big G's divine intervention, he would've evaporated faster than a drop of water on the surface of the sun.
[Astonishing…]
Shiro flinched. The voice was everywhere. Nowhere. Inside him. Outside him. A booming, symphonic whisper that carried the echoes of infinite lifetimes.
Who's there?!
He spun around, but there was nothing. Nothing to see, nothing to touch, nothing to anchor himself to. Even his own body—his soul—felt like it barely existed.
[It doesn't matter…]
Shiro swallowed nervously.
He was scared.
No, scratch that.
He was terrified.
The voice was neither male nor female, neither young nor old. It was everything and nothing—a choir of overlapping tones that sent shivers down his nonexistent spine.
He had died. He was sure of that much.
A car accident.
A classic isekai trope.
Random nobody meets a Random Omnipotent Being (ROB), gets a wish, and starts a brand-new adventure.
It was supposed to be exciting.
It was supposed to be fun.
So why the hell did he feel like a goldfish tossed into a shark tank?!
He had already accepted his death. He had come to terms with the fact that he was at the mercy of an all-powerful being.
What he hadn't prepared for was the suffocating awareness.
The gut-wrenching realization that he was being watched.
Not just his soul.
Not just his thoughts.
Everything.
Every mistake. Every fleeting hope. Every embarrassing, middle-school chūnibyō phase.
If he had a physical body right now, he would've curled into a ball and died a second time out of sheer shame.
Super Big G chuckled. A soundless, wordless amusement that somehow rattled the very fabric of existence.
And then…
Reality shifted.
The author screamed.
His phone slipped from his hands, crashing onto the floor with a heart-stopping thud.
For a moment, he just stood there, frozen.
The story he had been writing—the fanfiction he had been pouring his soul into—had just looked back at him.
No, worse.
It had acknowledged him.
His mind raced through every horror story he had ever read. Cursed manuscripts, eldritch deities, vengeful characters breaking the fourth wall to drag their creators into their worlds…
Oh no.
Oh hell no.
He had no money for therapy!
He barely had enough to buy a meal!
He should run.
He should run.
And yet…
Before he could so much as take a step, the world unraveled.
The floor ceased to exist. The walls of his tiny apartment dissolved like mist.
And then—
Shiro became the author.
The author became Shiro.
They did not swap places.
They became one and the same.
It was absurd. Unbelievable.
But it made sense.
Because, in the first place, Shiro—the character he had been writing—was nothing more than a reflection of himself.
A projection of his own life, his struggles, his regrets.
Even the accident.
The bus accident he had written into his fanfiction wasn't fiction at all.
It had happened.
But in his reality, he had walked away unharmed. His belongings had cushioned the impact, sparing him from what should have been a tragic end.
Now, here he was.
A character in his own story.
A god of his own making.
And standing before him was the true author of it all.
[Now that's more like it…]
"…"
The author—now Shiro—was speechless.
What the hell was he supposed to say to that?!
[Let's skip the introductions. I will grant you the same wish you planned to give your protagonist. I hope you enjoy your life.]
Shiro blinked.
"...No strings attached?"
[You already know my answer.]
He exhaled. "Yeah… You must've already seen my future. Or at least, the possible futures."
[That's more like it. Keep it up.]
Shiro ran a hand through his—wait.
No hands.
Right.
Soul form.
He sighed, adjusting to his fate.
Not that he was complaining exactly. It wasn't a bad deal.
But…
"Can I see my mom?"
[You already know the answer to that question.]
Shiro lowered his head.
Yeah. He knew.
Big Daddy G had definitely seen through everything.
He had planned for his protagonist to hesitate—to take time before reuniting with his mother, despite being a godlike entity capable of crossing dimensions at will.
And now, that very same scripted fate had been thrust upon him.
It was ironic.
Funny, even.
This was supposed to be a wish-fulfillment story.
But somehow, fate had already written its own script.
And it seemed he had no choice but to play his part.
He might as well enjoy it.
...
Time flew by…
Sixteen years had passed since Shiro's death and reincarnation.
And now, he stood frozen, staring at the devastation before him.
His mind had just regained his past memories, yet the raging emotions that should have come with them settled far too quickly—replaced by a hollow numbness.
His parents in this lifetime—Veldanava and Lucia—were dead.
Just like in the original timeline.
And there was nothing he could do about it.
"Was their death inevitable…?" he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.
He knew there would be no answer.
His fingers trembled as they wrapped around his mother's [Genesis Class] sword—[Starlight]. The weapon pulsed with divine power, rejecting him, as if it too refused to acknowledge his existence.
Now he understood.
He understood why his uncle, Rudra, used [Armageddon] every 500 years.
The bomb that had killed his parents wasn't just an ordinary bomb.
It had the potential to kill even a True Dragon Level existence—if they were caught off guard.
His father, Veldanava, had willingly become a normal human.
But his mother… she was still a Divine Nature, her status equal to Rudra's.
No ordinary human, not even a High Human, could have consummated with his father.
She had been special.
She had been strong.
She had wielded [Starlight]—a weapon so powerful that even among the Angels of Origin, only Feldway could use it.
And yet, none of that had mattered in the end.
She was gone.
His father was gone.
And not even [Resurrection] could bring them back.
Shiro gritted his teeth as he stored [Starlight] away in a subspace. The sword refused to accept him as its new master, and deep down, he didn't blame it.
His chest ached.
A deep, suffocating pain that made it hard to breathe.
But there was nothing he could do.
So he turned away.
His steps were heavy as he made his way back to the castle fortress, where their maid, Milim, and her pet dragon awaited his return.
Milim hadn't been there when the attack happened.
Maybe it was better that way.
Even if she had been, even if he had been there…
Would it have changed anything?
True Dragons and Dragonoids were supposed to be invulnerable, unstoppable existences.
But after today, Shiro wasn't so sure anymore.
Nothing felt certain.
Nothing felt safe.
He found Milim inside, waiting for him, oblivious to what had happened.
Then he told her the truth.
The moment the words left his mouth, her face crumbled.
Her entire body shook before she collapsed, unconscious.
Shiro sighed.
At the very least, it hadn't been wrath. If it had, she might have awakened into a True Demon Lord thousands of years too early.
But while Milim was taken care of, there was someone else who wasn't as easy to calm down.
Shiro turned and spotted Dino at the scene.
His normally lazy, carefree demeanor was gone.
His eyes—bloodshot. His aura—unstable.
Dino had already unleashed his [True Form], and he was out for blood.
Without hesitation, Dino activated some kind of magic, flawlessly reconstructing the events of the attack before their eyes.
He stole the memories of the projected culprits.
Shiro watched, speechless.
Dino didn't hesitate.
The moment he got what he needed, he flew off.
Shiro looked back at Milim, still unconscious, before turning away.
He left her in the care of her personal maid.
Then, without a word, he followed Dino.
…