From the depths of the void's darkness, Loom emerges.
Loom is not human—not a thing nor a form. It is the true essence of the threads that have bound the world's fate since the universe came into being, long before humanity existed.
Its form is indescribable, woven from light and shadow, pulsing like a slow heartbeat—as if it were the very heartbeat of the cosmos itself.
The darkness surrounding it is not that of night. It is the void of space.
That void presses down on the air, cold enough to shatter emotions.
Yet no wind blows, no sound follows. Only the gentle path of threads moving through the silence, trembling as if waiting for their creator's command to arrive.
A cosmic rift appears.
Not in space—but in reality itself.
It trembles like glass stretched too thin, humming with gravitational pressure. From within the fracture, silver-gray threads flow out, glowing softly as they try to stitch back together their original existence that had begun to unravel.
Then the threads stop.
They pull back.
Something in the void did not respond to its direction.
Loom freezes. Every thread forming its being trembles violently.
"No… why is that thread of fate…"
Loom halts—before it can attempt to make sense of the situation, yet after it has already happened.
"That thread of fate is so strange and fascinating—I have never woven it. If it exists… then where did it come from?—"
The threads shudder violently, snapping as if torn apart.
Loom had tried to bind something that does not recognize cause and effect.
[Thread Mark: Rejected]
[Protocol Collapse: Active]
Loom reels backward. The threads in its grasp unravel, its commands and directives vanishing as if their meaning had been erased. Something fundamental had broken—not the rules, but the belief that those rules mattered.
From the center of the fracture, a human form begins to take shape.
A man.
Tangled black hair covers his eyes—dark, empty, lifeless. His body solidifies unevenly, as if reality itself is hesitant to accept him. The threads of fate twist around him, tightening—
—and pass right through.
The man gasps for breath.
His heart pounds so hard it touches his ribs, his hands trembling. His breath catches, his lungs feel like they are burning, while invisible pressure pushes in on him from all sides. The world was rejecting him—no, repelling him.
The universe screams with dimensional cracks.
Pressure capable of shattering souls presses inward, compressing everything into stillness.
[System Error]
Null-Type… Confirmed
In the void—or perhaps in the universe—Loom reappears.
"A Null-Type… a most fascinating existence." The man vaguely hears the words but does not turn.
For he cannot resist—for his body is rigid with fear.
A resonant voice echoes in his ears.
Fragments of memory explode in his mind—ruins, screaming people, ground stained with blood. But one image is crystal clear.
A girl.
His lips move before his mind can act again.
"Kir…is…"
The rift glimmers.
From there, a girl steps out.
Long silver hair flows weightlessly behind her. Her sky-blue eyes meet his—curious, calm. The girl does not rush toward him. She does not reach out her hand.
Each silent step tightens something in his chest, constricting what lay within him. His hands clench into fists. His breath catches for a moment.
Then the girl smiles at him.
Her lips look soft, warm, and gentle.
The resistance glimmers once more, glowing softly— before crumbling into nothing at all.
The man remains frozen.
He wants to call her name. His mouth refuses to open.
Is that fear?
Or just a thought?
A step nearly forms beneath him. Whether the world rejects him—or he rejects himself.
The silence returns.
But it is no longer empty as before.
Soft waves of light cross the void. Loom only watches, yet every thread trembles with a fear it has never known.
"..uuggh" The man swallows. For the first time, he feels small—as insignificant as an ant, yet exposed. As if an unborn world were judging him, measuring his worth—and finding no point of reference at all.
Then something that had begun to take shape shifts.
And the world seems to speak,
"Nox."
The name echoes not with sound. Every thread of fate halts,
stepping forward.
As Nox steps into the fracture, the threads fall still. With each step, the tremors cease. No pull or pressure, no barriers or obstacles remain. Loom's presence vanishes completely without a reaction.
The terrifying silence lingers, as if watching him approach.
Something unseen judges each breath he takes, each movement he makes—marking his existence as a mistake.
Nox draws a slow breath, knowing he has crossed the boundary between humanity and entities he never knew existed.
The world has changed.
Loom's rules do not apply to him—not the threads of fate. And something far more dangerous has taken notice.
Nox moves forward, deeper into places unknown—to a meeting where it will be decided whether he can remain or be erased.
Nox is not a system, nor someone's creation. He is a possibility that should never have existed.
And now, he steps out of the rift as—
A living Null-Type.
Forbidden to Return.