There was no sound. No light. No life, just nothing.
The absence of all—yet in it, a figure could be seen, alone, falling through the depths of its blank expanse.
But shrouding that figure and all around him was an impenetrable darkness only the divine could see through.
He was beyond mundane—his soul adrift in the darkness, fading slowly, being devoured, his empty body protecting it.
Falling endlessly. His hair dragging, caught in invisible currents, as though the place itself was trying to pull him in deeper.
As if pulled by a positive force, opposite to the darkness that clouded his divine mind.
This surreal place was not blackness, but the absence of everything. A place where even color failed to escape into its depths. It was. Nothingness.
No living soul dwelled within it—only the profane and the corrupted dared linger within its depths.
Yet scattered around Nothingness was an endless myriad of grey whirlpools that rippled in and out of existence, trapped in an endless cycle.
They stretched out into an infinite scatter of tears, drifting silently… Their movements hypnotising. They were realms.
And behind each grey whirlpool, within those realms, lay worlds unseen: crimson skies painted above an unmoving ocean, white clouds endlessly forming, looking down on the world that lay beneath.
Cities of white and gold, unmoved by the passing of time; rocky mountains rising above the clouds, choked by the grasp of the endless sea.
A shadow cast across a desolate land, light failing to reach its abyssal terrain, stained with the curse of eternal darkness.
Each differed, yet all remained incomprehensible to the mundane-minded. Their size unthinkable, their beauty unmatched.
His body drifted deeper, passing one of those realms. His eternal fall resembled a profane demon banished from the Heavens—yet he had left everything of his own volition.
His face, a contortion of pain, refusal, and a sorrow that turned the thought of happiness into a fading dream—yet it seemed he was trapped in an endless nightmare.
Swaying past him, a thin golden thread swirled, the tiny strings shone, giving off a presence of absolute authority.
As if it distorted reality, only to rebuild it moments later—barely contained by the endless cycle of the whirlpools.
His body tensed, an otherworldly unease coiling in his chest. Something was off. Feeling as if the deep silence was watching him.
His pale fingertips trembled as his nightmare drew to its conclusion.
Its ending released him from its ancient clutches.
His eyes trembled open, revealing two golden irises, their pearl-like pupils hollow—looking as if he was a lifeless puppet, though if he was, his strings had been broken for a long time.
His long, raven-black hair hung down elegantly, reaching the middle of his torso.
Each strand once held in place, the band that bound his hair had been destroyed—consumed by the very void that surrounded him.
His pale skin stood out, almost glowing in contrast compared to the dark robe that hovered around his lean figure, tattered and torn.
Its sleeves fluttered weakly—caught in the grasp of nothing, as if reality itself was eating at it.
Oren Xianrath looked empty—a forgotten deity, a hermit deity, waking from a once-wanted eternal rest.
Yet the empty mask betrayed itself, for behind it, his mind was a quiet storm.
He had defied a law of Heaven. He did not mind—for it seemed Heaven, too, had also forgotten about him.
The law he had broken: his unknown descent to Nothingness. Most divine beings are aware of where they stand in this world, and not to descend into such a place.
It seems I had never thought of the consequences of such defiance. Why would I think of the consequences? I had once hoped I would remain asleep forever.
Did the consequences even remember? Did anything remember?
The thought was left unanswered. Yet the silence answered in its place the unspoken truth. It was true—I guess I really am forgotten.
Honestly, I should have been used to this life by now. And even if I dislike this truth, I am awake now.
Still, even if I have defied an absolute law, I followed the righteous path. I rose through the path of divinity, being born upon its ranks.
His body trembled, the silent storm silently growing. The raindrops of those clouds signifying each and every thought.
The clouds left many thoughts in their passing. Some strayed, whilst others stayed. Still, only a few remained.
However, all stepped back in front of the unspoken questions.
…Why am I alive?
Why am I awake?—
Why am I still here?
If I am a deity, why do I tremble like a mortal?
If I am divine, why do I feel such mundane emotions?
Yet these questions, his mind only heard as somewhat pointless, for no one could answer the unheard. And no one was there; therefore, no one could answer.
Goosebumps slowly rose from his pale skin, his body shivered as if in awe of the golden thread that lashed past his falling body.
Its string latching onto another, their presence absolute.
Oren's eyes dimmed slightly, his gaze rising into the distant abyss.
Filling his vision were the familiar grey whirlpools; they moved as if insane.
From what he saw, bordering each was a swirling grey. The centre of each realm—a deep black, their tone dying out as the swirling whirlpool wrapped around itself.
Their elegance enough to distract him from the grey fog swirling in his mind.
Though this sudden distraction was just temporary, just like many things in life, whether the lifespan of mortals or the faith that led them down an arduous path.
And so, just like them, his mind became clouded once again.
He let out a deep breath, trying his best to brush off the oppressive feelings of regret and emptiness.
But the immense pressure that the realms gave off made it almost impossible to do so.
Still, at this moment, Oren knew—he felt too much. Maybe it was the result of waking up… or perhaps the result of a prolonged death. But it seemed neither was the truth—only a false truth hiding from the harsh one.
His golden eyes dimmed as the truth sank in, his body drowning.
He was alone.