(3 15 4 5 1 12 16 8 1 14 21 13 5 18 9 3)
"Oh, a stranger. Come closer."
Someone's calling you. Yes, you. Wherever you are, whoever you are, it's you they're addressing.
What will you do? Do you want to know what they have to say? Or would you rather walk away?
Well, if you've kept reading, it means you want to know more. After all, you've got nothing else to do. It's not like you can act or speak.
You're just a reader.
You can neither see nor hear. You can only read.
You could skip this part, stop reading, and look away… No matter. This story will keep moving forward, for it's already written.
It will continue even if it remains unknown to the world.
So, let me explain the place where the man who called you resides.
You're at the heart of an immense hurricane, swirling fiercely around a brick platform that seems to float somewhere in space. On that platform stands a table, behind which the man watches you with a smile.
The hurricane stretches infinitely above and below the platform, so vast that you cannot see the sky—if it even exists here. Yet, strangely, light bathes the scene.
Does that seem illogical? Well, nothing here makes sense, I'd say. For one, despite the violent swirling of the storm around you, the platform is peaceful and calm. The wind carries nothing away despite the visible force of the tempest, and a relative silence reigns.
From time to time, a thread of light—always a different color—flashes through the swirling hurricane, rising from below or descending from above at its own rhythm before vanishing into the infinite.
Deep within, you feel it: no human should be here. No human should witness what you see. But here, you're not human. You don't even have a physical body.
That makes the presence of this man, seated at a table in the midst of this strange hurricane, all the more extraordinary.
He looks at you, which, given his appearance, shouldn't be possible. After all, where his eyes should be, there are only two hollow sockets, as if he'd torn them out. Deep within them, a tiny blue flame dances. He wears a grand white boubou, adorned with intricate white patterns and symbols.
From behind his table, he speaks to you, his wide smile unwavering.
"It's rare for me to have visitors, especially from another world, another time and another dimensional plane. But what are you doing here? This place has nothing to offer fragile minds."
…
"Ah…" the man says with a mocking grin. "Can't speak, huh? Your abilities here are quite limited. Perhaps if you search a bit, you'll find a way to talk to me?"
He leans back comfortably in his chair and, with a gesture, conjures an Arabic tea cup from nowhere. He sips slowly, his eternal smile lingering, as if waiting for a sign from you. After several minutes, he finishes his tea and sits up, his expression growing more serious.
"All jokes aside, if you're in a place like this, it's for one reason, isn't it? You want a story, a tale. A clue to understand the end of all things—the Musiba. After all, whether in your world or this one, we're all heading toward an end."
He then leans back with such force that his chair tilts diagonally, yet he remains suspended in that position, defying gravity. With a snap of his fingers, threads of light unravel from the hurricane, like fibers unwinding from a spool in every direction. The threads pulse with energy, each a different color.
"Look at all these stories, all these destinies intertwining, twisting toward the same end without knowing it," he says, spreading his arms to emphasize the vastness of what he shows you. "And I, the storyteller, the blind griot, am the only one who can recount them in their entirety."
He reaches out and grasps a black thread, pulsing with an energy like dark flames, that seems to pull away from the others.
"Perhaps you'd like me to tell you about the Rebel. A being rejected by the world, living outside it. A bit like me, I'd say. But he can't stay in one place, one reality, one dimension, without destroying it completely."
The griot studies the thread for a moment as it seems to resist his touch, then sighs, letting it slip through his fingers.
"No, too… complex for a start. You'd prefer something simpler, something that holds your hand, wouldn't you? Well, that's not what you'll find here. These stories are a tangle of tales influencing one another. This world is alive. You'll have to think a bit to piece it all together. If you want something simple… much simpler, you'd better find another story and another storyteller…And I believe there are far better storytellers. For the art of narration is something many underestimate. No matter how complex or simple a story may be, if the teller is mediocre, its allure will fade and dissolve into nothingness. And I do not know if my style will please you. So, once again, if you wish to leave, I could not hold you back."
He pauses for a long, very long moment, then looks at you.
"Still here? Well, I'm glad. After all, my only purpose is to tell stories, and aside from that cheeky girl and the tight-lipped Rebel, I rarely get visitors like you."
He falls silent for a moment, then bursts into laughter.
"But now that I think about it, you're quieter than the others. I like you—you listen, even if you don't understand a thing I'm saying yet."
The griot takes a deep breath, his expression shifting to something more serious yet warmer. The flames in his hollow sockets burn brighter.
It seems your patience has paid off.
"Let me tell you a story, a proper introduction to understanding the Musiba, told by your favorite storyteller!
It's the tale of a man destined to conquer, blessed by victory, cursed by victory. The story of an ego that cannot be extinguished, not in death, nor beyond.
A man who forgot himself, lost in the myriad voices that form an eternal war chant.
This is the fable of the Invincible.
He thinks he's alone. But somewhere, someone wishes for him to be remembered. Someone wishes for his story to be told, so that one day he might remember himself, no matter the world, no matter the dimension.
And in memory of that friend, I'll begin the story with him.
For like all these stories, entwined in the whirlwind of fate, he was irresistibly drawn toward his tragic end. He fought, but can one truly fight their destiny?
The answer, you'll likely find it by reading this story to its end. Or perhaps you'll find only an abyss of despair…
I hope you'll remember him, his name, for he is the first in a long mystery."
The griot catches his breath after his speech and flashes his amused smile again.
"Here we go! Once I begin the tale, I won't be able to chat like this anymore. But don't worry—we'll likely have a chance to talk again."
…
"Glad you agree. But, say, isn't something bothering you?"
He leans closer, whispering in your ear, though you have no ears.
"I'll be the one narrating this story and all those to follow, that's a fact. But who, from the start, has been telling our story? Who's narrating all these things about me, about this place?"
The griot looks at you, and something in his smile feels… creepy.
Best not to understand everything just yet.
The griot seems to agree with that logic, chuckling heartily.
"Let it go. Even that person's presence can't change the course of fate, for they're bound to it too. So let's focus here and begin the story of the Musiba: the legend of the Ego."