Impact. Impact.
That was the final sensation. Not a sound, but a feeling. Two violent concussions within my skull, and then, an absolute void.
The duration of that void remains unknown. It could have been moments; it could have been an eon. The experience was one of suffocation without air, of falling without end, of a dreamless and absolute sleep.
My return to consciousness was not a choice. It was an imposition, forced by an external sensation.
Salt.
The odor of saltwater invaded my senses, sharp and penetrating. The air was thick, damp, saturated with the ocean's presence—so heavy it was difficult to breathe. This scent compelled my eyes to open, a decision I immediately regretted.
Above me stretched a verdant ceiling. Trees. A canopy of leaves fracturing the sunlight into splintered shadows. The world appeared excessively bright, painfully sharp. My own body felt like an immense, foreign weight.
I attempted movement. My arms trembled, weak and insubstantial. My legs buckled, refusing to obey as if they were not my own. I observed my hands and failed to recognize them. They were pale. Long-fingered. Alarmingly fragile, as if they might detach of their own volition. Were they the hands of Claus? Of Jason? They belonged to neither.
Who am I? I possess no knowledge of my own identity. Do you possess this knowledge? What if I have become something entirely other? Something monstrous and unrecognizable? How did I arrive here? From where did I depart? What did I previously possess?Nothing? Nothing.That is the entirety of what I had.
Then, a realization emerged. Perhaps I did possess something, a quality that distinguished me from others. What is different about me? A fractured and confused identity?
Claus. Fourth Prince of the Klid Empire.A bearer of imperial lineage. Granted a vast coastal territory at the age of eighteen—a Marquis in title, yet wielding greater autonomy than a duke. A reward, or a form of exile? All proclaimed me blessed. I understood I was cursed. I possessed no talent for the sword. No aptitude for magic. No ambition whatsoever. My family bestowed land upon me not from a desire for my absence, but from the knowledge that I lacked any drive for change; I would simply maintain the established order.
Jason. Aged thirty years.A mechanical engineer. Twelve years spent in the same factory, in the same position, engaging in the same meaningless routines. I was surrounded by the future—quantum biotech chips, genetic enhancements, thinking machines—yet I remained obsolete. A worker at the lowest level. No advancement. No acknowledgment. My sense of existence was negligible, like the air itself. Even the widespread integration of quantum biotech brain chips provided me no advantage. I merely lived each passing day in a profound daze. Nothing.
Two lives. Two profound failures.
Now, they coexisted within a single mind.
So, who am I? Claus? Jason? Neither? Both? A patched-together specter without a name of its own?
No. I have a name. Clauson. An identity. A fusion, perhaps—a cruel jest, a reminder that duplicating failure does not yield success (Tripling it? Perhaps that could forge a different outcome). A Marquis-neer, possibly—a noble incapable of rule and an engineer incapable of creation.
---
I rose. Slowly. My knees threatened to collapse. This profound weakness was an infuriating indignity. I was never exceptional, but I was, at a minimum, physically sound and well-developed. The forest floor seemed to tilt, though I knew it was stationary. Birds sang in the distance, their voices unbearably vibrant and indifferent.
The air carried the scents of salt, damp earth, and decay. It was the odor of an ending, not a beginning.
A desire to laugh, to scream until my lungs tore, welled within me, but my throat was parched, agonizingly dry. Like two strained pieces of pig iron grinding together without lubrication. But consider this: I survived.I, against all logic, survived. Should this bring me joy?
This single thought returned, again and again, each repetition more forceful than the last.
Everyone else is dead.
Claus is dead, consumed by revolutionary fire. Jason is dead, broken during transit. My family. My colleagues. My empire. My world. All are dead.
Yet, I live.
Why?
I struggle to recall the manner of it.
Jason perished in a machine. A train accident, reportedly. Or perhaps a system failure. The specifics are irrelevant. He was journeying to a new planet, selected as a base engineer solely due to his long, undistinguished service. A reward for endurance, not talent. His life ended before the mission could even commence.
Claus perished in fire. The first magical revolution. The instigators were not the common people, nor the mages, nor the priests. No. It was the nobles themselves. My father's contemporaries. Perhaps my father, too. They rebelled not to liberate the populace, but to consolidate their own power. To centralize. To consume everything. I was merely caught in the ensuing collapse.
Two deaths. Two failures. One survival.
Was this fortune? Or was it a punishment?
Mastering inaction is an art. Many believe it requires no effort. They are profoundly mistaken. Inaction demands immense endurance. Inaction requires dedicated practice. One must learn to resist ambition, to silence hunger, to strangle any whisper of hope.
I excelled at it. Jason wasted twelve years perfecting this mastery. Claus performed the role of the harmless prince flawlessly.
Together, we constitute experts in emptiness.
Yet, hope ruins everything.
Claus, despite everything, clung to a shred of hope. Hope that he might hold significance. That he might elevate his station. That he might escape the overwhelming shadows cast by his brothers. That hope, when denied, transformed into a despair far heavier than death.
Jason carried no overt hope, yet he died while entertaining its possibility. He accepted the mission, did he not? He boarded the train. Some hidden part of him must have still believed.
Both hopes concluded identically—in absolute failure.
Now, I am Clauson. And Clauson possesses nothing.
Nothing except survival.
But survival is not mercy. Survival is a demand.
If I am to live, I must choose.
Either I construct something meaningful from these ashes. Or I will drag everything,and everyone, into the same nothingness that defines me.
I recall composing it once, within my mind, as if to seal the thought in blood:
Signed: Clauson, the Failed Engineer and the Fourth Prince of the Klid Empire.
This is my identity now.
Not Jason. Not Claus. Not truly alive. Not completely dead.
Simply Clauson.
---
I proceeded through the forest. Slowly. Each step was a labor, as if gravity exerted additional force upon me alone. The trees seemed to press closer, their shadows cold and imposing. My breath formed a mist, though the air was warm. The birds continued their songs, a sound that felt like mockery.
I contemplated the nature of identity.
It should be a simple matter. A name. A history. A physical form. But I possess two of each, and none of them align. Jason's name is erased. Claus's history is concluded. Clauson's body feels alien and borrowed.
So, who am I?
I feel no connection to Jason. His body is dust. I feel no connection to Claus.His bloodline is ash. Clauson is nothing but a shadow,clumsily stitched together from remnants.
Perhaps I am insane. Perhaps prolonged failure has reshaped my very essence. When one fails for a sufficient duration, one begins to question the fact of one's own existence. When one achieves nothing, one starts to suspect that one is nothing.
Perhaps that is the truth. I am nothing.
But nothingness possesses weight. Nothingness has teeth. Nothingness is capable of devouring all.
---
I halted. My legs trembled violently. My chest felt profoundly hollow.
I remembered the office. The perpetual hum of machinery. My coworkers ascending career ladders while I remained static below.
I remembered the palace. The endless lectures on duty and legacy. My brothers radiating brilliance while I languished in dullness.
I remembered the fire. The catastrophic crash. The screams.
And I remembered surviving.
That survival burns more intensely than any death.
Why me?
Why me?
Why me?
The forest provided no answers. The sea roared in the distance. The birds sang. The earth breathed.
I was utterly alone.
But survival is not a silent state. Survival is a curse.
If I cannot discover who I am, I will reduce everything to the nothingness I embody.
I will not die quietly again.
This is the beginning. Or perhaps it is the final end.
Regardless, I move forward.
And every step feels like the signing of a sentence.
Not of life. Not of death.
Of nothing.