Roy walked along carefree, a smile he couldn't hide on his face. He had only gone out for bread, but ended up leaving the supermarket with a much fuller bag than he had planned. Inside, there were two bags of potato chips—one of those deals you just can't pass up—a soda, and a couple of sticks of gum he grabbed at the last second, more out of habit than necessity.
The sun shone softly on the sidewalk. It was a peaceful afternoon, one of those when the world seemed to be in no hurry. Roy whistled absentmindedly, twirling his bag in the air as he walked home. "I've got the whole day to myself" he thought, remembering that he had no responsibilities for the day. It was time to spend hours in front of the computer, playing games and eating chips. The perfect day..
A couple of children were playing further ahead, on the corner, tossing a deflated ball that bounced with a muffled sound. Roy glanced at them absentmindedly and continued on his way.
Then, it all happened in seconds.
One of the children ran after the ball without looking, crossing the street. The blare of a horn echoed violently, and Roy saw the truck appear from around the bend, enormous and clearly unable to brake in time.
He didn't think about it much.
The bags flew through the air as he ran. In the next instant, his body collided with the boy's, pushing him out of the way.
The truck grazed past, the air it displaced hitting Roy hard. The driver slammed on the brakes, producing a screech that filled the street.
Roy collapsed onto the asphalt, breathless. The boy was crying, clinging to his mother, who had just run from the opposite sidewalk. She covered him with her body and then, seeing Roy, rushed to him.
"My God, thank you! Thank you!" she said through tears. "If it weren't for you..."
Roy raised a hand, still panting. "It's okay... nothing serious happened," he murmured, though his heart was pounding in his chest. He glanced at the truck, which had stopped a few meters away, with the pale, trembling driver still at the wheel. Everything was fine. The boy was fine.
He let out a nervous, broken laugh. "What a scare…!" he managed to say. The air smelled of iron, mixed with dust and burnt rubber. He rubbed his neck, trying to ease the tension.
The mother continued thanking him, but he barely heard her. He only felt the weight of relief, the satisfaction of having done something good. He had acted without thinking, and for once in his life, it had been worth it.
Then the sky lit up.
There was no warning, no shadow, no thunder. Only a white flash that split the air with a dry crack.
A lightning bolt struck.
The sound was so brief that no one reacted in time. The mother screamed, the child covered his face, and a metallic smell filled the air. The light vanished as quickly as it had appeared, leaving behind a thick, almost unreal silence.
Roy lay on the ground, still, his face turned toward the clear sky. There wasn't a single cloud, only the pure blue of midday.
People began to gather, forming a small circle around the body. Someone called emergency services, while someone else tried to revive him. No one understood what had happened.
Roy felt no pain—only a brief twinge, followed by an eerie calm. His last thought was a mix of surprise and resignation: "A lightning...? But it was sunny..."
The murmur of the crowd faded away. The wind began to blow gently again, moving the bag that had fallen to the side of the road. Inside, the potato chips were still untouched, glistening in the sun.
Then came the darkness.
…
Roy woke up.
Or at least, he thought he did.
There was no light. No shadow. Only a uniform, black emptiness—so absolute that he couldn't tell whether his eyes were open or closed. For a long moment, he thought nothing, felt nothing; he simply was.
Then, little by little, his mind began to stir.
"Where am I?" he wondered, though he had neither mouth nor voice. The question floated through his consciousness like a bubble that could not burst.
The next thought was even more unsettling.
"I'm alive… right?"
He tried to breathe, out of habit. But he didn't feel air entering his lungs. In fact, he didn't feel any lungs at all. He felt nothing—neither cold nor heat, nor weight. Not even the faint tingling of skin one feels when nervous. Only a silence that wasn't auditory, but total.
For a while—which could have been a second or an hour—he remained in that state, trying to understand. Then the memory came.
The truck. The child. The mother crying. And then… the lightning.
"Oh, right… I died."
The thought was so absurd it almost made him laugh, but he had neither throat nor lips to do so. Only a faint feeling of disbelief rippled through what remained of his being.
Dying was supposed to be the end—darkness, nothingness, game over. But this… this was different. There was no pain, no fire, no angelic choir welcoming him to the afterlife. Just a consciousness, suspended in the middle of nowhere.
First came the shock.
He was "alive." There was no better word, though he knew it wasn't quite right. Conscious was perhaps more accurate. He had no body, but he had thoughts. He couldn't move, but he existed. And somehow, that seemed even more disturbing than death itself.
Then came the anger.
"Why the hell did I get struck by lightning?" he thought, with the futile fury of someone shouting in a soundproof room. "The sky was clear! Not a single cloud! What kind of joke is that?"
It didn't make sense. He didn't even believe in fate, yet something deep inside told him this wasn't a coincidence. He had saved a child, done the right thing—and his reward was to be electrocuted by an impossible weather phenomenon.
"Great. Hero for five seconds, ash for the rest of eternity."
He didn't know whether to laugh or cry, so he just thought.
Over time—though there was no way to measure it—the anger faded. It dissolved into the calm emptiness, and in its place came something that resembled acceptance.
"Well… I guess this is the afterlife. No tunnel of light, no Saint Peter, no gods. Just me and… nothing."
He remained still—if stillness meant anything without form. Thought was his only action, and each thought grew slower, heavier. He tried to recall his life: the ordinary days, his job, his routine, the small, insignificant joys. All of it seemed distant, as if it no longer belonged to him.
"So… this is the end."
For a time—perhaps hours, perhaps days—he simply existed. There was no sleep, no fatigue, only a mind drifting aimlessly. It was like floating on an ocean without waves, without direction, without bottom.
"I'm going crazy…"
But time passed, indifferent.
Nothing changed. The darkness was always the same—unchanging, motionless. It was so perfect that his mind began to lose all sense of itself. From time to time, a thought would appear, faint, like a spark that quickly went out.
"Am I still me?"
"What happens if I stop thinking?"
"Will I disappear?"
Each question sank into the void without an answer.
Until, slowly, all of it gave way to boredom.
It was inevitable. He couldn't do anything, couldn't sleep or die. All that was left was to think… and even that was starting to tire him. He found himself mentally replaying trivial conversations, songs from the radio, even his grocery list.
"Bread, chips, soda… chewing gum."
A small mental chuckle escaped him. "I didn't even get to eat the chips."
Irony was the only thing keeping him sane—if he could still be called sane at all.
Roy remembered things—isolated scenes from his life: the bakery on the corner, the laughter at the office, the sound of the video games he used to play to kill time.
Those memories became his refuge.
"Wow, I never thought they'd come in handy for this," he thought with a touch of irony. "Who would've guessed that endless grinding in an RPG was good training for dying?"
He smiled inwardly—if that even made sense. He was surprised at how vividly he could remember: the background music, the dialogue, even the quiet satisfaction of completing a mission. Those virtual worlds, filled with heroes and monsters, had become his silent companions.
He recalled his favorite characters—not the flawless, shining heroes, but the imperfect ones. The ones who made mistakes. The ones who faced impossible choices. The ones who were human, even if they weren't real.
"I never liked cardboard heroes," he reflected. "The ones who always do the right thing, who never screw up. That's not real. A hero should be allowed to fail—to do good things and bad things… sometimes both at once."
That thought comforted him. Thinking about those stories, about how each character found meaning even in chaos, gave him something close to a purpose. Maybe his situation had a reason too, even if he couldn't see it yet.
"Yes… a hero with flaws, with doubts, with a past. One who changes the world not just because he can, but because he must."
The thought sent a small spark of excitement through him. And then—it happened.
In front of him, in the middle of nowhere, something flickered.
A light. Small, pale, like a distant firefly—just a faint dot floating in the endless dark.
Roy froze, astonished. He watched it carefully, afraid that if he thought too hard, it would vanish. His mind went blank, suspended between disbelief and hope.
"What's that?"
There was no answer, of course. Only that tiny glow, pulsing softly, as if it breathed. For a moment, he felt that the void finally had direction—that something existed beyond himself.
But the light faded as suddenly as it had appeared.
Space returned to its perfect, absolute blackness.
Roy felt a sharp pang of disappointment. "No… wait." He tried to cling to the memory, but there was nothing left. Still, the mere fact of having seen something—anything—was enough to break his stillness. His thoughts began to stir again, alive with an almost childlike energy.
"I saw it! There was something there!"
For the first time since his death, he felt a real emotion—excitement. Something so simple and human that it made him laugh inwardly. "Come on, think… what was I doing before it appeared?"
He retraced his thoughts. He'd been remembering the games, thinking about heroes, imagining things.
Imagining.
"What if that was it?"
The idea sounded ridiculous, but he had nothing to lose. He focused with all his will. He had no body, so all he could use was his mind. He clung to the pure, almost childlike desire to see that spark again.
"Come on… come back."
Nothing.
He tried again.
"Just a light. That's all I'm asking for. One thing that isn't nothing."
And then—against all logic—the darkness stirred.
A white spark formed before him, faint but steady. It floated gently, radiating a soft, warm glow. It had no source; it simply was.
Roy gazed at it—if "gazing" even meant anything here. A wave of warmth ran through him. "I did it…" he whispered silently. "I made it appear."
The light quivered slightly, as if responding to his thought.
For a moment, he felt something he hadn't felt in what seemed like eternity: joy. Pure, simple, almost childlike joy. It didn't matter how or why—it was something. A change. Proof that he could still affect this place, that he still mattered, even in the smallest way.
"You're my salvation, you know?" he told the light softly, with a mix of wonder and tenderness. "I have no idea what you are, but… thank you."
The light rotated slowly, pulsing with its own rhythm. Roy watched it, fascinated. It didn't feel dangerous—in fact, it was strangely comforting. Each flicker reminded him of those nights spent gaming in the dark, the monitor casting a glow across his room.
For what could have been minutes or years, he simply stared at it. It was absurd, but it was enough.
And in that calm, his mind began to imagine again.
"If I can make light… could I make more?"
It was a dangerous thought, but curiosity won. For the first time since dying, he felt a purpose. He wasn't just trapped anymore; he had something to do.
Roy looked at the small light he had created, suspended in the dark. Its faint glow pulsed like a heartbeat, and each pulse stirred something inside him. He didn't know how, but he knew—it responded to him.
'If I could make one light appear… why not more?'
The idea consumed him. It was absurd, but exhilarating. He had nothing to lose; the nothingness had worn him down so completely that even the most irrational hope felt like freedom.
'Alright' he thought. 'If there's nothing, the first thing you make… is something solid.'
Earth, he decided. Something to stand on—even if he had no feet.
So he focused. He didn't know how, but he felt that wanting it to exist was enough.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, slowly, the light flickered and expanded, spilling out in gentle waves. As it spread, the darkness rippled and warped—and an earthy-colored surface began to form beneath him, rough and real.
Roy felt a surge of awe and euphoria. "It worked! It actually worked!"
The surface stretched outward in every direction—a barren plain of pale, lifeless soil. It wasn't perfect, but it was something. The void was no longer absolute.
The next thought came naturally. "If I can make land… why not other things?"
"Let's see… trees, maybe?"
He imagined a trunk pushing upward, branches spreading, leaves trembling in an unseen breeze. The results weren't perfect—his first attempts were shapeless, twisted forms—but he kept refining them, focusing on the details. Bit by bit, the landscape took shape.
Around him, thin trees sprouted, then thickened, growing taller and fuller. Their leaves formed a green canopy that filtered the dim light. Roy remained motionless—if "motion" even existed there—simply admiring what he had made.
It was clumsy, primitive… but beautiful.
A warm emotion coursed through him. It wasn't just pride—it was the feeling of existing.
Everything that appeared seemed to affirm his presence, to tell him he wasn't entirely lost.
"This is… incredible."
For a while—he no longer tried to measure time—he kept adding details: mounds of stone, gentle hills, streams that meandered without any clear source. He had no real plan; he simply created whatever came to mind. It was like watching a child playing with clay, shaping his imagination without worrying about perfection.
That childlike impulse kept him happy. For the first time since his death, he didn't feel trapped, but free.
Yet something was missing. The landscape, beautiful as it was, felt hollow—devoid of history. A world without emptiness, but also without purpose, lacked character. Roy crossed his arms in thought.
"I need… something with personality."
He thought about his favorite video games, the worlds that had always fascinated him—places filled with ruins and old battlefields, echoes of wars long over. Those kinds of settings had soul, because they told a story even in silence.
The idea rooted itself firmly.
"A battlefield…" he murmured.
He chose a wide, empty plain and focused. He imagined what he wanted: steel, iron, sharp edges, metallic gleams. Weapons of every kind—swords, spears, axes, knives. Some ancient and rusted, others new and shining.
It was hard work. Creating things like earth or trees was simple enough, but weapons—with their precise lines and balanced shapes—required enormous effort. Each sword needed weight, proportion, design. He made countless mistakes: some blades bent like twigs; others vanished before they fully formed.
But Roy didn't give up.
"Come on… just one more."
Little by little, the wasteland began to fill with steel. Swords stood half-buried in the ground, scattered in irregular rows. Some gleamed faintly; others were dull with rust. From a distance, the scene looked like a metallic forest shimmering under a diffuse light.
When he finally stopped, he took a step back—figuratively—and looked at it all.
Before him stretched a breathtaking sight: a vast plain covered with weapons, each one different, some crooked, some flawless. It wasn't a real battlefield, but it carried that melancholy grandeur he'd always loved.
"Well… Shirou Emiya, I'm borrowing your idea for a bit," he said with a faint grin.
If he'd had a face, he would have smiled.
For what felt like eternity, he wandered through his creation, admiring every detail. In his mind, he could picture the stories behind each sword—the hero who wielded it for the last time, the lost battle, the broken promise.
It was beautiful—and, above all, alive.
Roy felt a peace he hadn't known in a long time. For a moment, he forgot he was dead—or whatever he had become. But amid that calm, a new thought began to form.
He had created earth, trees, mountains, and steel. He had shaped an entire world.
But he himself was still nothing.
He had no body—no hands to touch what he had made, no eyes to truly see it. He was only a consciousness hovering above his own creation.
"Why can I make all this… except me?"
The question unsettled him. He could mold matter, yet not his own form. He tried to picture his body as he remembered it—his hands, his face, the ache in his shoulders after a long day—but nothing appeared.
It was as though the world answered everything but that.
"If I can create steel, I can create flesh," he thought with determination. "If I can form earth, I can form bone."
The idea consumed him.
He closed what he assumed were his eyes and focused. He visualized his body in perfect detail—not just its appearance, but its presence, its warmth, its breath. He tried to recall what it felt like to live: the weight of his feet on the ground, air filling his lungs, the beat of his heart.
But the void didn't respond.
Only the faint echo of his will, fading into infinity.
"Come on… please…"
Nothing.
Frustration welled up inside him—not anger, but a deep ache of longing and helplessness. He had built a world, yet he couldn't touch it. He couldn't feel it.
"I want to go back."
And with that word—with that thought, heavy with intent—something shifted.
But Roy had never faced such resistance.
Creating earth or steel had been acts of imagination; shaping a body was something entirely different. It was like trying to rebuild an instrument without knowing its parts, guided only by the memory of the music it once made.
He tried again and again. He focused his will, picturing bones, muscles, skin—but nothing appeared. The void seemed to resist, as if existence itself refused to grant him that final step.
"Come on… I just want to feel something. I'm not asking for much," he pleaded silently.
He kept trying, over and over—until, at last, something changed.
It wasn't sudden or dramatic, but slow, organic, almost clumsy.
Before him, the air—if it could be called that—began to ripple. A blurred shape emerged, as though nothingness itself was trying to remember what it meant to have form.
Roy watched, transfixed, afraid to think too hard lest he break the process.
The figure gradually solidified: first a vague outline, then clearer details—shoulders, arms, a human shape. It was like watching a statue sculpt itself from thin air. But something about it felt strange. It wasn't responding to his conscious thoughts.
"I'm… not choosing anything," he realized.
The body wasn't forming according to his deliberate will, but from something deeper, instinctive. His subconscious had taken over.
It was as if his mind remembered better than he did what it meant to exist in flesh.
And so, without his guidance, the body completed itself.
Roy stared, filled with awe and confusion.
The result was… unexpected.
Before him lay a man of athletic build—balanced, defined. Not overly muscular, but strong, like someone who'd worked hard for years. His skin was pale, but not lifeless; it seemed to reflect the faint light of the place.
The most striking detail, though, was his face.
Roy gazed at him, uncertain what to feel. The features were serene, almost perfect: a firm jaw, high cheekbones, eyes that—even though empty—held a strange intensity.
"Is that… me?"
The question came out half in disbelief. He had never thought much of himself in life—average, maybe even a little below average if he was honest. But what stood before him was something else entirely.
His dark red hair fell in disheveled strands across his forehead. His eyes, half-squinted for the moment, revealed a faint bluish glint beneath his lashes. He looked like a character from a fantasy story—the kind of person who'd make people turn their heads twice when passing by.
Roy didn't know whether to laugh or feel intimidated.
"Well… I guess my subconscious has better taste than I do."
Even so, something inside him stirred with unease. Seeing his own idealized reflection gave him a strange feeling, as if he were staring at someone else entirely.
But he didn't have time to get lost in analysis. That body was his one chance to feel again.
The next step was the hardest: getting inside it.
He didn't know how to do it—only that he had to try. Maybe it was as simple as wanting it badly enough.
He quieted his "consciousness," or whatever he was, and focused all his attention on the motionless body. He imagined it as an empty vessel—a place where his existence could take root.
"Come on… move."
Nothing.
"Come on, Roy. It's yours. Your creation. Step in."
The resistance was almost physical, even though he still lacked form. It was like pushing against an invisible wall. Something held him back, a thin barrier between spirit and matter. Still, he persisted—with the stubbornness of someone who has nothing left to lose.
A strange sensation enveloped him: pressure, density, the memory of having weight. It wasn't pleasant. He felt crushed, compressed, pulled into something too small to contain him.
The process was slow—agonizingly so. It felt like sinking through a thick liquid, struggling not to dissolve in the attempt. Every inch forward was an act of raw willpower.
And then, suddenly, something gave way.
A powerful pull yanked him forward.
Roy was engulfed in a storm of sensations—touch, cold, heat, pressure—all at once. His mind reeled. After so long in nothingness, feeling again was like being struck by an avalanche of overlapping realities.
He inhaled sharply.
Air filled his lungs, and his chest rose with an involuntary gasp. The sound of his own breathing startled him. It was real, tangible—almost painful.
"I'm… breathing."
The voice that came from his throat sounded strange—deeper, steadier than he remembered. Probably another artifact of his subconscious. Even so, the vibration of his own voice made him tremble.
He moved his fingers. One, then another. The sensation of skin—of texture—was alien, as though it belonged to someone else.
He brought a hand to his face, feeling the warmth of his skin, the subtle trembling of his muscles. To feel—it was a miracle.
"God…" he murmured, laughing and choking back tears all at once. "I did it."
He stayed that way for a long time, breathing, testing each movement. He flexed his arms, lifted his legs, turned his head. Everything responded awkwardly—but it worked.
It was like waking from a deep coma.
He looked at his hands, watching his fingers move with careful precision. Every muscle obeyed. It was a body built for motion—for grace and strength.
"Subconscious or not, you outdid yourself, Roy," he said with a nervous smile.
The air around him was still, yet for the first time it didn't feel empty. Everything had texture—the ground beneath his feet, the faint breeze from nowhere, even the silence itself seemed alive.
He took one step, then another. The simple act filled him with indescribable emotion.
He was clumsy—but free.
After so long adrift in the void, every tiny motion felt like a victory.
Even so, there was a strange disconnect. It was his body, but not completely. After so much time as "nothing," each movement felt slightly forced, each breath a conscious act. He would have to relearn what it meant to exist.
He caught sight of himself reflected in one of the swords buried in the field. The distorted metal showed a faint image: dark red hair falling over his brow, blue eyes gleaming with unnatural light.
"Handsome, huh?" he murmured with a smirk. "If my old self saw me… he wouldn't recognize me."
The reflection flickered, warped by the uneven blade—but it was enough to remind him: he had a body now, a face, a tangible form.
He exhaled slowly, savoring the warmth of his own breath. That tiny detail moved him more than he cared to admit.
"So… this is what it feels like to come back."
He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the weight of his own body, the firmness beneath his feet, the heartbeat in his chest.
He was tired, yes—but filled with a strange energy, a mix of relief, euphoria, and curiosity.
Because now that he existed again, an inevitable question surfaced in his mind.
"What now?"
His gaze turned toward the horizon of his small world—the swords gleaming under the light he himself had created.
Roy was still savoring the rhythm of breathing when a sudden chill ran down his spine. He turned instinctively, and saw it.
A few meters away, hovering just above the ground, stood a man. His presence was as sudden as it was impossible. He wore a gray robe and a thick beard, white as ash. But it was his eyes that froze Roy in place—eyes deep and unfathomable, carrying a weight words couldn't describe.
Roy stared in disbelief. For a moment he thought he was imagining it, that his mind—drained from creating his body—was playing tricks on him. But no, the man was there. The air around him seemed to hum with a vast, calm energy.
"Wow… I really wasn't expecting this."
He wasn't sure if he'd spoken aloud or just thought it. The figure watched him silently, expression neutral—neither hostile nor friendly.
He should have felt relieved—finally, another being after endless solitude—but he didn't. Something about the man's presence utterly dwarfed him. It wasn't fear, exactly, but a primal awareness: he was standing before something far greater than himself.
The man's gaze drifted across the landscape Roy had created. His eyes moved over the mountains, the fields, the swords—without showing a hint of emotion.
"Interesting" he said at last, his voice deep and steady. "A newborn domain… though I must admit, it doesn't impress me much."
Roy blinked.
"Domain? What are you talking about?"
The stranger turned to him, and in that simple gesture Roy felt utterly exposed. It wasn't a physical look—it was as if the man saw straight through him, down to what he truly was.
"Who… are you?" Roy asked warily.
"My name is Ouranos."
The name echoed in Roy's mind with eerie familiarity. He'd heard it before—somewhere. A myth, maybe? A story? The memory lingered just out of reach.
"Ouranos…?" he repeated uncertainly.
The man nodded once.
"That's right. And like you, I am a god."
Roy froze.
The word god echoed in his head, unable to find meaning.
"A… what?"
Ouranos studied him with calm detachment, the way a teacher looks at a student who has yet to grasp the lesson.
"A god," he said again, tone unchanged. "Though, judging by your reaction, it seems you haven't realized that yet."
Roy stared, speechless. A god? Him—Roy—the guy who went out for bread and came back with chips and soda. The guy who died from a lightning strike on a clear day.
"He's gotta be joking…" he muttered.
But Ouranos didn't look like someone who ever joked in his life.
The memory of the void flashed through Roy's mind—those endless days without hunger, sleep, or pain. The creation of earth, trees, swords—and finally, his own body. He had done all of it, from nothing. No human could do that.
"So… am I really?" he asked quietly.
Ouranos narrowed his eyes. "You don't need me to confirm it. You already know, even if your mind still clings to simpler truths."
Roy said nothing. He looked around—the ground beneath him, the swords planted like monuments, the air that moved at his will. All of it was his doing. All of it proved the old man right.
Ouranos descended until he stood directly before him. Though his demeanor was calm, his presence filled the space like an unseen ocean.
"Don't be troubled. It's common for newborn gods to feel disoriented," he said. "We are born with knowledge, but not with experience. We know how to think, to speak, to imagine—but we don't know who we are until we discover it for ourselves."
"I see…" Roy murmured, the weight of it sinking in.
"Your existence has only just begun. You've manifested your domain—your small world—and taken form. What you felt before, that emptiness, was your gestation. The silence before consciousness."
Roy frowned. "And this knowledge you mentioned—what is it?"
Ouranos lifted a hand in a faint gesture. "Our basic understanding—language, reason, the divine order—all of it is inscribed in us from the start. But not every birth is perfect. Some, like yours, emerge flawed. Perhaps your initial knowledge was… defective or incomplete."
Roy let out a short laugh. "Defective? Thanks for the vote of confidence."
"I mean it without judgment," Ouranos replied evenly. "Confusion is not a flaw—it's a difference. Perhaps even a strength. Free thought is rare among new gods."
Roy studied him carefully. The man's tone wasn't arrogant—just distant, as though he were speaking from a place Roy couldn't yet reach.
"So let me get this straight. I'm a newborn god, with my own domain… that doesn't impress you much?"
Ouranos nodded. "Essentially, yes."
"Great" Roy sighed. "Not even a day old and I'm already being critiqued."
A faint curve touched the old man's lips. Not quite a smile, but close.
"The gods grow through understanding and interaction" ,he said. "If you truly wish to know yourself, leave this place. Meet others. Learn what your existence means."
Roy eyed him warily, unsure whether to feel grateful or uneasy. But something in Ouranos's voice—its quiet conviction—made it hard not to listen.
"And you? What are you doing here?"
"I watch" ,the man said simply. "I have always watched—the births, the cycles, the changes of the world. It is my duty."
He looked upward, as though through the artificial sky Roy had imagined. "And now that I know another has awakened… my task is done."
The air began to shimmer, and the god's figure started to fade.
"Wait—are you just leaving like that?"
"You already know the essentials," came the fading voice. "The rest… you must discover on your own."
Roy reached out, but the old man was gone. Silence returned, broken only by the faint echo of his words.
He stood still for a long moment. Then, with a sigh, he let himself collapse onto the ground he'd created.
"A newborn god, huh?"
He looked at his trembling hand.
"Well… what a start."
As the echo of the encounter faded, a new certainty settled in his mind: the emptiness was over. His existence was only beginning.
"…Wait. That old man never told me how to leave this place!"
—
Hello! Here's a short excerpt from a remake of the first fanfic I ever wrote. If it gets enough support, I might continue it!
By the way, Roy isn't the name the MC will use permanently. Maybe when I reveal the domain I can give it a new name because I know they didn't like the original name much; even I admit it was rubbish.
Even if someone reads this, feel free to suggest names!