When Aether Caelum Noctis awakens on a rain-soaked street with no memories, the world greets him not with answers—but with golden text floating in the air:

[Editorial Note: The protagonist awakens.]

Haunted by visions he shouldn’t see and knowledge he shouldn’t possess, Aether soon discovers a disturbing truth: reality itself is a story, constantly rewritten across six overlapping planes. And he is something that should not exist inside it.

Branded with the sigil of a broken hourglass, Aether carries a Fragment of a Hypostasis—a divine eldritch being whose essence governs narrative, causality, and forgotten truths.
But every gift comes with a curse.

Each time Aether changes his fate,
the world loops.
Each loop spawns a shadowy version of himself in the Nocturne Abyss—an entity that grows stronger every time the timeline resets, hunting him relentlessly.

To survive, Aether must uncover:

why he was erased from all written histories,

who shattered his divine existence,

what is consuming the Hypostases one by one,

and why the universe insists he must “return what he stole.”


As timelines collapse, nightmares leak into reality, and the laws of fate rewrite themselves, Aether walks a path where every choice births a paradox—and every paradox brings him closer to reclaiming the truth behind his own annihilation.

But the deeper he dives into the cosmic script, the clearer one fact becomes:

Aether wasn’t reborn into the story.
He is the story that broke free.

The rain fell as though the sky were being ripped apart, each drop a shard of broken memory. Aether stood in the middle of the abandoned street, soaked to the bone, staring at his trembling hands.


He didn't even know if this body was his.


But above him, faint golden letters hovered like dying stars:


[Editorial Note: The protagonist awakens.]


The sigil burned on his forearm, glowing faintly beneath the rain-soaked sleeve: a broken hourglass, with sand spilling upward instead of down.


A whisper, soft as a forgotten breath, curled into his ear.


A figure stood at the edge of the street—tall, draped in shadows that bent unnaturally. No face. No shape. Only a silhouette carved out of absence.


Another string of golden letters appeared.


He obeyed instinctively, looking downward.


The figure's voice seeped into him like cold ink invading warm water.


"You are a remnant, Aether Caelum Noctis."


The figure leaned closer, its outline distorting.


Then, impossibly, the shadow stepped forward — and the world fractured.


Golden text spiraled violently in front of Aether's eyes:


Aether screamed as the world collapsed into blinding white.


He stood again in the rain, at the same street, in the same position.


And the shadow, sensing the restart, whispered from behind him—


Chapter 1 - CHAPTER 1 — “The Boy Who Wasn’t Written”