Death.
Is it slow or fast? Painful or numbing? Mankind have agonized over that mystery for as long
as it was sapient, but the answer always alluded us...because only the dead know, but the dead
don't talk. Which, if you think about it that way, means that I can't be dead either, right?
I mean, standing disembodied in a starlit void with what seems to be two colliding galaxies
beneath your feet doesn't exactly match the Christian representation of Heaven (no pearly
gates, no singing Angels, no fresh clouds) it was certainly awe-inspiring. As for why I
jumped to this being the afterlife of some Divine being and not just a dream? Because I doubt
someone with their brain splattering on the sidewalk can dream. The last thing I remember
was walking down the street with my earpods in, reading the latest chapter of a new favourite
web novel of mine, when BAM! Honking truck horn, dirty silver chunk of metal rushing
towards me, and my own terrified face reflected in the scratched glass of the windshield. It
was all over in a matter of seconds, my poor meatbag of a body being sent sailing through the
air before coming down just as hard as the initial impact. My head exploded in more pain
than my chest...and then everything went black. That's why I assumed my brains were
spilling over the sidewalk.
Okay, I was dead, except I wasn't. I was able to accept myself as existing in some sort of
"spirit form" right now pretty easily, but that still didn't explain where I was or why I was
here. As the average young born at the tail end of the 2000's I had a pretty atheistic lifestyle.
Sure my parents were relatively devour Christians but I never really got into the whole
"religion" thing. Or rather, I found it hard to believe a God could exist with the world in such
a state. Still, I went to Church a couple times a year, said my prayers when passing a
graveyard and obediently took my Sacrament, but I didn't feel any closer to God. Deep down
though, I guess I still possessed a certain level of fear regarding death, and hopes that a God
really did exist to save me from Hell. With all that said and done, back to the main point-I
had somewhat of a respect and understanding of the Abrahamic God, but felt that what I was
seeing now didn't quite fit in it. At the very least, it didn't match the TV representation of
Heaven, but was more like the cradle for the Big Bang.
"You wouldn't be much off the truth there."
I snapped back to attention in an instant, taking my eyes off the clashing galaxies to
see...something. I couldn't describe it to you, and I'm not just trying to sound clichรฉ. Its shape
was constantly flowing and shifting, yet Its outline was somehow the same. Colours of all
kinds and then some swirled chaotically without rhyme or reason. Even as I watched, several
disappeared from their location and showed up mixing with another seconds later. No facial
features were visible, yet I could distinctively feel I was being observed. The most bizarre
thing however, and the only concrete characteristic I can give you, was Its shadow. Yes, this
gigantic monolithic ๐ฉ๐๐๐ฃ๐ did indeed possess a shadow. It stretched infinitely long, yet held
the form of a normal human, however impossible that may be. As I peered into it, preferring
to focus on the only mundane thing in this entire place, the shadow began to wiggle andbulge before exploding upwards and wrapping around the It. When the black receded, It had
transformed into a simple black outline. Facial features were still absent, but at least my eyes
no longer hurt just from peeping at It. It was only later that I figured the transformation was
an act of mercy from the being, shifting into a familiar form I could actually comprehend.
It was only later that I figured the transformation was an act of mercy from the being, shifting
into a familiar form I could actually comprehend.
"Thanks for that," I said, my voice echoing strangely in the non-space. It didn't sound like my
voice. It was clearer, devoid of the slight nasal tone I'd always hated. It was justโฆ thought,
given sound. "The other look was a bit of a migraine trigger."
A sensation, not a sound, but the unmistakable feeling of amusement rippled from the
outline. "๐๐ฉ๐จ๐ฅ๐จ๐ ๐ข๐๐ฌ. ๐๐ก๐ ๐๐๐ฌ๐ ๐๐จ๐ซ๐ฆ ๐ข๐ฌ ๐ฆ๐จ๐ซ๐ ๐๐๐๐ข๐๐ข๐๐ง๐ญ ๐๐จ๐ซ ๐ฉ๐ซ๐จ๐๐๐ฌ๐ฌ๐ข๐ง๐ ๐๐จ๐ฌ๐ฆ๐ข๐ ๐๐๐ญ๐. ๐๐๐ฌ๐ฌ ๐ฌ๐จ
๐๐จ๐ซ ๐๐จ๐ง๐ฏ๐๐ซ๐ฌ๐ข๐ง๐ ๐ฐ๐ข๐ญ๐ก ๐ซ๐๐๐๐ง๐ญ๐ฅ๐ฒ ๐๐๐๐๐ง๐ญ๐๐ ๐๐จ๐ง๐ฌ๐๐ข๐จ๐ฎ๐ฌ๐ง๐๐ฌ๐ฌ๐๐ฌ."
"Decanted?" I latched onto the word. It was solid, specific, in a sea of the incomprehensible. I
swear I had never even heard of it before, like it belonged in the vocabulary of some sort of
sci-fi nerd. Yet only a second after It had spoken, I understood the meaning. "Likeโฆ poured
out? From where?"
"๐ ๐ซ๐จ๐ฆ ๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐ฏ๐๐ฌ๐ฌ๐๐ฅ," It said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the universe. A tendril of
shadow, vaguely resembling an arm, gestured to the colliding galaxies beneath our feet. "๐๐ก๐
๐จ๐ง๐ ๐ฒ๐จ๐ฎ ๐ฃ๐ฎ๐ฌ๐ญ ๐ฅ๐๐๐ญ."
"Theโฆ Earth? My body was a vessel?" My mind, or whatever passed for it here, reeled. This
was getting even further from the Sunday school lessons.
"๐ ๐ญ๐๐ฆ๐ฉ๐จ๐ซ๐๐ซ๐ฒ, ๐๐ข๐จ๐ฅ๐จ๐ ๐ข๐๐๐ฅ ๐ก๐จ๐ฎ๐ฌ๐ข๐ง๐ ๐ฎ๐ง๐ข๐ญ.
๐๐ฑ๐๐๐ฅ๐ฅ๐๐ง๐ญ ๐๐จ๐ซ ๐๐ฑ๐ฉ๐๐ซ๐ข๐๐ง๐ญ๐ข๐๐ฅ ๐ฅ๐๐๐ซ๐ง๐ข๐ง๐ , ๐ญ๐๐ซ๐ซ๐ข๐๐ฅ๐ฒ
๐๐ซ๐๐ ๐ข๐ฅ๐. ๐๐ซ๐จ๐ง๐ ๐ญ๐จโฆ ๐ฌ๐ฉ๐ฅ๐๐ญ๐ญ๐๐ซ๐ข๐ง๐ ." The being said it with no malice, no judgment. Just a
statement of fact, like a mechanic noting a worn-out spark plug.
"Right. The splattering." I tried to cross my arms, a habit of defensiveness, and was mildly
disturbed to find I had no arms to cross. I was just a point of awareness. "So, if I'm decanted,
and you'reโฆ not my Sunday school teacherโฆ what happens now? Judgment?
Reincarnation? Do I get a scorecard?"
The humanoid outline seemed to consider this. "๐๐ฎ๐๐ ๐ฆ๐๐ง๐ญ ๐ข๐ฌ ๐ ๐๐จ๐ง๐๐๐ฉ๐ญ ๐ข๐ง๐ฏ๐๐ง๐ญ๐๐ ๐๐ฒ ๐ญ๐ก๐
๐ฆ๐จ๐ซ๐ ๐ฆ๐๐ฅ๐จ๐๐ซ๐๐ฆ๐๐ญ๐ข๐ ๐ฏ๐๐ฌ๐ฌ๐๐ฅ๐ฌ ๐ญ๐จ ๐๐ฑ๐ฉ๐ฅ๐๐ข๐ง ๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐ข๐ง๐ก๐๐ซ๐๐ง๐ญ ๐๐จ๐ง๐ฌ๐๐ช๐ฎ๐๐ง๐๐๐ฌ ๐จ๐ ๐๐๐ญ๐ข๐จ๐ง ๐๐ง๐ ๐ซ๐๐๐๐ญ๐ข๐จ๐ง.
๐๐จ๐ฎ๐ซ '๐ฌ๐๐จ๐ซ๐๐๐๐ซ๐' ๐ข๐ฌ ๐ฒ๐จ๐ฎ. ๐๐ก๐ ๐ฌ๐ฎ๐ฆ ๐ญ๐จ๐ญ๐๐ฅ ๐จ๐ ๐ฒ๐จ๐ฎ๐ซ ๐๐ก๐จ๐ข๐๐๐ฌ, ๐ญ๐ก๐๐ข๐ซ ๐๐๐ก๐จ๐๐ฌ, ๐ญ๐ก๐๐ข๐ซ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ญ๐ฌ ๐จ๐ง ๐ญ๐ก๐
๐ฐ๐ก๐จ๐ฅ๐. ๐๐ก๐๐ซ๐ ๐ข๐ฌ ๐ง๐จ ๐๐ฑ๐ญ๐๐ซ๐ง๐๐ฅ ๐ฃ๐ฎ๐๐ ๐. ๐๐ก๐๐ซ๐ ๐ข๐ฌ ๐จ๐ง๐ฅ๐ฒ ๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐๐ฌ๐ฌ๐๐ฌ๐ฌ๐ฆ๐๐ง๐ญ ๐จ๐ ๐๐ข๐ญ."
"Fit for what?"
"๐ ๐จ๐ซ ๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐ง๐๐ฑ๐ญ ๐๐ฌ๐ฌ๐ข๐ ๐ง๐ฆ๐๐ง๐ญ."
The void around us shimmered. The colliding galaxies below began to slow, their spiral arms
freezing in a breath-taking sculpture of ultimate violence and beauty. Points of lightโcountless points of lightโbegan to rise from the frozen scene. They weren't stars. They
wereโฆ bubbles. Each one contained a flickering, cinematic scene.
I saw a knight kneeling in a rain-slicked courtyard. A star-ship pilot wrestling with a
malfunctioning console. A young woman in a simple apron, pulling a loaf of bread from a
clay oven. A dragon, coiled around a hoard of glittering treasure, its eye opening with
intelligent malice. A thousand, a million lives, all happening at once.
"๐๐ก๐ ๐ง๐๐ซ๐ซ๐๐ญ๐ข๐ฏ๐๐ฌ ๐๐ซ๐ ๐ข๐ง๐๐ข๐ง๐ข๐ญ๐," the being said, Its voice now a whisper that contained the roar
of an exploding sun. "๐๐ฎ๐ญ ๐๐จ๐ฆ๐ฉ๐๐ฅ๐ฅ๐ข๐ง๐ ๐ฉ๐ซ๐จ๐ญ๐๐ ๐จ๐ง๐ข๐ฌ๐ญ๐ฌ ๐๐ซ๐ ๐ง๐จ๐ญ. ๐ ๐๐จ๐ง๐ฌ๐๐ข๐จ๐ฎ๐ฌ๐ง๐๐ฌ๐ฌ ๐ญ๐ก๐๐ญ ๐ก๐๐ฌ
๐๐จ๐ฆ๐ฉ๐ฅ๐๐ญ๐๐ ๐ข๐ญ๐ฌ ๐๐ฒ๐๐ฅ๐ ๐ข๐ฌ ๐ ๐ฏ๐๐ฅ๐ฎ๐๐๐ฅ๐ ๐ซ๐๐ฌ๐จ๐ฎ๐ซ๐๐. ๐ ๐๐จ๐ฆ๐ฉ๐ฅ๐๐ฑ, ๐ฌ๐๐๐ฌ๐จ๐ง๐๐ ๐๐ฅ๐ ๐จ๐ซ๐ข๐ญ๐ก๐ฆ ๐จ๐ ๐๐ฑ๐ฉ๐๐ซ๐ข๐๐ง๐๐,
๐๐๐๐ซ, ๐ฅ๐จ๐ฏ๐, ๐๐ง๐ ๐๐๐ข๐ฅ๐ฎ๐ซ๐."
It was all dawning on me with horrifying, exhilarating clarity. This wasn't Heaven. This was a
casting office.
"You'reโฆ you're not God."
"๐ ๐๐ฆ ๐ ๐๐ฎ๐ซ๐๐ญ๐จ๐ซ. ๐๐ง ๐๐ซ๐๐ก๐ข๐ฏ๐ข๐ฌ๐ญ. ๐ ๐๐ซ๐จ๐๐ฎ๐๐๐ซ. ๐๐ก๐ ๐ญ๐ข๐ญ๐ฅ๐๐ฌ ๐๐ซ๐ ๐๐ฌ ๐ฆ๐๐๐ง๐ข๐ง๐ ๐ฅ๐๐ฌ๐ฌ ๐๐ฌ ๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐ฌ๐ก๐๐ฉ๐ ๐
๐ฐ๐๐๐ซ. ๐๐จ๐ฎ๐ซ ๐๐ฎ๐ฅ๐ญ๐ฎ๐ซ๐ ๐ก๐๐ฌ ๐ฌ๐ญ๐จ๐ซ๐ข๐๐ฌ ๐จ๐ '๐ข๐ฌ๐๐ค๐๐ข', ๐๐จ ๐ญ๐ก๐๐ฒ ๐ง๐จ๐ญ? ๐๐ก๐ ๐ญ๐ซ๐๐ง๐ฌ๐ฉ๐จ๐ซ๐ญ๐๐ญ๐ข๐จ๐ง ๐ญ๐จ ๐๐ง๐จ๐ญ๐ก๐๐ซ
๐ฐ๐จ๐ซ๐ฅ๐." ๐๐ญ ๐ ๐๐ฌ๐ญ๐ฎ๐ซ๐๐ ๐ญ๐จ ๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐๐ฅ๐จ๐๐ญ๐ข๐ง๐ ๐๐ฎ๐๐๐ฅ๐๐ฌ ๐จ๐ ๐ซ๐๐๐ฅ๐ข๐ญ๐ฒ. "๐๐จ๐ฎ ๐๐๐ฅ๐ฅ๐๐ ๐ข๐ญ ๐ ๐ฐ๐๐ ๐ง๐จ๐ฏ๐๐ฅ. ๐๐ง
๐๐ฆ๐ฎ๐ฌ๐ข๐ง๐ ๐ฅ๐ฒ ๐๐๐๐ฎ๐ซ๐๐ญ๐ ๐ญ๐๐ซ๐ฆ.
๐๐จ๐ง๐ฌ๐ข๐๐๐ซ ๐ญ๐ก๐ข๐ฌ ๐ฒ๐จ๐ฎ๐ซ ๐ข๐ง๐ฏ๐ข๐ญ๐๐ญ๐ข๐จ๐ง ๐ญ๐จ ๐ฆ๐จ๐ฏ๐ ๐๐ซ๐จ๐ฆ ๐ซ๐๐๐๐๐ซ ๐ญ๐จ
๐ฉ๐ซ๐จ๐ญ๐๐ ๐จ๐ง๐ข๐ฌ๐ญ."
The beingโthe Curatorโextended a shadow-hand. In its palm swirled a dozen of the reality-
bubbles, merging and splitting, showing glimpses of epic battles, quiet moments of sorrow,
and breathtaking landscapes.
"๐๐จ๐ฎ๐ซ ๐ฉ๐ซ๐๐ฏ๐ข๐จ๐ฎ๐ฌ ๐ฏ๐๐ฌ๐ฌ๐๐ฅ'๐ฌ ๐๐๐ญ๐ ๐ฌ๐ญ๐ซ๐๐๐ฆ ๐ข๐ฌ ๐๐จ๐ง๐๐ฅ๐ฎ๐๐๐. ๐๐ก๐ ๐ง๐๐ซ๐ซ๐๐ญ๐ข๐ฏ๐ ๐ข๐ฌ ๐๐จ๐ฆ๐ฉ๐ฅ๐๐ญ๐. ๐ ๐ฌ๐ฎ๐๐๐๐ง,
๐ฏ๐ข๐จ๐ฅ๐๐ง๐ญ, ๐๐ง๐ ๐ฎ๐ฅ๐ญ๐ข๐ฆ๐๐ญ๐๐ฅ๐ฒ ๐ฆ๐๐๐ง๐ข๐ง๐ ๐ฅ๐๐ฌ๐ฌ ๐๐ง๐โ๐ฌ๐ญ๐๐ญ๐ข๐ฌ๐ญ๐ข๐๐๐ฅ๐ฅ๐ฒ ๐๐จ๐ฆ๐ฆ๐จ๐ง, ๐ง๐๐ซ๐ซ๐๐ญ๐ข๐ฏ๐๐ฅ๐ฒ ๐ฎ๐ง๐ฌ๐๐ญ๐ข๐ฌ๐๐ฒ๐ข๐ง๐ .
๐๐ฎ๐ญ ๐ฒ๐จ๐ฎโฆ ๐ฒ๐จ๐ฎ ๐๐ซ๐ ๐ง๐จ๐ญ ๐๐ง๐๐๐. ๐๐จ๐ฎ ๐๐ซ๐ ๐๐ฑ๐ญ๐ซ๐๐๐ญ๐๐. ๐๐จ๐ฎ๐ซ ๐๐ฑ๐ฉ๐๐ซ๐ข๐๐ง๐๐๐ฌ, ๐ฒ๐จ๐ฎ๐ซ ๐ฉ๐๐ซ๐ฌ๐จ๐ง๐๐ฅ๐ข๐ญ๐ฒ,
๐ฒ๐จ๐ฎ๐ซ sparkโฆ ๐ญ๐ก๐๐ฒ ๐ก๐๐ฏ๐ ๐ฏ๐๐ฅ๐ฎ๐."
It offered its hand closer.
"๐๐จ. ๐๐๐ญ ๐ฎ๐ฌ ๐๐ข๐ฌ๐๐ฎ๐ฌ๐ฌ ๐ฒ๐จ๐ฎ๐ซ ๐ง๐๐ฑ๐ญ ๐ซ๐จ๐ฅ๐.
๐
๐จ ๐ฒ๐จ๐ฎ ๐ก๐๐ฏ๐ ๐ ๐ฉ๐ซ๐๐๐๐ซ๐๐ง๐๐? ๐ ๐๐ง๐ญ๐๐ฌ๐ฒ? ๐๐๐ข-๐ ๐ข? ๐ ๐ฌ๐ฅ๐ข๐๐-
๐จ๐-๐ฅ๐ข๐๐ ๐ซ๐จ๐ฆ๐๐ง๐๐ ๐ญ๐จ ๐ฉ๐ซ๐จ๐๐๐ฌ๐ฌ ๐ฒ๐จ๐ฎ๐ซ ๐ฅ๐ข๐ง๐ ๐๐ซ๐ข๐ง๐ ๐ญ๐ซ๐๐ฎ๐ฆ๐? ๐๐ก๐ ๐๐ก๐จ๐ข๐๐," ๐ข๐ญ ๐ฌ๐๐ข๐, ๐๐ง๐ ๐ ๐๐จ๐ฎ๐ฅ๐ ๐ก๐๐ฏ๐
๐ฌ๐ฐ๐จ๐ซ๐ง ๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐๐๐๐ญ๐ฎ๐ซ๐๐ฅ๐๐ฌ๐ฌ ๐๐๐๐ ๐ฐ๐จ๐ฎ๐ฅ๐ ๐ก๐๐ฏ๐ ๐ฌ๐ฆ๐ข๐ฅ๐๐,
๐ข๐ฌ ๐ฒ๐จ๐ฎ๐ซ๐ฌ."
I looked from the being's hand to the infinite tapestry of worlds. My death wasn't an end. It
was a cliff-hanger. And the next chapter was waiting to be written. But..."What's in it for
you?" I asked firmly. From what the Curator had just said, souls that had completed their
"story" were rare. Yet I was just an ordinary guy, living an ordinary life. People like me are
literally the reason why the saying "a dime a dozen" exists. What could a God-like entity
want me to do that, say, a politician or rebel or actor couldn't? People with experience, with
rich lives, with a damned fucking better story than me. So again I asked.
"Why?"I looked from the being's hand to the infinite tapestry of worlds. My death wasn't an end. It
was a cliff-hanger. And the next chapter was waiting to be written.
But...
"What's in it for you?" I asked firmly.
The swirling galaxies beneath us seemed to pause in their silent, majestic dance. The
Curator's shadow-outline remained perfectly still. The offer hung in the air, and I let it hang.
From what the Curator had just said, souls that had completed their "story" were rare. Yet I
was just an ordinary guy, living an ordinary life. People like me are literally the reason why
the saying "a dime a dozen" exists. What could a God-like entity want me to do that, say, a
politician or rebel or actor couldn't? People with experience, with rich lives, with a damned
fucking better story than me.
So again I asked.
"Why?"
The silence stretched, not as an absence of sound, but as a presence. It was a heavy, listening
silence. Then, a pulse of what I could only interpret as... respect... emanated from the Curator.
"A pertinent question. The first of many, I suspect. You are correct. A 'dime a dozen' is
an apt, if crude, quantification for the common consciousness." The shadowy form
gestured, and a million of the reality-bubbles around us shimmered with scenes of
mundane lives, quiet deaths, and forgotten stories. "The multiverse is built upon them.
They are the background characters, the set dressing, the necessary chorus."
Another gesture, and a handful of bubbles glowed with a fierce, brilliant light. I saw the
politician mid-rally, moving thousands with his words. I saw the rebel taking a bullet for her
cause. I saw the actor receiving a standing ovation. "These are the protagonists. The ones
whose choices create seismic shifts in their narratives. They are valuable. Sought after."
The brilliant bubbles winked out, leaving me alone with the Curator's infinite, patient gaze.
"But you ask what I want. You speak of the richness of their stories. But you
misunderstand the medium." The Curator's form flowed, condensing into something
more focused, more intent. "I am not a collector of finished paintings. I am a
connoisseur of blank canvases and the quality of the primer."
It drifted closer. "The politician? His canvas is already covered in the thick, stubborn
paint of ambition and power. The rebel? Hers is stained with the indelible pigment of
ideology. The actor? A layer of vanity and perception obscures the raw material. Their
stories are rich, yes, but they are also... set. Their choices become predictable. Their
paths narrow. They are masterworks in their own right, but they are finished."
The being's "hand" now hovered before me, not offering the bubbles of worlds, but instead, a
single, faint image appeared within it: my reflection. Not the terrified face in the truck'swindshield, but me, as I was moments before the impact. Head down, lost in a story, utterly
ordinary.
"You. You are not a masterwork. You are potential. Your story was not rich, but it was
open. You had no grand destiny, no overwhelming passion, no defining trauma. You
were... unformed. A clean, primed canvas." The Curator's voice lost its cosmic echo,
becoming almost intimate. "That is what is 'in it for me.' An operator with minimal
baggage. A consciousness that has known the mundane, yearned for the extraordinary
through fiction, but has not been hardened by it. You are adaptable. You possess the one
thing those 'richer' souls have burned away in the forging of their own stories: plausible
deniability."
"Deniability?" I echoed.
"You can be placed anywhere, in any role, and you will believe it. You can adapt
because you are not already someone else. You can be a hero, a villain, a baker, a king,
and you will not be fighting against the ghost of your past life as a prime minister. You
will simply be. For the narratives that require a truly fresh perspective, for the worlds
that need a catalyst that is not already poisoned by its own history... you are not a dime
a dozen. You are a rarity."
The image of my face in its palm shifted, showing the moment of impact, the brief, pure
terror before the end. "And you have one more quality. You have nothing to lose. You
have already faced the end. The fear of mortality, the great limiter for all living things,
is gone. You know the worst has already happened. And you are still here. That makes
you... fearless. And fearlessness in a protagonist makes for a very, very interesting
story."
The hand retracted, and the image faded.
"So. That is the transaction. I provide the stage, the context, the narrative potential.
You provide the blank slate, the adaptability, and the courage of one who has already
died. We will craft a story together. Does this satisfy your query?"
It did. It was terrifying, and egotistical, and somehow the most honest deal I'd ever been
offered. I wasn't chosen because I was special. I was chosen because I was empty. And in that
emptiness, I had the potential to become anything.
"Just out of curiosity, are there more of your kind? Will I be performing for you alone or an
audience of cosmic horrors?"
The sensation of amusement returned, a ripple that made the very starlight seem to shiver.
"An audience of cosmic horrors," the Curator repeated, the phrase rolling around in the
void as if it were a delightful new confection. "A melodramatic yet not entirely inaccurate
turn of phrase. Yes, there are more. We are a... collective. A consortium. You might
think of us as authors in a grand, eternal workshop, or perhaps critics at an infinite
festival of narratives."A new image bloomed in the space between us, not a bubble of a world, but a complex,
shifting structure that looked like a neural network made of galaxies and shadow. Countless
points of light, each one a consciousness like the Curator, were connected by threads of
shimmering potential.
"I am but one curator of one sector of the multiverse. My colleagues oversee their own
narratives, their own stable of protagonists. We observe, we trade notes, we occasionally
wager on particularly intriguing storylines. We crave entertainment over all, but prefer
not to muddy our hands personally. Instead, we seek our fun through lower dimensional
means"
The image shifted to show two of the brilliant points of light focusing on a single, swirling
reality-bubble. I saw a knight fighting a dragon, and felt a faint, distant sensation of appraisal,
like two art critics leaning in to examine a brushstroke.
"Your performance, as you put it, will primarily be for me. I am your patron, your
editor. Your success enhances my portfolio. Your failure is a data point for analysis.
However, should your narrative prove particularly compellingโunpredictable,
emotionally resonant, genre-defyingโit may be syndicated. Others of my kind may
observe. Your story could become... popular."
The way it said "popular" carried a weight that felt immense and terrifying. It wasn't about
fame. It was about becoming a subject of study for entities whose very thoughts shaped
realities.
"Does the idea of an audience unsettle you?" the Curator asked, its tone one of genuine,
clinical curiosity.
"Wouldn't it unsettle you?" I shot back. "Knowing your every choice, your every moment of
pain or triumph, is being watched and judged by things you can't comprehend?"
"No," it answered simply, without ego. "It is simply the nature of existence. All stories
require a teller and a listener. The alternative is silence. Oblivion. The true death, where
not even a memory of your story remains. Is a story told in a vacuum with no one to
hear it truly a story at all? Here, you are guaranteed to be heard. Is that not a form of
immortality?"
It had a point. A frightening, cosmic point, but a point nonetheless. To be forgotten was the
final, true splattering of the self. This... this was something else.
"So it's not just you," I summarized. "It's a whole committee. And I'm your new... intern."
"Apt," the Curator pulsed with approval. "Now. Shall we discuss the benefits package?"
"Just before we do...You said preforming well will attract attention and-maybe, I don't know-
sponsorship? But what if I do poorly? will you directly pull the plug and toss me into
oblivion?""Perish the thought" the Curator dismissed my worry emotionlessly. "Once the show
begins, even if we find it boring it worthless, we will merely shift out gaze to someplace
more interesting. To interrupt an actor in his stride, no matter how lacklustre it may be,
is unbecoming of any audience. That said, failing to at least keep a minimum amount of
interest will cause your act to be a single one, where you will be stuck in your original
world until you inevitably die. Or go mad. Or turn to stone with the ages. Whichever
comes first."
"So if I do well enough, I can go through multiple worlds?"
The Curator pondered for a moment before answering. "Consider this one of your 'Infinite
Flow' novels."
Before I could say anything else, the void shifted again. The tapestry of worlds and the neural
network of Curators faded, replaced by two distinct, swirling vortexes of information. One
glowed with a billion familiar icons: fantasy swords, sci-fi starships, cybernetic implants,
magical runes. The other was a storm of pure, abstract potentialโlight, energy, mathematical
concepts given form.
"The package is this," the Curator's voice was now clean, precise, like a contract being read.
"The ability to pick any world or setting as well as any power system. The two do not
have to be compatible."
The implication hung in the air, vast and staggering. It wasn't just about choosing to be a
wizard in a high fantasy realm. It was about...
"Let me get this straight," I interrupted, my consciousness reeling from the possibilities. "I
could choose a low-tech, post-apocalyptic wasteland as my setting... and graft the magic
system from a high-fantasy epic onto it?"
"Yes."
"Or a hyper-advanced, galaxy-spanning civilization... powered entirely by... I don't know, chi
cultivation and martial arts?"
"A popular, if often unstable, combination. The societal dissonance alone generates
fascinating narrative friction."
"Or..." I said, the most absurd idea dawning on me, "I could pick a mundane, slice-of-life
world exactly like my old one... but give myself the powers of a reality-warping god?"
For the first time, the Curator's steady, analytical presence wavered with a flicker of what felt
like... immense interest. "Now you are thinking like a Curator. That particular choice is a
profound test of character. The narrative tension between infinite power and a world
built on powerlessness is... exquisite. It almost always ends in tragedy, enlightenment, or
a terrifying blend of both. The data is priceless."
It was the ultimate power fantasy and the ultimate narrative experiment, all rolled into one.
They weren't just giving me a role; they were giving me the tools to break the system, tocreate something utterly unique. My value wasn't just as a blank slate, but as a creative force.
A designer of my own prison, my own paradise, my own lab.
"This is the real test, isn't it?" I said, understanding dawning. "The first choice. The setting
and the power. It tells you everything about what kind of story I'm going to create. What kind
of *person I really am*."
"The first and most revealing choice of many," the Curator confirmed. "Do you seek to
dominate? To hide? To create? To destroy? To escape? To understand? Your selections
will be a direct reflection of the unresolved desires of your terminated existence. We are
not just giving you a world and a power. We are giving you a mirror."
The two vortexes floated before me, infinite and waiting. The power to combine any genre
with any rule of magic or science. It was the ultimate act of creation.
The Curator's final words hung in the cosmic air, a soft challenge.
"So," it said. "What will your story be?"
"You won't judge me no matter what world I pick? Even if it's already a piece of fiction?"
"How can you tell we aren't in a piece of fiction right now" spoke the Curator with a hint
of underlying humour. "Everything is subjective. Everything can be observed from a
higher dimension. Even we dare not proclaim ourselves the pinnacle of existence, the
sole 'Real World'
That...was actually quite terrifying. The most powerful thing I've ever met, which referred to
two colliding universes as a mere "crib" for stories believed a higher being was directing It
refreshed my mind once again on the concept of Chtullian horror. "Azatoth the Blind God-
ahh moment" I muttered.
"Do I take that as you wanting to reincarnate in a H.P Lovecraft work?" the Curator
asked kindly.
"No! Gods, no," I said quickly, the image of being devoured by something with too many
teeth and not enough eyes flashing through my mind. "It just puts things in perspective. It
makes my choice feel... smaller. And maybe a little less embarrassing."
"The concept of embarrassment is a social construct of your former vessel. It has no
purchase here. Proceed."
"Right." I focused, pushing the cosmic vertigo aside. I had a plan. A terrifying, potentially
suicidal plan, but one that felt right. It was a blend of two worlds I had been utterly absorbed
in mere momentsโor an eternityโbefore my death.
"I want the world. The setting. I want the nightmare of the Forgotten Shore. I want the Spell,
the Gates, the Nightmare Creatures. I want the world of Shadow Slave."
A specific reality-bubble swelled before me, dark and turbulent. I could see a desolate,
sunless beach, a terrifying black sea, and a colossal, dead god chained to a massive blackrock. The air around the bubble seemed to crackle with silent screams and the clang of
invisible swords.
"A harsh selection. A world governed by a cruel and arbitrary divine mechanism. A
high probability of a short and gruesome narrative. Intriguing." The Curator made no
judgment, merely noting the parameters. "And the power system? The rules that will
govern your existence within it? Will you seek to master the Spell itself?"
"No," I said, my voice gaining certainty. "The Spell gives power, but it comes with a Flaw. A
chains. I'm taking a different set of chains. I want the power system from Lord of the
Mysteries. The Beyonder pathways."
The second vortex of information, the one of abstract potential, surged forward. It resolved
into twenty-two distinct, shimmering symbols, each one radiating a different and profound
aura. Some felt stable and scholarly, others chaotic and maddening, others still were shadowy
and full of intrigue.
"A system of ascent through ingestion and enlightenment. Prone to madness, loss of
humanity, and existential peril. A fascinating counterpoint to the chosen world. The two
systems are not designed to interact. The narrative instability will be... significant." The
Curator's tone was one of immense professional satisfaction. "You have chosen not one but
two crucibles. You wish to be hammered on two anvils at once. State your chosen
Pathway."
The twenty-two symbols glowed before me, each a path to power and insanity. I knew them
all. I'd theorized about them, debated them, dreamed about them. Now, the choice was
terrifyingly real. As I scrolled down them, noting the remarks and brief explanations for each,
I came up with another idea. "Can I include the Pathways from the Outer Deities? And will I
have access to the Sefiroth or Above the Sequence stuff, or only the Uniqueness?
Without a word, the list flickered and then ten new symbols appeared. 'Chaos Primogeniture,
Chaos Mist, Patriarch, Eternal Aeon...'
I found myself licking my lips (?) as I took in the sight. However, I reigned in my excitement
pretty quickly as I came to a disappointing conclusion-there simply wasn't enough
information on these Pathways. The most talked about were the Chaos Primogeniture, Chaos
Mist and Eternal Aeon Pathway, then followed by Sublunary Eye and Tail-Devourer, but the
information of their High-Sequence capabilities was still severely lacking behind the
orthodox 22 Pathways.
'CP is out anyways, I don't particularly want to be a woman. Besides, the Original Creator
probably won't be applicable in the Shadow Slave world...will likely just rip open the Seal
and let the Void in. Broker is pretty bad-ass and its Sequence 4 is built for obliterating goons,
but I might not live long enough to reach it. Although the Broker and Grey Merchant can
both reduce hostility, Abominations are completely cuckoo.'
'Spamming Cycles as a Circle Inhabitant would drive anyone into despair, and Contractee is
possibly the greatest Sequence 7 apart from maybe Painter but the negative effects could
potentially compile with my Flaw and be my undoing. Plus all spiritual creatures in ShadowSlave have gone mad, unlike it LOTM where it was only a few. Patriarch's negative effects
are also lethal if triggered at the wrong time, though, heh heh, the Sex Addict and Fallen Tree
Spirit Sequences would be quite interesting.
"Can I just skip the negative effects of Potions?"
"That would defeat the purpose of choosing the Lord of Mysteries' system in the first
place, no?" The Curator cocked Its head.
Second Law would turn me into a disgusting zombie...
Everlasting was straight up a one-way trip to Loo Loo Land...
Tail-Devourer was as risky Patriarch but the severe negative effects of the former only kick in
around Sequence 2 so I should be fine for the most part, but I still didn't want any roadblock
down the line...
Eternal Edict was actually very safe and useful, but I doubted I had the intelligence to
properly make use of the arrangements of Fate...
Condenser was solid all-round, and not too many enemies in Shadow Slave were resistant to
physical damage. Sure, I would need to be near water for the Sequence 5 to be effective but
apart from that every Sequence is useful, Heavybringer is especially OP. Firing a literal
cancer ray sounded dope as hell, not to mention forming a nuclear sun with my bare hands...
In the end, I simply couldn't bring myself to decide. I removed all but Condenser from the
list, leaving 23 Pathways for me to chose. Then, I turned to the ever-patient Curator. "Alright,
I've come to a decision. I would like you to turn this list into a wheel and spin it for me after
reincarnating me. Ah, about that, can we skip the whole rebirth thing and just create a body
for me? Fourteen to sixteen would be best, being younger will help me with some things I
have planned."
"That is possible" the Curator acquiesced to my demands. "I will warn you though, the
changes wrought by your Pathway will apply to you. This can range from the simple
genetic altering of some Pathways, such as Attendant of Mysteries turning your eyes
black, or severe cases like Devil and Demoness shifting your very physique."
"Ah" I wince and smack my forehead. "I actually forgot, please remove Demoness from the
wheel, I don't want to lose my little brother."
"A Demoness can still engage in love with women, yes? Life's short, why not give it a
try?"
I stared at the shadowy God in suspicion as I tried to figure out if It was mocking me. After
several seconds though, I heard a ding that proved the Demoness Pathway was gone. Phew,
that was a close one.
"One last thing" I said, thankful the Curator showed no sign of being impatient or annoyed.
"Is it possible for me to gain access to multiple Pathways? Whether that be neighbouring ornot, including Outer Deity Pathways? Because if I change my mind, or get Shepherd but can't
Graze any Beyonder Characteristics then..."
"Grazing will work on the Souls within the world" the Curator stated simply. "As for
acquiring access to other Pathways...I will allow it to be technically possible, but don't
get your hopes up. In fact, it's tied to some very specific Pathways themselves. With
your Wheel of choice, everything comes down to your Fortune "
"And I don't suppose you'll tell me what they are?"
It just smiled at me. With no mouth.
"Alright then" I shook my head and took a deep breathe. "I'm ready, Mr. Curator"
"Oh I'm sure you are" It mused before the cosmic cradle erupted in pure pristine light,
drowning all my senses and awashing me with oblivion.
===============================================================
After the Human was gone, the Curator remained in place for quite a while. Rather than spin
the conspicuous wheel beside It, the Curator merely stood still. After what could be a minute
or an eon, another figure made Its' appearance. If the Human was here, perhaps he would
have recognised It-or not, since by virtue of the fact it resembled the original Curator, it was
indescribable. "What do you plan to do with that one?" It asked.
"The same as always, of course. I'm a tad bit disappointed he chose a pre-fabricated world for
his adventure, but the cocktail he proposed was enough to make up for it. I wonder how well
he'll do. Or how terribly."
"You have a nasty habit of playing with your food."
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what did you expect?"
"Whatever. Are you going to adjust his difficulty for the First Nightmare? I sincerely doubt
he'll survive it, especially since you never told him it would begin shortly. That was mean of
you, by the way."
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this a go by any chance?"
The shadow gestured towards the standing wheel. The other It stared silently for several
seconds before shrugging and stepping up to it. Without a word, It spun the wheel fiercely.
The duo watched in silence as it spun round and round a dozen times before slowly stopping.
As They witnessed where the pointer stop, a noise of amusement came from the Shadow.
"Well, would you look at that? I guess the bastard does have some fortune in him."Chapter 2: How I died and became Homeless
Chapter Summary
Our MC wakes up in the new world of his choosing, and discovers the Pathway he got
(It's already spoiled to us, maybe I should should remove the character sheet lol)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The universe twisted, folded, and slammed into me.
There was no impact, only a sudden, violent usurpation of senses.
The sterile, cosmic scent of the void was replaced by the thick, solemn air of dust, old wood,
and fading beeswax. The infinite starlit expanse vanished, replaced by a cage of shadows and
failing, colored light.
I was on my knees. Cold, rough stone bit into them through the thin fabric of my trousers.
My body feltโฆ small. Light. Frail. A profound weakness gripped my limbs, the deep-seated
fatigue of malnutrition. I raised my handsโslender, pale, and youngโand pushed a heavy
wave of blonde hair from my face. It was the colour of old straw and fell to my shoulders.
I was in a church. Or what was left of one.
The place was a skeleton of its former glory. High, vaulted ceilings were shrouded in
darkness, their painted saints peeling away to reveal rotten timber. Stained glass windows
lined the walls, but most were shattered or grime-coated, allowing only slivers of the strange,
bruised twilight outside to cut through the gloom, illuminating swirling motes of dust. Pews
were smashed and piled haphazardly against one wall as if for a fire that was never lit. At the
far end, a shattered altar stood bare, a large, tragic crucifix hanging askew above it, the figure
of Christ staring down with sorrowful, painted eyes.
This wasn't the Forgotten Shore. It wasn't even the Dream Realm, or a Nightmare. Well, of
course it wasn't. What fool of an author would drop the main character into a Nightmare mere
minutes after introducing them? The Curator seemed detached and robotic during our
conversation, but it clearly had precise protocols in place. My thoughts running wild failed to
conceal my true state beneath though.
My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird in a fragile cage. This was it. The new
story. Panic threatened to rise, a cold tide in my chest. I forced it down, clinging to the one
solid thing I had left from my previous existence: my mind. My observation.Observe. Understand. Plan. The instincts of the chosen pathway, still dormant but whispering
at the edge of my consciousness, guided me.
My clothes. I looked down. I was dressed in simple, well-made but worn black trousers and a
black shirt. Clean, but threadbare in places. It was the uniform of an acolyte. An orphan taken
in by the church, perhaps. It explained why I was somewhat dressed but still malnourished.
The silence was absolute. Oppressive. I was utterly alone.
Pushing myself unsteadily to my feet, I took a stumbling step. My vision swam for a moment
before clearing. As I moved, something cold and metallic shifted against my chest beneath
the tunic.
I stopped, my breath catching. With trembling fingers, I reached inside the collar and pulled
the object free.
It was a pendant on a simple silver chain. A cross. But it was wrong. It was a Latin cross, but
the horizontal and vertical beams were perfectly smooth, blank of any engraving, any
symbol, any representation of a corpus. It was justโฆ a blank cross. Cold and heavy in my
hand.
It feltโฆ significant. An artifact. A key? A ward? Or simply the mark of faith in this broken
place?
I closed my fingers around it, the metal warming to my touch. It was the first concrete thing I
owned in this new life. A mystery.
A blank cross for a blank man on a blank page.
The heavy oak door of the church groaned open, slicing a blade of dull, purplish twilight
through the dusty gloom. A figure was silhouetted in the entrance, bent and hacking, a sound
that was more a physical tearing than a cough.
I flinched, my hand closing tightly around the blank cross, my heart seizing in my chest. Not
alone.
The man stumbled inside, shutting the door against the outside world with a grunt. As my
eyes adjusted, I saw him clearly. He was old, his face a roadmap of deep lines and weathered
skin, framed by a fringe of grey hair. He wore the same simple black garments I did, though
his were adorned with a stole, marking him as a priest. In his arms, he clutched a small, cloth-
wrapped bundle.
He saw me standing by the shattered altar and his strained expression softened into a weary
smile. "Adam. You're awake. Good."
Adam. So that was my name here. It felt foreign, a ill-fitting garment for now. But I sure sure
I would adapt quickly enough. The Curator picked me for that ability, after all. 'What, did I
end up with the Fool Pathway? Am I a Faceless now?'He shuffled forward, each step seeming to cost him effort, and sank onto one of the few intact
pews with a sigh of relief. He unwrapped the cloth bundle to reveal a small, coarse loaf of
dark bread. He broke it in two, the sound shockingly loud in the silent church, and held the
larger piece out to me.
"Here. Eat. The night will be long, and the cold is settling in."
I approached slowly, my movements cautious. The aroma of the bread, simple and earthy,
was the most wonderful thing I had ever smelled. My stomach clenched painfully. I took the
offered piece, my fingers brushing his. His skin was papery and cold.
"Thank you, Father," I said, the title feeling natural on my tongue, a fragment of this body's
memory guiding me.
He waved a dismissive hand before another cough wracked his frame. When it subsided, he
was paler. "Eat, boy. Don't let an old man's ailments spoil your supper."
I didn't need telling twice. I tore into the bread, the crust tough but the inside surprisingly
dense and filling. As I ate, I watched him. He was sick, maybe dying. And we were here,
alone, in this ruin. Guardians of a dead faith in a dead place.
While I chewed, I turned my focus inward. The Curator had said the seed of my power was
within me, dormant. The Pathway of The Fool. I tried to grasp it, to feel for that swirling pool
of potential I'd felt in the void.
'Show me something,' I thought, concentrating with all my might. 'Give me a vision. A
prophecy. Anything.' I focused on the priest. 'Tell me his secret. Tell me why he coughs.'
Nothing.
I tried to feel for the enhanced perception, the intuition of a Seer. I tried to look at the dust
motes in the air and predict their paths. I tried to listen to the priest's ragged breathing and
intuit the malady causing it.
Nothing. No flash of insight. No whispered secrets from the universe. There was only the
taste of bread, the ache in my knees, the cold of the pendant against my skin, and the
overwhelming, mundane reality of my situation.
The power was there. I could feel it, a faint, distant hum at the very edge of my perception,
like a song played in another room. But it was locked away. Inert. I didn't know how to
access it. The knowledge of the potion formula was thereโthe main ingredient of a Potion...
โbut the ingredients were meaningless words without the context of this world. I couldn't
even tell what Potion it was. Maybe I hadn't landed with the Seer after all?
I was just a boy. A hungry, scared boy named Adam in a broken church with a sick old man.
The grand cosmic power I had chosen felt like a cruel joke. The first challenge wasn't battling
Nightmare Creatures; it was figuring out how to turn on the lights.I finished the bread, the hollow in my stomach slightly eased, a much deeper hollow of
powerlessness opening up inside me. The old priest watched me, his startlingly blue eyesโa
mirror of my ownโfull of a pity that I knew wasn't just for my hunger.
"Rest now, Adam," he said softly, his voice a dry rustle. "Today's work is done, and we will
move on after just a few more. Perhaps we can finally move closer inwards, towards the
better ends of the NQSC."
His voice, despite being a stranger to me not even five minutes ago, does wonders on
combating my rising panic attack. Yes, I needed to get myself together. I was in the Human
Realm, in the NQSC...though that took up an entire continent, so who knows where that
places me. Hopefully near some of the main cast. While I didn't have any particular desire to
follow them along like a stalker, I needed to keep track of how far along things were
progressing. And...alright, maybe I just wanted to see them. The characters. In the flesh, not
just text on a screen or a badly renditioned piece of art from Webnovel. Maybe kick Cassie in
the shins a few times while I'm at it too.
The old priest watched me finish the bread, his own half-eaten portion forgotten in his lap.
The brief respite from his cough seemed to have opened a floodgate of melancholy thoughts.
"Look at this place," he muttered, not to me, but to the peeling saints on the walls. "A house
of God, left to rot. It tells you everything, doesn't it, boy? Everything you need to know about
the state of things."
He shook his head, a slow, weary motion. "In my day... ah, but you don't want to hear an old
man ramble." He coughed again, a wet, rattling sound that echoed in the hollow nave. When
he stopped, he stared dazedly for a second before resuming. "In my day, there was a... a
structure. A morality. You worked hard, you went to mass, you respected your elders. You
didn't... you didn't claw at your neighbor's throat for a crust of bread."
He fell silent for a moment, his eyes distant. "Father Malachi of then would have wept to see
it. A good man. A strong man. He built this parish from the ground up, you know. Gave
people hope. Gave them something to believe in beyond their own misery."
Father Malachi. So that was his name. I filed it away, a single, solid fact in the shifting
uncertainty of my new existence.
"Now?" Father Malachi continued, his voice gaining a bitter edge. "Now, it's every soul for
itself. The desperation... it's a sickness in the air. It makes people cruel. It makes them forget
they have souls at all. They'd sell them for a warm meal and a safe corner to sleep in." He
looked at me, his gaze sharpening, as if seeing me properly for the first time. "You remember
the Miller family, Adam? Good people. Found them last week, all three of them... gone. The
parents were bludgeoned, couldn't find the girl. Ah, she should be nearly twenty now. Maybe
she escaped, maybe the Spell claimed her too. Maybe she killed her parents."
He sighed, the anger bleeding out of him, leaving only a profound exhaustion. "It's the world
now, boy. It's grinding us down. The light is fading, and the shadows are getting longer and
hungrier. And all we can do is hold on in here," he gestured to the crumbling walls, "and pray
the doors hold for one more night."He lapsed into silence, his monologue over, consumed again by his cough and his thoughts.
He had given me more than just bread and a name. He had reminded me of the most basic
pieces of the world's lore: this wasn't just a broken world; it was a world being consumed by
a spiritual despair so potent it could kill. A world where desperation was a tangible force, and
safety was a fleeting concept measured one night at a time. Gates, the Nightmare Spell,
roving gangs not to mention the most banal of illnesses and disease. Starvation too, judging
by his own appearance.
And I was trapped in it, my celestial potential silent, with only a sick old priest and a blank
cross for protection. Klein often practised humility when he was scared or alone, didn't he? I
was no one. I knew nothing other than the snippets G3 had fed us about the world. Hell, most
of what the readers were told came out during the Domain War, when the Waking World was
already being abandoned. Why had I ever agreed to this? Wait...the Curator had never
actually said what would happen if I refused. Would I just die? Enter a mundane cycle of
reincarnation? Be strung up as a puppet for forceful amusement? No, no need to think so
negatively about the Curator. He had accommodated my questions and requests plenty in the
Star Realm. Deciding to follow the Priest's advice, I lay down on the most intact pew and
closed my eyes, regulating my breathe until I felt sleep overtake me.
==================================
The days bled into one another, a grim tapestry of grey skies, grinding poverty, and relentless,
gnawing hunger. Father Malachi's cough grew worse, a constant, wet percussion to our
aimless wandering. We became ghosts in the sprawling, festering slums of the NQSC city,
two figures in black moving through a world of rust and despair.
We sold alms, or rather, we tried. We offered blessings and prayers to those who would listen,
which were few. Mostly, we simplyโฆ existed. We shared our meagre scraps of food with
those who looked even worse off than us, a gesture that felt less like charity and more like a
shared, silent understanding of the abyss we were all circling.
In the moments of exhausted respite, huddled in another abandoned shell of a building, I
worked. My body, the young one named Adam, was slowly becoming my own. The initial
weakness was being tempered, not into strength, but into a wiry endurance. I could walk for
miles on an empty stomach now. My startling blue eyes, once wide with panic, had learned to
observe without seeming to, to take in every detail of the oppressive city.
And I had confirmed it. This was the same city. The same mish-mashed dichotomous city
The same sense of a world holding its breath, waiting for a nightmare to begin. Or maybe that
was just me. We were just on the opposite side of the vast, stinking slum from where Sunny's
story had started. His hell was my hell. We were ants on the same rotting log.
My internal work, however, had met with frustratingly little success. The grand power of the
remained a locked door. I had the keyโthe knowledge of the potion formulaโbut no
materials to fit it into the lock. The ingredients were nonsense words here: 100 grams of
powdered black-sealed grass? The spirit of a Shadow Sea Flower? It was like trying to build
a radio with instructions for a nuclear reactor. I didn't even recognise them as belonging to
any Sequence 9 Potion.The one thing I had grasped, through sheer, desperate repetition and half-remembered lore
from the novel, was the most foundational step: meditation. The cycling of Spirituality. Or, as
the Awakened of this world called it, Essence.
It was faint, thinner here than I imagined it would be in places of power, tainted with the
metallic fear of the Nightmare Gates. But it was there. A faint, ambient energy that
permeated everything. In our few quiet moments, I would sit, close my eyes, and try to still
the panic in my mind. I would focus on my breathing, and in the space between the inhale
and exhale, I would try to feel.
And sometimes, I could. A faint trickle of coolness, like the lightest stream of groundwater,
seeping into the core of my being. I couldn't command it. I couldn't shape it. I could only
acknowledge its presence and let it pool, drop by precious drop, within me. It was a pathetic
reservoir, but it was mine. It was the proof that the Curator hadn't entirely lied. The potential
was there, sleeping.
One evening, as we took shelter from a cold, acidic drizzle in the husk of a broken-down
transport hauler, Father Malachi looked at me, his eyes fever-bright.
"You've been quiet, Adam. More than usual. It's like you'reโฆ listening to something I can't
hear."
I looked at my hands, at the blank silver cross resting against my chest. I was listening. I was
listening for the whisper of a power that refused to speak, in a world that was slowly but
steadily being devoured by the vile Rot of the Void. What would the Goddess of War think
now, I wondered. To see Her precious garden be overrun with Sorcery and Corruption.
Probably pick up a weapon and wedge someone's skull open. Weaver's, perhaps, if She could
find the slippery bastard.
"Why doesn't my cross have the Lord?" I asked suddenly, looking at Malachi with simple but
focused eyes. The old priest raised an eyebrow and then frowned. "We just...didn't have
another on hadn't when we gave it to you" he answered vaguely, scratching his chin with a
dull look in his eyes. "Everybody knows what the cross represents anyways, and its not like it
ever bothered you before. Why now?"
"No reason," I shook my head trying to appear foolishly solemn. "I just...feel there's a
difference between me and you."
Malachi paused for a moment before laughing loudly, surprisingly avoiding a coughing fit.
"Ha ha Kid, of course there's a difference! I'm nearly eighty years old, you turned fourteen
only three months ago. And besides, I'm an Awakened. Of course we're far apart."
I was stunned by his sudden addition of possessing powers, but then found it unsurprising. A
normal person couldn't survive to such an age in a place like this, none the less with a serious
illness hanging over him. "What's your ability?" I asked curiously, afraid that "Adam" should
already know the answer. Thankfully, Malachi just smiled at me. "My Dormant ability
allowed me to see the rough strengths of others as blobs of light in their chests. My
Awakened allowed me to roughly divide them into camps. Heh, I was pretty good as a Scoutback when I was younger. You see, we didn't have the fancy naming sytem modern
Awakened do. Sigh, I remember when the first Tyrant came through a Gate..."
I glanced over but said nothing, not probing about his Flaw. That would be too insensitive.
And only five days later, he died in his sleep
===============================================
While I had gotten stronger, digging a six-foot grave was still tough. I didn't dare dig any
shallower either, since I knew for a fact some people were desperate enough to consume a
corpse, even one belonging to an old and diseased man. I had seen enough of that while
wandering over the past two weeks.
It took most of a day, my thin arms aching as I dug a shallow grave in the hard, unforgiving
earth behind the last church we'd sheltered in. I said the prayers he'd taught me, my voice the
only sound in the vast, empty silence of the outskirts. The words felt hollow, but they were all
I had to give him.
When it was done, I stood before the mound of dirt. A profound loneliness, colder than any
wind, settled deep into my bones. He had been my tether, my guide to this broken world, and
now he was gone. My fingers found the blank silver cross around my neck. It felt heavy now,
a chain of duty and memory. In my other hand, I hand his own crucifix and then sighed.
Slowly, I knelt and carefully hung it from a rough piece of stone I'd wedged at the head of
the grave to mark it. It was a better monument for him than for me. He was the faithful one. I
was just the fool who'd been left behind.
I stood there for a long time, watching the dull grey light of afternoon fade into a deeper,
more profound grey. The emptiness inside me was a void. The Curator's grand promise felt
like a sick, cosmic joke. A Beyonder pathway? In a world with no magic, no monsters, just
endless, grinding human misery? What was the point? Unless I could unlock the Sun
Pathway, or the Eternal Aeon's redemption-no, wait. I had removed that Pathway from the
list. Sighing bitterly, I gave one last bow before the grave of my semi-teacher and turned to
leave. Perhaps getting Abyss, Chained, Red Priest or Hanged Man wouldn't be too bad.
Delivering catastrophe to this world would hardly make a difference, given how far it was
broken.
A deep, overwhelming exhaustion washed over me. My eyes stung. My limbs felt like lead.
I let out a long, uncontrollable yawn that seemed to come from the very depths of my soul. It
was a yawn of utter surrender, of a system shutting down. The world swam before my eyes.
Stumbling away from the grave, I barely made it back inside the crumbling church before my
legs gave out. I collapsed into a corner on a pile of old sacks, my last conscious thought a
silent apology to the old priest for being too tired to even properly mourn him.
The sleep that took me was not peaceful. It was the sleep of the dead-to-the-world, a black,
dreamless void of pure escape.And then, the dream came.
It was not a normal dream. There was no logic, no narrative. There was only a door. A
colossal, ancient door of black stone, covered in intricate, maddening carvings that shifted
when I wasn't looking. It stood alone in a featureless grey plain.
And it was opening.
A crack of impenetrable darkness appeared between the doors, and from it seeped a cold that
froze my very soul. A silent, invisible pressure began to crush me, filled with a hunger so
vast and ancient it made the emptiness in my stomach feel like a trifle.
This was no mere dream. This was a summons. An invitation.
The Nightmare had found me.
My eyes flew open in the dark church. I was drenched in a cold sweat, my heart trying to beat
its way out of my chest. The yawn, the exhaustionโฆ it hadn't been surrender.
It had been a symptom.
The Sleep was starting. The true nightmare was beginning. And I no longer had an
experienced Awakened to guide me.