Ashfall was sixteen years old and had a ritual.
Not that he planned it; it just happened. Like brushing your teeth before sleep or checking your phone the moment you open your eyes. It was part of him, like the color of his hair or that habit of biting his lip when something was on his mind.
Every night, when the noise of the street faded and his apartment fell silent, Ash opened his laptop. He entered the site. And he wrote.
He had started in school, with a notebook covered in kraft paper that he hid under the mattress. Later, it was a blog that no one read, but he liked having it. Then forums, then larger platforms where people left stars and comments.
And although the websites changed, what was inside was always the same: an idea would explode in his head and wouldn't leave him alone until he got it out.
That week, the culprit had been Shadow Slave.
For days, Ash had been ruminating over a character who barely appeared in the original story. An ordinary guy, no special powers, who survived because he was more stubborn than the rest.
He invented a childhood for him, a way of speaking, a little gesture he made when he was nervous. He gave him a name that sounded good — always starting with the letter A, like him — and made him walk through dark scenes, making decisions that were sometimes right and sometimes not.
Three nights writing until his fingers hurt.
Three nights deleting entire paragraphs and starting over.
And when he finished, he read it all. Twice. Aloud the second time, to catch errors.
And he liked it.
That was rare. Normally, the moment he pressed "publish," something would break. The story he had loved while writing became foreign, as if someone else had written it. He would start finding flaws, then more flaws, then a mental list that grew and grew until it covered everything else. And there was the button, waiting for him, with that little red light that said delete.
But not tonight. Tonight he had liked the story from beginning to end.
Ash published it and stared at the screen. Ten minutes. Twenty. When the first comment appeared — "pretty good" — he smiled like an idiot.
He poured himself a glass of water. Looked out the window at the cars passing by. Went back to his chair.
"It is good" he murmured, reading his own text again . "Yeah, way better than before."
He kept reading.
And at some point, without him being able to explain exactly when or why, something changed.
It wasn't that it was bad. It wasn't that there were serious errors. It was just that... it could be better. The initial dialogue could flow more smoothly. The final fight could have more tension. The character, whom he had created with such care, could have a deeper motivation.
It wasn't self-loathing.
It wasn't: "I'm a shitty writer."
It was simply his brain working the way it always worked: This can be better, and if it can be better, why settle for this?
Ash sighed.
—I'll make the next one longer — he said, as if the character could hear him —. More scenes. More development.
Click.
Delete story.
Are you sure?
"Sure."
And he went to sleep with a clear conscience.
---
The next night, Ash opened his laptop and found himself facing the empty form.
"Well" he said, rubbing his eyes . "Let's start over."
It wasn't drama. It wasn't an existential crisis. It was just his routine. Like when you're assembling furniture and one piece doesn't quite fit, and you decide to take the whole thing apart before continuing, even though the piece is barely noticeable. You'd rather do it right or not do it at all.
Ash stretched his arms over his head and felt his back crack. Outside it was night, but inside the monitor's light painted his face blue. Everything normal.
Everything normal, until he felt cold.
"Is it winter already?" he asked no one, looking toward the window.
The window was closed.
But the room was filling with mist.
Ash blinked. Rubbed his eyes. The mist was still there, coming from nowhere, seeping through cracks that didn't exist, thickening as if the air itself was turning solid.
"What...?"
He didn't get to finish.
The mist touched him.
It wasn't like when normal mist brushes your face on the street. It was as if something recognized him. As if thousands of cold fingers traced his skin at once. Ash tried to step back, but the ground was no longer where it should be.
He sank.
He couldn't find words to explain it afterwards. It was as if gravity changed its mind, as if reality softened and he fell through. The monitor, the chair, his room, everything vanished into a gray whirlpool. He tried to scream, but the mist filled his mouth, his lungs, some place deeper than lungs.
He fell.
He fell for seconds or for years — he didn't know how long.
And when something solid finally struck his back, a voice came from everywhere and nowhere.
«Aspirant.»
It wasn't a human voice. It was many voices layered over one another, ancient and new, whispers and thunder simultaneously. All combined into a single voice that whispered inside his head.
«Welcome to the Spell of Nightmare.»
Ash coughed. Spat out mist that tasted of metal and the memory of something he hadn't lived.
«Prepare yourself.»
A silence that weighed like stone.
«For your judgment.»
With those final words, Ash could only curse in silence as one thought crossed his mind:
'I'm really being sent to that world.'
(Note: You're probably wondering, "What the heck? Another Shadow Slave story?"
Yes, it's another Shadow Slave story. Why did I write it? Just because.
Besides, I was bored and had been mulling over this idea for days, so I thought, "Why not?" And here it is. I could definitely update the King of Monsters story, but that one started a long time ago.
I don't want to update it because I made a lot of mistakes and did some crazy things while writing it.
In short, it's just a reminder that we learn from our mistakes. Anyway, I'm getting off topic. This story will be different from the other one.
For starters, the protagonist won't be powerful from the beginning, nor will they have another voice in their head. And I'll try to make it more coherent. In the end, if I'm not happy with it, I'll just stop posting it, or maybe delete it, whichever comes first, I guess. Well, this is getting too long.
Leave your comments; They encourage me to keep writing. As always, two chapters a day.)