The alarm's persistent chime filled the small, dim apartment. Nyro groaned, his mind still tethered to the fragments of a dream. Moving with practiced sluggishness, he extended his left arm from beneath the warmth of the duvet, fumbling across the nightstand until his fingers struck the button. 7:09 AM.
He sat up, the world appearing as a soup of gray colors and indistinct edges. He stared into the distance for a long moment, waiting for his brain to catch up with the sun. Realizing his vision remained a blur, he reached out to the cluttered table beside his bed. His hand swept across the surface, scattering a few loose papers until his fingers finally brushed against the cool metal of his glasses.
Once the world snapped into focus, Nyro began his daily routine. He stood up and made his way to the bathroom to brush his teeth, the minty sting helping to fully wake his senses. Following this, he moved to the center of the room to perform his daily exercises, his muscles protesting the sudden activity. Once the blood was pumping, he laced up his shoes and headed out for a morning run, the cool air filling his lungs.
Upon returning, he tended to the most important inhabitant of the house. He knelt to fill a bowl for Little Rin, his cat, who greeted him with a sharp, expectant meow. Only after the cat was satisfied did Nyro finally step into the spray of a hot bath, washing away the sweat of the morning.
Nyro's lifestyle was quiet, dictated by the fact that he was self-employed. He was a novel author, a profession that had become a relic of the past. In this modern age, people had little use for fiction. About 500 years ago, humanity had discovered how to harness the hidden divinity within themselves, a power known as Sparks of Divinity. In a world of literal miracles, the imaginary worlds of books felt redundant to most.
But Nyro's devotion was ironclad. He had spent the last seven years pouring his soul into his craft. On a lucky day, he might see two views on a new chapter; more often than not, there were none at all. At twenty-five, he was in the peak of his youth, yet to his peers, he was a man throwing his life away on a ghost. His own Spark of Divinity was meager, no different from any common citizen. He could manifest a simple spoon or a slip of paper, but nothing more.
After finishing his morning chores, Nyro sat at his desk to write his current project: a novel titled Tokimayo.
He became lost in the rhythmic tapping of keys. By the time he stopped, it was already 1:37 PM. He let out a long yawn, stretching his back until it popped. He raised his arms high in the air before letting them rest heavily against the back of his chair.
"I have been inside for way too long," he muttered to the quiet room. "Let me take a break and gather more research materials."
Despite his lack of readers, he was decently stable in terms of income. He owned a motorbike, which served as his primary means of transport and his only real luxury. He kicked the engine to life and wove through the city streets toward a bookstore he frequented whenever his inspiration began to flag.
Upon entering the shop, he moved through the aisles with a practiced eye. He eventually selected a few volumes on Japanese history, the foundation upon which his current book was built. He found a quiet corner and began to read, losing himself in the records of a bygone era.
An hour passed. Nyro looked up, his neck stiff, and noticed an old man sitting in a chair nearby. The man was staring at him. When Nyro met his gaze, the old man didn't look away, making Nyro feel an immediate surge of discomfort. Startled, Nyro swiftly bowed his head.
"I'm sorry," Nyro stammered, fearing he had been rude. "I was just lost in my thoughts."
"Aren't we all," the man replied. His voice was raspy but not unkind. He waved a hand dismissively. "No need to fret, kid."
The man leaned forward, his expression softening as he took in Nyro's weary eyes and the slight slump of his shoulders. His tone dropped to a near whisper. "What's wrong, kid?"
Nyro gave a weak, dismissive wave. "Nothing, really. I'm fine."
"You don't seem too happy," the old man countered.
"Happy, huh?" Nyro looked down at the history books in his lap. "I'm not sure. I write books, but no one reads them. My work has been dismissed by the world. Well, it's complicated."
"Hmm, complicated. I see." The old man tapped his chin. "Tell you what. What if I could help you? I can help you spread your stories to a much wider audience."
Nyro felt a spark of skepticism. Was such a thing even possible in this age? The man seemed to read the distrust written across Nyro's face
With a calm tone he said "it seems like you don't believe me" . He then reached into a bag at his side and pulled out a book.
"I think this book can help you find your answer," the man said.
He chuckled softly, stood up, and began to make his way toward the exit. Over his shoulder, he called out, "I hope to one day read your book when you're famous."
Nyro looked down at the gift. It was a plain black notebook, fairly old and worn at the edges. In the center of the cover was a simple runic engraving. It looked like nothing more than a journal.
Seeing the old man about to disappear through the door, Nyro felt a sudden jolt of urgency. It had been years since anyone had shown even a passing interest in his work. He needed to know more; he wanted a name or a way to reach him.
Nyro scrambled to his feet and ran for the door. He exited the shop only seconds after the old man, but as he reached the sidewalk, he froze. The street was clear. There was no sign of the geezer in either direction. It was as if the man had never been there at all.
Thinking he might be hallucinating from exhaustion, Nyro went back inside. His eyes immediately fell on the table where he had been sitting. The book was still there. It was real. He paid for his items, including the mysterious notebook, and left.
On his way home, he stopped at a nearby restaurant. He ordered several items from the menu, eating away his disappointment in a silent, depressed haze. By the time he left, his mood had soured even further. He leaned against his motorbike, staring up at the darkening sky.
"Should I just give up and blend in with society?" he whispered, his voice weak. "Or maybe try to make better use of myself?"
He stayed out until the sun vanished, wandering aimlessly through the city, trying to claw back the inspiration that was slipping through his fingers. Seven years was a long time to spend on a dream that refused to wake up.
Finally, he rode home. He walked into his apartment to find the lights off, the only glow coming from the TV, which was tuned to a news channel. Little Rin was meowing at his feet. Nyro stood in the flickering blue light for a moment before dropping his bag and heading to the bathroom for a second wash to clear his head.
When he emerged, his eyes landed on the black book. "Let me take a look at it."
He dried the water dripping from his hair with a towel and slid his glasses onto his nose. He sat down and pulled the book toward him, peeling back the cover to see the contents.
The moment he tried to read the script inside, a white-hot sensation seared through his eyes. His body was instantly flooded with a wave of unimaginable pain. Nyro screamed, his mind fracturing as the agony took hold. He stumbled from his chair, hitting the floor and rolling across the room. He crashed into his desk and his shelves, but the book wouldn't leave his hands. It stuck to his palms as if it were a natural growth of his own body.
His skin began to emit a sickening sound ,the sound of glass cracking. He tried to cough, but instead of blood, a glowing white substance surged up his throat, choking him.
He looked at his hands in horror, but they were already gone. They had shattered into jagged pieces of crystalline debris. It was as if his very flesh was turning into glass. In reality, less than two minutes had passed, but to Nyro, it felt like months of torture. He banged his head against the wall, against the floor, against anything he could find to make the pain stop.
Soon, the darkness claimed his sight. He was blind. The cracks spread upward, reaching his skull, and with a final, silent snap, his entire body broke into shards. Everything went blank.
He had DIED
...
When he finally woke, the room was silent. The floor was stained with that strange white fluid, and Little Rin was sitting beside him, meowing softly. Nyro groaned, the memory of the "horrible acts" he had just committed against his own body flash-backing into his mind. He leaned over and vomited profusely.
As he wiped his mouth, he realized he could see, his vision was clear?
He reached up to his face, searching for his glasses, but his fingers met only bare skin. He wasn't wearing l them. His vision was sharper than it had ever been.
He then noticed his right hand. It was no longer shattered, but it was covered in a network of ethereal, glowing patterns that defied his understanding. He rubbed his hand against the marks, he then pinched his skin confirming that he wasn't asleep.It was real.