The air congealed like fog, damp and oppressive, each breath dragging through it as though it resisted being inhaled.
The sky was stained a deep red.
It was not the red of a sunset, nor the warm glow of dusk. This was a suffocating, oppressive crimson, thick and unnatural, like an ocean of blood poured across the heavens. There were no clouds drifting across it. No traces of mist or vapor softened its vast surface. The sky existed as a single unbroken expanse of violent red.
It hung above the world like a wound that had never healed.
At the centre of the endless crimson sky hung something that should not exist.
A black sun.
It was not an absence of light, but something that consumed it, a depth without measure, an abyss that seemed to return the gaze of any who dared look upon it. Its edges were unclear, as though reality itself failed to define its boundaries, as though it gnawed at the world simply by being there.
It offered no warmth. No illumination.
Only presence.
It felt like the gaze of something long dead yet not gone. A creator stripped of life, reduced to nothing but awareness, still watching, still recording, still waiting.
Beneath the curtains of crimson was an endless expanse of thick, inky darkness, a deep blue so damp and dense it resembled liquid night rather than ocean. The surface churned violently, restless and unstable, as if something vast and furious stared beneath it.
At the very heart of the sea stood a tree.
It bore no leaves, neither brown nor green, and no fruit had ever graced its barren limbs. Its branches stretched outward like jagged blades, rigid and lifeless, as though they had once cut through something unseen and never recovered. It felt misplaced, like a forgotten remnant of nature, abandoned by time yet retaining a quiet, unsettling sanctity.
A thin young man rested against its trunk.
The inky sea lapped around his legs, thick and heavy, clinging to him like a silent shroud. He wore a long, pristine white robe that stood in stark defiance of the surrounding darkness, untouched, almost unreal. It did not ripple with the sea, nor did it stain.
His hair fell down his back in dark strands, smooth and undisturbed, like a calm river that had never known wind. His eyes were open, yet hollow. There was no warmth within them, no trace of thought or feeling, only a still, black pupil fixed upon the unknown.
He did not move.
The sea churned without sound. The tree did not sway. Even the air seemed to hesitate, as though something in this place resisted the act of existence itself.
And in that silence, the man continued to stare.
…
It was a fresh morning.
A wide blue sky stretched overhead, unmarred except for the drifting white clouds that wandered across it in slow, unhurried silence, their pale bodies catching the GOD-given radiance of the golden sun. Light poured over the world in gentle abundance, warm but not harsh, bright yet tender, as though the heavens had chosen, for once, to look kindly upon the earth.
Amon stood alone in a vast field of green.
There were no trees to cast shade, no bushes to break the view, no winding paths pressed into the soil by human passage. There were no insects humming in the grass, no fences, no stones, no signs that anyone had ever tried to claim that stretch of land. There was only the field itself, endless and open, a quiet sea of living green stirred by the passing wind. Countless blades of grass swayed in soft ripples, rising and falling like the breathing of the earth.
The air was fresh and clear. Each breath carried the scent of grass, sunlit soil, and the faint sweetness of the open morning. The wind moved gently across the plain, and within its touch rode the songs of birds wheeling high above. Their calls were light and melodious, weaving through the silence with a natural grace no instrument could ever truly imitate.
At the centre of that tranquil world, Amon danced.
He moved without restraint, swinging his arms and stepping lightly through the grass as though following a rhythm only he could hear. There was no audience, no stage, no reason beyond the movement itself. It was as if he were listening to the whistling of the wind and the bird's overhead, surrendering himself to a music too soft for ordinary ears. At times, it almost seemed he was composing the song with his own body, shaping it through motion rather than sound. The birds circled above him in loose, shifting patterns, as though they too had noticed the strange harmony of his steps and wished to keep pace with it.
His robe was long and pure black, falling all the way to the ground and swallowing his bare feet from sight. In the bright fullness of morning, the garment stood out with a quiet intensity, like a piece of the night left behind in a world of sun. It clung to him with solemn elegance, not dull, but deep, as though woven from the idea of emptiness itself. He seemed clothed in the Void, wrapped in absence given form, draped in a darkness that did not merely refuse light, but made light seem lesser by contrast.
His hair was long and black, moving beautifully beneath the wind in soft, fluid strands that framed a face both handsome and composed. His eyes were darker still. They were not the black of ink or stone, but something deeper, something that seemed to swallow brightness rather than reflect it. To look into them was to feel, if only faintly, that light entered and did not return.
And yet there was nothing harsh about him in that moment.
He belonged to the field with a strange and quiet perfection, as though nature itself had accepted him without question. There was emotion in his face, in the looseness of his limbs, in the serene abandon with which he turned beneath the sun. He seemed, for that short span of time, like a man made for the earth, for the wind, for the warmth of daylight and the songs carried through it. Like someone born not from violence or ambition, but from the calm generosity of creation itself.
So, he danced.
He danced for an hour and a half beneath the open sky, with no witness but the birds and the breeze. Time passed softly around him, almost unnoticed. Little by little, his thoughts began to drift. The rhythm of his body loosened the boundaries of his mind, until movement and reflection became one. As he turned through the field, his consciousness wandered elsewhere, slipping beyond the morning and into the deep, private corridors of thought.
He began to dream while still awake.
He dreamed of the future. He dreamed of roads not yet taken, of choices not yet made, of mistakes that might still be avoided if only he could see them early enough. Then his thoughts reached further, stretching beyond what was to come and into what had already been. He turned over the past as though searching for hidden fractures beneath memory, wanting to correct what had gone wrong, to remove every flaw, every misstep, every ruinous decision. Present, past, future. In his wandering mind, all three seemed close enough to touch, close enough to reshape.
At last, he slowed.
"Hah."
The breath left him quietly as he came to a stop.
His chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm while he recovered, drawing the cool morning air deep into his lungs. The scent of crushed grass and distant soil filled him. For a while, he simply stood there in silence, his black robe stirring faintly around him, his hair moving with the wind, his gaze resting on nothing and everything at once.
All around him, the field whispered.
The breeze moved through the open land with gentle patience, brushing over the swaying grass in long, murmuring waves. Above, the birds continued their circling song beneath the wide blue sky, and the world seemed so peaceful, so undisturbed, that it felt almost fragile.
As though one wrong thought, one remembered truth, might be enough to break it.
Most people would never have spent their Awakening Day like this.
On the day that determined the course of an entire life, most trembled beneath the weight of expectation. Some fell to their knees and prayed, their voices shaking as they begged the heavens for power. Some laughed with feverish excitement, already seeing themselves cloaked in glory, crowned by recognition, lifted high above the nameless crowd. Others wept quietly, unable to bear the uncertainty of the future waiting beyond that single threshold.
But Amon had danced.
No one watched him.
No one applauded.
Beneath the open sky, with nothing above him but drifting clouds and the patient sun, he had simply moved as though the rest of the world did not exist. As though fate itself, with all its solemnity and consequence, had no claim over those quiet moments in the field.
Perhaps that was because he had always felt strangely removed from it all.
The burdens that oppressed other people never seemed to reach him in quite the same way. Responsibility, danger, expectation, even that silent and ever-present dread that all lives, no matter how bright, must one day come to an end, had always felt distant to him. They existed, certainly, but as distant things, like old stories told beside a fire about lands he had never seen and people he would never meet.
He had never truly belonged to the world that feared them.
For seventeen years, Amon had lived alone in that quiet field. The sky had been his ceiling, vast and unchanging. The wind had been his only faithful companion, speaking to him in soft voices no human tongue could imitate. The endless grass had served as his witness, swaying with patient silence through every passing season.
Beyond the field, life had always seemed loud.
Heavy.
Complicated.
It was a place of striving, of conflict, of names and duties and invisible chains. A place where people measured one another by power, by worth, by destiny, and by how brightly they could force themselves to shine before being swallowed by time. Out there, everything seemed burdened by meaning. Every choice carried consequence. Every step drew blood from the soul.
But here, everything had been simple.
The mornings came with light. The evenings faded into silence. The wind wandered where it pleased, and the grass bowed without complaint. Days passed without demand. Nights passed without witness. There had been no one to command him, no one to judge him, no one to teach him fear except the quiet shape of his own thoughts.
And perhaps that simplicity, so gentle on the surface, had over the years carved something hollow within him.
Not a wound.
Not quite.
Something quieter than pain, and deeper.
A distance.
He felt detached from the world.
Detached from the weight of living.
Detached even from the long, hidden suffering woven into life itself, that slow and lingering ache carried by every creature that breathed, desired, hoped, and eventually lost.
It was not that he did not understand such things. It was that they reached him as though through layers of glass. He could observe them. He could name them. Yet they did not fully settle inside him. They passed along the edge of his being without ever truly taking root.
So, while others might have prayed for blessings or dreamed of greatness, Amon had danced.
It had been a quiet celebration, offered to no god, no crowd, no watching eye. It belonged only to him.
If no one else would bless him, then he would bless himself.
Today was the day he would finally leave this place.
Today was the day he would awaken.
Amon slowly exhaled once more, and now his breathing had become steady again, smooth and untroubled after the long dance.
Today is the day I awaken.
The thought passed through his mind with a strange calmness. There was curiosity in it, but little excitement. No fever. No trembling hope. It was the sort of thought one might give to the coming of rain or the setting of the sun, something inevitable, something already on its way.
I wonder what blessing I will be given. What path I will take.
He tilted his head slightly and gazed toward the distant horizon, where the sea of grass met the pale line of the world.
Will I receive a System?
The question lingered in him for a moment.
Systems were spoken of with awe. They were said to shape destinies, to carve men and women into beings greater than themselves. Some granted power beyond imagination, opening roads that led to glory, dominion, and transcendence. Others offered little more than fragile guidance, a faint lantern in the dark rather than the sun people prayed for.
But speculation meant very little now.
Whatever waited for him would soon reveal itself.
Then another thought surfaced.
How far is the Temple, anyway?
A faint smile touched Amon's lips at the familiar question, one he had asked himself countless times over the years. The Temple had always felt distant, not merely in space, but in meaning. It was near enough that the path toward it began here, in this very field, and yet it had always seemed to belong to another existence, another world entirely, one that began where his own quiet life ended.
At last, with no further thoughts pressing upon him, he began to walk.
Not far ahead, standing in silence amidst the open field, was a white frame.
At first glance, it looked like nothing more than an ordinary door.
A white door stood alone beneath the sky, already open, its frame luminous against the endless green. It did not lean, did not weather, did not seem out of place, though by all reason it should have been. It had always been there, waiting with patient stillness, like a silent guardian that had never once grown tired of keeping watch.
There were no walls attached to it.
No house.
No ruin.
No path of stone leading to its threshold.
It simply stood there in the field, open to nothing and everything, as though the world itself had been gently parted at that single point.
And for seventeen years, it had waited for him.
Amon walked toward it at an unhurried pace.
The hem of his black robe brushed softly against the grass, whispering over the green blades with each step. His bare feet pressed into the living earth and felt the cool firmness of the soil beneath them. The morning breeze wandered past him in patient currents, stirring his dark hair and drawing loose strands gently across his face.
Then the door began to change.
At first, the difference was so slight it could have been mistaken for a trick of distance. A subtle distortion.
But with each step Amon took, it became harder to ignore.
The white frame seemed to rise.
The panels broadened.
The doorway stretched higher and wider, enlarging itself in perfect silence, as though it were responding to his approach, shedding a false shape now that he had drawn near enough to witness its truth. What had appeared from afar to be a simple door standing alone in the field gradually transformed into something immense. By the time he reached it, the structure towered over him like the entrance to some hidden estate, nearly as tall and wide as a two-storied house.
Yet Amon's expression did not change.
He simply stood there and looked up at it.
To most, the sight would have inspired awe, or at the very least unease. A door without walls was already strange enough. A door that grew with every step would have been enough to unnerve even the composed. But for Amon, there was no wonder left in it. No fear either.
He had lived with this door for nearly all his life.
Whenever he left to buy food, to speak with someone, or to step briefly beyond the boundaries of his quiet world, he passed through this same threshold. And after seventeen years spent beneath the open sky of that field, even the unnatural had become ordinary. Repetition had stripped the mystery from it. Habit had made the miraculous familiar.
It was simply the way things were.
Amon gazed at it with calm, unreadable eyes.
In truth, it did not matter how large the door had become.
What mattered was this.
For the first time in seventeen years, he would cross through it without intending to return.
Today, he would leave the field behind.
So, Amon stepped forward and passed through the great white threshold, leaving the field behind him.
The transition defied every ordinary sensation.
The doorway did not feel solid. Nor did it feel empty. As his body crossed the pale boundary, the space within it rippled like still water disturbed by a single falling drop. There was no resistance, no pressure, no moment of impact. Instead, the white expanse received him whole, folding around him in perfect silence. For an instant, he was surrounded by a soft and formless brightness, a strange blankness that was neither warm nor cold, neither near nor distant. It was not a place one moved through, but a moment one was briefly held inside.
Then the field was gone.
In its place, a city unfolded before his eyes.
It was alive.
The world beyond the door belonged to another age entirely, steeped in the old dignity of a medieval era not yet surrendered to decay. The sun hung high above the rooftops, its golden radiance softened by slow-drifting clouds that turned the day bright without making it harsh. Narrow streets wound between long rows of houses built from stone and timber, their walls weathered but sturdy, their roofs leaning at uneven angles with the natural imperfection of things shaped by hands rather than machines. Wooden shutters framed small windows, creaking quietly whenever the breeze passed through.
At the corners of busier roads stood inns with broad fronts and open doors, exhaling the warmth of cooked meat, rising steam, and fresh bread into the streets. Hanging signs swayed above them on rusted chains, painted with fading emblems of lions, crowns, tankards, and crossed swords.
Here and there, slender post signs marked the names of streets and pointed travellers through the winding network of lanes, while iron lamps lined the walkways, their glass chambers glowing faintly even beneath the day, as though reluctant to surrender themselves entirely to the reign of the sun.
Carriages rolled over the stone roads in steady procession, their iron-rimmed wheels rattling across the uneven cobbles. Horses pulled them forward with patient strength, their hooves striking the ground in a clear and rhythmic pattern that echoed through the city like a second heartbeat.
Clop.
Clop.
Clop.
And yet the true pulse of the place was not found in the roads or buildings.
It was in the people.
They filled the streets in endless motion, flowing through the city like blood through living veins. Some walked with brisk purpose, moving from shop to shop, from errand to errand, with the steady rhythm of lives claimed by duty. Others moved more slowly, pausing by stalls, glancing through open windows, or exchanging idle words at the roadside. Some gathered near corners and doorways, leaning close as they traded gossip, laughter, and rumours while the city streamed around them.
Some rode in polished carriages, shielded from dust and noise behind curtained windows. Others preferred the saddle, seated high upon horses and guiding them with practised ease. Many more walked, weaving through the crowded streets with the instinctive familiarity of those born to the city's rhythm.
The men dressed simply, but with care. Dark hats rested upon their heads, casting neat shadows across composed faces. Most wore tidy suits in muted colours, paired with leather shoes that clicked sharply against the stone. The women moved through the streets in gowns of varied style and shade, some in soft pastels, others in deeper blues, reds, and creams. Their skirts swayed as they walked. Some wore ribbons or modest hats, while others carried baskets, parcels, or folded cloth tucked neatly in their arms.
The whole city moved like a living organism.
Hoofbeats, turning wheels, laughter, voices, creaking signs, and the distant cries of merchants merged into a single ceaseless hum, so dense with life it seemed to rise from the very stones.
Amon stood quietly for a moment and observed it all.
Then he began to walk.
His destination was clear.
The Temple.
It was there that every awakened individual truly began life anew. Within its sacred halls, people found the path that would shape the rest of their existence. There, Systems were granted to those judged worthy, and dormant abilities stirred into power. From that moment on, one could enter an Order, one of the great organizations ordinary people carelessly reduced to the word guild, though the true term carried far greater dignity and weight.
The Temple decided beginnings.
And, at times, endings.
Amon crossed the nearest road, stepping carefully between passing carts and horses. As he moved deeper into the city, however, something began to shift.
People started looking at him.
Some slowed as they passed him. Others turned their heads outright. A few leaned toward their companions and whispered while glancing in his direction, their curiosity only half-concealed.
Amon frowned slightly.
"Why are people looking at me?"
He spoke under his breath, the question meant for no one but himself, yet the faint annoyance forming on his face deepened as another pair of strangers turned to watch him pass.
Then his eyes lowered to his own clothes.
His long black robe.
In the quiet field, it had seemed natural. In the city, it looked less like clothing and more like a statement no one wished to interpret too closely.
Realization struck him at once.
"Oh, for God's sake," he muttered.
"I forgot to change my clothes."
In the Southern World, such attire was not easily ignored. Long black robes carried a particular reputation, often associated with distant sects, strange hermits, wandering mystics, or the sort of people common folk preferred not to question unless absolutely necessary.
Returning to the field was impossible.
The doorway that connected his secluded home to the wider world operated under a period of stillness after each crossing. Once passed through, it sealed itself for a time, unmoving and inaccessible.
That left him with no real choice.
Amon gave a quiet sigh and continued walking.
Let them stare.
After some time, the buildings began to thin. Streets widened. The crowd grew denser, not thinner, as more people seemed to move in the same direction, drawn toward some shared and invisible centre.
Then he saw it.
The Temple.
It rose before him like something not built but declared.
A massive white spire pierced the sky, towering above every other structure in the city with such effortless supremacy that the surrounding buildings seemed to shrink in its presence. Around its great base spread countless lesser constructions, all joined seamlessly to the greater whole, as though they had not been added over time, but had always belonged to a single, indivisible design. Smaller spires spiralled upward along its sides, each connected in perfect harmony, each archway, buttress, and tower aligned with a precision so complete it seemed to transcend architecture and enter the realm of inevitability.
Nothing about it appeared excessive.
Nothing seemed lacking.
Every line belonged exactly where it was.
It did not look designed through trial and revision.
It looked as though it had emerged whole from one flawless thought.
The white stone seemed almost luminous beneath the sun, holding a faint inner glow that granted the entire structure an ethereal authority. Simply looking at it stirred something quiet in the heart, not mere admiration, but reverence.
Among all the buildings Amon had ever seen, none possessed such an overwhelming aura of sacred legitimacy.
Amon slowed as he approached the grand entrance. Before him stood a great gate of white metal, its towering bars forming the final boundary between the city outside and the consecrated grounds within.
He came to a stop just before it.
For a moment, he said nothing. He only lifted his gaze and looked up at the immense spire as it rose into the heavens, bright and distant and impossibly still.
Then he exhaled softly.
"I'm finally here," Amon murmured.
The words were quiet, almost lost beneath the sounds of the crowd and the city behind him, yet to him they carried a strange finality.
Seventeen years beneath the open sky.
Seventeen years in the field.
And now, at last, the world had truly begun.