The Realm Beyond…
As the void stretched infinitely, neither the sky nor the earth defined its boundaries.
There were no walls or roofs, only a floor that resembled the surface of water. The silence in the space was profound and heavy. Yet, the darkness was not empty; it was as if alive, shifting like liquid glass beneath the feet of the lone wanderer…
In this vast expanse of an endless void, a Drifter tread on a surface that mirrored water.
Every step this entity took sent ripples through the endless expanse, each wave distorting reflections that should not exist.
Suspended in this abyss, countless glowing orbs floated, pulsing with an unnatural light.
They varied in size—some no larger than pebbles, others vast like dying suns—but all shimmered like stars brought too close, their radiance cold and watchful.
The being moved without effort, gliding between the lights as though gravity held no dominion over it. It was neither man nor beast, its form undefined, shifting between silhouettes that flickered in and out of existence. At times, it vanished from sight, only to reappear with no warning…
Eyes. So many eyes, opened and closed across its ever-changing body, observing the orbs, watching as if waiting for something to occur.
Then, it halted…
Something finally caught its eye, a few distances away…
One orb, distinct from the rest, pulsed with an irregular rhythm.
Unlike the others, it did not simply glow—it shrank and stretched. Its light was not passive but different, flickering between brilliance and dimness as if resisting some unseen force.
A smile curled across the entity's ephemeral face, though no true mouth existed. It spoke in a cryptic voice: "This one." The eerie, maniacal smile still plastered on its face, it reached out. Its fingers elongated and twisted unnaturally, stretching through the cloak that covered it.
As its fingers neared the orb, something stirred within. The light inside recoiled, dimming for an instant before flaring in defiance. A brilliant light emanated—blinding.
For the first time in countless eons, the void itself trembled.
A big maniacal smile spread across its now whole face.
The entity chuckled—a sound it did not expect to make, jagged and fractured, as though no laughter had ever been meant to come out of its face. It again spoke in that cryptic voice: "So, you struggle? Good, ..." Amused,
It opened both its arms, stretching them so its body revealed a giant mouth, with many holes inside but no teeth in sight, stretching from the head to below the stomach.
It pressed closer, its form unravelling and reforming, surrounding the orb like tendrils of living ink. The other stars shuddered at its approach, their radiance flickering with something close to fear.
From the many holes inside the mouth, tendrils emerged, grasping the orb and pulling it into the mouth, consuming it whole with a gulp…
The surrounding orbs flickered dimly, as if wanting to hide in the darkness but unable to do so. The entity ignored them. Its interest lay solely in the rebellious sphere it had already consumed.
With deliberate slowness, the entity traced unseen symbols into the void, the strokes lingering like burning afterimages. The space around it groaned in protest. Each mark carried an oppressive, unknown weight—a weight of laws long since buried beneath time's endless tide.
As the last unknown sigil was completed, the orb inside the entity's body let out a soundless scream as its last desperate move.
Silence…
Threads of reality unravelled.
The void convulsed, and one after another, all orbs in that space began to shake violently. Then, with a violent Crack, they shattered one after another.
A white substance emerged from each shattered orb, dropping to the floor and covering the entirety of the space.
In the center of it all, the entity stood, watching it unfold. A violent scream echoed around—it was the entity laughing. All its eyes were fixated on the void ahead. With a sign of the entity moving its arm, pointing a finger forward, it spoke in a cryptic voice: "Let it all begin."
In the aftermath, all the fragments of the broken orbs, which were suspended in the air, began to move in sync like an orchestra guided by a conductor. The entity began a recreation—something insidious and unravelling of its very existence, its essence spilling into the dark like ink dissolving in water.
The entity's form convulsed, caught in the recoil of what it had unleashed. But instead of alarm, its expression deepened into something almost euphoric.
The white, waxy substance from before, which lay on the floor, started to float. In time, the whole space was covered and ready for the stage that the entity had created for reasons unknown.
Its expression was euphoric till the very end.
….
The mid-afternoon sun pressed hard on the small city, turning every street into a furnace. Heat shimmered off the pavement, the air wavering like molten glass. Shadows clung close to buildings, too thin to offer relief. The smell of asphalt mixed with drifting spices and oil from food stalls, while a lazy ceiling fan spun somewhere above.
People moved slowly, shirts sticking to their backs, faces flushed as they searched for shade or simply endured. Cars rolled past with windows cracked, leaking scraps of music into the heavy air. It was an afternoon where even time seemed to falter, as if time itself was gasping in the heat, awaiting the evening's reprieve.
When Akira stepped out of the rental store, the warm, heavy air wrapped around her like a blanket. Two grocery bags tugged at her arms, leaving faint red marks on her pale wrists. Her loose jeans brushed against her ankles, while her light-blue shirt clung to her back, already sticky with sweat.
A strand of hair stuck to her damp temple, and she squinted at the street ahead. The sun pressed down like the breath of an oven, turning a simple grocery run into a trial of endurance.
Had her pantry not been completely bare, she would never have ventured out at such an hour. Every step felt punitive: her palms slick, her grip slipping against the plastic handles that bit into her fingers. Sweat pooled at her neck and slid down her spine, her clothes clinging like a damp second skin. Her head throbbed in rhythm with the cicadas' relentless chorus, a steady reminder of the day's lingering hours.
"Damn… should've picked any other time to come out here," she muttered, her words almost lost beneath the dry rasp of cicadas. A sluggish gust of wind brushed past her, stirring her hair into her eyes with an annoying rustle. It arrived hot and heavy, She groaned softly, "This heat's definitely going to be the death of me."
"Well, it's alright. Since I've been saving up for a while now, and with just a little more time, I'll finally have enough cash. Then I'll be able to buy it."
A motorcycle! Yes, that's what she wanted. Something swift, powerful enough to whisk her away from the oppressive heat, leaving the desert-like streets in a blur. She could almost picture herself atop one, the wind howling past, cooling her skin, and carrying her far from the scorching reality she trudged through.
As she tilted her head upwards, squinting against the blinding glare, she found no solace in the sky. Not a single cloud offered respite. "Could the universe not spare even a scrap of shade, a mere patch of mercy?" she sarcastically remarked…
Realistically, Akira had no one to blame but herself. She'd allowed her food supply to dwindle, convincing herself she'd restock later. Easy enough, or so she thought. The shops were open around the clock. What she hadn't anticipated was the weather transforming into punishing hellfire, a consequence of her procrastination.
Now, she hauled the groceries back home, sweat sticking her shirt to her skin, wondering why she hadn't just ordered takeout instead.
"It's fine", muttering to herself," My apartment was thankfully close to the store, so I guess I shouldn't complain too much."
Akira trudged into a narrow street, Sweat slid down her neck as a hot gust ruffled her hair. She exhaled through clenched teeth—the air was scorching, every step felt like a Herculean effort, and the grocery bags seemed to anchor her to the ground.
Halfway down the street, she caught sight of a bookstore, its doors nearly obscured by a massive line curling around the corner.
Her first thought: "You've got to be kidding me." How are these people able to stand under this sun?
Her eyes darted around to find the reason for such a long line in front of a bookstore, Then she finally spotted a poster on the side of the road, close to the shop's entrance.
From across the road, reading the poster was a bit tricky because of the light pouring in that made the poster look like shiny white cloth, but when she managed.
She murmured, "Of course." The newly famous manga's volume was to be released today.
The poster's image reminded her of that manga, which had gained popularity over the week as it arrived, taking the entire industry and readers by surprise.
The volume being sold was a limited edition, stirring readers into a frenzy. Realization hit her when she observed the situation more deeply that the people in line far exceeded the number of volumes available, meaning only the fortunate few at the front would leave victorious, clutching their prize like treasure, while most would return empty-handed.
"But that's reality, I suppose; not everyone gets what they desire, no matter how hard they work. Everyone has their own way of living, their own struggles and, at their own pace. Some face heavier obstacles than others, even when dealing with the same problem."
She glanced at the people in line. Some panted, sweat dripping down their foreheads under the relentless heat. Others were prepared, shielding themselves with umbrellas or cooling fans, carrying whatever little comforts they could manage. Just by looking, she could see that each person was different, each bearing their burdens in their own way—some suffering more, some less.
Her mind wandered. Perhaps one of them had risen at dawn, walking miles just to catch the subway before arriving here. Perhaps another lived next door, fortunate enough to stroll down the road and join the line without much trouble.
"Not everyone is lucky, I guess," she thought. After all, when people are born, some arrive with silver spoons in their mouths, while others clutch nothing but dirt.
As she was pondering this implication, a heavy sigh came out. Akira kept walking. She already knew which side she fell into: the one who discarded the silver spoon to grasp the dirt instead. And so, with a heavy heart, she continued moving...
While walking back to her apartment, she found herself humming a tune that had been playing in her mind all day. She couldn't quite place where she had heard it, but it lingered, much like the stories that often captivated her thoughts.
Akira was fascinated by the art of storytelling, especially those that intrigued her with their plot and craftsmanship.
But at that particular moment, her mind was fixated on that manga she had discovered on the poster. It wasn't the story itself that consumed her thoughts, but the elements that contributed to its quick rise in popularity. She pondered the art style that made it visually engaging and the writing that kept the narrative simple yet suspenseful. Akira wasn't critiquing it; she was comparing it to her own work.
With a sigh of relief, Akira reassured herself that her work still remained unique, confident she hadn't accidentally copied anything directly. Still, the manga inspired her with new ideas she was eager to incorporate into her projects. Her analysis was driven by a desire to refine her craft and draw inspiration.
She, for whatever reason, recalled the story about a boy and the baker's bread, a tale that resonated deeply with her creative process.
A boy, eager to make his own bread, observed a baker's meticulous techniques. At home, he tried to replicate the process, but his bread never matched the baker's. Undeterred, he continued to practice.
One day, his little brother joined him. Opting not to follow his brother's method precisely, he rolled the dough thinner, shaping it into something new. What emerged from the oven wasn't bread, but crisp crackers—unexpected, yet delightful.
Their father, the baker, observed their efforts and chuckled, admitting he had never thought to bake them that way.
The boy hadn't stolen anything, nor had his brother. They had learned, adapted, and created something uniquely their own.
For Akira, that story was a metaphor for her own creative journey. Humans learn through imitation, transforming existing ideas into new creations, and she realized that every story builds upon those that preceded it. Originality, she concluded, might be a myth; every creation is a variation on a theme. If this were true, how could her work be criticized for being what all works are—an echo, yet distinct in its own right?
Akira tightened her grip on the grocery bags. She resolved that her approach to storytelling was not wrong but a means of survival in a challenging world. She was an author, though she often questioned if she deserved the title. She wrote web novels, contracting with small companies and relying on fan donations to make ends meet. It was her livelihood, though she often doubted her talent.
In writing, she believed one needed more than a creative mindset or divine inspiration. For Akira, success required differentiation. She knew that stories needed good pacing, emotional depth, and compelling characters. Yet, she longed for that unquantifiable "sparkle". It was a natural allure that captivated readers…
That sparkle…
She had seen it in the works of others countless times. And each time, the desire only grew—that one day, her works too might hold that same brilliance, but despite her efforts, her work seemed to lack this elusive quality.
Akira primarily wrote romance novels—soft, clichéd tales of fleeting confessions and mildly entertaining characters. Each story carried the hope of breaking through the sea of mediocrity, of finally catching fire. Yet, her reality was far less forgiving. Her works were modestly successful, but she remained largely invisible in the literary world. To herself, she was a failed author, shackled by the "Chains of Mediocrity."
She likened her life to that of a caged bird, not through tragedy, but through the slow suffocation of indifference. Even as she searched for new ideas, inspiration eluded her. She couldn't fathom why readers were captivated by the same tropes she spun. The appeal evaded her understanding.
She fantasized about a life where her stories afforded her luxuries like retirement from the life of a writer, but for now, she accepted her aching arms and weary heart.
Finally, as she reached the building of her apartment, a faint smile graced her lips.
As she approached the building's front gate, it looked sturdy enough. She nudged the door open with her foot, just enough to squeeze through with her bulging bags. But just as she was about to step inside, a deep, loud voice boomed from behind her, commanding her to "hold."
That loud voice almost caught her by surprise, and a wave of familiar anger and disgust washed over her like she had just stepped into something unpleasant. She knew that voice all too well. Unfortunately, her intuition was spot on—it was the guard assigned to the gates, and she knew what was coming.
The guard spoke, his tone dripping with the sarcasm she despised. "Ma'am," he said, stretching the word out, "this is a private residence building. You can't just waltz in without proof that you live here. So, Doll, show me your resident card."
"Heh." She exhaled a soundless laugh, though inside her thoughts thrashed and screamed in raw frustration.
"Not this again!""Don't you think this harassment you call flirting is getting a little old, Vetro?" she shot back, trying to keep her voice steady as anger bubbled beneath the surface. "And incredibly creepy, even for you."
Vetro, in his typical, infuriating manner, just laughed. "You've been avoiding me for a while now, haven't you, babe?"
"You don't even come out of your apartment when my shift starts. What's wrong, girly? Did I upset you on our last date?"
She smiled out loud at his words, but inside, her blood was boiling with pure rage and disgust.
Vetro finally stopped his nonsensical rambling. She forced a smile onto her face. "Keep your mouth shut," she told him, her voice deceptively calm. "Nothing like that ever happened between us, so I don't mind some silence from you."
He grinned, that smug, confident grin. "Alright, feisty. Just how I like it. But now's not the time, I'm at work. So, keep the dirty talk to yourself."
She scoffed; her fake smile still plastered on. "Can you just stop now? You look pathetic trying that hard."
"Oh, yeah, baby," he chuckled, "I think I know when I'm going hard." He then actually dared to wink at me. Disgusted, her insides were at that time churning.
"Let me help you open the door," he offered, and as he did, he deliberately tried to brush his shoulder against hers. But she moved in time, slipping quickly into the building.
As she walked away, he called out, "See you later, Sweetheart!" She kept a small, cold smile and continued walking.
All the while, her mind was filled with vivid fantasies of her trying to fix him by first polishing his face with a crowbar, kicking him in the nuts to straighten him out, then smashing them with a brick, and bashing his skull into the gates over and over until it cracked open. And then bathing him with kerosene while starting a bonfire, and in the end, pissing on his burned, charcoaled body. "Oh, how I wished this imagination of mine could come true!"
Her mind was filled with fantasies of standing up for herself, but she knew she had to channel her energy into finding a real, lasting solution.
She stepped inside the building…
As she was reaching for the elevator, she noticed an elderly woman step inside before her. Rather than wait, she shifted course and began climbing the stairs.
As she trudged up the stairs, each step heavier than the last, until she finally reached the third floor. By then, her chest was heaving, her breath sharp and uneven, sweat clinging to her temples. Pride, she realized bitterly, was a poor substitute for patience. She could have waited downstairs for the elevator like any sensible person, but no—she had to prove she wasn't old, had to act young, stubborn, and strong.
The thought left a sour taste in her mouth. Muttering curses under her breath, she fumbled for her keys, slid one into the lock, and pushed the door open. Without sparing another glance at the hallway behind her, she stepped inside, closed the door with a dull thud, and let the silence of her apartment swallow her whole.
"Ah, at last home sweet home."
She had finally arrived, retreating from the sun's relentless embrace. "Today, the sun really had been merciless. I really thought I was gonna melt out there," she muttered, wiping the sweat from her brow with a hint of sarcasm.
Her walk back from the grocery store had left her feeling as though her very essence had been wrung dry. As soon as the apartment door clicked shut, she exhaled a long-awaited sigh of relief. The grocery bags were cast aside as she made a beeline for the air conditioner, her fingers flicking it on with palpable desperation. The cold air cascaded down upon her, a sweet balm against her flushed skin. She sprawled across her bed, basking in the chill for a few blissful moments before mustering the resolve to rise and put away the groceries.
Buzz, buzz-buzz-buzz.
The persistent vibration of her phone broke the peaceful spell. "Oh, what now?" she grumbled, a worried expression clouding her face, tinged with a hint of irritation. It was a new email, from the web novel company she worked for. She didn't open it immediately.
"Not now, later," she decided, dismissing it for now. There were more pressing matters to attend to—like peeling off her sweat-soaked clothes. Her body craved a bath, and she had no intention of denying it.
The cold water caressed her skin, washing away the day's heaviness and leaving her feeling refreshed. She slipped into her usual home attire light and comfortable. It was three in the afternoon, and as she glanced at the clock, she was about to sit down; her stomach growled in protest.
"Okay, then. Even if it's not the appropriate time to eat this, I'm hungry, so who cares?" She tore open a pack of ramen and settled into the comforting glow of a K-drama. For a moment, life felt simple again.
Yet, there was a faint tug of unease. "I forgot something… didn't I?" she wondered aloud, pressing a finger to her temple but drawing a blank. "If I can't remember, it must not be important," she reassured herself, waving the thought away.
Later, as she bit into a piece of fruit, her gaze drifted to the window, where Mount Kogarashi loomed, its jagged silhouette cutting into the sky.
Before she could dwell on it, the phone buzzed again. Another email. She picked up her phone, curiosity piqued.
"What's with all this commotion?"As she opened the email, her expression shifted to one of shock. Her heart skipped a beat, but she quickly composed herself.
"This… this has to be a mistake," she thought, her voice tinged with worry.
But then she sighed, "Tch, This better be a fucking joke."