There was no sound, no light, no life—just nothingness. An impenetrable darkness only the gods could see through. An indistinguishable feeling—a feeling of a lonely soul adrift, fading, being eaten away by an unfathomable force.
Amongst the depths of nothingness, amidst the deep darkness of the abyss, a solitary figure could be seen. Laying, his two dead golden eyes opened, reflecting a life of despair. His pale white skin could be seen shaking faintly, a stark contrast to the stillness of his perfectly black long hair. He wore a pitch-black robe, but it was torn. The fabric fluttered weakly, as if the very fabric of reality was eating at it.
Oren Xianrath looked empty.
He felt nothing but the oppressive silence. He heard nothing but the countless emotions that filled him, sensed nothing but the endless ripples in nothingness, saw nothing but endless darkness—distorting, collapsing, and rebuilding continuously—creating tears in reality.
His eyes adjusted; he saw more and more of them—tears ripping open and enveloping the space around them.
As his eyes adapted, the endless number of them grew exponentially, ending in infinite tears scattered around the abyss. He was not scared—it was to be expected that realms would be here; it was in nothingness, their home after all.
But even though he expected it, he felt small, like at any moment he would be forgotten, devoured, lost. His empty golden eyes widened, a flicker of remanence crossing his handsome face.
One word escaped his lips, loose and quiet: "Realms."
He had been there for a long time, but he felt off. Something was not right. It felt like someone was watching him—something was watching him. He looked around. His gaze moved from one realm to another.
He was standing in nothingness, but he felt like he was fading slowly, feeling the inevitable death approach him. But he wasn't dying. Am I? he thought.
Standing there alone, confused, he felt a subtle but obvious change in him. Strange, and indescribable.
His eyes narrowed suddenly, as they glowed from the original emptiness. His soul pulsed, radiating its remaining energy. He no longer appeared as an empty ghost wandering the depths of nothingness—he looked renewed, a majestic being brimming with life and beauty.
Using his enlightenment, he changed his perception. His two empty eyes looked down at his own chest, piercing through it. His perception changed as stored-up energy from his soul released.
The familiar cold energy within him stirred, flowing through him like a long-lost current, reawakening parts of his essence. Each time he tapped into his enlightenment, it was the same—the same energy surged throughout his body, coursing through him with an intensity that never dulled.
They seemed to brighten in the embrace of his essence, looking not so empty anymore. Peering at his chest, he could see his soul—ethereal and ever-changing. It looked hollow, void of life, mirroring the nothingness around him.
He blinked rapidly, his breath shallow and quick. His voice calm, barely more than a whisper, as wariness laced his words. "No, this isn't right. Why? Why does it feel like... my soul is fading away?"
A torrent of energy rushed to his eyes, and he looked again—this time more deeply, more thoroughly. He strained his eyes until he could finally see it: the essence of his being, the essence of himself.
He saw the tapestry of essence that made his soul. They were ever-changing, abundant, and beautiful—the individual strings of his soul within the vastness of his empty soul, encircled by the strings of essence.
The air around him contorted, disappearing from the nothingness around them. The light in his soul darkened, feeling the presence of a stronger being.
He looked up again, sensing the presence, this time more intensely. He saw something—not the realms scattered around the abyss—something.
He looked to his left, but it was too late. He was too late. The thin air around him trembled as four black rods emerged, their forms shuddering with an unnatural motion.
They were thin but impossibly dense, their edges indistinguishable from the black void they were in. It looked like they were flicking in and out of existence as they consumed the air around them.
Each rod surged with a pulsing energy. They were not still but fluctuating—black flames shifting in shape, ever-changing. Within the black flames, a pure white emerged, engulfing the tips of the flames.
They looked beautiful, exerting a sort of presence upper beings would.
He blinked, ducking, pulling his head backward, his weight low whilst he pivoted on his left foot, dodging the first shadowy rod. Almost instantaneously, the second rod was upon him.
He dodged using his swift movement. He stepped back, moving his right arm, shifting his weight to avoid the strike. His body leaned backward, chest pulling away from the rod's deadly arc. He could feel the intense flame's proximity as it whooshed by him, feeling hotter than the sun in his old realm, making the rod miss his torso.
He got a closer look that time. Each individual flame flickered violently—restless, a malevolent presence that hungered for more than the physical realm.
The gleaming mix of black and white flames came at him from the other side this time, heading directly for his skull. Wasting no time, his body pivoted to the right in one smooth motion, ducking his head to the side. The rod glided through, destroying the very air itself just above his left shoulder, grazing against his hair.
He managed to dodge the third. He got an even better look this time. His perception changed as energy rushed to his eyes, looking into the flames and noticing the two flames were opposites in a way. The black destroyed things in the physical realm, while the white flame—he had to be wary of them. They were much worse, destroying things not of the physical realm, even capable of destroying souls.
The fourth was inevitable, unavoidable. It was too fast—faster than his reaction speed. It was too close. It felt like it was teleporting towards him, glitching in and out of nothingness. The pressure around his body increased as the black flame destroyed everything in its path.
"Schhlch."
The fourth rod pierced his chest, driving through flesh and bone with unnerving precision. Oren stumbled as blood spurted from the wound, staining the edges of his torn robe. His pale white skin quivered faintly, though there was no trace of pain in his expression—only calm determination acceptance.
A world that left me behind
.
.
"
Chap 3-4
Golden sand drifted, swaying with the breeze across the desolate land. There was no life, no structures—nothing. Just an endless ocean of golden sand stretching across the horizon. The world itself mirrored the empty gaze of the being who stood motionless upon it.
Oren Xianrath had successfully traveled into the realm by forging a new tether, creating a soul bond with it.
"It won't last for long," he said, blood oozing down his lips, splattering the golden grains beneath him. "It seems this realm's owner has already died."
He scoffed. "What a waste," he mumbled, voice barely above a whisper.
The truth was simple yet cruel—when the owner of a realm dies, the realm they poured the most into—the one they refined, expanded, and bound themselves to—dies with them. And eventually, all other creations tied to them crumble too, slowly fading into dust.
Oren no longer had a tether to his own realm. He had accepted that. What was in the past was in the past—it couldn't be changed. What was in the future was out of reach—it couldn't be seen. The only thing his presence could impact was the present. That was where he stood now. And there was no changing it.
Blood dripped from his chest down to his feet, cold and slow. He glanced down at the gaping wound carved into him. A deep sigh left his cracked lips. It's not healing… The black flames burned with a malice that made even deities incapable of self-repair. But it was the white flames that unsettled him more—quiet, ghostlike tendrils dancing into his very soul, tearing through its essence.
There was something familiar about them. Not the flames themselves, but the aura—the presence of the creature who wielded them.
He looked up.
Something about the air shifted. Distant skies cracked open as white and black flames surged upward, colliding and twisting into one another. They spiraled, consuming the heavens, devouring the light, and from that spiral, a presence arrived—ripping through the world, forcing its oppressive weight upon the realm like a curse.
He narrowed his eyes, teeth gritting.
"Creature… I might be a deity, but I'm not as honorable as one."
Oren had acted wise in the Nothingness. He had hoped that calm words, a composed face, maybe even a piece of fabricated wisdom would deter the creature's aggression. That it would grow bored. That it would leave. But no—his attempts had failed.
The being had not only rejected his presence—it had tried to obliterate it. Tried to destroy his heart, engulf his soul, and kill him again and again.
Now, the creature stood far off in the sky, different than before. In its hand, it held a massive bow—black as the void, swirling like living shadow. But there was no arrow. Not yet. Instead, a sphere pulsed at the bow's center, expanding gradually, swallowing the air around it.
Oren squinted, shifting his perception. The flames were no longer formless—they were converging. The black flames coiled upward, merging into massive arcs. Then the white ones followed, weaving in between like tendons. The fire twisted, pulsed, then settled into a shape.
A dragon's head—colossal, regal, and terrifying.
The dragon's snout was chiseled from pure flame, its jaws stretched wide in an eternal scream. Its eyes were hollow voids, yet they saw everything. The scales—each a flickering shard of searing fire—shifted across its skeletal face like pieces of living armor. White and black flames danced in tandem, roaring through its nostrils, flowing backward to form a flaming mane that swirled behind it like a stormcloud.
The creature merged with the form, becoming one with the fiery beast. The bow in its hand dissolved into the dragon's throat, and the black orb transformed—solidifying, growing in size until it became a condensed core of annihilation.
Then, the dragon opened its mouth.
A cursed croak echoed from its throat—ancient, twisted, and mournful. The black sphere, now pulsating with raw destruction, launched downward—unleashing a beam that tore the sky in half.
In the depths of Nothingness, a tear blinked out of existence—disintegrating, vanishing completely as the presence of an upper being was lost.
Just then, piercing through the void, came a blade—pitch black, mirroring the Nothingness itself. Vast energy surged through the hilt of the longsword, flowing into its glinted rims, reaching toward the edge of its tip. The sensation it gave off was… alien.
The blade shifted, twisting like the surrounding void. It morphed, stretching into something more—no longer a longsword, but a long staff.
It changed again.
Now, it became a scythe.
Iridescent black and curved like the crescent moon, the weapon glowed faintly with an aura of death. Its presence was unique—unlike anything else. It granted not just destruction but finality.
Nothingness stirred.
A tear emerged once more, and from its center came a presence.
Oren looked up, eyes widening as he sensed something old—something known.
He smiled. "Long time no see."
The world flashed, light surging everywhere as the destructive beam roared toward him. Still, he looked up, unmoving. The presence of death clung to his soul, suffocating him, but he didn't waver. His lips curled slightly. His smile reached his eyes.
There—descending like a god of death—was a black scythe. Even Oren trembled at its beauty and danger. Its blade gleamed, sharp enough to split light. Its staff seemed to reach, almost as if it searched for something it could belong to.
The dragon's scream reached its crescendo, and the beam shot downward in a blink. But just as it struck—
The scythe fell.
It collided with the beam, splitting it in half. A massive explosion engulfed the realm, scattering golden sand and fragments of earth in every direction. The desolate world collapsed, reduced to pieces of floating rubble and burning sky.
Oren stood alone on a shattered piece of land. He reached behind him, retrieving the black scythe. It laid perfectly across his back, blending into his long, jet-black hair.
Thanks to his trusted blade, he was alive.
Above, the being's face twisted with fury as the flames returned to its dark body, reforming the bow. It was smaller now, but more refined—more focused. And somehow… more terrifying.
Then he noticed it.
Not one arrow. Nine.
"Why do you want me dead?" he whispered, eyes narrowing, digging through his memories, trying to recall what he'd done to earn such hatred.
His smile vanished.
Nine arrows—dark as oblivion—descended upon him simultaneously.
The first came fast. He brought his scythe down, slicing through the air and striking the arrow head-on. The iridescent black flame exploded and faded.
He jumped—his feet landing on a nearby fragment of land. The second arrow blitzed toward him, this one pure black, void of any white. It wasn't just fire—it erased everything in its path.
It was heading straight for his gut.
The scythe shifted, the air around it distorting. Something had changed. He danced around the second, the blade whispering through the air. The third arrow came fast, a blend of black and white spiraling in chaotic patterns. He shifted again, this time narrowly deflecting it with the flat of his blade.
Something snapped.
The fourth arrow veered off course—whether intentional or not—and collided with a distant piece of land. The impact exploded like a star, sending a blinding flash of light and golden sand flying.
Still, Oren could see perfectly.
His body began to shake, a hoarse breath escaping his lips. Altering the perception of a being that strong had drained him. He leapt from platform to platform, dodging each rod of flame with fading agility.
Then suddenly—it was in front of him.
The creature.
It sliced downward, black flames pouring from its hand like a blade of smoke.
Spplt.
Oren spat blood, droplets painting the creature's face.
I can only use it once more, he thought. Then I'm out.
He stared into its eyes, changing its perception. He ran.
The creature, deceived, turned and sprinted in the opposite direction.
That was all he could manage.
Eyes closing, he willed himself out of the realm. The embrace of Nothingness wrapped around him. He looked down at his chest—at the wound that still refused to close. Blood spilled freely, mixing with the remnants of his heart, dripping into Nothingness where it vanished.
With the last of his energy, he gazed inward—at his soul.
There, it writhed. Corrupted.
He focused, willing it away. It resisted. Again, and again, he tried.
Until a thought whispered in his mind. Use your essence, not your energy.
He obeyed.
His vision blurred. He reached deeper, reinforcing his will with something far more primal.
The corruption faded.
The golden string of his soul shimmered back into view.
He grasped it.
He pulled.
A smile crept across his face.
Above him, he saw a beautiful world. Below him, solid ground.
It felt the opposite of Nothingness. It felt like everything.
He collapsed, bloodied, body broken. His eyes were distant. His hair wild. But he looked up—pushing with the last of his effort.
In the distance… a figure approached.
His vision faded