[Here's a continuation of Season 1 Chapter 2: Life Background, seamlessly flowing from where we left off, deepening Oliver's introspection and showing his daily routine. This keeps the tone melancholic but grounded, with touches of dry realism and emotional subtlety.]
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Season 1 Chapter 2: Life Background (Continued)
Oliver moved through his days like a ghost—awake but not living, present but fading.
He'd wake up sometime between 10 and noon. Not out of laziness, but because the morning meant nothing anymore. His phone was the first thing he touched—notifications, news headlines, half-read texts, political scandals, economic forecasts, celebrity drama, wars that never quite erupted. He scrolled through it all, barely reacting, thumb numb from repetition.
He'd lie there for hours sometimes, staring at the ceiling between scrolls, listening to the ceiling fan tick-tick-tick like a broken metronome. Eventually, hunger or guilt would push him out of bed.
A microwave burrito. Generic coffee. Lukewarm, bitter. He didn't eat much anymore, not out of discipline but apathy. The food had no taste, and neither did the day.
Then came the "job hunt."
A rotating carousel of career websites, corporate applications, automated rejections. Sometimes he'd rewrite his resume. Sometimes he'd record a cover letter video that no one would watch. Most times, he just clicked "Apply" and moved on, knowing it would vanish into a black hole of digital silence.
Every now and then, he'd get a call. A recruiter with too much enthusiasm offering a "great opportunity" that turned out to be commission-only sales, shady insurance gigs, or warehouses that wanted bodies, not people.
The rest of the day blurred. YouTube spirals. Reddit arguments he didn't care about. A walk to the corner store for air, not groceries. Music. Podcasts. Half-written Google Docs filled with unfinished stories, outlines, and dreams.
He used to write. Really write. Worlds, characters, lore, systems. Not for likes or follows, just for the feeling of it. But the words didn't come like they used to. It was like some part of him had been buried under layers of noise, distraction, and fatigue.
Sometimes, he'd stare at a blank screen for hours.
Other times, he wouldn't even try.
His room looked like a half-forgotten storage unit. Posters peeling from old walls. A bookshelf crammed with novels and manga he hadn't touched in years. A dusty drawing tablet in the corner. His bed, always unmade. His desk, cluttered with tech and tangled cables—reminders of projects that never left the "idea" stage.
And then came night.
The worst part.
Because that's when the quiet set in. The world would go still, and there was nothing left to distract him from the creeping thought:
> Is this it?
Was this what life was supposed to be? A cycle of empty routines, invisible dreams, and missed potential?
He used to believe he was meant for something. That there was more. Not in a delusional, chosen-one kind of way—just a sense. A pull. A whisper that his mind, his creativity, his restlessness wasn't meant to rot behind a screen in a dying system.
But every day that passed, that whisper got quieter.
Until all he could hear was static.
And yet…
Beneath the dust, behind the silence, a door was waiting.
Not a metaphorical one.
A real one.
Not of this Earth.
And it would change everything.
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[Here's a continuation of the Page, flowing directly from where we left off. The transition from Oliver's mundane Earth life to the moment of supernatural disruption is written with a grounded tone and slow-burn surrealism, culminating in the celestial encounter with the Black Tortoise—all while preserving Oliver's perspective and emotional state.]
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Prologue Chapter 0 (Continued): The Rift and the Choice
It was late afternoon when Oliver dragged himself outside with a small basket of laundry—some worn jeans, shirts with faded logos, and the same hoodie he wore nearly every day. The Florida humidity clung to him like a second skin. He didn't even bother checking the forecast. His phone was inside. Dead. Again.
The sky was overcast, gray and brooding. A slight drizzle began as he reached the old rusted clothesline behind his parents' house. No one really used it anymore. But the dryer had been acting up, and he didn't feel like hearing another lecture about the electric bill.
As he clipped a shirt to the line, a sudden gust of wind tore it from his hand. The sky deepened from gray to a strange, pale blue, like the color had been drained and inverted. Then came the ringing—subtle at first, like tinnitus—growing louder, resonating through the air, the ground, his teeth.
He turned, eyes narrowing.
The space around him shimmered, like heat waves on pavement. Then it twisted.
Reality folded inward. Sound collapsed. Time slowed.
Before he could scream, think, or run—
The world shattered.
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When he awoke, the rain was gone. The air was still—unnaturally still. Oliver lay on a stone floor that felt warm to the touch, polished like obsidian yet etched with shifting constellations beneath the surface. He groaned, rolling to his side, vision swimming.
Above him stood a figure as ancient as the stars.
The Black Tortoise.
Colossal. Elegant. Towering like a divine sculpture—black shell marked with veins of glowing green and silver. Eyes that shimmered like galaxies stared down at him, deep and unreadable. A long, spiraling beard of vines and aurora-hued threads drifted like smoke from its chin. Its voice, when it came, didn't echo—it simply existed, resonating directly in Oliver's soul.
> "You are not chosen by this universe," the Black Tortoise said, its voice calm but infinite. "And yet… you are here."
Oliver stood, unsteady. His throat was dry. "What is this place?"
> "The Celestial North Palace," the Tortoise answered. "A realm between matter and memory. You passed through an invisible fracture in time—a crack not meant for mortal eyes."
The air hummed with power, yet felt gentle—like ancient earth after rain. Light filtered in from no sun, only auroras that danced in the ceilingless sky. It was beautiful. Terrifying. Real.
> "Long ago, one like you passed through such a rift… ten thousand years past. Their name is not for you to know. But your presence… it echoes them."
Oliver blinked. "You've... seen someone like me before?"
> "Once."
He didn't ask more. Something told him this being only said what it wanted to—and nothing more.
> "Oliver of Earth," the Black Tortoise continued, "you have two paths before you. One, return to your broken home, unchanged. Or two: remain here in Eloria… as an Outside One—an anomaly with no fate written. But be warned: you are not ready. This realm is vast, and its laws are not like your own."
Oliver swallowed hard. This didn't feel like a dream. It was too raw. Too weighty.
But Earth? That life?
He remembered the applications. The silence. The cold, dead weight in his chest.
> "I… I'll stay."
The Tortoise lowered its massive head slightly, as though in approval.
> "Then you shall begin again. Body and spirit must match your journey."
The light shifted. Symbols beneath Oliver's feet glowed. His body trembled—and began to shrink.
He gasped, falling to his knees as the world grew impossibly larger. His hands shrank. His voice cracked. Bones compressed. In seconds, the man was gone.
A six-year-old boy remained—clutching his sides, wide-eyed and breathless.
> "You still carry all your memories," said the Tortoise, gently. "Your mind remains whole. Fear not—this form will grow again, and in Eloria, time does not pass as it does in your world."
"I-I'm a kid," Oliver whispered, voice high-pitched, eyes wide with confusion.
> "You are young… because you must be. But you are not helpless."
The world spun again. The stars moved.
And Oliver vanished.
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He reappeared in a room.
Modern. Sleek. Clean.
Wooden floors, a soft bed, a desk with a working computer, charging cables, even a mini-fridge humming gently in the corner. A window looked out to a city skyline—not of Earth, clouds drifted silently between towers. A icy white pure crescent moon hovered low and pale in a dark blue sky.
He looked down.
Different clothes—simple gray tunic, shorts, and sandals. His limbs felt strange, shorter, lighter. The world seemed bigger now, not just metaphorically.
He stepped to the mirror on the wall.
A six-year-old stared back. Brown eyes wide with disbelief. His face was the same... but smaller. Softer. A child again.
All his memories remained.
Everything.
He touched the glass. "There's no going back… is there?"
The room was silent.
And somewhere outside that room, Eloria waited.
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