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Darkness stretched infinitely in every direction.
No stars. No light. No sound. Only emptiness—endless, suffocating, eternal. Time itself seemed paused, swallowed by the void.
Amidst the nothingness, a lone figure floated. At first, he seemed lifeless, a fragment of the void itself. His clothes were torn, ragged remnants of battles fought long ago. Scars traced every inch of his body, some deep and fresh, others faded, like echoes of countless wars. His chest barely rose and fell, yet the faintest tremor in a single finger betrayed a spark of awareness.
For a long moment, he remained still, suspended between oblivion and consciousness, as if contemplating the weight of his existence. His eyes, though shadowed, seemed to stare past the void itself, searching for a meaning unseen.
Then, in a voice soft enough to be swallowed by the darkness yet sharp in its intent, he whispered:
"Maybe… I was never meant to be the protagonist."
The void remained silent, indifferent.
"Perhaps… this is for the best."
The figure lingered there a heartbeat longer, a calm before the storm, the stillness of one who has endured beyond reckoning. And then, with a shift in posture, a spark of life ignited. His voice rang out, cutting through the emptiness, resolute and commanding:
"Break time… over."
The void seemed to tremble at the declaration, and in that instant, the weight of what was to come pressed against the edges of nothingness—a story beginning where no story had dared to tread.
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