The void was absolute.
Not darkness—darkness was merely the absence of light, and Alexander Nox had known darkness before. He had lived in it, breathed it, built empires from it. This was something else entirely. This was the absence of everything. No up, no down, no sound, no temperature, no self. Just an endless, timeless suspension between the tick of one second and the tock of the next.
He had been here for what felt like both an eternity and a single, compressed heartbeat.
The last thing he remembered was the sting of the blade. A professional job—he had to give his killer that much credit. A three-inch slit across the throat, precise and economical, delivered from behind in the underground car park of his penthouse. He had seen the reflection in the polished black granite of the wall. A man he didn't recognize. A man who was likely just a tool. One of the many loose ends he had accumulated over sixteen years of climbing the mountain of sin had finally wrapped themselves around his neck and pulled tight.
He remembered the wet gasp, the hot spray of blood on his own chin, the feeling of his knees buckling as the most valuable currency in the world—his own life—drained out onto the cold concrete. He didn't feel anger, not really. It was a professional hazard. He had ended dozens of lives with less thought than most people gave to ordering lunch. It was only fair that someone, eventually, would return the favor. The game had simply reached its final move.
And now? Now there was this. The void.
He had no body to feel with, no eyes to see with, but he was aware. His thoughts, the very core of his consciousness, persisted. It was an irritation, really. He had assumed death was the end. A full stop. The closing of a particularly long and sordid chapter. But here he was, still thinking. Still existing. It was inefficient.
Time passed. Or didn't. In this place, the concepts were meaningless.
Then, the void changed.
It was a subtle shift, like a single note in an infinite silence. A presence coalesced from the nothing, not approaching, but simply becoming. There was no form to it, no light or shadow, but Alexander could perceive it with a clarity that defied explanation. It felt vast. Ancient. It felt like the stillness at the bottom of the ocean, and the cold indifference of the space between stars.
Then, the being spoke. The voice did not travel through air, for there was none. It resonated directly within the core of his consciousness, a deep, resonant hum that was both terrifying and utterly mundane, like the sound of existence itself.
"An interesting residue. So much intent, so much will. It has been a long while since a soul has remained this... intact... upon arrival."
Alexander did not respond. He simply observed, cataloging this new variable. A cosmic entity? A god of death? An administrator for the afterlife? It didn't matter. What mattered was what it wanted.
"You are aware of your state?" the being asked, a hint of amusement coloring its timeless voice. "You are dead, Alexander Nox. Your physical form has ceased to function."
"I am aware," Alexander's thought projected into the void, devoid of fear or surprise. "Is this the part where you judge me? Weigh my heart against a feather? Send me to a paradise or a pit of fire?"
A low, rumbling chuckle echoed through the nothingness. "How delightfully provincial. No. I am not a judge. I am merely... an observer. A facilitator of transitions. However, your case is peculiar. You accumulated a significant amount of negative karma. Murder, fraud, arson, the manipulation of souls through addiction and despair. A rather impressive resume of transgressions, for a mortal."
Alexander felt nothing at the recitation. It was simply a fact. "And?"
"And yet," the being continued, its voice shifting to one of genuine curiosity, "the positive karma outweighs it. Significantly."
For the first time in this dimensionless space, Alexander felt a flicker of something. Surprise. "That's impossible. You just listed my career."
"I listed the crimes of Alexander Nox, the man," the being clarified. "But you were also the anonymous benefactor who funded seventeen research grants for incurable diseases. You were the patron who established three dozen scholarships for orphans. You were the 'ghost investor' who bailed out a failing pharmaceutical company on the condition they sell life-saving drugs at cost. You donated millions to libraries, to historical preservation societies, to environmental funds. The good you did, the lives you improved, the suffering you alleviated through your wealth... it eclipses the suffering you caused directly."
Silence stretched between them as Alexander processed this. He hadn't done those things out of goodness. He had done them because they were useful. A web of connections. A safety net. A reputation, even a secret one, was a tool. Goodwill was a currency more valuable than gold in certain circles. It was simple risk management.
"I see," he thought, the flicker of surprise gone, replaced by a cold, analytical calm. "So what is the verdict? I get the VIP suite in paradise?"
Another chuckle, this one drier. "Nothing so simple. Your balance sheet is in the black. It grants you a privilege denied to most. You have a choice."
"A choice," Alexander echoed, the word hanging in the void.
"Yes. You may proceed to the conventional afterlife designated for souls of your... caliber. It is pleasant enough, I am told. Or, you may choose another path."
"And what path is that?"
"You may select a world. Any world of fiction, of imagination, of dream. A universe crafted by the minds of your kind. You will be reborn there, with certain... boons... to aid your journey."
Alexander's consciousness, for the first time, sharpened with focus. A second chance. Not just a continuation, but a selection. Power in a world of his choosing. This was not a gift; this was a transaction, though he couldn't yet see the full price.
"Why?" he asked. "Why offer this? What's in it for you?"
The presence seemed to ripple with approval. "Sharp. Always a good sign. Let us say I am a collector of interesting stories. I facilitate them. Watching what a soul like yours does when given agency and a new playground... that is its own reward. Think of me as a patron of the arts. The art of existence."
Alexander considered. He didn't trust the being, of course. But trust was irrelevant. Opportunity was all that mattered. He reviewed his mental catalogue, the thousands of books and games and stories he had consumed in his rare moments of downtime. Worlds of magic, of science, of horror and wonder. One stood out. A world of Victorian-era gloom, of eldritch gods lurking beyond the stars, of dangerous potions and maddening knowledge. A world where power was everything, and the price of failure was insanity or death.
A world that was perfectly suited to someone like him.
"Lord of the Mysteries," he projected.
The void hummed with interest. "Ah. A fine choice. A dangerous world. The corruption from the cosmos, the madness from knowledge... it consumes most. Why that one?"
Alexander's thoughts were cold, clear, and utterly without sentiment. "Because it's a game. A complicated, brutal game with the highest possible stakes. The rules are clear: gain power, or be destroyed. There's no false morality, no hidden hand of 'good' ensuring a happy ending. It's survival of the fittest and the smartest. I understand that game. I've been playing it my whole life."
He paused, then added, "Also, the aesthetics are appealing. The gloom. The fog. The rain. It matches my mood."
The being's laughter was genuine this time, a sound like distant thunder rolling across an impossible sky. "Magnificent. You are not seeking redemption, nor adventure, nor love. You are seeking a more interesting game. I appreciate your honesty, Alexander Nox. It is a rare commodity, especially among the newly dead."
"I want protection," Alexander stated, cutting to the negotiation. "From the outer cosmos. From the corruption of the primordial ones. From the madness that comes from knowing things man was not meant to know. Full immunity until I reach the level of an Angel. I won't build a house on a foundation of sand."
"Bold. The corruption is part of the world's fabric. To be immune is to be... outside of it."
"Is it possible?"
A long pause. "For a soul such as yours, with a patron such as myself? Yes. It can be done. It will cost you a portion of your narrative inertia, but it can be done. Granted."
"And my own Sefirot. And my own Pathway."
The void seemed to still. The being's attention, already immense, focused on him like the lens of a solar array. "A Sefirot? The very source of a god's power? You aim high, little ghost."
"I don't see the point in aiming low. If I'm going to play the game, I'll play to win. I have a design. A Pathway I saw once, a long time ago, on a forgotten corner of the internet. It was called the Null Pathway. It represented Independence and Ending. Freedom from fate. That suits me."
He projected the memory of the sequence names, the concepts, the core philosophy. Crowkeeper. Elegist. Futhark Expert. Ruin Arcanist. Revenant Possessor. Name Magister. Storyteller. Distant Lord. Causeless One. Null. And its Sefirot, the Forsaken Labyrinthine.
The being was silent for a long, agonizing moment. When it spoke, its voice was laced with a strange mix of admiration and warning. "Null. The authority to end things. To separate. To free from fate. It is a lonely path. A solitary throne. It is, as you say, interesting. And overpowered, if utilized correctly. The other gods will not understand you. They will fear you. They will seek to destroy you. To be truly independent is to be truly alone. Do you understand this?"
Alexander understood. He had been alone since he was thirteen years old, tossed out of the Nox family mansion like garbage because his mother's infidelity had made him an inconvenience. He had clawed his way through the system, run away at seventeen, and built an empire from the gutter. He had trusted no one, loved no one, needed no one. Loneliness was not a fear; it was a familiar, cold comfort.
"I understand."
"Then it is done. The Null Pathway is yours. The Forsaken Labyrinthine will anchor itself to your soul. And you will have your immunity. You will walk through the spiritual world untouched, hear the whispers of the Outer Deities as meaningless static. Until you become an Angel. After that... you are on your own."
"Acceptable."
"Now, for your insertion. You will arrive three years before the main events of the story begin. The year 1346 on the Loen calendar. No family to tie you down—you were right to request that. Families are liabilities. Instead, you will have an identity. A man who inherited a thriving business from a distant, reclusive uncle. A business that is, conveniently, a legitimate front for the import and export of various goods. A lot of warehouses, a lot of paperwork, a lot of opportunity."
Alexander listened, cataloging the details.
"You will wake in a large house in the Empress Borough of Backlund. It has a garden, servant quarters, and is fully paid for. In the bank, under your name, you will find fifteen thousand pounds. More than enough to begin. Your business, Nox Imports, is established and profitable. All of this will be supported by false memories that will settle into your mind, a history that feels as real as your own. The inheritance, the growth, the quiet life of a moderately successful merchant. The canvas is blank. The paint is yours."
Alexander felt something shift in the void. A door, not of light, but of pure potential, was opening beneath him.
"A final question, Alexander Nox," the being's voice came, softer now. "Do you regret anything? Your mother's betrayal? The family that threw you away? The lives you took? Any of it?"
He thought of his mother's face, averted and ashamed. His father's cold, final decree. The years of hunger and cold. The first time he had held a knife to another man's throat, feeling the pulse of terror beneath his fingers. The mountains of money. The empty penthouse. The blade that ended it all.
"No," he thought, with absolute certainty. "I regret nothing. And if the same thing happened again, I would do it all exactly the same. Every crime. Every kill. Every cold, calculated step. It made me who I am. And who I am is enough."
The void was silent. The being, for all its cosmic power, seemed to have no response to such absolute, unflinching self-acceptance.
"Then go, Alexander Nox," it finally said, its voice a whisper on the edge of existence. "Go and play your game. I shall be watching with great interest. I hope this life proves to be... more interesting than the last."
As the darkness swirled and the pull of the door became irresistible, a final, silent thought echoed from Alexander into the void.
I'm sure it will be.
---
The first sensation was warmth.
Not the oppressive, blood-soaked heat of his death, but the soft, enveloping warmth of a high-quality featherbed and thick linen sheets. The second sensation was the texture of silk against his cheek. The third was the smell—polished wood, faint floral notes from a vase somewhere, and the clean, crisp scent of morning air filtered through expensive curtains.
Consciousness returned to Alexander Nox not as a flood, but as a slow, deliberate dawn.
He opened his eyes.
The ceiling above him was ornately decorated, with intricate plaster moldings forming geometric patterns around a central point where a gas lamp, currently unlit, hung on a polished brass chain. The room was bathed in a dim, grey light filtering through heavy velvet curtains. It was the light of a cloudy morning, the kind he had read about in descriptions of Loen's capital. The light of Backlund.
He lay still for a full minute, taking inventory. He could feel his heart beating, slow and steady. He could feel his lungs expand and contract. He could feel the slight ache in his muscles that spoke of a long, deep sleep. He was alive. He was here.
And then, the memories came.
They did not crash over him like a wave; they seeped into him like water into parched earth, insidious and complete. He saw a childhood, not his own, but one that was now his. A kind-faced man, his "uncle" Alistair Nox, teaching him to read in this very house. The grief at Alistair's funeral two years ago, a grief that felt genuine and painful, even though he knew, on a fundamental level, that the man had never existed. He saw himself—Alexander Nox, a quiet, reserved young man of twenty-two—taking over the family business. He saw ledgers and warehouses and handshakes with men in dark suits. He saw long walks in the garden, solitary dinners, and nights spent reading by the fireplace. He saw a life of quiet, comfortable solitude. A perfect, blank slate.
The false memories settled into place, locking with his true ones like the tumblers of a complex lock. He was two people now, and yet, he was only one. The core—the cold, calculating, ambitious core of the man who had died in a car park—remained untouched. The new memories were just... context. A foundation.
Alexander Nox, the reborn, sat up slowly.
The bedroom was exactly as the being had described. Large, well-appointed, with heavy mahogany furniture and a marble-topped vanity. A gilt-framed mirror stood in one corner. He swung his legs out of bed and walked to the window, his bare feet silent on the thick carpet. He pulled the curtain aside.
Grey, damp light filled the room. He looked out over a sprawling garden, neat and formal, with gravel paths and manicured hedges. Beyond the garden wall, he could see the rooftops of other grand houses, and further still, the haze of a massive city. Smoke rose from a thousand chimneys, mingling with the low-hanging clouds. In the distance, the mighty Tussock River snaked through the metropolis, its surface the color of dull pewter.
Backlund. The City of Cities. The Land of Hope. The Capital of Dust.
A low fog clung to the streets, and even from here, through the closed window, he could almost feel the clammy chill that was the city's perpetual companion.
Alexander Nox looked at his reflection in the windowpane. A stranger's face stared back. Younger. Handsome, in a sharp, angular way. Dark hair, grey eyes that were the same shade as the morning sky. It was a face that held no history, no pain, no softness. It was a new mask for an old soul.
He watched a servant—a maid in a simple black dress and white apron—cross the garden path below, her breath misting in the cold air. She didn't look up. She didn't know her master had just died and been reborn.
Alexander felt the corner of his mouth twitch. It was almost a smile. Not a warm one, but the satisfied expression of a chess player seeing the board laid out before him, all the pieces in their starting positions.
Three years until the Fool awakens. Three years to build his foundation. Three years to learn the rules of this new, dangerous game. Three years to begin walking the Null Pathway, to explore the depths of the Forsaken Labyrinthine, to transform from a simple merchant into something... more.
He turned from the window and looked back at the luxurious room. The four-poster bed. The bookshelf filled with leather-bound volumes. The ornate clock on the mantelpiece, ticking away the seconds of his new life.
He felt no joy. No fear. No excitement.
He felt only a deep, quiet satisfaction. The game was afoot. And this time, he intended to win.
A soft knock came at the door.
"Mr. Nox, sir?" a timid female voice called. "It's seven in the morning. Shall I draw your bath?"
Alexander Nox, the unwanted child, the runaway, the criminal, the millionaire, the dead man, looked at the door. He took a slow, deep breath, feeling the cool air fill his new lungs.
"Yes," he said, his voice calm and even. "Please do."
As the maid scurried away, he turned back to the window, to the grey city sprawled beneath the heavy sky which held a crimson moon, The fog was thick today. It was going to be a gloomy morning.
Perfect.