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.