The world was a blank canvas—void and infinite.
No color. No shape. No sound.
Just silence, stretching without breath or border.
A man in a tattered black trench coat stood alone, his breath fading into stillness.
His name was Sightless.
Or perhaps, it had been.
He had expected something else—a world forgotten by gods, not one abandoned by existence itself.
He was supposed to arrive where the stories began.
But this… this was not transmigration.
This was rejection.
[The world you sought is not here.]
[The gate has closed. The ink has dried.]
[You are not lost. You are… unwritten.]
Cold seeped through his bones, though there was no air.
His pen was gone. His book—vanished.
Even thought itself felt foreign, like memory slipping off a page soaked in white.
He stepped forward.
There was no earth. No gravity.
Only void.
Only the ache of a beginning denied.
[Some souls awaken with gifts. Others awaken in grief.]
[What you see is what remains.]
[Write… or be forgotten.]
His fists trembled.
He could scream, but the silence would smother it.
He could despair, but despair had no name here.
So he walked.
One step, then another.
Not because the void yielded—but because his will tore through it like a blade across parchment.
A shimmer passed through the endless white.
A flicker. A shape. A lie.
Gone.
But it was enough.
Something stirred inside—not strength. Not power.
But meaning.
If fate had abandoned him, he would abandon fate.
He would walk this world—this place of memory erased.
He would remember what the world chose to forget.
He would write what even gods feared to see.
[To write in emptiness is to defy erasure.]
[To witness the void is to restore color.]
[The first page begins.]