The void stretched infinitely around Nate.
There was no up or down, no stars or familiar shapes, only a vast, black emptiness that pressed on him in a way that felt almost tangible.
Even so, his eyes instinctively sought the throne that had drawn him here. It was enormous, carved from light and shadow and something else he could not name.
The being atop it remained hidden, cloaked in an aura that was more presence than figure.
Nate's mind raced. Is this a god? Am I dead?
He shifted, trying to steady himself. "Alright, let's… not panic," he muttered, a faint smirk tugging at his lips despite the unease curling in his stomach.
Without asking, the voice spoke.
It resonated through the void, deep and deliberate, carrying a weight that seemed to vibrate the very nothing around him.
"I will tell you of my first creations. They were my children, my companions, and my reflection. I drew them from my essence, crafted them from fragments of my mind, and imbued them with powers that rivaled the cosmos. Yet, in their pride, they sought to overthrow me. They believed themselves my equals. They believed themselves my successors."
Nate swallowed, trying to keep his voice steady. "Right… typical story. Creator makes stuff, stuff gets cocky, then gets wrecked. Pretty standard."
A pause. Then the voice continued, calmer now, almost reflective. "I subdued them. One by one, their arrogance shattered before me. Worlds burned. Stars perished. Even the currents of time faltered under the weight of their rebellion. And yet, victory brought no joy. Only solitude."
Nate tilted his head. "Solitude, huh… that's supposed to be deep, I guess? Not really feeling it."
He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to keep his confidence intact.
The voice, patient and commanding, did not falter. "In my solitude, I created again, but differently. I wrote. Tales, histories, entire worlds. One particular story drew attention—an overpowered protagonist, righteous yet flawed, surrounded by a harem, haunted by a tragic past, seeking justice in a world stacked against him. Mortals would read it. They would laugh, cry, and cheer, for the story was alive across realms."
Nate's brow furrowed. "Sounds… pretty generic, honestly. I mean, it's flashy and all, but—" He paused. "I guess you think it's a masterpiece?"
The voice chuckled softly, a sound that seemed to ripple through the void. "You have judged without understanding. And yet, your honesty intrigues me. Very well."
A strange pull began tugging at the edges of Nate's consciousness, an invisible thread weaving around him, beckoning.
He felt both drawn forward and hesitant, uncertainty crawling in his chest.
"You will enter the story you have read. You will reshape it. Make it better. Make it worthy," the voice said.
Its tone was calm, measured, yet there was an unspoken weight beneath the words. "Only then will the promise of succession bear meaning."
Nate froze, furrowing his brow. Succession? Wait… what does he even mean by that? Am I… supposed to replace him or something?
He clenched his fists, but kept the thought to himself.
The pull in his chest tugged harder, the void warping and bending around him.
The voice let out a quiet, almost imperceptible chuckle. "Curious," it murmured, unseen. "He wonders, yet he does not ask. Perhaps he will amuse me."
Nate blinked, trying to orient himself as the void seemed to fold around him, stretching, twisting, and reshaping.
He felt an almost physical tug, a gentle but insistent force pulling him toward the story.
The details of the world he had known—the streets, the grocery store, the mundane worries of life—slipped away like water through fingers.
"Alright," he muttered, adjusting his backpack that didn't exist here, forcing his voice to sound steadier than he felt. "Guess I'm… going somewhere new. Cool."
The throne remained silent, the being above it still hidden, watching.
Nate felt a mixture of exhilaration and unease as the pull intensified, dragging him into threads of ink and imagination.
Shadows of a world began to form around him, hazy and undefined, but unmistakably alive.
And then, as the first colors and shapes of the story began to solidify around him, he muttered to himself with a hint of nervous amusement, "Well… this might actually get interesting."
Alone on the throne, Eltharion allowed a faint smile to curve his lips.
"Interesting?" he murmured softly, a quiet note of amusement in the void. "Let us see if he will truly amuse me."