Life can be a blessing as much as it can be a curse. It all depends on luck, ability, and mentality. Again and again throughout history, the life of some had been worth more than the life of others.

"He" knows this best. With no name to speak of, and no memories of where and when it all started, all "he" can do is fight an unknown force that won't allow "him" the most basic right at life, but is living in itself a grand enough goal?

Because cultures, times, people, and the will of gods differ, somebody's life can never be like somebody else's. Of course, adding magic to everything can even shatter the fragile concept of life.

Even so, be it a slow start or a luxurious life, the same fate would always drag "him" back.

Who was at fault? Who deserved to be punished? "He" didn't know, but the one truth in "his" life was that death wasn't the end.





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Darkness is born from a lack of light. To see nothing means it is too dark. But to feel dark does not mean to feel nothing.


There is no problem with my sight, for I have none. There is no problem with my sense of touch, for I have none.


I would say that I do not have a body, but that would be a lie, because I can move. I can move, but I am too scared to try.


This is what it means to feel dark. I feel fear, loneliness, unease, and discomfort. It hurts, but I can't point to where the pain is. I have a body, but I can't feel it. I exist, but I am nowhere. I am disconnected from this world. I could be in a void or lying on the ground; I could not tell the difference either way.


I've been here time and time again, but I don't know where 'here' is. All I know is that I've failed once again.


I try to stretch my hand, but the unknown scares me, so I curl myself into a ball as much as I can. I know the moves, but I don't know if I managed to do anything. I wonder what I look like from the outside, if there even is an 'outside.'


It hurts. I don't know what exactly, but it feels like something is rotting. I feel old, like I have been here since before time existed. I feel cold, as if every atom froze in place.


Something is here, or is it someone? I can't tell. There are many; they want something from me. I wonder what they look like. How do they feel? I can feel their presence, but I can't feel them.


I want to encourage myself; I want to think that they are friendly. Maybe if I speak, they will answer.


I spoke, but I don't know if anything got out. I can't hear, so why would I be able to speak? Is this how it feels to be a corpse?


If I am a corpse, why am I conscious? Why am I not dead?


I want answers, but I have none. I try to search for anything in my memory, but I have no memories. I am here, but I don't know why. I am here again, but I don't know when I was here last.


I want to try again, but I don't know what to try.


Chapter 5 - Interlude 1