[Mc's pov.]
One hundred quintillion times.
That's the last number I remember counting to. Not because it was exact, but because I finally gave up trying to keep track. I've long since lost count of how many times I have either reincarnated or transmigrated into countless worlds.
The numbers stopped meaning anything a long time ago. They're just… too much. Too vast to hold in a mind that was never meant to stretch that far.
It may be more. It is probably far more. I try to imagine it sometimes, the sheer weight of all those lifetimes I have lived and lost, and it makes my head spin. Each world, each existence, passes by so quickly now that they blend together, a haze of faces, places, and choices I barely remember making.
Death itself has become meaningless, just another step that I move through without pause, without care.
I used to think that remembering would save me. That if I held on tightly enough to the past, I could somehow keep myself whole, keep myself anchored to who I am. But memory has its limits.
My mind has been stretched thin across more lives than it was ever meant to carry. Entire worlds vanish from recollection, entire people I thought I knew cease to exist in my mind. And still, I keep going.
What remains is not a count. It is not a record. It is a weight. A quiet, constant heaviness that settles over me no matter where I am or who I am. I don't know when the first life ended, or if it ever truly did.
All I know is that I have lived too long, that I have endured too much, and that even the word "forever" feels small next to the emptiness I carry.
And yet, I am still here. Somehow, against reason, against chances, I live.
----
----
All of it began on a peaceful Sunday, the kind of lazy Sunday where the world feels paused, and I found myself sprawled on my couch, hurriedly scrolling through the last few chapters of the novel I had been devouring for weeks.
I was an avid webnovel reader, the kind who drowned himself in stories to escape the harshness of reality. Maybe it was cowardly. Maybe it was pathetic. But it was still better than drugs, better than alcohol, better than slowly rotting away in silence.
In those worlds, I could forget who I was, forget where I stood, forget how empty my life sometimes felt.
My parents? They had long since left this world, leaving me alone in it. No goodbyes. No second chances. Just silence. All they left behind was this house and a stack of memories that hurt too much to touch. This place was my inheritance, my shelter, and sometimes, my prison.
I was… comfortable. Content, even. I had enough money, all from their hard-earned savings. Some people liked to judge me for that.
"What use is it that you are enjoying the hard work of your parents?" they would say, with righteous expressions and empty words.
And I would reply, honestly, "I simply don't care. Every comfort I have is soaked in their exhaustion. I carry it whether I acknowledge it or not. I live in it every day. I didn't ask for it, but I won't reject it either. I just want to live. And it's funny how you're so eager to count my parents' efforts when you can't even count your own achievements."
Harsh? Maybe. Arrogant? Probably. But it was the truth.
Yes, I might sound like a spoiled, privileged brat. Like someone who never struggled, who never suffered. But all I ever wanted was comfort and love. Stability. Warmth. Things every human being craves, whether they admit it or not.
And stories gave me that. In their own strange way, they filled the gaps my life couldn't.
That night, I finally reached the last chapter.
I stared at the screen for a long moment before reading it, then let out a slow, exhausted sigh. The journey had been long and painful and beautiful all at once. I had spent far too much time on this novel. Days. Nights. Weeks of my life poured into following someone else's story.
I was too invested.
Too attached.
And I wasn't ready for it to end.
Excerpt from the novel:
[It became too much for me to bear.
I couldn't take it anymore.
This world was cursed… and it had cursed my life along with it.
They praised me as a hero.
They raised statues in my name. Sang songs about my victories. Spoke of me as if I were some kind of legend, a savior sent by fate itself.
But when my friends died?
When my family was torn away from me?
No one stood by my side.
No one offered comfort.
No one reached out.
They only watched.
Silent. Indifferent. Cold.
They were all the same.
A bunch of hypocrites, hiding behind smiles and gratitude, using me and my talent for their own benefit. Using my blood, my pain, my sacrifices, to build their fragile sense of peace.
I was never a hero to them.
I was a tool.
Nothing more.
And when a tool breaks…
It gets thrown away.
I laughed.
A broken, hollow sound.
Then, I looked inward.
Past my flesh.
Past my bones.
Past my soul.
Toward the very core of my power.
The source of everything I was.
Everything I had become.
I willed it to collapse.
To fold in on itself.
To erase me.
To erase everything.
For a single moment, there was silence.
And in the next…
I was gone.
So was this desolate world.]
"What the fuck? Why?" I shouted aloud, my voice cracking with utter despair, as my eyes skimmed the final lines. The main character had detonated himself, obliterating not only his own existence but his entire verse in the process.
What the actual fuck? The MC had destroyed his own verse? I couldn't even process it. It felt absurd, almost insulting, like a cruel joke at my expense.
The story had been exquisite until now, the character development, the plot, every twist and turn, absolute perfection, fragile and precious. And now this. Why? Why would the author opt for such an ending when there were countless other ways, better ways, to conclude the story?
The protagonist was a masterpiece of sadness, despair, and quiet, simmering hatred. He had lost too much along the way, endured suffering that should have broken any mortal soul. Plot armor? Nearly nonexistent.
Every few hundred chapters, someone from the main cast was mercilessly erased from existence. The protagonist fought as hard as he could, but fate resisted him every single time, forcing him to witness the deaths of those he loved. People were wiped out like they were nothing more than disposable trash.
Fueled by a mix of rage and despair, I grabbed my phone and began typing a review, hammering at the screen with rough, hurried keystrokes. "Such a horrid novel… and done. Hopefully the author will realize his mistakes." I hit send, feeling the release of frustration wash over me, a small, fleeting comfort.
Within minutes, the review began to gain traction. Likes, comments, shares, it spread faster than I expected. And then, of course, the inevitable happened: the author himself noticed.
A chime on my phone signaled a reply. I opened it, squinting at the text that made my stomach twist with both incredulity and amusement:
"So you choose war, huh? You dare question my work? Horrid? It's your tastes that are horrid. Let's see if you do any better, arrogant mortal!"
I nearly laughed aloud. Arrogant mortal? What the hell did he think of himself? The audacity. The sheer absurdity. It was ridiculous, almost comical, and yet… unsettling. I slammed my phone down on the couch, letting it slide aside with a deliberate force that emphasized my irritation and disbelief.
Shaking my head, I pulled on my jacket and decided to clear my mind with a walk in the park near my apartment. The familiar path, the crisp air, the quiet of the evening, I needed something grounding, something ordinary.
It was the same cold, dark night as always, and the wind brushed against my skin, reminding me that the world outside still existed, still spun, still cared nothing for my frustrations or literary grievances.
---
I whistled softly as I walked down the street, hands tucked into my jacket pockets. The road was desolate, completely barren of people. No passing cars. No distant voices. Nothing but the faint hum of streetlights and the sound of my own footsteps echoing against concrete.
It felt… strange.
Too quiet.
Suddenly-
My heart clenched.
My gut twisted violently, a sharp sense of danger flooding through my body without warning. Every instinct screamed at me at once. I froze, breath hitching, before slowly turning around.
My body had never reacted like this before.
"What… what is going to happen?" I muttered under my breath, my voice trembling with unease.
I wasn't the type to believe in fate or destiny. I didn't pray to unseen forces or trust in miracles. But I did believe in signs. In instincts. In the strange warnings that came from somewhere deep inside.
And my gut had never been wrong.
As I turned and began to walk back the way I had come, I felt it.
Something was behind me.
A presence. Heavy. Suffocating.
I tried to turn-
But I was too late.
Pain exploded through my chest.
A sword plunged straight through me, tearing through flesh and bone as if they weren't even there. My breath was knocked out of my lungs, my vision blurring instantly.
My eyes dropped instinctively.
A blade jutted out of my chest.
My hands trembled as I reached for it, fingers brushing against cold metal. It felt… wrong. Unreal. Like something that didn't belong in this world.
The sword was coated in a strange, shifting energy I couldn't understand. It shimmered faintly, distorting the air around it. The blade itself was horrifying—red and black, drenched in blood.
My blood.
At its tip…
My heart.
It was still beaiting.
Weakly. Desperately. Fading with every passing second.
My eyes widened in horror.
I knew.
I wouldn't survive this.
Not even for a few more moments.
With what little strength I had left, I tried to turn around. I needed to see who had done this. I needed to know.
My body protested, screaming in pain, but I forced myself to move.
Behind me stood… something.
An apparition.
A blurry, distorted figure, as if reality itself refused to properly acknowledge its existence. It held the sword firmly, effortlessly, as though my life weighed nothing in its hands.
It felt out of place.
Not from this world.
Not from this time.
Back then, I couldn't fully understand it. But thinking back now, I realize, it was like it didn't belong to this timeline at all.
I opened my mouth, trying to curse the stranger. Trying to scream. Trying to demand an explanation.
Anything.
But no words came out.
Even that small dignity was taken from me.
My legs gave out.
I collapsed.
The world tilted.
Darkness swallowed my vision.
And just like that…
I died.
For the first time.
When I opened my eyes again, I wasn't in pain.
I wasn't anywhere.
I had been transported to a void.
An absolute nothingness.
A null space. A nonexistential plane. Call it whatever you want, it was a place where nothing existed. No light. No sound. No ground. No sky.
Just emptiness.
I was shocked. Anyone would be.
I wasn't particularly religious. I had never been a devout believer in God or heaven. But deep in my heart, I had always hoped that if there really was an afterlife…
I would see my parents again.
That hope was crushed instantly.
There was nothing here.
No warmth.
No voices.
No comfort.
I sighed, floating in the endless darkness, completely unaware of the horrors that awaited me.
Time lost its meaning.
Hours passed. Or days. Or years.
I couldn't tell.
There was no sun to mark mornings. No night to signal rest. No body to grow tired. No hunger. No thirst.
Even space itself felt fake.
Meaningless.
This place wasn't just empty.
It erased meaning.
Thoughts became dull. Memories blurred. Emotions faded into static noise.
I was trapped.
Alone.
After what felt like an incorrigible amount of time, long enough for me to forget what living even felt like-
I felt it.
A pull.
Something tugged at my existence.
Something… or someone.
The void began to warp.
And I was dragged out.
---
Author's note:Guys, please bear with me for the first 20 chapters or so. The pacing might be a tad bit slow in those chapters, but it will pick up pace after his Rite of Revelation.