The darkness released him the way a clenched fist finally lets go.
Seojun slammed onto something hard—unyielding—air ripping from his lungs in a sharp grunt. His body rolled once on instinct before stopping flat on his back. Pain flared through his shoulder, bright and immediate, but it barely registered.
Because the world burned white.
Not light. Not illumination.
White. Endless. Merciless. Absolute.
His eyes screamed in protest as he blinked furiously, tears welling against the glare. There were no shadows. No horizon. No sense of depth or distance. Just an infinite expanse of pristine emptiness stretching in every direction.
Beneath him—paper.
Layer upon layer of it. Smooth. Unmarred. Untouched. Like a manuscript that had never known ink.
Above—no sky. Just more white, fading into a hazy nothingness that swallowed perception itself.
Seojun groaned, pushing himself up on his elbows. "From black hole to blank canvas," he muttered, voice raw. "Writer's worst nightmare—literally." A humorless chuckle escaped him. "Thanks for the subtlety, Script."
A soft ping echoed directly inside his skull.
An interface bled into his vision, translucent and cold:
Nightmare Trial: The Blank Page
Objective: Confront and Revise Your Flaws
Warning: Mental Integrity at Risk
"…Of course it is," he sighed, dismissing the window with a thought.
He forced himself upright, swaying slightly. The dagger was still in his hand—its edited edge solid, reassuring. But here, in this sterile void, it felt absurd. Pointless.
There were no enemies.
No walls.
No direction.
Just nothing.
The emptiness pressed down on him, heavier than the darkness before it. Suffocating in its silence.
Seojun took a step forward.
Crinkle.
The page beneath his sneaker held for half a second—then collapsed into fine gray ash that puffed upward and dusted his laces.
The sound was tiny. Fragile. Instantly swallowed by infinity.
He swallowed hard and took another step.
Another crinkle. Another collapse.
He walked.
Or tried to.
Every direction looked identical. The horizon shimmered faintly, mocking him—always distant, always unreachable. Minutes bled together. His legs began to burn. His breathing shortened. The pages grew weaker, crumbling faster, sinking slightly under his weight.
Like trudging through snow made of regrets.
Hunger crept back. Thirst followed, sharp and insistent. His mouth felt dry despite the neutral air.
"No resources. No checkpoints," he muttered, wiping sweat from his brow. "Classic endless-loop trope." A weak grin tugged at his lips. "If I find a save point, I'm reloading."
The joke died instantly.
The silence swallowed it whole.
Doubt seeped in.
What if this was it?
What if he was stuck here—forever trapped in the setup chapter? No progression. No payoff. Just endless white.
Just… blank.
He shook his head violently and forced another step.
Crumble. Ash.
Then—
A whisper.
"…Nobody reads you."
Seojun froze.
The voice came from everywhere. And nowhere.
It was his own.
Tired. Bitter. Familiar.
A memory—late night, hunched over his desk, scrolling through empty comment sections.
He spun around, dagger raised. "Who's there?!"
Nothing answered him but white.
"Give up," the voice continued, louder now. Sharper. "Your story's trash. Hot garbage."
Another voice joined it.
Then another.
"Dropped at chapter one."
"No engagement."
"Talentless hack."
They layered over one another, a chorus of failure remixing itself inside his skull.
Seojun clapped his hands over his ears, teeth clenched. "Shut up!" he snarled. "You're not real. You're just—echoes."
They didn't stop.
Each word felt like weight pressing down on his chest. With every taunt, the ground beneath him weakened—pages collapsing faster, deeper.
His knee struck the paper with a sharp crunch as he stumbled.
This is the Trial.
The realization hit hard enough to steal his breath.
My burnout—given form.
The endless blank page. The blinking cursor. The hours spent staring, paralyzed.
Memories surged unbidden: revisions that went nowhere, chapters deleted and rewritten until nothing remained. Frustration curdling into despair. That final, apocalyptic ending he'd written—not as a climax, but as a confession.
"…Prophetic garbage," he whispered. "I built this hell because I lived it."
But beneath the noise, something else sparked.
Resolve.
He wasn't powerless anymore.
He focused on a nearby page and willed an edit.
Edit: Blank → Map
Function: Directional Guidance
Pain exploded behind his eyes. His vision blurred as if someone had driven a spike through his skull.
But the page responded.
Faint black lines etched themselves across the white surface—crude, shaky. Arrows. A path. A distant X.
"Yes!" Seojun snatched it up, heart pounding.
The ink already smudged beneath his thumb.
He moved fast, following the arrows. The whispers dulled slightly, as if wary.
Then—
Warm wetness slid down his lip.
Blood.
His vision darkened at the edges. And the map—
"No—no, no—!"
The ink dissolved like melting snow, lines fading one by one until the page disintegrated into ash in his hands.
He dropped to one knee, breathing hard. "Edits don't stick," he growled. "Trial rules… or just my garbage stamina."
He wiped the blood away and steadied himself.
"Smaller," he muttered. "Conserve."
Another edit.
Edit: Blank → Walking Stick
Minimal strain. Just a dull ache.
The page rolled, hardened, and became a sturdy cane. He leaned on it, relief flooding through him.
"Better," he said quietly. "Utility over spectacle."
The voices surged again—angrier now.
"Plot hole—your life has no arc!"
"Inconsistent motivation—why even try?!"
He snapped up his shield.
Edit: Blank → Barrier Buckler
The page warped and locked around his arm. When the next wave of voices crashed, the shield absorbed them, muffling the sound like cloth over a scream.
"Ha!" He laughed shakily. "Take that, inner monologue."
The effort left his head pounding like a war drum.
Still, he moved.
The landscape shifted subtly. Pages piled into hills of unused drafts. Crumpled rejects formed pits beneath his feet. He climbed one mound, desperate for perspective.
From the top—
White.
Endless.
Hopeless.
"Give up," the chorus intoned. "Forgotten. Erased."
Seojun laughed—bitter, sharp. "Critics don't create," he snapped. "Easy to throw stones from the sidelines."
The words hurt anyway.
His Flaw—Forgotten Protagonist—pulsed in the air, feeding the isolation.
He sat, staff resting across his knees. "If this is my hell," he said aloud, "I'll revise it." His voice steadied. "No more staring. I'll write through it."
Resolve sharpened his thoughts.
Edit: Blank → Journal
Function: Record Thoughts
He scribbled mentally:
Voices = doubt debuff.
Edits are temporary.
Clear core flaw to proceed?
The voices dimmed.
Then—
The world rippled.
Pages fluttered violently, as if caught in a wind that didn't exist.
Ink bled into the white.
Shadows rose.
Humanoid silhouettes clawed free from the paper—faceless, hunched, limbs ending in dripping red pens.
They pointed at him.
"Plot hole here—no stakes!" one barked, voice like gravel dragged across concrete.
"Inconsistent character—burned-out whiner!" another snarled.
More rose. Slowly. Relentlessly.
"Editors from hell," Seojun muttered, raising his dagger. "At least you're on theme."
Their presence drained him—mental fatigue thickening the air like syrup.
He tried one last edit.
Edit: Critic → Doodle
Agony lanced through his skull. Blood spilled freely now.
The silhouette shrank, warping into a harmless cartoon—
Then snapped back.
Angrier.
They advanced.
Seojun planted his feet, staff in one hand, shield in the other.
"Time to delete some feedback," he growled.
The critics charged—red pens gleaming like executioner's blades.
And the blank page—
Was blank no longer.