Birth of the Nameless Constellation

Darkness. Heavy, suffocating, like a damp cloth pulled tight over his face. No light. No sound. Not even the faintest sense of up or down.

He tried to breathe—or at least he thought he did. The air felt wrong, thick and cold, as though it didn't belong. He opened his mouth to speak, but his voice cracked, swallowed by the void before it could go anywhere.

For a moment, there was only silence. Just him, alone in the emptiness.

Then the darkness shifted. It rippled like water disturbed by a single drop. He froze. Tiny pinpricks of light flickered into being, trembling and unstable, as if hesitant to appear.

Slowly, they grew brighter, sharper, arranging themselves into scattered patterns across the void. Constellations. One cluster stood out—pulsing faintly, a slow and deliberate rhythm.

It throbbed again. Insistent. Like a heartbeat.

And then it stopped.

The constellation dimmed, its light folding back into the black. But something else took its place—a window. Its edges flickered, uneven and fragile, as though carved from light itself. It floated in the void like a shard of glass, glowing faintly.

Words began to form across its surface, appearing slowly, as if being written in real time:

[Title: Keeper of the Unseen Chains

Mission: Forge Your Own Path.]

He stared at the glowing words, his brow furrowing. "What...?"

The text floated before him, still and silent. Slowly, he reached out, fingers grazing the light—but his hand passed straight through, like it wasn't real.

"What is this?" he muttered. "A dream?"

The screen shimmered. New words appeared, forming as if written by an invisible hand:

[This is not a dream.]

A voice echoed suddenly, low and calm. He looked around, but there was no one—just the endless black stretching in every direction.

"What's going on?" he asked, his voice steady despite the churn of confusion inside him.

[I am the screen in front of you.]

He blinked, taken aback. "You're... the screen?"

[Correct.]

"…Okay." He wasn't sure how to respond to that.

The screen pulsed, the glow intensifying as more words appeared:

[You remember dying, don't you?]

The question hit him like a slap. His chest tightened, and for a moment, he couldn't answer. Then, quietly, he said, "Yeah. I remember. How could I forget?"

The helplessness, the fading light—it all came rushing back.

[That's over now,] the voice replied. [You're in a new state of being. Panic and fear won't control you here.]

He hesitated, letting the words sink in. "So… this calm I'm feeling, it's not normal?"

[It's clarity. You've ascended beyond mortal limits. You're a Constellation now.]

"A Constellation?"

[Yes. Emotions will still exist, but they won't rule you anymore. Fear, panic, doubt—they're just whispers now.]

He exhaled slowly. "That's... a lot."

[Let me simplify it,] the voice offered. [Here are your powers.]

The screen shifted, revealing a new list:

Powers Overview:

Authority of Absolute Nullification: Erase anything—physical, magical, or even emotional.

Authority of Unseen Chains: Command chains that bind not just bodies but thoughts, ideas, and concepts.

He read the words again, struggling to grasp their weight.

"This... This feels unreal," he whispered, his voice barely audible.

He looked down at his hands, turning them slowly. His fingers flexed, the familiar warmth of his skin grounding him. He still felt human—or close enough. But if he was now something greater, why did he feel so... ordinary?

Before he could speak, the voice returned, cutting through the silence as if it had been waiting.

[What you are is what you need. Your soul is Constellation, but your body remains as it was—shaped by the comfort your mind demands.]

He blinked, his thoughts struggling to keep pace. "So… I'm still human?"

[In a way, yes. But your soul is no longer tethered to mortality. Your form exists because your mind clings to stability.]

He stared at his hands again, clenching them into fists. "It doesn't feel right. I don't feel human anymore… but I don't feel like anything else either."

The screen flickered softly, rippling with faint light.

[It is confusion. Your mind, still tied to the mortal world, cannot yet comprehend your new existence.]

His frown deepened. "Then what am I? What kind of Constellation am I supposed to be?"

The screen hesitated, shimmering as though searching for an answer.

[I don't know. We were born at the same moment, you and I. I exist to guide you, but you… were born without purpose.]

The words struck him harder than he expected. Born without a purpose.

"So where did we come from?" he asked, his voice quieter now, tinged with unease.

[We were born from the corpse of an unknown being.]

He tried to grasp the meaning, but it was like reaching for smoke—impossible to hold.

"That… doesn't make sense," he muttered, staring at the glowing screen. "So, you're like my sibling?"

[In a way, yes.]

A shiver ran down his spine. He rubbed the back of his neck, unsure whether to laugh or feel unnerved. "Great," he sighed, straightening up. "So, what now?"

The screen pulsed faintly before responding.

[Constellations require influence to survive. Influence comes from belief, reverence, or fear. The acknowledgment of mortals strengthens you.]

"Influence?" He frowned, pressing his palm to his forehead. "So… I need followers? Worshippers?"

[Not necessarily worship. Belief can take many forms. Some Constellations inspire devotion, others thrive on fear. The choice is yours. But without influence, your existence will weaken. Without it, you will fade.]

His gaze drifted to the scattered stars overhead, their light cold and distant. "And if I fade?"

[Then you will cease to exist.]

The finality of those words sent a chill through him. He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. "So, either I make people believe in me, or… I die. Again."

The screen didn't respond immediately. Its glow was steady, unblinking.

[It is a harsh truth. To be pulled from death, only to face a world so alien—such is the price of existence.]

He exhaled slowly, shoulders tight under the weight of it all. Survival, belief, purpose—it was too much, too fast. But even as the chill settled in his chest, he knew there was no turning back.

"Yeah, you could say that," he muttered. The calm he'd clung to began to unravel, replaced by a creeping panic. The memory of death resurfaced—the helplessness, the nothingness. And the thought of it happening again?

It terrified him.

A sudden vibration jolted him from his thoughts.

[Warning: Disturbance Detected.]

The stars flickered erratically, their light dimming before flaring with an unnatural brilliance. The void began to hum, a deep resonance that rattled his bones.

"What's happening?" he asked, his voice betraying his growing panic.

Before he could react, the stars twisted, unraveling into a chaotic vortex.

Colors warped and clashed, swirling into an impossible storm. His surroundings shattered, fragments of reality breaking apart like glass. He reached out, grasping for stability, but his hands found nothing. There was no ground, no sky—only the pull.

He was falling—or being dragged—into the unknown.

Then, everything stopped.

The chaos gave way to stillness, an eerie calm that made his skin crawl. Colors shifted around him like liquid, bending and swirling in unnatural patterns. Reality itself felt wrong, stretched thin and distorted.

"What is this place?" he whispered, his voice barely audible in the vastness. "Why am I here?"

The screen's familiar glow flickered faintly before responding:

[...No reasons. Reality has been disturbed. You were transported here, likely due to an anomaly.]

The atmosphere thickened, heavy with something alien, something alive.

[From the energy here, this place lies outside reality. Be warned… the beings beyond are far worse than anything within.]

A cold shiver ran down his spine as he scanned his surroundings. The swirling colors seemed to constrict, pressing in as if the air itself were alive.

Then he felt it.

Not sight, not sound—but presence. It was everywhere, a looming force that pressed against him from all directions.

He turned slowly, dread crawling up his spine. His eyes locked onto a shape—a vast, incomprehensible mass of darkness. Endless tendrils twisted and swirled, shifting in ways that defied logic. The very sight of it resisted being known, as though his mind couldn't grasp its true form.

Where a face should have been, there was nothing but a gaping void. And then, the eyes appeared.

Countless pale eyes blinked into existence, unblinking and cold. Each deliberate blink sent a ripple of unease through his chest.

Its arms stretched impossibly long, writhing like tendrils of smoke. It didn't move—didn't need to. Its presence alone closed in on him, suffocating and inescapable.

"Thou art not meant to be here."

The words didn't come from its form. They vibrated through the air, a deep rumble that rattled his very being.

He froze, his mind racing to comprehend the impossible. His heart thundered in his chest, fear gripping him. But slowly, that terror ebbed, replaced by something strange.

Acceptance.

"Fear not, little one. I mean thee no harm."

The voice wasn't cruel, nor mocking—it was calm, almost soothing, and yet profoundly unsettling.

The air seemed to hum with its presence, as if the creature's words had wrapped the world around them.

"I am Ith'kal," the voice continued, resonating like a haunting melody. "Known by many names: The Formless Death, The Endless Mist of Woe and Ruin. This is my domain—the Abyssal Threshold."

His breath hitched. His mind screamed for answers, but no words came. He stood frozen, a fragile being of flesh before something vast and incomprehensible.

And yet, despite the terror, he found himself speaking.

"...Hello."