Darkness. Not the cozy, blanket-over-the-head kind. Not the star-speckled velvet of a clear night sky. This was… absence. A complete and utter lack of anything. No sound, not even the phantom hum of your own blood. No smell, no taste, just… void. An infinite, silent, sensory-deprivation tank without the tank. Or the water. Or the point.
Okay, I thought, the words echoing strangely in the non-space of my own mind. This is new. And deeply unsettling.
Memories flickered, ghostly and fragmented. The sharp, bitter tang of coffee – black, no sugar. The satisfying crunch of perfectly crispy fries. The frantic hammering of buttons on a game controller, the pixelated glow of a screen. A book's spine cracking open, the smell of old paper. A movie's swelling soundtrack, explosions rattling cheap speakers. Games. Lots of games. Strategy, RPGs, shooters… a blur of virtual worlds consumed with gleeful obsession.
But names? Faces? My name? Gone. Wiped clean. Like someone had taken an ethereal eraser to the personal details section of my soul. I remembered loving things – fiercely, passionately. I remembered the act of loving specific people, the warm ache of it. But who they were? What I was? Poof. Vanished into the all-consuming black.
Panic tried to bubble up, a cold, greasy feeling in my non-existent stomach. I squashed it. Hard. Freaking out in an infinite void seemed… counterproductive. Also, probably very loud in a place with no sound, which felt paradoxically worse.
So, I did the only thing I could: I rummaged. I dove into the scattered debris of my consciousness, sifting through the cultural flotsam and jetsam. That song! The one with the ridiculously catchy synth line I'd hummed for weeks. That show – the anime with the swords and the soul-eating monsters? Bleach! Yeah, Bleach. Cool swords. Cooler powers. Sternritter, Schrifts… Quincy arrows slicing through hollows like light through smoke. Awesome. That web novel? The one about the king reincarnated into a magic world with dragons and… what was it called… The Beginning After the End? TBATE for short. Solid world-building. Decent magic system. Liked it.
Foods surfaced: pizza overloaded with questionable toppings, the perfect spicy ramen broth, the illicit joy of midnight snack raids. Drinks: cheap beer during game nights, fancy cocktails that tasted like perfume, gallons of energy drinks fueling all-nighters. Media consumed like oxygen: sprawling fantasy epics, gritty sci-fi, cheesy rom-coms, endless scrolling through… whatever that place was called. Social media? Yeah. Time sink.
It was… weird. Like reconstructing a person from their browser history and shopping receipts. The essence was there, maybe, but the core? The me? Lost. Probably back wherever my body was rotting. Assuming I had a body. Assuming I'd actually… died.
The realization hit with a strange detachment. Oh. Right. That explains the void. And the memory wipe. Standard post-mortem procedure? Bit dramatic.
How? Car crash? Heart attack? Tripped over my own ego and cracked my skull? No clue. Just… lights out. Then… this.
I floated (did I even have a form here?) in my curated mental museum of inconsequential trivia for what felt like subjective millennia. Or maybe five minutes. Time was another casualty of the void.
Then, the darkness… rippled.
Not light, exactly. More like the absence of absence coalesced into a… presence. A silhouette formed, vaguely humanoid but shimmering with impossible depths, like obsidian infused with distant galaxies. It didn't walk; it simply was where my non-existent attention focused.
"Well," a voice resonated directly into my mind, smooth as polished stone and drier than a desert wind. "Look who's finally done cataloging his favorite brand of instant noodles. Enjoying the ambiance?"
Sarcasm. From a cosmic entity. Great. Just what the afterlife needed – a sassy god-figure.
"Ambiance is a bit minimalist for my taste," I shot back, my mental voice sounding surprisingly calm. "Could use some mood lighting. Maybe a potted plant. You know, to break up the overwhelming nothing."
A low, resonant chuckle vibrated through the void. "Noted. Though I doubt a ficus would survive the existential vacuum. Now, down to business. Congratulations, on account of being remarkably dead."
"Thanks. I think? Wasn't exactly aiming for the high score."
"Few do. But here's the interesting part," the being continued, its formless form seeming to lean in slightly. "Your ledger… let's just say it leans heavily towards the 'not a complete waste of atoms' side. Significant positive Karma. A statistical anomaly, frankly, considering the sheer volume of questionable media you consumed."
"Hey, questionable media builds character! And Karma, apparently. What's the prize? Eternal bliss? A harp? Please don't say harp."
"Perish the thought. Harps are dreadfully passé. No, the prize, anomaly, is choice." The being paused, letting the word hang in the void. "Reincarnation. Into any world, fictional or otherwise, your heart desires. With perks."
"Perks?" Suspicion warred with a sudden, dizzying hope. "Define 'perks'. And what's the catch? There's always a catch."
"Observant. Two catches, minor really. First: you get to choose your race. Any race native to your chosen world, or… adjacent. Second: you get one racial ability. Something inherent to that species or a reasonable derivation."
"Reasonable derivation? That sounds suspiciously vague."
"It is deliciously vague. But here's the real catch," the being's tone turned conspiratorial. "No asking for a 'System'. You know the type. Ding! Level up! Stat sheets floating in your vision? Crutch for the creatively bankrupt. Also, your chosen ability cannot be instantly reality-bending. No 'I Win' buttons. Keep it interesting."
I floated silently. Any world. Any race. One core ability. No cheat-system, no instant omnipotence. The possibilities were… staggering. And terrifying. My fragmented mind raced, sifting through the media debris. Bleach. Quincy. Archers of light. Badass. Their power came from absorbing spiritual particles, manifesting weapons… and the Schrift. Letters granting unique, reality-adjacent powers. Like… The Visionary. The Miracle. The… Gamer?
A slow, internal grin spread. Oh, that's clever. That's very, very clever.
The being seemed to sense the shift. "I sense a scheme brewing. Do share. Mischief is my favorite spectator sport."
"I want," I declared, the idea crystallizing with perfect clarity, "to be reborn as a Quincy. From Bleach. And my Schrift… my inherent Quincy ability… will be 'G'. The Gamer."
The void went utterly still. Not that it was moving before, but the quality of the stillness changed. Became… charged.
Then, laughter. Deep, booming, genuinely amused laughter that vibrated the very fabric of the non-space around me. "Oh, you magnificent little loophole finder! 'G' The Gamer! A Schrift – a racial ability inherent to Quincy empowered by Yhwach's soul distribution! Technically racial! And it simulates a 'System' without technically being a System! Just packaged as innate Quincy power! Brilliant! Utterly, shamelessly brilliant!"
The being's amusement was palpable, almost admiring. "You sidestepped the letter of the restriction while gleefully vaulting over the spirit. I love it. Approved. Wholeheartedly. Consider 'G' The Gamer your innate Quincy Schrift."
Relief, sharp and sweet, flooded me. It worked. It actually worked. Now, the world.
"World," I stated. "I choose The Beginning After The End."
"TBATE?" The being sounded intrigued. "Mana cores, beast tides, asuran meddling… and Arthur Leywin. Interesting choice. Less soul-reapers, more mana-beasts. A touch… rustic. But viable. Very well. Destination: The World of The Beginning After The End. Vessel: Quincy physiology, Schrift 'G' integrated as core racial expression. Integration protocols initiating…"
A sensation began – not pain, but profound change. Like my very essence was being rewritten, compressed, fitted into a new, impossibly small template. The void seemed to thin, colors bleeding in at the edges – muddy browns, dull greys.
"Final adjustments," the being's voice cut through the disorientation, still laced with amusement but now carrying an undercurrent of… finality? "To ensure you don't explode the local reality or starve to death immediately, your Quincy nature will be… tweaked. It will manifest through the world's mana, not reishi. Consider it a localization patch. Also, age randomization is enabled. Good luck with that. Your physical form will adapt to the local human baseline, with… aesthetic flourishes reflecting your heritage."
"Tweaked? Randomized? Flourishes?" I tried to focus, the pulling sensation intensifying. "What does that even mean?"
"It means try not to look too alien when you pop out. Now, confirmation required. Final destination: TBATE. Race: Tweaked Quincy. Ability: Schrift 'G' The Gamer. Are you absolutely, irrevocably, potentially disastrously sure?"
The void was fading fast, replaced by a dizzying swirl of sensation and fragmented light. This was it. The ultimate gamble. No name, no past, just a stolen power and a parachute drop into the unknown. What could possibly go wrong?
"Abso-freaking-lutely," I sent back, the sarcasm a thin shield against the rising tide of sheer, unadulterated terror and excitement. "Send me in, Coach."
"Excellent. Try not to die… again. Immediately. It's terribly gauche."
The laughter echoed one last time, rich and dark. Then, the void didn't just fade.
It shattered.
---
Sensation returned like a physical blow.
Cold. Biting, damp cold that seeped right through… skin? I had skin again. Thin, fragile skin covering tiny, trembling limbs.
Smell. Dirt. Wet stone. Rotting vegetation. The sharp, acrid tang of unwashed… something. Poverty. Desperation. It stung my nostrils.
Sound. A distant, rhythmic clanging – maybe a blacksmith? Muffled voices, arguing. The skittering of tiny claws on stone nearby. Rats. Definitely rats.
Sight. Blurry at first. Shapes resolving into grimy cobblestones slick with something unpleasant. Rough-hewn stone walls leaning precariously close. A heavy, weathered wooden door directly in front of me, scarred and bolted. Grey light filtering down from a narrow strip of sky far above. An alley. A filthy, stinking, freezing alley.
And hunger. A hollow, gnawing agony deep in my gut, so intense it threatened to eclipse everything else. It felt ancient, ingrained, like it had been my only constant companion.
Okay. Not the Ritz. Got it.
Movement. My movement. I looked down. Or tried to. My neck felt impossibly weak.
What I saw sent a jolt of pure, undiluted horror through me.
Tiny hands. Filthy, scraped, with knobbly knuckles and dirt caked under ragged fingernails. They were attached to stick-thin arms protruding from sleeves of coarse, brown fabric far too large, the ends frayed and filthy. My legs, similarly skeletal, were bare below the knees, ending in feet caked in alley grime.
No. No, no, no.
I raised one trembling hand towards my face. It shook violently. It took immense effort. My field of vision swam.
Reflected in a grimy puddle near the door's base, distorted but unmistakable, was a face.
A child's face. Gaunt, cheeks hollowed to the point of skeletal. Skin pale and sickly, stretched tight over delicate bone structure. But the features… the features were… wrong.
Crowning the painfully small head was a shock of hair. Not brown, not black. Gold. Not a healthy, bright gold, but a strange, almost metallic, tarnished gold, like old, neglected brass. It stuck out in filthy, tangled clumps.
And the eyes staring back from the puddle, wide with shock and hunger, weren't brown or blue. They were a piercing, unnervingly vivid green. Like emeralds dropped in mud. Alien. Stark against the pallor and grime.
Gold hair? Green eyes? The being's "aesthetic flourishes." Tweaked Quincy indeed. I looked like a half-starved, alley-dwelling elf reject.
Panic, the real kind, surged this time. This wasn't just disorientation. This was helplessness. This body was weak. So weak. The hunger was a physical torment. The cold was leaching the pathetic little warmth I had.
Schrift G! I thought desperately, reaching inward, trying to trigger the ability, to see a stat screen, anything that could make sense of this, give me a clue, a tool. Activate! Menu! Status! Something!
Nothing. Just the hollow ache of hunger, the bite of the cold stone beneath me, the terrifying fragility of my own tiny limbs, and the reflection of those startling green eyes in the filthy water.
The heavy wooden door loomed before me, solid and imposing. Safety? Danger? A man with a chainsaw? There was no way to know. All I knew, with a certainty that chilled me deeper than the alley damp, was that I was small. I was weak. I was starving.
And I was utterly, terrifyingly alone.
[ENDOF CHAPTER]