{ Hey everyone, Echo here!
Sorry for disappearing for a while—I had some college exams to deal with, but I'm free now. While going through all my exam stuff, I spent some time thinking about the direction I wanted this story to take. I realized that the character was too strong, which left no room for development. So, with that in mind, I decided to delete all the chapters—including the ones on P@tr$on—and rewrote the entire story from scratch.
Right now, both P@tr$on and Webnovel have the same number of chapters available. Moving forward, I'll post new chapters on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays on Webnovel, and throughout the week (excluding Sundays, because that's my break day) on P@tr$on.
If you haven't already, feel free to subscribe to my P@tr$on at p@tr$on.com/Echo0o (just replace the @ with "a" and the $ with "e"). Thanks for your patience and support! 😊}
The words that had resounded around him, sounded familiar although he didn't know where they had come from, however a old memory, of the time he was once human resided as he repeated the words spoken by the ethereal voice "A̴s̸p̴i̡r̛a̢n̴t̡! W̴e̷l͡c̡o̴m̢e̷ t̷ơ t̡h̷e̸ N̡įg̡h̷t̴m̛a͠r̛e̴ S̛p̛e̴l̷l̢. P̶r̷e̛p̸a̛r̶e̷ f̷o͠r̛ y̢o͟u͢r̷ F̡įr̷s̨t̡ T̴r͟i̡a͡l̡…" {Aspirant! Welcome to the Nightmare Spell. Prepare for your First Trial…}
He had read it somewhere, in a novel when he was still human. The details were fuzzy now, the name of the book lost to time, but he remembered the gist of it. A boy, who had become a slave to a girl, something like that. He hadn't finished the novel—only read a few arcs—but he retained enough of it to remember the general direction of the story, though the characters' names escaped him.
"s̡o̶ i̛t̢s t̴h̸a̡t̡ w̴o̢r̷l̴d̨" {so its that world} he said to himself,
As though the thread had granted him enough time to reflect on the place he had been pulled into, he found himself standing in the heart of a bustling tribe. Women worked tirelessly, weaving grass baskets, tanning leather, smoking meat, and performing other tasks, while children played in the background, speaking a language that he understood but could not name.
He had created a language, one he called All-Speak, forged from the knowledge he'd absorbed from countless shards. It was meant to be universal, something anyone could understand. But whether it would work here, in this moment, he couldn't know—there had been no one to test it on before.
He looked down at his hands. Flesh and bone. It had been so long since he'd inhabited a body, and the sensation felt strange, like wearing a thick, unfamiliar cloth. It was uncomfortable, to say the least, but he could endure it.
As he stood there, lost in thought, a commotion drew his attention. A crowd began to gather at the entrance of the clearing, and a group of burly men emerged from the jungle. They held spears and carried wooden pipes that looked like flutes from a distance.
The people in the crowd watched the men with a mix of reverence and admiration—he couldn't quite tell which. The men were covered in tribal tattoos, but one design was common among them: a pair of black wings inked on their backs. The wings seemed to shimmer, their glow making them look almost real.
The man at the front stood out. He had two pairs of wings tattooed on his back. He also carried a strange creature on his shoulders—an odd deer-like being with two sets of eyes and tentacle-like appendages where its ears should have been. Ridges, almost like gills, protruded from its neck.
He observed the scene as they passed by in an instant. As his gaze lingered, the man with two pairs of wing tattoos briefly locked eyes with him. For just a second, their eyes met, and the figure seemed to sense his scrutiny. His senses were sharp, enough to feel the presence of someone probing him.
The group made their way toward the largest tent in the tribe. The man with the dual-wing tattoos dropped the strange deer-like creature in front of the tent's entrance. Moments later, a man in his 40s emerged, followed by an elderly figure, bent with age and leaning on a staff adorned with various ornaments. As they stepped outside, the crowd knelt in reverence.
He mirrored their actions, bowing, though his gaze remained fixed on the two elderly men. The man with the dual wings, noticing his unwavering attention, looked back. Their eyes held this time, neither of them breaking the contact. Then, the frail elder began to chant, his words flowing steadily as he tapped his cane, creating a faint jingling noise with each movement.
As the elder chanted, the corpse of the deer-like creature began to emit black steam, rising into the air before dissipating completely. It was as if something had been purged from the carcass, banished into the void. He watched the process with quiet fascination. He had known magic existed but had never witnessed it in action. Was this some kind of purification spell? He wasn't sure.
Once the purification was complete, the frail elder turned and walked back into the tent, followed closely by the man who had accompanied him. As they disappeared inside, his attention was drawn to the tattoos on their backs. The younger man bore three pairs of wing tattoos, while the elder carried an even grander mark—four pairs of wings etched across his back, glowing faintly as if alive.
As the two elders disappeared into the tent, the crowd began to disperse. People returned to their tasks, weaving baskets, tending to leather, and preparing food as if nothing had happened. He followed their lead, blending into the background. Slowly, he made his way to a quieter corner of the clearing, taking in the surroundings.
Some of the larger trees had wooden platforms built onto them, constructed from bamboo—a material he vaguely recognized. The hollow pipes carried by the hunters earlier seemed to be made of the same material. Men stood atop these platforms, each armed with a spear and a bamboo tube, likely lookouts for potential threats. It was an efficient system for safeguarding the tribe.
As he observed, a hand suddenly grabbed his shoulder, yanking him around with enough force to send him stumbling to the ground.
"You should show some respect for the shaman, boy," a rough voice growled.
Looking up from the ground, he found himself face-to-face with the man who bore two pairs of wing tattoos. He hadn't even sensed the man's approach, a perk of being a hunter he guessed
"I... was... curious," he replied, not accustomed to speaking while meeting the man's gaze directly.
The man raised an eyebrow, scrutinizing him closely. His expression was unreadable, but his intensity made it clear he was weighing him as though he was a pray like a beast he would hunt in the wild.
"What's your name?" the man finally asked.
Name? he questioned himself, He hadn't used a name in so long that he'd forgotten what his original one even was. All that remained of his past were fragments—faded memories of his world, fleeting recollections of entertainment, and the faint outlines of who he once was as a human.
He hesitated for a moment, considering his response. A new name would be fore the best His thoughts drifted to the endless void he had called home and the countless shards of reality that floated within it.
After a long pause, long enough that the hunter with 2 wing tattoo was growing inpatient he decided. Locking eyes with the man, he said in a voice that carried the weight of countless emotions—joy, sorrow, rage, and despair intertwined, as though a choir of souls spoke through him:
"N̸i̷h̛i͡l̡o̴."
The sinister undertone of his voice reverberated in the air, sending an almost tangible shiver through the mans body.
He instinctively took a step back, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his hardened features. The inhuman voice that had emerged from Nihilo's mouth wasn't just unsettling—it was oppressive, carrying a primal weight that made him feel as though he were standing before a beast beyond his comprehension, one he had no hope of defeating.
However, his face and resolve only faltered briefly before he took a deliberate step forward. In one swift, practiced motion, he seized Nihilo in a chokehold, his arm tightening around the boy's neck with precision, cutting off the blood flow to his brain. Whether this was truly a boy or something far more sinister, he wasn't about to take any chances.
Nihilo, caught off guard, struggled violently. His hands clawed at the man's arm, nails raking against skin in desperation, but his strength was no match. He tried prying the unyielding grip from his neck, panic surging as his chest heaved, craving air that wouldn't come.
The edges of his vision blurred, the world spinning into darkness. His efforts grew sluggish, limbs weakening, until his body went limp. Within seconds, the chokehold rendered him unconscious, his form slumping as if lifeless in the man's grasp.