A stillness settled between them, an eerie silence that felt both ancient and intimate.
The crimson mist curled around their feet, whispering against the edges of their forms like sentient threads of existence. The air in this strange place was thick, almost suffocating—not in the way of a battlefield's tension, but in the weight of something forgotten, something waiting.
The man stood in the midst of it all, arms crossed, his white clothes—bloodied and worn—making him seem out of place in the unnatural hues of the realm. His dark eyes flickered with quiet amusement, though the sharpness behind them never dulled.
And then,
"Ah… should I call you Zhuo?"
The figure's voice carried an unnatural weight, layered with something beyond the simple vibrations of speech. It wasn't just sound—it was an imprint, a ripple in the very fabric of the space they stood in.
Zhuo's brow twitched slightly.
"Or… tch, I forgot. You always keep changing your names."
A smirk tugged at the corner of Zhuo's lips, though it held little humor. His arms remained crossed over his chest, his posture relaxed yet poised—like a man who had mastered the art of looking indifferent while calculating every possible outcome.
"You always did have a flair for the dramatic," he replied dryly, his deep voice breaking through the thick atmosphere. His gaze was sharp, measuring. "What are you doing here? This isn't exactly a vacation spot."
The figure tilted its head slightly, golden eyes glinting with something unreadable.
"I could ask you the same, Zhuo."
The way it said his name—almost mocking—made something flicker behind Zhuo's expression, but he said nothing.
"After all," the figure continued, "you've been asleep for quite some time. One might even say… forgotten."
The last word lingered, hanging between them like an unspoken challenge.
Zhuo's jaw tensed for the briefest moment. Forgotten.
It was the truth, wasn't it?
He had drifted through the endless void of nothingness for so long that time itself had abandoned him. And yet, this being before him still remembered.
He forced a smirk onto his lips, though the warmth didn't quite reach his gaze.
"Forgotten, huh?" His voice was light, playful even, but his eyes carried an undeniable chill. "I guess some things don't change. You always loved your riddles."
The figure's expression didn't shift, but something in its presence pulsed—like a hidden amusement. It tilted its head once more, a small, almost childlike gesture that contrasted with the sheer weight of its being.
"And you," it murmured, "always loved pretending you didn't care."
A slow exhale left Zhuo's lips. This again.
Always the same dance.
His arms tightened slightly over his chest before he relaxed them again, his patience wearing thin.
"Let's not waste time," the figure said, its voice no longer teasing. "You wouldn't have found me here unless the strings of fate—or perhaps something greater—willed it so."
Zhuo's eyes sharpened.
The weight of the figure's words settled over him, pressing against his very existence. Fate? Something greater?
He took a step forward, closing the distance between them. His voice, when he spoke, was quiet—but it carried a depth that could fracture mountains.
"What do you know?"
The lightness was gone now, stripped away by the raw edge of something serious.
The figure's golden eyes gleamed, its expression unreadable.
"I know many things, Zhuo."
The way it spoke his name now—slow, deliberate—it was no longer mocking.
"But what I know about you is what matters most."
For a moment, silence stretched between them.
Then,
A smirk. A knowing, haunting smirk.
"So tell me, Zhuo… Do you want answers?
"Or will you keep pretending that none of this concerns you?"
Zhuo's eyes narrowed ever so slightly, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them. There it was again.
The insinuation. The challenge.
The question he had avoided for so long.
He let out a slow breath, tilting his head as if considering the words. His expression remained indifferent, as if the weight of the conversation didn't settle on his shoulders like a thousand-year burden.
"A game, huh?" Zhuo murmured, almost amused. He let his gaze wander for a moment, glancing around the strange plane, before locking eyes with the figure again. "That's what you think this is?"
The figure chuckled softly.
"Oh, Zhuo…" It leaned forward slightly, as if whispering a secret, "I don't think. I know."
Zhuo's smirk twitched, but he said nothing.
And then, the figure spoke again—but this time, its voice carried something different.
"You don't care about anything, do you?"
Zhuo's posture stiffened just slightly.
"No, that's wrong." The figure corrected itself, tilting its head, golden eyes gleaming. "You pretend not to care."
Zhuo's smirk faded.
"But how long will you keep running from it?"
His fingers twitched slightly.
"How much longer will you keep pretending that none of it matters?"
Zhuo let out a breath through his nose, his expression unreadable. For once, he had no immediate reply.
The weight of the question pressed against his soul like a lingering shadow.
The figure's eyes gleamed with something deeper now—not just amusement, but an unspoken understanding.
"We are suffering from threats far beyond what even we can comprehend, Zhuo."
The words hung heavily in the space between them.
"Existences that should not be, creeping into places they were never meant to reach."
The figure's voice dropped, its golden eyes darkening.
"It may not be long before war breaks out—one that won't just shake the balance of power, but reality itself."
Zhuo said nothing, his gaze steady.
The figure exhaled, shaking its head.
"I won't blame you for staying out of it. You always had your reasons." A pause. A small smirk. "And knowing you, they're probably ridiculous."
Zhuo let out a low chuckle, though it lacked humor.
"But fate, Zhuo…"
The figure's voice was softer now, almost distant.
"Fate will decide whether you take a step forward or remain where you are."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Zhuo let out a breath, running a hand through his disheveled hair. He looked at the stars beyond the broken sky of this realm, but for once… he wasn't sure where to go next.
He turned back to the figure, his smirk returning.
"Fate, huh?"
A beat.
"Well… let's see if it has the guts to come knocking on my door."
The air between them stirred.
A whisper of something inevitable.
The figure let out another laugh—soft, fleeting, like the last notes of a fading melody. It was the kind of laughter that didn't belong to this world, a sound that faded yet somehow lingered, clinging to the silence it left behind.
"Still the same, I see," the figure mused, its golden eyes gleaming with a knowing light. "But I wonder… for how long?"
The golden-eyed figure remained still, watching Zhuo with that same unreadable smile—one that wasn't mocking, but wasn't kind either.
"You think you can defeat those forces by yourself?" the figure finally asked, its voice layered, like a thousand whispers speaking at once.
There was no sarcasm. No challenge.
Only genuine curiosity.
Zhuo didn't answer immediately. Instead, he exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders as if shrugging off an invisible weight.
Then, without looking at the figure, he responded casually.
"Man, just leave me alone."
The words were lazy, almost indifferent—but there was something beneath them. Something absolute.
"I'm not as powerful as them ." He sighed, stretching his arms as if the entire conversation was tiresome. "Nah... but I wouldn't lose."
Silence.
The figure's golden eyes narrowed slightly.
It was a contradiction—to admit inferiority, yet declare victory.
A mortal's arrogance?
No.
It was certainty.
A certainty that should not exist.
The figure let out a slow chuckle. "You haven't changed, Zhuo."
Zhuo smirked, finally glancing at the dissolving form of the figure.
"Damn right, I haven't."
He wasn't boasting. He wasn't being arrogant.
He was simply stating a fact.
And then, without ceremony, its form began to unravel.
Golden light peeled away from its body in soft, shimmering fragments, scattering into the void like ashes caught in a cosmic breeze. The embers drifted, weightless, dissolving into the fractured space that stretched infinitely around them.
Zhuo stood still, watching in silence, his expression unreadable.
There was no surprise, no urgency—only a quiet, detached acceptance. He had seen this happen before. Countless times.
The space where the figure once stood was now empty, as if it had never been there to begin with. The oppressive stillness of the realm returned, wrapping around him like an unseen force waiting to be acknowledged.
He exhaled through his nose, his shoulders lowering just slightly—not in relief, but in something closer to disinterest.
His gaze shifted back toward the vast cosmos, where the familiar pull of his homeworld still lingered. Earth.
He had ignored the call once, but it remained—persistent, faintly tugging at the edges of his awareness.
He didn't move toward it. Not yet.
Instead, he ran a hand through his bloodstained hair, fingers pushing back the messy strands that had fallen into his eyes. His white clothes—simple, unadorned—were torn and battered, a testament to something unspoken.
Then, with a slow breath, he muttered under his breath, his voice deep and laced with dry amusement:
"What a bunch of nonsense."
He let his hand drop back to his side, his fingers flexing absently.
"I don't want to be dragged into your mess."
His voice was calm. Unbothered. But beneath it, there was something else—something quiet, something unchanging.
He already knew.
The so-called "game" would continue. The cosmos would turn. The beings who claimed to govern reality would go on scheming, calculating, weaving their so-called fates.
And yet,
None of it had anything to do with him.
Fate? Destiny? Grand cosmic designs?
Zhuo let out a low chuckle, shaking his head.
"They can keep playing their grand games."
He wasn't a piece on their board.
He never had been.
With a faint smirk—one that carried neither joy nor bitterness, but absolute certainty—Zhuo took a single step forward.
And the void bent to his will.