The world was dark.
It wasn't the kind of darkness that one might experience in a room with the lights off, or even in the blackest depths of night. No, this was a deeper, colder sort of darkness—a void, like an endless expanse of space with nothing to fill it. In that strange, silent nothingness, Alex drifted, his mind oddly blank, his body immobilized. He could neither speak nor move, not even hear the beating of his own heart. It was as if his very existence was suspended in this strange place.
All that remained to him were his thoughts.
Alex let his mind wander, though there was little to anchor it. A fragment of memory flitted by, like an echo in the emptiness—a dream, perhaps. No, not a dream. It was more substantial, more real. It was… his family. Faces, blurred yet familiar, surfaced in his mind. He saw the smiles of his children, the warmth in his wife's eyes. Memories of evenings spent in laughter and warmth. A pang of something long forgotten—love, maybe? Loss? His heart ached with it, even here, in this frozen place beyond existence.
Then, he remembered something else.
The memory of a battle. Shona's name came to him first—yes, he had fought Shona. His last stand, his final act. But he hadn't just lost that fight. He remembered now. He had died.
"I'm dead…" he thought, with a strange acceptance, like remembering something long forgotten. And yet, with the realization came the sharp sting of regret. His mind turned back to his family, to the life he had lost. Are they safe? The question haunted him, unanswered and hanging heavy in the silence.
But another thought clawed its way to the surface, a thought so unexpected it felt like a strike of lightning.
Wasn't I erased by that author?
The question jolted Alex in a way that felt almost tangible. He remembered it all, now—a life authored, manipulated, stolen from him. How had it happened? How could he, his family, his entire world, be written off like some story to be discarded?
A spark of anger ignited within him, stirring his will to move. He fought against the weight that held him down, straining against the chains of darkness binding him. With every ounce of his strength, he struggled, until finally, his eyes snapped open. But there was no light, no form, no world to greet him—only more darkness. For a terrifying moment, he wondered, Am I blind? The thought sent a shiver down his spine, but he reached up, brushing his fingers over his own face. Do I even have eyes?
He did, though it hardly mattered here. This place was more than dark. It was nothingness itself—a void of non-existence. The bindings that held him were invisible, yet he felt them. Heavy, unyielding, chains of some ethereal kind, restricting his every move.
Desperation clawed at him, giving rise to something primal, something fierce. He let out a cry, a sound that seemed to echo as if it had nowhere to go. Yet he could hear it—his own voice, clear and defiant in the silence. Encouraged, he struggled harder, pulling against the unseen bonds that held him.
Then, a glimmer of light appeared above him, faint but unmistakable. It was small at first, a mere pinprick, but it grew, piercing through the void. Alex reached out toward it, and as he did, the chains around him began to weaken. He fought on, forcing his way toward the light with every ounce of strength he could muster. Slowly, painfully, the darkness peeled away.
And then, there was silence. Absolute, empty silence.
But it didn't last. A sudden, cool breeze swept across his face, filling his lungs with the unmistakable scent of earth and grass. His feet pressed into solid ground, damp and firm beneath him. In the distance, faint but unmistakable, came the harsh sounds of battle—the echo of gunfire, the clashing of steel, the cries of soldiers.
And then, a different scent reached him, bitter and metallic. Blood. Gunpowder.
Alex opened his eyes, squinting against the blinding brightness of the world around him. As his vision adjusted, he took in the sight before him—a battlefield stretching out as far as he could see. Two armies clashed in furious combat, soldiers locked in deadly struggle. And there, standing among them, were soldiers in uniforms he recognized.
The French? The sight stirred an old memory from his school days, a hazy recollection of a history class long ago. In his mind, he saw himself slouched over his desk, his teacher's voice distant but persistent.
"Alex, wake up! You won't learn anything if you sleep through the lesson."
He'd opened his eyes back then, startled, looking up to see his teacher frowning at him. "Today's lesson," she'd said, "is about Napoleon Bonaparte. He was a French soldier who rose to power, eventually crowning himself Emperor. They say he once claimed, 'England may rule the sea, but I am the king of land.'"
The memory faded, and Alex found himself back on the battlefield, surrounded by the chaos of war. He took a deep breath, grounding himself in the present. "So… this is real," he murmured, eyes scanning the soldiers surging forward, clashing with their enemies. "The war… Italy. But I thought…" He frowned, remembering that history had claimed Italy surrendered without much of a fight. The history books must have been wrong.
He looked down, noting the state of his body. He was clad in the remnants of his old armor, the very same he'd worn in his last battle with Shona. It was cracked, scorched, a reminder of his defeat. And in his hand, he clutched a broken katana, its once-proud blade now splintered and dulled.
A surge of defiance rose within him. "Guess I'll have to make do with what I have," he muttered, clenching his fists. The familiar hum of his blue atomic power stirred faintly within him, a spark waiting to ignite. It was weak, a shadow of the strength he once wielded, but it was enough.
The sight of the warring armies filled him with purpose, a strange determination. Whoever had placed him here, whatever had happened to him before, no longer mattered. He had been erased once, but here he was, alive, present, and ready to fight again.
He took a step forward, the ground solid beneath his feet, his gaze hardening. "Time to make some noise."