-Prologe-
In the beginning, there was nothing. No stars, no skies, no worlds, no souls. Only silence.
And from that silence slowly the ink stirred. A ripple in the void, faint at first, barely noticeable but it grew stronger, until it swirled and danced, gathering into a pool of shimmering black.
The ink churned, heavy with untold potential, and from it, a boy emerged.
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The young creature-small, frail, and glistening with the essence of the ink-opened his eyes for the first time. They were wide and curious, reflecting the void around him.
There was no one to greet him, no voice to guide him, only the whispering echoes of creation itself and the humming ink that still clung to his skin like it was his own.
The ink dripped from his hands as he stumbled forward, dripping in the void like stars in the sky.
For a long time, he wandered the nothingness, leaving inky footprints barely noticeable on the black void, that vanished as quickly as they appeared.
The boy did not know where he was or even who he was, but he felt an indescribable pull-a calling deep within his very being. It was not fear or confusion that filled him, but a quiet sense of purpose.
He was meant to be here, in this endless void- by who? well who knows, he did not care.
But he knew that he was meant for…something.
He came upon a shimmering fragment in the distance.
Light? Here?
At first it appeared to be a tiny droplet of light, floating amidst the ink-stained void.
Drawn to it, the boy reached out with trembling fingers. As he touched it, the droplet stretched and elongated, forming a slender, delicate object-a quill.
The boy tilted his head examining it. His ink soaked strands of hair falling over his eyes, he ignored that, he was more curious about the quill right now.
It was light in his hand, but he could feel its immense power pulsing through it- no not from it, flowing through it from him, making it all usable.
Instinctively, he turned the quill over and pressed its tip against the void.
A thin line of ink appeared, shimmering like liquid starlight. He stopped and watched the line with wide eyes like a child seeing a butterfly for the first time in his life.
He moved the quill again and the line curved.
Again, and it twisted, forming shapes.
With each stroke, he got better and so did the shaped become clearer, more purposeful.
The boy did not understand why, but as he drew he felt… alive.
The act of creation filled him with a warmth he had never known, even in the briefness of his existence.
He smiled for the first time and at that the sparks in his ink black eyes turned yellow from that very smile.
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With each stroke of his quill, the void began to change. Stars erupted from his ink, scattering like a burst of fireflies across the darkness.
He created vast swirls of galaxies, tiny specks of planets, shimmering streams of cosmic dust.
The boy marveled at what his hands had brought forth, his heart swelling with joy.
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It was not enough to create, though.
The stars and planets were beautiful yes, but they were empty. Hollow. They needed more.
With a careful, deliberate hand, the boy began to write, not shapes but strange words that he always seemed to know.
His quill moved swiftly, and with each word he penned, life sprang forth.
Trees blossomed on the barred worlds and universes, winds began to howl, oceans churned, and creatures stirred into being.
At first he made a hand full of creatures each with a different ability of creation: live, death, sound, nature...etc...
And so he spoke his first words to exactly those beings that are bound to forget him sooner or later. Even though his voice still raspy from the new use.
"Preserve the cycles and protect them"
After that he moved his quill again forming those that will live this exact cycle each with their own will.
And so he continued to write.
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He wrote their stories, their beginnings, and their ends.
He wrote of their joy and sorrow, their triumphs and struggles. The boy found himself growing more attached to them with every stroke.
These creatures, so fragile yet so full of life, fascinated him. He wanted to give them everything-to ensure they thrived, even if only for a fleeting moment.
But soon, the boy looked around himself and the endless pages filled with stories and he realized his creations needed a home, too.
A place where he could guide their stories without distraction.
With ink-stained hands, he crafted a space of his own-a small house nestled in an endless expanse of stars and swirling ink, away from all the places the stories are being lived this very moment.
It was a modest place, with a wooden desk and shelves that stretched endlessly, waiting to be filled with stories.
The boy swiftly gathered his until now written pages in his arms and sorted them in those shelves.
He went to another room, made for the only purpose to inhabit him writing his stories, he placed his quill on the desk and sat down, ready to write.
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And he did.
Day after day, age after age. He wrote with a fervor that never waned, each new story bringing him joy.
Worlds formed and crumbled under his quill, destinies were woven and rewritten. Though he did not fully understand his purpose, the boy embraced it.
This was what he was meant to do.
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But as he wrote, he began to notice something strange. The ink was no longer simply his tool-it was alive. It whispered to him, guiding his hand when his will faltered.
His quill also changed with the time, the once white feather with he black base was now a pitch black fountain pen with a sharp nib at the end of it.
It shaped stories in ways he had not intended, as if it had a purpose of its own.
The boy did not question it. He trusted the ink, believing it to be a part of himself after all.
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One day, as the boy sat at his desk, a figure appeared. It was not one of his creations, he was sure of it.
Even the gods he created were not like this, it was something beyond that, something far greater.
The presence filled the room, though it had no form.
It was light and shadow, sound and silence, all at once.
The boy froze, not daring to look up as the pen in his hands trembled.
The presence spoke, its voice reverberating through the very fabric of existence.
"You have done well, young one," it said, its tone neither harsh nor gentle, but absolute.
"You have brought stories to life. You have given meaning to the void."
The boy blinked, his inky fingers clutching the pen tightly. He did not understand, but he felt the words settle ober him like a mantle.
"But this is only the beginning," the presence continued as the boys eyes were still fixed of the paper on his table, the sparks in his eyes orange and blue from surprise and fear.
"Your task is far greater than you realize. You are no longer just a boy. You are a force, a necessity. From this moment forward, you will not merely write stories-you will write the fates of all those who have a fate to tell."
The boy opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. A strange sensation filled his chest-fear, awe, and an overwhelming sense of responsibility.
The presence paused, as if considering something. Then, with a voice that seemed to echo across all of time and space, it spoke the name that wound define him.
"From now on you are the Writer"
The boys hear skipped. The presence leaned closer-though it had no form, he felt its essence wrap around him. He knew now….his name it seems or….
"℮đμя☼и"
Ah- that's it….his name…
And with that, the presence was gone, leaving the boy alone in his star-filled house.
The pen in his hand seemed heavier now, its ink darker like the color of his eyes and more potent with- stars…?.
The boy-no, the Writer- sat back in his chair, staring at the endless pages before him.
"Oh right, i did not have a name" he murmured under his breath before a small bittersweet smile tugged at his lips.
He dipped the pen into the ink- that never seemed to run out, the familiar weight settling in his fingers.
And then he began to write.
To be continued