The white void was all that remained, stretching infinitely in every direction, and yet, despite its vast emptiness, it felt oddly suffocating. Nothing to look at, nothing to touch, not even a ripple in the air to break the monotony. Only the sensation of an ever-present, blank stillness.
The newly appeared figure blinked, or perhaps it would be better to say that the eyes—those hollow, featureless sockets that existed where eyes should have been—somehow acknowledged the sense of awareness in this space. The body stood motionless for a long moment, unsure of what to do, before the faintest tremor of thought broke through.
Movement. The body could move. It reached out instinctively.
Clink.
A noise. A sound, sudden and loud in the absolute quiet, like the faintest tap on a distant surface. The figure turned toward it, twisting its head as though instinct told it that there was something in that direction. But there wasn't. Just the white void.
Still, the noise repeated. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Curious, the figure moved toward the sound, walking in a direction it couldn't be sure of, guided only by a strange sense of… purpose? Desire? It couldn't say. Words didn't exist yet, and understanding was like an itch that couldn't be scratched.
After a moment, it came upon an object. It wasn't much—just a book. A book? It seemed to form in the space between the figure's now-vague hands like some trick of the mind, although the mind, too, was a blurry thing, hard to define.
The book was thick, its cover worn and oddly comforting. The figure reached for it and felt the edges against its empty palms.
There was no hesitation. No reason to doubt.
A deep breath—no, wait, it didn't breathe, but something stirred in the emptiness of the chest—followed by the opening of the book.
The pages were blank.
What was this?
It flipped the page. Blank. Blank. Blank.
A shiver ran through the figure's body—if it could be called a body. It had been standing still in the void for what felt like ages, yet the notion of time was foreign to it. Time? How could it grasp such a thing when the world around it offered no anchor?
Tap. Tap.
It glanced back at the sound. The book? The noise seemed to come from the book now, the pages rattling slightly, a sound like a soft murmur. The figure turned the page again, more urgently this time, hoping for something. Anything.
And there it was: words.
Apple.
It blinked. The word didn't make sense, but something about it felt… right? What was an apple? Was it a thing? A concept? Or something more? The word felt familiar, though it had never seen anything like it.
The figure let out a noise, almost like a groan, though it wasn't sure if it had any reason to do so. Was it frustrated? Annoyed? Or was this what curiosity felt like?
It turned another page. This time, the word was:
Dictionary.
The figure frowned, confused. It wasn't sure what it had expected, but the word wasn't helpful. The concept, though, was important. Something within its core told it that it needed to understand what was happening.
It muttered—or tried to, though no sound escaped, just the sense of a thought tumbling through its mind.
"Why…?" It thought. But even that question felt weak.
The figure stared at the word for what felt like a long time. "Dictionary." The shape of it didn't match its understanding. Could it be a thing? It didn't know what a "thing" even meant. It reached out, trembling, and touched the word.
There was no answer.
A sigh—or was it a feeling of weight—settled within the figure's mind. It stared at the book again, flipping pages, desperately hoping for something. Anything. More words filled the pages: table, chair, book. All meaningless. None of it made sense.
With growing frustration, the figure did the only thing it could think to do: it raised its hands and tapped the cover. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
"Hey!" It thought loudly. "What are you?"
The book didn't respond.
The figure's hands fidgeted, flipping more pages, moving wildly, but the words stayed the same. Every word—every page—was just more of the same. Simple words. Object names. But what was an object?
Apple, Table, Chair, Desk, Apple again.
It wasn't enough. It wasn't anything at all.
Frustration became the only feeling left. Without a sound, the figure slammed the book to the ground, though it wasn't even sure what the "ground" was. The action felt… right? A simple act of rebellion, perhaps. The sense of being trapped, of being without control, was stronger now, pressing in on the figure's mind like a weight.
The sound echoed, harsh and cold in the silence of the void.
Then, like a cruel joke, the book started to float back up. It hovered in the air, pages fluttering as though the air were alive with the motion. The figure reached again, but its fingers just passed through the empty space. No feeling. No sensation.
The pages continued to turn, each one filled with words, each word a piece of something—an answer that was too complex to understand. The book wasn't responding in a way that could make sense of it. It was just... words. More and more words.
"Tell me… something," the figure thought. "What am I?"
The silence was deafening.
There were no answers. Just the weight of a never-ending void. A void that stretched out endlessly in every direction, never shifting, never changing, just silent and constant.
The book finally stopped. The final page—so simple, so blank—hung suspended before the figure. It stared at it for an uncountable time.
It had no answers.
The figure felt the creeping sensation that there were no answers, not here, not now. The realization slithered coldly through its thoughts, and it understood, or maybe it only felt, that this blankness was not just emptiness. It was the absence of meaning, the absence of purpose, and it felt—strangely—like the only thing it had ever known.
A soft sigh—quiet, hesitant—passed through the void, its source impossible to determine. A sound that felt as hollow as the void itself.
The book drifted lazily toward the ground.
The figure stood still, unmoving in the white emptiness, wondering—perhaps for the first time—if it would ever stop feeling the weight of this silence. And maybe… just maybe… the book had never been the answer at all.
It wasn't sure.
Suddenly a status window appeared Infront of the readers view although it was invisible to the any other living creatures
[Skill Unlocked:Opinions]
This allows the readers to know the prospective the protagonist sees in the readers, they can see the reader as a god,a friend,a companion, enemy and anything else.
[The protagonists opinion]
Anger: 0%
Royalty: 0%
Fear: 0%
Curiosity: 0%
Love: 0%
Disgust: 0%
Does not know of the readers existence
As you can see, protagonist does not have an opinion on the readers as they do not know of the readers existence but later on the novel the protagonist will understand the readers existence and will be able to unlock more skills as the chapters go on.
[New Options loading...]
....
....
[Successfully loaded]
Give them a....
1.A Rubix cube (for their sanity)
2. A clock (acquire knowledge of time)
3. A d̸̦̟̥̅̄ẹ̷̜̼̒ȁ̴̢̤̈̎ḑ̷̖̱͒̃͝ ̵̠͛ bird (...)