The Narrative Of the Dead

My eyes traced along each word, the sentences pulling me in with an irresistible force.

Recognition settled quickly, a cold, dreadful certainty.

Yes, this was my diary.

Not the one I had kept in my past life, but something far greater — an account that spanned beyond anything I could fathom.

It began with the day I was born, chronicling every moment, every choice, leading to the day I ended it all. Yet somehow, it didn't stop there.

It continued into this world, carrying the weight of my existence like an eternal shadow.

Still, I read on. I couldn't stop. The book seemed alive, as though it demanded my attention.

What truly unnerved me was the page I had landed on.

It wasn't a recounting of my past. No. This page foretold the events of tomorrow a chilling glimpse into what awaited me when I woke.

The handwriting was unmistakably mine, but it felt alien, as if written by another version of myself someone I didn't fully recognize.

Each word struck like a hammer, embedding itself into my mind before I could process its meaning.

I couldn't tear my eyes away, even as a chill crept up my spine with every line I read.

Was this written by me? Not the version of me sitting here, surely. No, it couldn't be.

This wasn't an ability mentioned in Natalie's novel, and I had studied her story extensively.

There was so much to uncover, even after multiple readings.

This must have been unique to this man this body I now inhabited.

Somehow, it had been passed to me, a remnant of his power now grafted into my existence.

I took a deep breath, steadying myself as the weight of realization sank in.

Then, I shut the book.

I'd always been a fast reader. I once spent an entire day devouring five hundred pages of Natalie's novel.

But this was infinitely long, a narrative without end. Time in this place held no meaning, or perhaps it didn't exist at all.

If my guess was correct, this dream was more than just a dream. It was a gateway.

A gateway to a library that held narratives beyond comprehension.

As the book snapped shut in my hands, disorientation washed over me.

My legs felt like lead, trembling under the weight of an unseen force.

I clutched the ladder beside me, its rough wood grounding me as I took a shaky breath.

The library stretched endlessly, shelves upon shelves of books climbing into a shadowy void above.

Each step forward felt like wading through a thick fog.

The air was dense, heavy, and suffocating, yet some inexplicable force pushed me onward.

My footsteps echoed faintly, swallowed by the library's vastness.

The musty scent of old paper and ink clung to the air, oddly comforting, like an unspoken promise of knowledge waiting to be uncovered.

As I moved, my hand brushed against the spines of books some smooth and pristine, others weathered and crumbling.

Each one hummed faintly at my touch, resonating with an energy I couldn't begin to understand.

After what felt like an eternity, a faint golden glimmer caught my eye a soft light peeking through the darkness.

It called to me, and before I could think, my legs moved on their own.

The source of the glow revealed itself as I approached: a door.

Its frame was ornate, carved from dark wood veined with shimmering gold. Intricate patterns danced across its surface, shifting subtly, almost alive.

The brass handle, shaped like a coiled serpent, gleamed faintly in the light.

I hesitated as I reached for it. The air around the door was charged, electric, like the moment before a thunderstorm.

My fingers brushed the handle, and a jolt shot up my arm. Slowly, I turned it. The door creaked open, revealing what lay beyond.

A vast, circular chamber greeted me.

Its smooth stone walls radiated a quiet warmth, yet much of the space was shrouded in shadow, the dim glow from above barely reaching the edges.

At its center stood a table.

It was massive, perfectly round, its dark polished surface gleaming like a still pool in the faint light.

Intricate carvings lined its edges spiraling patterns and runes that seemed to tell a story I couldn't yet decipher.

And yet, for all its grandeur, there was only one chair.

The chair was positioned directly across from me, its tall back rising high like a solemn sentinel.

Crafted from the same dark wood as the table, its design was unadorned yet commanding.

It wasn't a throne of decadence but one of purpose.

Atop the table, directly in front of the chair, was a peculiar arrangement.

A crystal inkpot sat silently, its contents swirling with iridescent liquid that pulsed faintly, almost in time with my heartbeat.

Beside it lay a single feather, long and pure white, with faint silver veins running through its quill.

It trembled ever so slightly, as though alive.

Beneath them was a single sheet of parchment, blank save for faint runic patterns that danced along its edges before vanishing into nothingness.

I stepped closer, my footsteps echoing faintly on the stone floor.

The air grew heavier, pressing down on me as I neared the table. The solitary chair seemed to loom larger, its isolation more striking.

I stopped before it, my gaze shifting between the chair and the strange tools laid out.

The parchment's emptiness felt accusatory, its blank surface challenging me to fill it.

The inkpot shimmered invitingly, and the feather twitched, its movement deliberate.

Almost in a trance, I reached out and picked up the quill.

"This is... a fragment," I murmured, pressing its tip to the parchment.

Yes, in this dream, I could see all the narratives of the past, present, and future.

This place held the future narratives of the world.

But before I could write anything, a sharp spike of energy surged through me, and everything faded.

I woke with a start, drenched in cold sweat, my breathing ragged.

The faint light of dawn filtered through the window, and I sat up, clutching the sheets.

I looked out the window and sighed. "Nat, just what did you create?"

...

The road stretched endlessly before me after leaving the village.

Fields of unkempt grass swayed gently in the breeze, creating a quiet rhythm that accompanied my steps.

The dirt beneath my boots was firm yet uneven, worn smooth in places by countless travelers.

Occasional stones jutted out, but I paid them little attention as my pace remained steady.

The sky above was painted in soft hues of dawn, the sun's golden light just beginning to crest the horizon, bathing the world in a gentle warmth.

As I walked, my thoughts drifted back to that dream.

Again and again, I pondered how I could harness this newfound power.

In her world, there were things called pathways roles assigned to individuals like Ruler or Scholar.

Within these pathways were Orders, diversions that granted unique abilities and set rules.

For instance, within the Ruler pathway, there existed an Order called Liberator.

These Orders could be freely chosen, though often shaped by one's personality.

Being a Scholar, I had already inherited some basic abilities, but I knew altering my pathway would be no easy feat, especially considering the circumstances of my death.

In my final moments, I had memorized over five hundred pages of knowledge from Natalie's novel, and this was just one of many readings.

Back on Earth, I was labeled a "nerd," someone who immersed themselves in learning without regard for social norms.

However, as I spent more time in this body, I began merging with the man who once lived here a scholar in his own right, but still a reflection of who I had become.

Our thoughts intertwined, and our memories blurred into one.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the notepad, flipping to the first page.

I wrote in Latin, my second language, with English being my first.

In this world, they adopted an English-style culture, including a shared universal language.

Yet, Natalie once mentioned that Latin was the language of the divine a notion I didn't fully understand but felt nonetheless.

Carefully, I etched down a name.

Back on Earth, I had a name I despised.

But here, I was free to craft my own identity.

Names held power in this world, something ancient and sacred.

So, with a deep breath, I wrote: Inanis Fairness.

As I closed the notepad, I rested my hand on my hip and gazed up at the sky.

It was a clear blue now, with a blazing star shining overhead.

But I knew its size was deceptive.

The world Natalie crafted was vast — likely as large as our sun.

Thus, the star above must have been immense, far greater than what I had ever known.

Still, this didn't matter much.

Most conflicts were fought in realms that transcended the physical realm, preventing any destruction of this world.

What I stood in was likely a realm known as the Library of the World a space where every event, past, present, and future, was stored.

It was a realm beyond time, though I knew I wasn't beyond aging.

This body, after all, was young perhaps twenty, maybe twenty-one at best.

But my age wasn't certain, only that I couldn't be any older.

After walking for so long, I expected hunger to settle in, but with the use of mana, hunger never came.

The ability to sustain myself through magic was convenient, but there was a gnawing discomfort a sense of cold.

It wasn't freezing, but something far more profound, like fear itself settling deep within my bones.

As I continued along the empty road, two crimson trees appeared on either side.

Their blood-red leaves fell, drifting slowly onto the path like drops of lifeblood.

The cold intensified, wrapping around me like a shroud.

My head began to throb, each beat of my pulse echoing inside my mind.

Instinct took over.

Without conscious thought, I ducked.

But this wasn't a mere duck. I fell to my knees, compelled by some unseen force.

A voice echoed through the stillness a voice both arrogant and commanding.

"You are a wise little lamb," it said, unmistakably male.

"To think someone so weak would recognize me."

I raised my gaze slightly, seeing crimson-glowing boots and black pants covered in pockets.

"I'm not sure what you are," I responded, my voice steady despite the weight pressing down on me. "I just followed my instincts."

The man laughed softly, his hand resting lightly on my shoulder.

"At ease, little lamb. You can gaze upon me."

I stood, though my body still felt as though the world was crushing me.

The man before me was unmistakable elegant yet otherworldly.

His sleek black hair was tied back in a loose braid, and his pale, almost ghostly skin seemed to shimmer faintly in the light.

A crimson cloak flowed down to his knees, embroidered with symbols that shifted and pulsed, giving off a haunting, shifting presence.

His eyes glowed with an eerie crimson light, piercing into my very soul.

"You aren't as weak as I thought," he said, his voice smooth yet unsettling.

"Now that I've seen you clearly, I think I'll kill you."