Everything was black.
Again.
Arlon didn't know why it always started like this.
Why, every time something happened, something beyond understanding, he was left staring into a colorless void?
No sounds. No movement. Just a vacuum pressing against his senses.
This wasn't unconsciousness.
He was aware.
That much, at least, he could tell.
But beyond that… he didn't know anything.
Didn't I die?
That should've been the next step. Die in Trion, wake up in his Zeno on Earth. That was the system. That was the rule.
No matter how regretful it was, if you died, you died.
And yet, he hadn't woken up.
Well, he knew he wouldn't die.
These thoughts weren't fear. Or panic. Or some last desperate attempt at rationalizing death.
They were certain.
I didn't die.
He was sure of it.
Because of that.
The final lock on his title—Unfair Regressor—had opened.
It had been waiting. Dormant. Inaccessible.
Until then.
