There was no light, no sound. No body, no breath. And yet—Kai existed.
He didn't know how long he had been floating. Seconds? Hours? Years? Time didn't tick here—it drifted, like dust motes in still air. There was no pain, no fear, just an overwhelming stillness that blanketed him like snowfall. Slowly, his awareness began to take shape. First his thoughts, then his memories. The last thing he remembered was saving his final frame, leaning back in his chair, and...
Gone.
But not quite.
Something glowed faintly in the distance. A single, flickering ribbon of light, coiling through the dark like a paper lantern in the void. Then another. Then a dozen more. Soon, the darkness was littered with glowing lines, like trails of ink unspooling across invisible pages.
Images began to appear. A young boy on a playground, laughing. An old woman closing a book with trembling hands. A man in a hospital bed sketching a cartoon panel on a napkin. These were not Kai's memories. These were stories. Unfinished. Unread. Waiting.
He turned—or thought he did—and the space around him shifted in response. The air shimmered, folding inward like pages turning. With a soft rustle, the ribbons of light twisted together, forming a silhouette. A cloaked figure emerged, composed entirely of cascading sheets of script and shifting manga panels. The figure had no face, only a gentle aura of purpose.
"Hello, Kai Nakamura," the figure said, its voice like a chorus—young and old, male and female, soft and certain. "Welcome to the space between stories."
Kai stared, mouth agape. "I... I died."
"Yes."
The answer landed without ceremony. No apology. No explanation. Just truth.
Kai floated in silence, absorbing the weight of it. It wasn't fear that gripped him. It was... awe. Not many people get to know for sure what comes after. And whatever this was—it was beautiful.
"What is this place?" he asked.
"This is the Library of Lost Stories," the figure replied. "Where tales that end too soon drift, and dreams not yet born wait their turn."
The vastness around him breathed with hidden life. He could see now that the sky above wasn't empty—it was filled with slowly orbiting manuscripts, broken comic panels, unfinished screenplays, and glowing scrolls that spun like constellations. Some bled ink from their edges, as though mourning their incomplete arcs.
The air itself smelled like parchment and possibility. He reached out, and a swirling fragment brushed past his hand—an animated panel, crackling with an unfinished story's spark. He could feel the heartbeat of it.
Kai's thoughts raced. "So... am I one of those stories?"
"You were," the figure said, voice flickering like candlelight. "But not anymore."
The space around them rippled. Scenes from Kai's life began to unfold on the ribbons: his childhood bedroom, the first time he drew Luffy, the night his first animation went viral, the quiet hours spent editing in silence. The moments no one ever saw but meant everything to him.
"You poured your soul into creation," the figure continued. "You lived with passion, even when no one was watching. You gave your world color."
Kai's throat tightened. He never expected recognition. Certainly not from some cosmic librarian.
"Why me?" he asked. "Why give me another chance?"
The figure stepped closer. "Because the story you were writing—the one made of heart and hope and stubborn joy—deserves an ending. And not the one you were given."
Kai floated silently, heart pounding in a place he no longer had one. For the first time in years, he felt seen.
He drifted downward, looking at his hands—or what felt like them. Translucent and light, made of memory and mist. He closed his eyes. "I always thought… maybe if I made something good enough, the world would see me. Not the me they wanted. Just… me."
"The world saw," the Archivist replied. "Even if it never told you. And now, a world awaits that will know you by more than your shadows."
"So what now?" he asked, barely above a whisper.
"You will be reborn," the Archivist said. "In a world where the rules are written in capes and cosmic ink. A universe of heroes and villains, of gods and monsters."
Kai's eyes widened. He didn't dare hope.
"Marvel?"
The Archivist nodded. "But not as a spectator. You will be part of it."
Tears prickled at the edges of Kai's awareness. He couldn't feel them, but the emotion was there. Tangible. Real.
"Do I get to choose who I'll be?"
"Not who," the Archivist said gently. "What. You were never meant to be a copy. You are a creator. And creators must shape their own legends."
The ribbons around them fluttered. In their movements, Kai saw glimpses—worlds filled with spider-webs, adamantium claws, hammers crashing with thunder. He saw possibilities. He saw futures.
He also saw a reflection of himself—slightly older, hair wind-tossed, wearing a familiar black straw hat. The reflection smiled.
"You may shape your reincarnation with three wishes," the Archivist said. "Wishes that will define your new beginning. Choose wisely."
Kai didn't answer right away. He simply turned his eyes toward the ever-shifting cosmos of pages around him.
He thought of his unfinished dreams, of the stories he never got to tell, the friends he lost touch with, the fans who had once messaged him to say: "Your animation made me smile today."
He remembered the hours he spent drawing for no one but himself. The worlds he created with shaky lines and hopeful hearts. The hunger, the passion, the way a blank screen never felt empty to him—it felt like a door.
And he thought of Luffy, too. Laughing in the face of giants. Punching through gods. Defying the rules of the world, not because he had to—but because it was fun. Because it was right.
If this was a new story, then maybe—just maybe—it was his turn to be that kind of legend.
There was silence.
Then:
"Then I'm ready to write something new."