There was no pain. No warmth. No light. Only… floating.
Jiro's mind stirred in a place beyond sensation. He didn't know how long he'd been there—seconds, hours, years? He drifted through a space that wasn't a space, surrounded by endless, oppressive nothingness. A void so absolute it felt like the concept of existence had been erased.
Am I dead?
He couldn't hear his voice, but the thought resonated like a stone dropped into still water. He had no body. No breath. No heartbeat. Just the whisper of consciousness clinging to the darkness like frost on glass.
So this is it... The afterlife?
If it was, it was crueler than he expected. No judgment. No paradise. No fire and brimstone. Just emptiness. An eternity of silence.
He tried to scream, but there was no mouth. No sound. His thoughts circled endlessly, unraveling and rewinding until he forgot what words even meant. There were no days. No nights. Only drift.
Then—like the crack of thunder in a vacuum—a spark.
A sudden pulse of golden light flickered in the distance. At first it was a pinprick. Then it grew, spiraling open like an eye awakening from slumber. From it stepped a figure, radiating divine presence. A man—no, something greater—cloaked in shimmering robes that moved like galaxies across the fabric of space.
Jiro's fading mind latched on to the presence like a lifeline.
"You've lasted longer than most," the figure said, his voice echoing without sound, as though reality itself bent to carry his words. "Most souls unravel here within days."
"W-Who... are you?" Jiro asked, though he had no voice. The question was plucked from his thoughts and handed gently into the void.
The man raised a snowy brow, long white beard flowing like threads of starlight. "From your world, they call me God. Though I am more than that. I am the Origin—the first will. The one who shapes souls."
Origin God. The name hung heavy in the air.
"Am I… supposed to be here?" Jiro asked.
"No," the god said simply. "Your death caused an anomaly. A ripple in the cycle of rebirth. You were flung from the stream of life, trapped in the void between realms."
Jiro's fading soul trembled. "So… what now?"
The god regarded him thoughtfully. "You're a rare case, Takihara Jiro. You survived the void without breaking. That's worth something."
He raised a hand, and with a casual flick, the void shimmered with patterns—magic circles, timelines, threads of destiny. "I will offer you three wishes. Anything you desire. And, as a bonus, you may choose the world in which you'll be reborn."
Jiro blinked, metaphorically. "You're serious?"
God chuckled. "You mortals love to ask that. Yes, I am serious. Consider it… divine compensation."
The emptiness around them shifted, no longer cold and endless, but pregnant with possibility.
A spark of hope ignited inside Jiro for the first time since his death.
"Then… I want to live again."
The god's eyes gleamed. "Then choose wisely, young soul. Your legend is just beginning."