The darkness that was once chased by the light was, in truth, born from it. The light had given it shape, purpose, and then—without warning—had turned away.
When light abandoned its creation, what remained was not emptiness but an 'Eternal Darkness', stretching beyond concept or measure.
It was not evil. It was not benevolent.
It simply was.
No warmth. No sound. No movement.
Just silence—so pure it devoured even the thought of time.
The darkness did not expect anything, nor did it seek. It was eternal because it had never known the idea of ending.
Yet in that infinite stillness, something stirred.
It was faint, fragile—like a breath trembling in a place where air did not exist.
A soul.
Lonely, weightless, formless.
It drifted through the abyss, unseen and unfelt, a faint glimmer of consciousness floating within the ocean of shadow.
It had been there since the beginning—since the first whisper of the dark.
Neither born nor created, merely present.
A soul that had never seen light.
A being forgotten by existence itself, perhaps even by the gods—if gods had ever cared to remember such things.
This soul and the darkness were bound together.
One gave the other meaning.
They existed because the other did.
Their coexistence was their eternity.
No time flowed here. No heartbeat marked its passage.
Only stillness—unchanging, unending.
But then, from somewhere deep within the silence, 'memory' began to bleed through the void.
Images—faint, fragmented, like ripples across a still pond.
A street under heavy rain.
Dim lights flickering against walls soaked with water and filth.
A small boy sitting beneath them, shivering, his eyes empty.
He was young—too young to know despair, yet old enough to understand that the world had no place for him.
He had been abandoned long ago.
Left to survive on cold streets where warmth was just another illusion.
Once, he had believed there was hope.
He had believed someone would come for him—someone who would offer a smile not painted in lies.
And someone did.
For a while, he had a home.
For a while, he thought he was wanted.
But people are fickle creatures.
Kindness lasts only as long as it profits them.
They had taken what they wanted—his trust, his hope—and once he was empty, they discarded him like forgotten trash.
From that moment, the child stopped believing in the light.
The rain never stopped that night.
It soaked through his skin, seeping into his bones as if trying to drown the small flame that still flickered inside him.
He didn't cry.
He couldn't.
Tears were meaningless when no one cared enough to see them.
He watched as the world moved on without him.
Strangers passed him by, eyes cold and indifferent.
He learned that kindness was a currency spent only when convenient.
That names held no meaning when no one bothered to remember them.
So, he let go of everything human.
The need for affection.
The desire for warmth.
Even his name.
He buried them deep inside the hollow pit of his chest, until he felt nothing.
He grew up in the forgotten corners of the city—surviving on scraps, living in the shadows, invisible to the world.
But he still wanted to escape somehow.
And in the corners of that cruel world, he found small windows of light — books.
Tattered pages pulled from trash bins.
Stories of worlds where weakness could be shattered, where the powerless could rise.
He read everything he could find.
Fantasies. Adventures.
Dreams of power that could never be real.
And among them — one story lingered.
Solo Leveling.
It spoke of a man who began as nothing, weak and forgotten — only to ascend as a Monarch, a being feared by gods.
He remembered how the story made him feel.
Envious.
Resentful.
And yet, deeply fascinated.
He had seen himself in Sung Jinwoo — the same loneliness, the same helplessness.
But unlike him, Jinwoo had been chosen.
Jinwoo gained strength.
He rose.
He sacrificed for others.
While the boy… had been left behind.
The story mocked him — not through words, but through contrast.
It showed him what he could never be.
And then one day, he died.
Not with a scream.
Not with a plea.
Just a silent, unnoticed end to a life that had never truly begun.
No one mourned. No one remembered.
He simply ceased to be.
But death was not release.
Not for him.
Instead, he found himself here—lost within the same darkness that had always followed him.
Eternal.
Infinite.
Empty.
And within that emptiness, something else took shape—'hatred'.
Not the burning rage of the living, but something colder, heavier.
Hatred for the gods who had created such a world.
Hatred for fate.
For existence itself.
He wanted to scream—but he had no voice.
He wanted to vanish—but even oblivion rejected him.
And so he drifted, his soul darkening with every passing eternity, until even the darkness began to recoil.
He had given up as his existence started to fade.
The void trembled.
The stillness cracked.
Something ancient and vast noticed.
And then—
A voice.
It did not come from above or below. It came from everywhere, resonating through the darkness like a ripple through water.
"Human… what do you think you are doing?"
The sound wasn't sound at all. It was existence itself pressing against him, forcing him to feel its presence.
He didn't answer. He didn't even move.
"I asked you something."
The voice held no anger, no warmth. Only infinite curiosity—like a god observing an insect that refused to die.
And yet, the moment it spoke, his fading stopped. His existence—fragile as it was—held still.
He opened eyes he no longer had and faced the abyss.
"Can I know… who I'm speaking to?" he asked.
"I do not know," the voice replied. "Just as you do not know yourself."
"Then why did you stop me?"
"Because I felt it."
"Why me?"
"Because it was you.The hatred within you. It began to fade. I did not wish for that."
The soul stirred. Something like a laugh, faint and bitter, echoed within him.
"Then what do you want?"
"To ask why you are giving up."
"Because I have nothing left. Nothing to fight for. Nothing to hold onto. How can I hate gods when I can't even feel anymore?"
The darkness pulsed with something like amusement.
"Then I expect something greater from you," it said. "Not hatred. 'Vengeance'."
He felt it then—a spark. Not of life, but of something deeper.
"Vengeance?"
"Yes. I want you to kill the gods."
He almost laughed. If he still had a voice, it would have been hoarse and broken.
"You're insane. I told you—I have nothing. I can't even touch the world I once lived in."
"You have one thing left."
"What?"
"A wish."
The word echoed through the void, rippling through eternity itself.
"A… wish?"
"Any kind. Power. Immortality. Salvation. Choose."
He hesitated, his thoughts swirling like dying embers.
"Why?" he asked. "Why give me that?"
"Because you gave me something first."
"What could I possibly have given you?"
"My existence."
He froze.
"From you, I received my being," the voice continued. "I was formless. Dying. Forgotten. But your despair—your hatred—gave me shape. You allowed me to survive. And now, I return the debt."
"I… gave you existence?"
"You will understand when the time comes. For now—make your wish."
He fell silent again. The void seemed to wait with him.
For the first time, the endless darkness listened.
What did he want?
He had spent a lifetime without purpose, without belonging. Even now, he could not feel hope.
And yet… something deep inside him yearned.
Not for peace. Not for revenge.
For understanding.
He whispered, softly—
"I want to know."
The darkness tilted, curious.
"Know what?"
"What it feels like… to sacrifice yourself for someone else."
The void stilled. Every echo, every vibration, every flicker of shadow froze in place.
Then, for the first time, the voice hesitated.
When it spoke again, its tone had changed—lower, almost mournful.
"So be it."
"You'll grant it?"
"Yes. But for that, you will need strength. I'll give you mine."
"And what do you want in return?"
"Only one thing."
"What is it?"
"Never forget your hatred. When you awaken, they will come for you. The gods will see what you've become. They will fear you, and they will strike. Overcome them… and when you are strong enough—"
The darkness rippled. A vast pressure filled the void, heavy and suffocating.
"Slay them."
A pulse tore through eternity. The void cracked open.
And from those cracks, 'light' began to seep in.
Not gentle, divine light—but something ancient and overwhelming. A light that burned, tore, and 'remade'.
It poured into his soul like molten fire, scorching through every fragment of his existence.
He wanted to scream—but there was no pain. Only 'Omnipresence'.
It was creation in its purest form.
The birth of something greater.
The rewriting of a soul that had been denied everything.
The darkness around him howled as if in agony, collapsing under the brilliance.
"Promise me," the voice whispered, fading amidst the storm of light. "Promise me that when you have power, you will erase them."
He didn't hesitate.
"I promise."
The voice lingered for one last breath of eternity.
"Then take it. My final gift. Fulfill my last wish…"
The light engulfed everything.
"Bearer of 'The Codex of Omnipotence', we shall meet again."
The darkness shattered completely.
The void dissolved into radiance.
For the first time, warmth touched him. He could feel his heartbeat—a rhythm long forgotten—echoing within the new vessel of his existence.
Shapes formed within the light.
Colors.
Sounds.
The world was being born around him—or perhaps, he was being born into it.
The brilliance began to fade, and a faint blur filled his vision.
He drew in a breath—his 'first' breath.
Cold air filled his lungs. His body trembled, the sensation unfamiliar yet achingly real.
The silence was gone. In its place, the faint rustle of wind.
He opened his eyes.
And the Eternal Darkness was no more.