Floating through an endless void—shifting between dimensions again and again, billions of times faster than light—Reyley thought.
There was a story my mother used to tell me when I was a child.
A story about how a hero saved this world—and countless others—from destruction.
The story of the CELESTIAL KING.
"A long time ago, the world stood on the brink of annihilation.
The first Demon Lord ever created went on a rampage, threatening to erase all multiverses of the Outerverse.
A lone hero was born from the hopes and prayers of all living beings.
In the High Outerverse, three layers formed—each transcending the last.
The first was the Labyrinth Realm, a domain that surpassed the High Outerverse itself.
Within it existed the Delta Realm, and within that, the Static Realm—a boundless void of nothingness.
At its core, inside a Mirror Room, the Celestial King was born.
Trapped with no escape, he destroyed all three realms to save creation itself.
Afterward, he defeated the Demon Lord and restored peace."
I used to think it was just a fairy tale—a bedtime story parents told their children to help them sleep.
Until I grew up.
Until I met the Celestial King myself.
He had disguised himself, traveling quietly through our village. I was ecstatic. I asked him how he defeated the first Demon Lord, how strong he truly was.
But the way he spoke—the pauses, the rehearsed certainty—I knew he was lying.
He saw it on my face.
He stopped.
Ruffling my hair, he smiled.
"Little one… the truth is, I am the two hundred and ninety-fourth Celestial King.
Lucious Morgan, at your presence."
He took my hand and lifted me into the sky.
We traveled across multiverses.
He showed me landscapes beyond imagination—so beautiful that tears fell from my eyes.
When he brought me home, I promised never to tell anyone I had seen him.
I won't lie—I was disappointed when he said he wasn't the Celestial King of legend.
But I was also happy.
He told me that if I grew strong enough, I could become one too.
How could a child not dream of that?
So I swore that one day, I would become a Celestial King.
Foolish.
Naive.
With all the beings in existence, I had the gall to believe such a thing.
I talked about it endlessly. I gazed at the night sky and wished.
But that choice was never mine to make.
It was fate's.
On my tenth birthday, a mage examined me.
He told me I had no veil core.
Impossible.
Every human was born with one—a conduit allowing veil to become mana, and mana to become magic.
I laughed at first.
Then I saw my mother crying uncontrollably that night.
That was when reality struck—like an immovable force.
I tried to wield mana artificially, but there was a wall—absolute and unyielding.
Like a two-dimensional being trying to touch the third.
I couldn't even perceive mana.
I walked up to my mother and said—
"It's okay… right, mom?
I can still become the Celestial King."
I regretted it instantly.
Those words shattered her.
As the memories replayed, Sendrick's body collided with something.
Pain exploded through his skull.
Then darkness.
When he awoke, he was kneeling upon an altar.
Chains wrapped his entire body, each end disappearing into portals. His bones were shattered from the tightening restraint. He was bound so tightly he couldn't even flinch.
Hellfire burned around him—hotter than lava, yet leaving his flesh intact.
Only the pain remained.
When awareness returned, the heat nearly tore a scream from his lungs.
He screamed anyway.
His flesh felt as if it would melt at any moment—yet nothing happened.
Only sensation.
Only agony.
His heart felt scorched as questions tore through his mind.
Why am I in this situation?
Why was I born?
Is this where my journey ends?
Why can't I even protect myself?
Why am I not like everyone else?
Maybe if I could use magic…
Maybe I could have lived a normal life.
Going to a Magic academy. Graduating. Getting a job and getting married. Having Kids.
Dying a peaceful death, surrounded by family.
Maybe if I had just followed the cycle of life without question.
Rage welled up inside him—raw, uncontrollable.
Revenge.
Then he exhaled.
He smiled faintly.
"Look at me… spouting nonsense."
For the first time, his mind was quiet.
No voices.
No arguments.
Clarity.
"Walking this endless dark path alone made me realize— if reaching the end means becoming a better person… then I wouldn't wish this suffering on anyone."
But—
Was killing necessary?
Will it be?
Am I on the right path?
Everything disgusts me.
My hatred for everything continues to grow.
Why does part of me hate this world, while another part loves it?
Seeing people smile makes me happy—because I know in my heart I'll never be like them.
Am I lonely forever?
Is it because I lost everything?
All humans are born alone.
All humans die alone.
Then why does it hurt?
In my heart, I believe that even as a sinner—I can change.
But can I really?
Will I always live bound by the ideals I carved into myself?
Mom.
Dad.
Little brother.
Elsa—the first girl I ever loved.
Lyra. Idris. Nika. Seraphine.
Why did you all die… for my sake?
If I hadn't chased a dream that could never come true—
If I hadn't searched for the CYBERBOX—
If I hadn't tried to become the next Celestial King—
You might still be alive.
Instead, I was left with this eternal suffering called life.
Question.
If existence reaches its highest miracle at the moment of birth, then what remains for the living but decay in slow motion?
Is life merely the prolonged aftermath of creation—an extended wait for meaning that never arrives, culminating not in revelation, but in silence?
Or is the unease itself proof that meaning was never meant to be given, only demanded?
Answer.
If birth were the summit of creation, then life would indeed appear as a long descent, a gradual erosion of wonder into inevitability. But creation is not an event that concludes; it is a condition that persists. To be born is not to complete creation, but to enter its jurisdiction.
Birth gives existence, but existence alone is inert. Meaning does not arrive pre-installed. What follows is not disappointment by default—it is responsibility. The universe grants being, but withholds purpose, not out of cruelty, but to force authorship upon the living. If everything after birth feels like decline, it is because we confuse origin with destination.
Creation at birth is raw, unshaped potential—unwritten matter. What comes after is not lesser, only harder. To live is to sculpt meaning out of entropy, to impose direction on a reality that offers none. The fear of "a pile of nothing" arises when we expect life to entertain us rather than demand something from us.
Nothingness is not waiting at the end because life is hollow; it waits because life refuses to justify itself. Meaning is not discovered like a buried relic—it is _manufactured through endurance, choice, and defiance_. The tragedy is not that existence fades, but that many never attempt to answer it.
If birth were the greatest act, then living would be redundant. But birth is merely permission. What follows is the burden—and privilege—of deciding whether one's existence will echo or dissolve without resistance.
After questioning himself, Reyley thought—
"Enough."
"I have many questions that will never be answered."
"I will find answers one by one."
"Insignificant beings like me don't get to question the cycle of life."
"I accept who I am… and what I will become."
Because even in endless darkness—
There is always light.