The world was a blank canvas—void and infinite.
No color. No shape. No sound. Just silence, stretching forever.
A man in a tattered black trench coat stood alone, his breath fading into the stillness. His name was Sightless.
Or perhaps, it had been.
He had expected something else—a new world, a new life.
But this… this was not transmigration.
This was a mistake.
[The world you sought is not here.]
[The gate has closed. The ink has dried.]
[You are not lost. You are… unwritten.]
Cold crept through him, though there was no wind. His pen was gone. His book—gone.
Even his thoughts felt distant, like echoes from a life that might never have been.
He moved forward, but nothing changed. No ground. No sky. Only void.
A failed beginning.
[Some souls awaken with gifts. Others awaken in grief.]
[What you see is what remains.]
[Write, or be forgotten.]
He clenched his fists. He could scream, but no voice would answer.
He could despair, but despair would only sink into silence.
So he walked.
One step, then another.
Not because the void gave way. But because his will cut through it like a pen to parchment.
A shimmer passed through the white. A flicker—gone before he could name it.
Still, it was enough.
Something inside him stirred. Not strength. Not skill. But… meaning.
He would walk this blank world.
He would see what was no longer seen.
He would remember what the world chose to forget.
[To write in emptiness is to defy erasure.]
[To witness the void is to restore color.]
[The first page begins.]