The pale crimson sky hung ominously over the ruins, casting a sickly glow on the shattered remnants of a once-thriving home. The man sat within the wreckage, surrounded by the carnage of a world long since ended. The roof had caved in, furniture lay splintered and broken, and the stench of blood, old, yet lingering, clung to the air. He ate the charred flesh of a monster he had slain, his movements slow and deliberate, each bite a reminder of survival. Beside him, a decayed corpse sat, brittle bones exposed. Occasionally, his fist would lash out, striking the skeleton in anger, shattering it further. Cracks and breaks riddled the remains, as though even in death, the body could not escape his wrath. For now, we’ll call this man Nihil, though his true name will one day be revealed.

Rising from the ruin, Nihil made his way to what had once been the house’s garden—the only part of the home that time and destruction had spared. The flowers bloomed as if mocking the surrounding devastation. He bent down, plucking a handful of white roses, paying no mind to the thorns tearing at his fingers. Blood dripped onto the petals, staining them crimson as he carelessly pocketed the flowers.

A shotgun rested against the wall, a relic of the old world, still functional amidst the ruins. He grabbed it, slinging it over his shoulder as he spoke quietly to himself, “It’s been a while since I visited them. I should go more often.”

The crimson sky seemed to watch over him as he trudged through the desolate streets, each step stirring the ash of long-dead fires and the rot of forgotten corpses. Some faces he recognized, others blurred into the endless sea of the dead. He had killed many of them himself, but it had been over a month since he’d encountered another living soul. Now, only beasts prowled these ruins, hunting prey that no longer existed.

His path led to the highest hill in the city, the only place that had been spared the worst of the destruction. The area was almost serene, in contrast to the chaos below. Crude, hand-carved graves littered the landscape, each one a marker of the fallen. His comrades. The ones who had fought alongside him through the apocalypse, only to perish before seeing the end.

Tears rolled silently down Nihil’s face as he stood before the graves, staring at the names he had carved with his own hands. They were all gone now—every last one of them. And he, the last survivor, was burdened with a life that would forever be alone.

Each grave was marked with a withered rose, its petals brittle and crumbling, symbols of a fading memory. Nihil moved silently, replacing the dying flowers with fresh white roses, their stark petals tinged red from the blood on his hands. He knelt before each grave, his fingers trembling as he placed the new blooms, as if somehow keeping this small ritual alive could tether him to something—anything—in this forsaken world.

“The world’s gone to shit,” Nihil murmured, his voice low and detached, staring at the gravestones as though they might offer answers. “If I knew what triggered it… could I have stopped it? Stopped any of this?” His gaze lingered on the names, each one carved by his hand. “So many deaths, yet here I am. Still alive. Why?”

The silence pressed against him, oppressive, unrelenting. Nihil’s thoughts wandered, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. “I used to love reading those mediocre regression novels. Stories of going back in time, fixing everything… How nice would it be if that could happen now? How lovely to rewrite it all.”

He stood, pulling the shotgun from his shoulder, his grip tightening on the cold steel. Slowly, he raised it toward his face, the muzzle hovering just in front of his mouth. His breath was shallow, his eyes hollow, staring down the barrel with a grim finality. “Should I just end it? What’s the point anymore?”

His finger brushed the trigger when a voice, smooth and mocking, cut through the silence like a knife. “How boring. Are you really going to give up like this?”

Startled, Nihil lowered the gun and turned. A figure approached from the gloom—a child, no more than thirteen, yet something about him was off, unsettling. He adjusted his monocle with a flick of his pale hand, a cruel smile twisting his lips. His skin was unnaturally pale, his golden eyes gleaming with cold amusement. Dressed in ornate blue Victorian-era clothing, he walked with an air of aristocracy, a snake-headed walking stick tapping rhythmically on the ground.

“You struggled so hard,” the boy continued, his voice dripping with mockery, “and now, this is how it ends? Pathetic. I thought you were better than this.

“Who are you? How are you alive?” Nihil shouted, his voice thick with disbelief and suspicion. “There are monsters everywhere. How have you survived? You’re just a child. I haven’t seen a single other person in a month—so how did you survive?”

The boy’s smile remained, eerily calm, unfazed by the accusation. “Oh, you’re right. Not a single human is alive,” he said, his tone light, almost playful. His golden eyes sparkled as if he found Nihil's confusion amusing. “But I’m not exactly human,” he added, adjusting his monocle with a casual flick of his fingers.

Instinct kicked in. Without hesitation, Nihil drew his shotgun, his hands moving with the precision of someone who had survived too long in a world gone mad. He aimed squarely at the boy’s head and pulled the trigger. The blast echoed in the air. Blood and brain matter splattered the ground, painting the grass in a grotesque horror. The boy’s body crumpled to the floor, lifeless.

But before Nihil could exhale in relief, the corpse began to writhe and decay unnaturally fast. His eyes widened as the boy’s body crumbled into dust, only for the dust to reform, the boy reappearing behind him—whole, untouched, and wearing the same unholy smile. Even his pristine clothing had regenerated along with him.

“Would you like to try again?” the child asked, his voice still calm, almost mocking. “I’m no human, but I assure you, I’m not a monster either.”

Nihil’s pulse raced as he spun around, shotgun raised once more. “Then what are you?” he growled, tightening his grip on the weapon, ready to fire again if need be. The boy waved his hand dismissively.

“Oh, there’s no need for this, really. Put down the shotgun, or I’ll be forced to remove it myself—along with your hand,” he said, his sinister smile curling wider, as if enjoying the tension in the air. Ignoring the warning, Nihil leveled the barrel at the boy's chest, preparing to shoot.

But before he could even pull the trigger, his arm began to disintegrate—quietly, almost peacefully. His flesh unraveled, turning to ash, scattering into the wind like brittle pages torn from an ancient book. Nihil stared in horror, the shotgun falling from his disappearing hand. There was no pain, just the overwhelming sensation of helplessness, of fear—pure, unfiltered fear.

“I warned you, didn’t I?” the boy said softly, his voice now edged with satisfaction as he watched the terror wash over Nihil’s face. That vicious smile remained, etched into his pale features, like a predator toying with its prey.

Nihil staggered back, eyes wide, his breath coming in shallow, ragged bursts. The boy standing before him was no ordinary being—no, this child radiated a power that transcended anything Nihil had ever encountered. Far more terrifying than the monstrous creatures prowling the wastelands, the boy stood with a quiet, chilling control that left Nihil frozen in place.

With a casual snap of his fingers, the boy restored Nihil’s arm effortlessly, as though mending broken flesh was nothing more than a trifling gesture. “Please understand,” the boy began, his voice calm, measured, “if I wanted you dead, you'd already be buried alongside those graves, and no one would mourn your passing.”

“What… what the hell are you?” Nihil stammered in terror, clinging to his words. His eyes, once hardened by the apocalyptic horrors he’d endured, now gleamed with pure, primal fear.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

The boy smiled faintly, a glint of something ancient and unknowable lurking behind his golden eyes. “I've come to fulfill your request,” he said, stepping forward with a certain grace. “A second chance. A chance to rewrite this story that has gone awry. You see,” his smile widened, “I have a particular disdain for tragic endings. And there is no ending more tragic, more pathetic, than this one. So, I’m offering you a chance to fix it.”

Nihil’s mind raced, struggling to comprehend. “How is that even possible? When the apocalypse began, every awakened—no matter how powerful—lost their abilities. We became powerless. How can you send me back in time when time itself has been fractured?”

The boy’s smile grew sharper, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “It's simple, really. After all,” he said, his voice laced with a calm arrogance, “I wrote this storyline.”

Before Nihil could respond, a deafening roar shattered the air. Above them, a monstrous creature descended from the sky. Its body was a grotesque amalgamation of crimson scales and yellow stripes, two sets of jagged wings slicing through the air. A vulture-like beak protruded from its face, framed by three gleaming green eyes that burned with hunger. Behind it, a swarm of smaller, equally horrifying offspring followed, screeching in excitement.

“How utterly annoying,” the boy muttered, his voice laced with disdain. “I truly hate this storyline.” He sighed, stepping forward as though the looming threat of the monstrous creatures meant nothing to him. “These worthless beasts don’t know their place.”

Without a hint of urgency, the boy reached into his coat and pulled out a small, ancient-looking book. The tome was unlike anything Nihil had ever seen. It was no larger than a pocket-sized journal, bound in deep blue leather, with tiny black stars embossed into the cover. The stars shimmered as though they were alive, faintly glowing with a cosmic energy that defied comprehension. The pages inside were pitch black, the color of an abyss that swallowed all light, and the ink that filled them was a vivid, bloody red—each word etched with a dark, malevolent energy. Floating just above the pages was a pen, suspended by an unseen force, crossing out lines with a meticulous precision.

As the boy made a simple correction to the text, the monsters above screamed in agony. Their bodies twisted, warped, and then—without warning—disintegrated into dust. In mere moments, the sky was clear, the threat vanquished as if it had never existed.

The boy closed the book with a quiet snap, tucking it back into his coat with an air of finality. He turned to Nihil, his smile never fading. “Now,” he said, his voice almost playful, “do you still doubt my ability to rewrite this story?”

The boy smirked, his golden eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. “Anyway, can we continue our conversation? You're this world's only hope,” he said, his tone light, almost dismissive, as if the weight of his words meant nothing to him.

Nihil clenched his fists, his voice breaking with frustration. “I've asked you multiple times already, but who the hell are you?”

The boy adjusted his monocle, his grin widening. “Me? I’m the Creator—the one who brought this world and every other world into existence. I watch you creatures for my own enjoyment. Sadly, this story has ended sooner than I’d like. The only reason I’m helping you is so you can give me more entertainment,” he said, his smile dripping with malice, as though human lives were mere pieces on his chessboard.

Nihil's heart pounded in his chest, rage simmering beneath the surface. “So you’re responsible for this fucked-up world? You’re the reason so many people I cared about had to die?” His voice cracked with emotion as tears welled in his eyes. “Why me? Why was I chosen for this?”

The Creator chuckled, an eerie, hollow sound that sent shivers down Nihil’s spine. “No, I’m not fully responsible,” he replied, his voice unbothered, as if he were discussing trivialities. “I actively encourage free will. You humans are the maestros of your own misery. As for why you were chosen,” his eyes darkened, “you’re the last survivor on this entire planet. You outlived them all, so I’m sure you’re the best candidate.”

Nihil's bitter laugh echoed through the ruined landscape. “So it’s really true,” he said, his voice raw with grief, “it's just me. Everyone else is dead.” Tears streamed down his face, mingling with his laughter, a twisted mixture of pain and disbelief.

His voice dropped, desperate and broken. “Send me back. Let me fix everything. Please, I need to save them… I need to save everyone,” Nihil begged, his knees nearly buckling beneath the weight of his own despair.

The Creator, however, remained unmoved, his expression cold and calculating. “Allow me to explain what caused the apocalypse,” he said, his voice now more somber, as if reading from some cosmic script. “The deaths of two individuals: Iris Blackwell and Maxwell Lumiar. Should these two 'keys' die, the world will end. You must protect them, no matter what. Lastly, I’d recommend killing Nikolai Dostoevsky, but that, of course, is your choice.”

Nihil straightened, wiping the tears from his face, his expression hardening. “Alright. I’ll do it. I’ll save them, no matter what. Send me back. I can do this,” he said, his voice filled with determination.

The Creator’s grin returned, wider and more twisted than before. “Hold your horses,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “It would hardly be fair to the orchestrator of this calamity if I just gave you the chance to undo it so easily—though I do disapprove of what they’ve done.”

Nihil’s fury surged again, his fists clenched tight. “What the hell? I thought you hated this ‘storyline.’ Now you're suddenly concerned with fairness? That’s bullshit!” His voice was laced with seething anger.

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” the Creator replied, casually inspecting his nails. “I’ll get plenty of entertainment watching you struggle in our little game.”

Nihil’s eyes narrowed, his patience nearly gone. “What game?”

The Creator reached into his coat and pulled out a gleaming silver stopwatch, its surface adorned with intricate, otherworldly symbols. He looked down at it, the ticking sound filling the air, a constant reminder of the fleeting nature of time. “Can we hurry this along?” he said, his voice almost bored. “I may have all of eternity, but you don’t, and I’d rather not see my toy die of old age before we even begin.” He clicked the stopwatch, the sound reverberating in the silence, as the surrounding air began to warp and twist.

“Fine, I’ll play your stupid game. I’ll win, no matter what,” Nihil spat, his voice unwavering, eyes burning with newfound determination. The weight of what lay ahead pressed against his soul, but the fire inside him raged too fiercely to be extinguished.

The Creator’s twisted grin widened. "Good. I love watching my toys struggle. Took you long enough." His voice dripped with condescension, the words dancing mockingly in the air.

“Fine. What is this *game* we’re supposed to play?” Nihil demanded, clenching his fists.

“It’s simple,” the Creator replied, casually adjusting his monocle as if the fate of worlds was nothing more than a passing curiosity. "Through any means necessary, bring about the death of the God of Games."

Nihil barely had time to process those words before a swirling portal of dark mist materialized behind him. The air crackled with unnatural energy as the Creator shoved him toward it with a force that was both effortless and absolute.

“W-wait—where am I going?” Nihil stammered, the pull of the portal threatening to rip him from reality.

“Good luck,” the Creator replied, his voice filled with cruel amusement. "Don’t worry, I’ve made you immortal. You’ll have as many chances as you need."

Before Nihil could protest, the portal swallowed him whole, the world warping and twisting around him. For a moment, there was nothing but darkness, a cold emptiness that threatened to consume him. And then—light.

Nihil stumbled into a sunlit forest clearing, his breath catching in his throat. White roses bloomed all around him, their petals swaying gently in the breeze beneath a vibrant blue sky. The air here was fresh, untouched by the decay he had known for so long.

Ahead, a young woman tended to the flowers, her back turned to him. She was striking—her long green hair shimmered like emeralds, and her crimson eyes, when she glanced back, were sharp and filled with caution. Small red markings curved delicately beneath her eyes, and her pointed ears gave her an otherworldly appearance. She wore a simple yet elegant light blue dress that flowed like water as she moved.

“A stranger!” the woman exclaimed, her voice filled with sudden panic. "Get away!"

Before Nihil could explain, her ability flared to life. The ground beneath him trembled as massive thorns erupted from the earth, one piercing through his chest with terrifying precision. The force of it knocked the wind from his lungs as blood splattered across the white roses. Pain—sharp and excruciating—shot through him, but even as darkness closed in, a grim smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

Nihil’s first death would be at the hands of his future wife.

The clearing grew silent once more, save for the gentle sway of flowers in the breeze. But this was only the beginning.

Nihil’s journey will be told another time. For now, let us turn our attention to another tale—the story of Iris Blackwell and Maxwell Lumiar, whose fates are entwined with the very fabric of this world’s salvation… or destruction.