Asano felt an unsettling absence. Not the absence of light or sound, but the absence of self. He floated in an expanse devoid of form, stripped of identity. It was a weightlessness that contradicted everything he knew—no gravity, no limits, just an endless void where the concept of time had no meaning.

Memories flickered at the edges of his consciousness like fireflies in the dark. Faces, places, emotions—everything he once knew and felt. But they slipped away as quickly as they appeared, leaving behind a gnawing emptiness. What happened to me? The thought echoed in the stillness, futile and unanswered.

Gradually, awareness seeped in. Asano began to sense his existence, but not as he had before. He was no longer the twenty-three-year-old dropout who had stumbled through life, burdened by apathy and despair. Now, he was something different—something much smaller, much simpler.

He tried to look at his hands, but there was no feedback. He tried to stand up, but again, there was no physical sensation. He pondered this problem, and as he did, a sensation, an awareness blossomed from the centre of the void he found himself in, and he could see. He could sense. In his somewhat dazed state, he didn't wonder why he could see without eyes; he simply turned his newfound awareness towards himself.

A grain of sand.

He felt the texture of it, the roughness, the warm embrace of countless other grains surrounding him. His form was indistinct, merging with the mass of sand, and yet he sensed a distinct core—a pulsing essence deep within this tiny speck. What is this? Panic threatened to rise, but he forced himself to focus.

'Where am I?' He could not speak, but pretending to calmed him.

Instinctively, he tried to remember, and this triggered something he'd never expected a grain of sand to be able to experience. A pounding headache.

Among the many scattered memories of a wasted life, one memory stood a rotten gold amongst the rest. He'd died. The realization crashed over him like a wave, pulling him into a dark spiral of rememberance that he had not wished for. Memories of an accident—metal crunching, the blinding flash of light, the suffocating darkness that followed—rushed back. The weight of despair settled over him once more, suffocating and cold.

But within that void, the core of his being pulsed steadily. It was a flicker of life, a heartbeat that anchored him. It helped his figurative heart still, and he somehow recollected himself. He 'looked' around himself once more.

He was stumped. He had no idea what was going on, and what his scattered mind needed more than anything right now was to understand. If he was to survive, he would need to understand this new existence. The thought of slipping back into nothingness ignited a desperate spark within him.

Focusing inward, Asano strained against the layers of sand surrounding him. With an effort that felt monumental, as he had no physical arms, he reached out with his will itself, willing the grains to shift. They responded, a slight tremor rippling through them.

He could manipulate them! The realization sent a rush of adrenaline coursing through him, overpowering the sense of dread.

'I can move.'

He pushed further, concentrating on forming shapes in the sand. He traced outlines, lines that formed crude symbols in the grain. He imagined that if he tried hard enough, he'd be able to communicate. The realization filled him with a cautious hope.

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With effort, he etched the question that clawed at him: Where am I?

Asano watched as the symbols settled into the warm surface, their permanence contrasting sharply with the chaos of his thoughts. But there was no answer, only the oppressive silence of the desert.

Hours—or perhaps days—passed in that endless expanse, and the isolation began to seep in again. He needed to know if there were others. He needed, needed to speak human words to human people. He needed connection.

A slight tremor ran through the sand. He froze, heart racing. Was that a creature? An echo of something larger? ... A monster? With every instinct screaming to hide, he willed the grains to shield him, creating a small mound around his core. The mound was pitiful, like a miniature dune. It was more likely it made him stand out, rather than shield him.

As the vibrations drew closer, a figure emerged—a being made of sand, its form shifting like a mirage under the harsh light of an unseen sun. It was graceful and fluid, yet there was an inherent power in its presence. Grains of golden sand in the desert surrounding it vibrated slightly at it's arrival, seemingly... happy?

“Who are you?” Asano tried to project through the sand, urgency lacing his thoughts.

The figure halted, its sandy form shimmering as it solidified.

“I am Syla,” it said, voice resonating with a strange familiarity. “You are not alone here.”

Syla. The name hung in the air. He didn't know why, but the name felt like a lifeline. “What is this place?” He asked.

“This is the Kingdom of Sand,” Syla explained, moving closer. “We are the remnants of those who lived, reborn in this vast expanse. We are golden grains, united, yet separate.”

Asano felt a flicker of... connection? The thought of being part of something larger ignited something previously unfelt. A spark of hope? “So, I’m not the only one?"

“No,” Syla replied, its form shimmering with energy. “None of us are. We are connected, each grain a part of a greater whole. We can learn to harness this connection, to manipulate the sand, unformed one.”

“What do you mean?” Asano asked, curiosity mingling with skepticism. “How can we manipulate sand?”

“Through our cores,” Syla explained. “It’s not just a lifeline; it’s a source of power. If we focus, we can shape the very grains around us.”

Asano’s heart quickened. “Can you show me?”

Syla nodded, or at least did a floating mass of sands' equivalent, and started guiding Asano with a gentle push of energy, demonstrating how to channel his essence through the sand. The feeling was exhilarating and terrifying, the grains responding to his will with a fluidity he had never experienced before.

As they gently practiced, Asano’s confidence grew. He could feel the essence of the sand beings intertwining, a connection forming between them. Each movement felt like a dance, each grain a partner in a symphony of the orchestra that was the desert.

He formed crude shapes at first—haphazard constructs that crumbled under the slightest pressure. But with each attempt, he found a rhythm, a balance. It became a game of exploration and discovery, and he felt himself regaining some much needed control and purpose.

Finally, as the golden light began to wane, casting long shadows across the dunes, Asano paused, mentally breathless with exhilaration. 'I did it.' He spoke over their bond, and his small aura exuded a smile.

“You have taken your first step,” Syla said, pride evident in its voice. “But there is much more to learn. Do not become overconfident, formless. You must understand the intricacies of this realm, if you wish to have any hope surviving the dangers that lurk beneath the surface.”

“Dangers?” Asano asked, the thrill of discovery quickly overshadowed by unease.

“Yes,” Syla replied, its form darkening momentarily. “I suppose the next natural step would be to teach you how to protect your core. To protect what remains.”

Asano’s heart sank. The weight of reality pressed down on him. He had lost everything, and now, even in this new existence, there were threats. “...How do I protect myself, then?”

“With knowledge and strength, little one.”