That so-called dossier had originally been nothing more than a few scorched pages the protagonist scrawled on the edge of the void. The paper looked like cigarette butts salvaged from hell's ashtray—burnt, crooked, barely legible, as if a drunkard were playing word games with the gods.
And yet, later generations treated it as holy scripture, and gave it a grandiose title:
The Shadow Dossier.
The first unlucky archaeologist who stumbled upon it had been digging through the collapsed ruins of the Death Realm. He crawled out of a pit with hands covered in dust and a mysterious tentacle fragment stuck to his pants. When he flipped open the charred pages, the very first line read:
"If anyone sees these words, drop them immediately, burn them, or just use them to wrap fried chicken."
He froze. Surely it was a code!
Back at the institute, experts nodded furiously:"Ah, sarcasm! A symbolic warning!""Yes, clearly he means the truth must not be revealed casually!""Burning it? That must be a metaphor for hiding the ultimate secret!"
Thus the pages were sealed in glass and renamed with reverence: The Shadow Dossier.
Once it spread, things grew absurd.
Students at the seminary had to memorize its fragmented sentences as part of their entrance exams:"What does wrapping fried chicken symbolize?"One answered: "The frying of the soul."Another said: "Reality itself is just fast food."A prodigy claimed: "It's actually a take-out order; the void is the waiter."
Professors nodded gravely: "Brilliant! Every answer holds truth."
Politicians loved it even more.
One president waved a torn page at a rally and bellowed:"This is the warning of our ancestors! The void can return at any time—so you must pay more taxes!"
The crowd erupted in tears and applause. Some sobbed: "Thank heavens we have the Shadow Dossier to guide us!"
None of them noticed another page that read:"If you actually take this nonsense seriously, the world is already doomed."
As decades passed, countless sects arose:
The Orthodox Shadows believed every crooked letter hid a universal law. Some measured the ink stains with rulers, claiming they were coordinates to parallel worlds.
The Lighthearted Shadows insisted Ethan was a comedic genius, and used the text as material for stand-up routines. Audiences roared with laughter at every line.
The Practical Shadows went further: they literally wrapped fried chicken in the dossier's pages and swore it tasted closer to the void than McDonald's ever could.
In her later years, Erin could only sneer. She knew the "holy pages" were nothing more than Ethan's dying doodles, garbage dressed as gospel. She once thought of revealing the truth, but quickly gave up. Nobody wanted truth. What people needed was a reason not to feel too stupid—The Shadow Dossier filled that gap perfectly.
"He should've seen this," Erin muttered, "he laughed once before dying—and the whole world kept laughing for him."
Generations later, a massive statue rose in the rebuilt central square. The figure clutched a torn page in one hand and laughed mockingly with the other raised high. On its pedestal were carved the words:
"We survived because we laughed."
Children chased each other around the base. Adults laid offerings at the altar of the Shadow Dossier: books, fried chicken, even Post-it notes filled with jokes.
No one knew what the dossier actually said. Few even admitted they hadn't understood a word. But it didn't matter—faith had found its anchor.
And on the wind, one could almost hear Ethan's final, sardonic chuckle.
Thus The Shadow Dossier became the most absurd scripture in history: a parody turned into civilization's foundation.
It proved one thing—
Humanity never fears the void. It only fears running out of jokes.