Okay, so check this out, man.
No... Don't look at me like that, I had to do it. The only way to save a story from a character who's too big for the page is to kill him.
So, I wrote the end. One minute Nnael is reaching for that Immortality tag in the white void, and the next? SNAP. Total darkness. But it's not the end. I had him wake up in a place that smells like... white and old smog. No sky, no ground, just a hooded figure sitting on a throne of rusted pens. The Reaper. The Death.
Nnael, being the arrogant prick he is, doesn't even flinch. He just looks at Death and asks if he can loot his cloak. Death actually laughs. I laugh, hahaha... Death's laugh was a sound like dry leaves on a grave, and tells him, 'You broke the first script, little predator. So I'm giving you a second one. But this time? You start as a footnote.'
Nnael tries to bargain for his old powers. He wants the Solar Breath. He wants the Void-Flame, the Dragon-Blood Vitality, he even asked to repair the shattered Axiom Sever. But... Death denies it all. Instead, as a parting gift for the man who entertained the Authors, he grants Nnael exactly one skill.
It's not F-Rank. It's not even on the board. I call it a Z-Rank Skill. In the eyes of the people in Aeterna, it's a dying man's gasp. Completely useless.
[SKILL NAME: PORE-BREATHING]
[RANK: Z (Sub-F)]
[MANA COST: 1 per hour (Continuous)]
[DESCRIPTION: Allows the user to draw microscopic amounts of oxygen and ambient moisture through the skin instead of the lungs.]
[FUNCTION: Prevents suffocation in shallow dirt or thin air.]
To anyone else, it's a joke. A skill for a worm. But Nnael? I could see the gears turning in his head even as the Reaper kicked his soul back into the meat-grinder. He realized that if he can breathe through his skin, he can circulate through them as well. He can pull in the tiny, stray particles of mana that high-tier mages ignore. It's slow, it's painful, but it's a back-door into a system that was supposed to be locked to him.
And that's when I dropped him. No transition, no tunnel of light. Just a sudden, violent shove into a body that feels like it's been hit by a carriage, you know what I mean?
Okay, so the first thing Nnael felt was the cold.
It wasn't the divine, clean cold of the White Space, it was the damp, biting chill of a room that hadn't seen a fire in two days. His lungs burned. Every breath felt like inhaling wet wool. He tried to summon the Solar Breath to clear his chest, but his soul met a wall of static.
Nothing. No system. No Kirana. Just the rhythmic, heavy thumping of a weak, malnourished heart.
[SKILL ACTIVATED: PORE-BREATHING]
Wait, how could he even activate his skill when he basically has no mana?
I mean, look at this:
[Name: Nnael]
[Identity: Mina's Son]
[Status: Malnourished / Unbranded / Tier 0]
[Level: 0]
[Health: 15/50]
[Mana: 0/50]
[Class: None]
[Job: Village Scavenger]
[Legacy Skills: LOCKED - USELESS]
[Active Skill: Pore-Breathing (Rank Z)]
[Narrative Status: The Rogue Variable - Gone - Lowly Villager]
So, how could he?
Nah, the moment he tried to activate his skill, his body refused, the world refused, the narrative refused.
Suddenly, a faint, tingly sensation prickled across his arms and chest. The suffocating weight in his lungs eased just a fraction as his skin began to 'drink' the stagnant air of the room. It was pathetic. It was humiliating.
It was a start.
"Nnael? Oh, heavens... Rhea! Rhea, come quick! His eyes open!"
The voice was a warm, melodic sob. Before Nnael could orient himself, the bed sagged under a sudden weight. A pair of soft, trembling hands cupped his face.
Nnael blinked, his vision clearing. This wasn't Serra. This wasn't the porcelain perfection of a High Priestess. The woman hovering over him looked to be in her late thirties, her face etched with the exhaustion of a life spent under the sun. She was beautiful in a raw, earthy way, her dark hair spilling out of a simple linen kerchief.
But it was her body that registered first to Nnael's predatory instincts. As she leaned over him, her heavy, uncontained breasts pressed firmly against his collarbone, the thin fabric of her tunic damp with sweat. She smelled of lavender and old milk.
"Ugh... stop... can't... breathe..." Nnael managed to croak. The memory was there, lodged in his brain like a splinter. Her name was Mina. And she loved the boy who used to own this body with a desperate, suffocating intensity.
"I thought we lost you, my little bird," Mina cried, pulling his head into the valley between her breasts, holding him so tight he could feel the frantic heat of her skin.
"Move aside, Mother. You're going to squeeze the soul right back out of him."
The door to the cottage slammed open, bringing in a gust of freezing rain and the scent of pine. A younger woman stepped in, dropping a bundle of wet firewood with a heavy thud.
This was Rhea. His 'Sister.'
She was a force of nature. She stripped off her soaked leather vest, revealing a homespun shirt that clung to her damp, athletic frame. Her thighs were thick, straining against her mud-caked trousers, and her ass was high and tight, the curve of it prominent as she bent over to stoke the hearth. She didn't look like a girl, she looked like a soldier who had forgotten to enlist.
She walked over to the bed, her eyes sharp and suspicious. She looked at Nnael, then reached down and pinched his cheek, hard.
"Still pale as a ghost," Rhea grunted, though her hand lingered, her thumb tracing the line of his jaw with a touch that was far too intimate for a sibling. She leaned in close, her chest, bound tightly with leather but still prominent, hovering inches from his face. "If you die now, Nnael, I'll drag you back from the Abyss just to beat you for leaving us with the tax debt and no gold. You understand?"
Nnael looked at her, his eyes cold and dark. He saw the 'Caste Brand' on her wrist, the mark of a Laborer. He saw the way her hands were calloused.
He was in a cage again. A smaller, muddier cage.
A low growl came from the corner of the room. Fang, the one-eared wolfhound, stood up, his hackles raised. The dog didn't see a recovering brother. He saw a stranger wearing a dead boy's skin.
"He's hungry, Rhea, get the broth," Mina said, finally releasing Nnael, though she stayed seated on the edge of the bed, her hip pressed against his. She began to stroke his hair, her touch lingering on his neck. "The Inquisitors came by yesterday. They asked about your fever. They said if you didn't wake up, they'd have to... 'reclaim' the cottage."
Nnael closed his eyes, his mind already working.
He was Tier 0. He had no Mana. He had a Z-Rank skill that allowed him to breathe like a toad, but he couldn't even use it, for now. He had a 'family' of two beautiful, desperate women who were one bad harvest away from a labor camp, didn't know for how long they weren't touched by man, their subconcious must be desperate for their lustful hunger of sexual desire.
He felt the Creative Spark, or what was left of it, thrumming deep in his marrow. It was faint, but it was there. He wasn't the Emperor of the Great Mandala of Wilwstikta anymore. He was a Ghost in another world, a Fallen Predator in another universe.
You want to see how I handle a blank page? Nnael thought, a slow, ugly smile spreading across his face as he lay in the dim light of the hut.
I'm going to stain it.
"Don't worry, Mother," Nnael whispered, his voice sounding like a knife being sharpened on stone. "Nobody is reclaiming anything."
Rhea paused by the fire, looking back at him with a frown. "You sound different, Nnael. Did the fever burn your brain?"
Nnael didn't answer. He just watched the way the firelight danced on her curves, mapping out the new world he was about to conquer.