White.
Mujun opened his eyes to a boundless white expanse.
It was not light, nor mist, nor a physical room—it was something far more silent than any of those. There was no horizon. No direction. The whiteness did not reflect light, yet it did not absorb it either. It simply existed, stable and calm, like a blank page before a story is written.
There was no floor to stand on, yet he did not fall. There was no sky to gaze upon, yet the space felt infinitely open.
In the distance—or perhaps right beside him—stood faceless figures. They had no eyes, no mouths; their numbers were beyond counting. They did not move. They did not breathe. They showed no signs of life, yet they were not dead. They were like statues that had forgotten their sculptor.
The air—if it could be called air—hummed with music. It came from no instrument, no voice. It was a gentle vibration traveling through the void, touching the mind before the ears, touching emotion before meaning. The melody carried no sadness, no joy; only a pure, unconditional peace.
There was no time here.
No fear.
No urge to move.
No desire to speak.
No need to ask.
Only a tranquility so vast it felt suffocating—not because it was cramped, but because it was too perfect to be touched.
Perhaps when one asks what lies beyond death, several answers will be found.
"There lies a beautiful Heaven."
A peace untouched by weariness, fear, or loss. It is not merely a garden, but a perfect existence—a place where every longing finds its answer and every wound turns into light.
There, rivers flow without banks: some clear as crystal, some white as milk that never sours, some sweet as honey, and others more fragrant than musk. Trees provide shade without casting darkness; their leaves shimmer, and fruits hang low as if waiting to be plucked, each bite bringing a pleasure that is never the same twice.
The inhabitants wear soft silk adorned with light; their faces glow without wrinkles, without sorrow, without regret. There is no hatred in their hearts—only love, serenity, and a gratitude that flows like breath. Every word is a greeting, every encounter a joy.
Palaces of gold and silver stand tall, floors made of pearl and musk, while the wind carries a scent that soothes the soul. There is no terrifying night, no scorching heat, no biting cold—only a perfect balance that makes the heart feel it has finally come home.
"There lies a terrifying Hell."
A total severance from light, hope, and peace. It is not merely fire, but a state of being filled with endless regret. The air within is heavy, stifling, and the heat is unlike the heat of the world—it is a heat that pierces the soul before the body, making every second feel like an unbearable burden.
Flames burn without ceasing, not to illuminate, but to punish. The inhabitants call out with desperate voices, hoping for a reprieve that never comes. Every swallow of water is more agonizing than the thirst itself; every breath brings a suffocation deeper than the last. There is no sleep to save them, no death to end it.
Faces are bowed by regret, hearts shrouded in a fear that never recedes. They remember wasted opportunities, truths rejected, and kindness abandoned. There are no friends to comfort, no words of solace—only the full realization that the door to return has been closed.
"There lies the next life."
When a human's final breath escapes, the soul does not fall into darkness. Instead, it awakens in a soft silence, like someone waking from a long dream. It no longer feels the weight of the body, only a clear consciousness, carrying all the marks of its deeds—karma that clings like a shadow.
Before it lies a path of light and shadow. If one planted kindness during life, the soul feels light, guided by the wind toward beautiful realms—the divine gardens of the gods, where cosmic music plays soundlessly, where peace wraps around them like morning sunlight. There, the soul enjoys temporary bliss, not as a final destination, but as a sanctuary to recover.
But if life was filled with wounds inflicted upon others, the soul feels a profound weight, pulled toward realms of learning—not for revenge, but for realization, so that consciousness may grow through bitter, cleansing experiences.
Once that time passes, the soul gazes back at the earth. It chooses a new womb, a new life, a new name—and is born again, carrying the seeds of old karma to grow into the next life's story.
"Or perhaps, only the void."
When the last breath is gone, the world does not change. The wind still moves through the trees, the evening light still falls on the bedroom wall, the footsteps of loved ones can still be heard. But for the individual, there is no more feeling, no dark, no light—there is not even an "I" to realize the absence. Like a dreamless sleep that is never noticed, consciousness ceases without experience.
Yet the story does not truly stop. It continues in the memories of those touched, in the kindness performed, in the footprints left behind. The children helped grow into adults, words are remembered, and smiles live on in photos and recollections.
Mujun could answer those questions with absolute conviction and certainty.
Because...
This was not the first time he had died and crossed into this realm.
And his answer to every one of those possibilities was yes and no.
Not yes or no. But yes and no.
Yes, because whatever you think or imagine about the afterlife can happen in this realm.
No, because whatever you think or imagine about the afterlife can happen in this realm.
This realm...
The Awakened Souls call it Hasyara.
Hasyara is the place where all souls arrive after death. But not all souls can see it for what it truly is. Mujun and the other Awakened Souls do not have an absolute understanding of this realm, but they know one thing for certain—every death, without exception, brings a soul here.
The white figures standing around him were souls currently living or already dead in the world. They were not "Awakened" like him. Each of them was undergoing judgment for the life they had led.
Every kindness, no matter how small, was counted. Every evil, no matter how slight, was also weighed. In the end, there were only two possibilities: a horrific punishment until every sin of life was paid for, or a reward so beautiful it exceeded all pleasures ever felt on earth until their lifetime of goodness faded away.
But none of that applied to the Awakened Souls.
Every soul created in this universe is gifted with the Light of Conscience—a natural instinct to do good and accumulate merit throughout life.
However, when a soul is placed within a mortal vessel, control slowly shifts to the body. The soul does not need to eat, but the body does. The soul does not need to procreate, but the body does. Bit by bit, the Light of Conscience is clouded by desire and greed. Only those with a powerful will are able to keep that light burning.
Fortunately, the world does not simply abandon its souls. Every world has its own way of cleansing their Light of Conscience. Sometimes by providing a guide. Sometimes by creating a common enemy so that hatred stops being directed at one another. Sometimes by forming small systems of punishment in the mortal realm to slowly chip away at the darkness.
Even so, the final outcome depends on the souls themselves.
In the end, all souls return to Hasyara. But they do not wake up and see the true form of this realm. Their consciousness connects directly to the afterlife exactly as they imagined it in life. If they imagined heaven, it becomes heaven. If they imagined hell, it becomes hell. If they envisioned reincarnation, they are reborn. If they believed in eternal nothingness, then it becomes the void.
However, their final destination is ultimately determined by their balance of Merits. If their balance is negative, their only option is hell—or reincarnation into a life full of suffering. If their balance is positive, they ascend to heaven—or a new life filled with ease and pleasure. All of this repeats continuously until their total Merits return to zero.
This entire process runs without the conscious will of the soul—like a system programmed from the very beginning.
But that system does not apply to the Awakened Souls.
If this universe is a program…
Then perhaps, they are BUGS.
Mujun calmed his mind once more. He did not try to check how many Merits he had earned from his previous life. He didn't even know if what he did in Crocus was an act of goodness—or if it had actually made that world a worse place.
Despite having undergone countless reincarnations, Mujun knew one thing for certain: not a single Awakened Soul could calculate their own Merit balance after death. Yet, the calculation was always fair. Without exception.
By focusing his will on a single purpose—to meet someone—the white void before him shifted. From among the faceless figures standing still, one stepped forward to face him.
He looked exactly like the others. White. Eyeless. Mouthless. Faceless.
But he was different.
He… was aware.
"Mujun…"
The voice sounded hoarse. Cracked. As if coming from something that had held back tears for far too long.
Mujun immediately turned. "Hey… are you alright?"
Unlike him, the Awakened Soul before him had no name. Or more accurately—he never bound himself to any single name. In every reincarnation, he chose a new name. In every life, a new identity. But his consciousness always remained the same.
Perhaps doing so saved the Merits he had accumulated. But Mujun did not choose that path.
"I…" His voice trembled. "I… think… I've had enough…"
The words fell softly, yet they felt heavy. Too heavy.
Mujun flinched.
If he still had eyes, they might have widened in shock. If he still had a heart, it might have skipped a beat.
"What… do you mean?" Mujun's voice dropped unconsciously. "You're tired? We're all tired. But… giving up isn't an option, right? You're just… momentarily exhausted."
The white figure turned to him for the first time.
His movements were slow. Heavy. As if merely shifting his consciousness was agonizing.
"I want to forget everything…" His voice grew quieter. "I want to stop being an Awakened Soul… I am… so tired…"
He raised his hands to his head, as if trying to tear away something invisible. His movements were erratic. Desperate.
"Hey—hey—calm down… listen to me…"
Mujun stepped closer.
"We've been through too many worlds to stop here. This is just one life among countless lives. There is nothing special about this suffering. Nothing is eternal. Even the deepest wounds are but temporary episodes in a much longer story."
He drew a breath that didn't truly exist. "We are almost there. We are already at the fifth tier of Hasyara. Only two tiers left. Two. We will find the answers. We will find the meaning. We will know why this consciousness never fades, why we are never allowed to sleep like the rest of them. We will find out why life was created!"
He offered a faint smile. "The worlds we walk through are merely stages. Like a novel closed after its final page. Like a game that ends when the credits roll. We are not background characters. We are players. We—"
"Mujun…"
The voice cut him off.
"I fell in love."
Those words plunged Mujun into an empty silence.
His ageless mind froze. His tongue tied. All logic, all concepts, all philosophies about existence, about Hasyara, about the tiers and their purpose—everything crumbled in an instant before that one simple sentence.
"Her name is Sara…" the Awakened Soul continued. "She is an ordinary village girl. No powers. No grand destiny. But the gentleness of her heart surpasses every saint I have ever met in any world."
His voice began to crack. "She gave me something I never found across thousands of lifetimes… Warmth. Family. And peace."
He paused for a moment. "A peace that made a single lifetime enough. She was the joy of my heart, its soothing balm… I felt as though I existed for her, and she existed because of me…"
The tremble in his voice grew stark. Mujun could almost hear the stifled sobs—even without ears, even without a face.
"I… I want to return to her…"
Mujun swallowed the void in his chest.
"You… you can bring her back…" he finally said, his voice bordering on a plea.
"With the Merits you possess, you can recreate that world. You can live with her. Without war. Without death. Without separation. You don't have to stop being Awake. You don't have to bury your consciousness."
The words spilled out before he could even process them. Just like that. Pouring out alongside the humming music of Hasyara.
The words came out too fast. Too desperately.
And the moment he spoke them—Mujun knew.
He wasn't trying to help.
He was trying to hold onto the only remaining witness to his own loneliness.
"Mujun…" The voice became soft. Too soft. "I'm sorry…"
Something in his voice broke.
"I… no longer wish to see you…"
"I… do not want to be awake anymore…"
"Perhaps one day, you will understand…"
And in that very instant—
The white figure before him vanished.
Not faded.
Not destroyed.
But the tether of his existence was severed.
Like a door shut firmly from the other side.
"S—"
Mujun opened his mouth, but no sound came out. The apology that had almost overflowed was trapped within his consciousness, left to rot, never reaching anyone.
He stood frozen.
Silent.
Motionless.
Just like the other white figures surrounding him.
Perhaps that Awakened Soul didn't know.
That he was the only Awakened Soul left in Hasyara besides Mujun. The only one remaining from ages long past. The only one capable of understanding the burden of endless awareness. The only one who could possibly comprehend how isolating a life that was never allowed to end could be. The only one who could understand the profound silence of this existence.
"Ha…"
A small laugh escaped his consciousness.
"…haha…"
The laughter grew.
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA—"
Mujun's laughter erupted. A laugh overflowing with pain, loss, and a loneliness he could no longer bear.
And when his laughter finally died down…
He was alone again.
No matter how many lives Mujun lived.
No matter how many worlds he visited.
No matter how many people he called friend, family, lover, or home—
He could never erase that one single feeling.
Difference.
He always stood on a different side from them. Not because he was stronger, not because he was smarter, not because he was more righteous—but because he knew. And that knowledge, sooner or later, always created a chasm.
Knowledge was a gift.
Knowledge was a curse.
He was proud to know the true nature of life and death. Proud not to be fooled by the world's stage, by false destinies, by fabricated meanings. Yet, simultaneously, he felt a profound loneliness—a loneliness that could not be cured by laughter, love, or any mortal warmth.
When Mujun first woke up as an Awakened Soul in Hasyara, what he felt wasn't enlightenment—it was panic. A boundless white void. Faceless figures. A soothing but alien music. He felt small, naked, and lost.
But he was not alone.
The Awakened Souls who had roused before him came to meet him. They guided him. Taught him. Gave him the language to understand what he was experiencing, and a framework to comprehend what life and death truly were.
Reaching the seventh tier was not their obsession. It wasn't an ambition. It wasn't a race. It was simply the deepest reflex of every conscious being: the desire to meet their origin. The desire to ask, not for the sake of an answer—but for the sake of no longer needing to ask.
Mujun knew what he wanted from the very beginning. And the other Awakened Souls were the ones who showed him the path to making that desire a reality.
At that time—
He did not feel lonely.
Only alongside other Awakened Souls could Mujun truly be himself. Not the friendly Mujun. Not the self-sacrificing Mujun. Not the Mujun who smiled for a world he could never truly consider home.
But the exhausted Mujun.
The honest Mujun. The Mujun who was allowed to admit that he was sick and tired of constantly sacrificing himself to gather Merits—willingly being insulted, tortured, abused, and bullied—just so a world that never knew the truth could be a little better.
New Awakened Souls kept appearing. Not many. But enough to form something resembling a family. They shared stories of the worlds they left behind. Of failed loves. Of happiness that had briefly felt eternal. Of the void that followed when it all ended.
And during that time—
Mujun felt warm.
But time never stopped.
Life after life passed. World after world crumbled and was born anew. Mujun himself no longer knew how many lives he had lived, or how many worlds he had left behind. Numbers lost their meaning. Only repetition remained.
Yet Mujun held onto one simple principle:
He did not want to forget himself.
Therefore, he gave himself a name. And a form.
In every life, his name was always Mujun. Whether the name sounded strange, unnatural, or had never existed in that world—he didn't care. He was always a man with white hair and purple eyes. Every time he looked at his reflection, he made sure the face remained the same.
Other Awakened Souls told Mujun he was wasting his Merits on a fleeting name and form. But Mujun only smiled and continued to spend his Merits to secure that name and form in every lifetime.
That identity was not arrogance.
It was an anchor.
It was the only way he could say: "I am still me."
Even if he had to pay in Merits to maintain that form, Mujun didn't care. He knew—if he lost his face, lost his name, lost the form he recognized, then sooner or later, he would also lose the reason to stay awake.
Perhaps that was why he managed to endure longer than the rest.
Because, one by one, the Awakened Souls began to give up.
They began to seal away their own knowledge. Releasing their awareness. Choosing to revert to sleeping white figures. Becoming the extras they had always called ignorant. Becoming creatures who lived, died, and reincarnated without ever knowing a thing.
Mujun tried to stop them.
He spoke. He pleaded. He reminded them of their goal, of the seventh tier, of the answers, of the meaning. He offered alternatives—using their Merits to create custom worlds. Worlds without death. Worlds without separation. Worlds without end. Worlds where they could live with the people they loved for as long as they wished.
But all of it… failed.
Because manufactured happiness was still artificial. Because a designed world was still a stage. And because consciousness—no matter how painful—could not be deceived without losing its meaning.
In the end, that sorrow and emptiness could only be filled by one thing:
Love.
A love born from the Light of Conscience. A love that was not created, not programmed, not promised by any system. A love that grew because two souls chose each other in an unfair world.
But when the one they loved died… When the world ended… When the story reached its final page…
That love vanished with them.
And all that remained was a bottomless void.
Many Awakened Souls could not bear to face that emptiness a second time. A third time. Ten times. A thousand times. So they chose the most human and simultaneously the most tragic path:
Forgetting.
They sealed their own consciousness. Erased their memories of Hasyara. Erased their knowledge of life and death. Erased the pain… by erasing their true selves.
The curse of knowledge faded along with it.
And one by one… they fell asleep.
Until finally—
Only one remained.
One Awakened Soul with a name.
One Awakened Soul with a face.
One Awakened Soul who still forced himself to stay awake, even as every reincarnation felt heavier than the last.
Mujun.
He walked through world after world like a ghost pretending to be alive. Laughing when he was supposed to laugh. Crying when he was supposed to cry. Loving when he was supposed to love. Yet within him, there was always a thin gap he could never bridge.
Because he knew—
All of this would end.
And he could not forget.
But precisely because he could not forget… He could never truly stay.
At a certain point, Mujun no longer asked why he kept enduring.
He only asked—
Until when?
And that question, left unanswered, became a burden heavier than any death he had ever experienced.
Amidst countless worlds, countless lives, and countless faces he had once loved—
He remained alone.
As the single Awakened Soul who still chose to remember.