Naught to Null

As soon as he finished his words, the space around them shifted. The corridors they had been passing through folded in on themselves, and the void began to crack like fractured glass. Nullus felt his body being pulled violently, as if time itself was rejecting his presence in this place.

Then—

He found himself standing on solid ground.

The air was different, heavy with the scent of ancient nature, the smell of rain that had yet to fall, as if the world here pulsed with a rhythm unlike anywhere else. The trees around him were massive, their trunks marked with signs of immeasurable age, their dark leaves stretching towards the sky in an unfamiliar hue.

He turned to Iggy, who seemed to have lost some of his energy.

"We've arrived," Iggy said in a calm voice, but he didn't move.

Nullus noticed that his features looked fatigued.

"What's wrong?" he asked flatly.

Iggy looked at him, then sighed, as if he had expected the question but had no desire to answer it.

"Using angular space isn't free. It requires energy, and the entire time we were there, I was draining myself. Add to that the fact that I've been trapped for years without returning to my true form..."

He paused for a moment before continuing.

"I need to sleep."

Nullus frowned slightly.

"Sleep?"

"Not ordinary sleep," Iggy replied, clasping his hands behind his back.

"I manipulate time itself. When I sleep in my angular space, I become an embodiment of the concept of the angle, and I recover my energy. But time moves differently. I will need twenty years of sleep there... but in linear time here, only a few months will pass."

Nullus said nothing. He simply watched Iggy, trying to grasp the idea that this person, who had been speaking the entire way, was about to disappear.

Before vanishing into his dimension, Iggy gave Nullus a strange look—one that carried both concern and challenge.

"When I wake up..." he said in a low voice, then lifted his eyes directly toward Nullus.

"Make sure you're not dead."

Then, without another sound, Iggy disappeared into his angular space, leaving Nullus alone in the heart of this unknown forest.

He stood there for a few moments, observing the surroundings. For the first time since emerging from the book, he was completely alone.

He didn't yet know what awaited him in this new world, but one thing was clear

—

This continent, Novi Ira, would not be just another stop on his journey.

It was the beginning of something greater.

Nullus remained still for a moment, surveying his surroundings. The forest was eerily quiet, but that didn't concern him now. Instead, he began inspecting himself, running his hands through his pockets as if searching for something.

He was tall, his body lean yet firm, sculpted from sharp lines without unnecessary excess. His skin was pale, carrying a faint undertone of gray beneath the dim light. His black hair was unkempt, strands falling haphazardly over his forehead. It looked like it hadn't been combed in a long time. But his eyes—his most distinctive feature—were narrow slits of deep, dark color, reflecting no clear emotion. Just a cold stillness, as if they were windows opening onto an endless void.

He wore tight black trousers, made of a durable fabric that moved fluidly with him, as if designed for travelers covering long distances. His jacket was somewhat heavy, embroidered with small shells that glimmered faintly under the light, giving it a strange appearance—like something taken from a noble's attire and forced onto an adventurer's garb. The sleeves were long, fitting snugly at his wrists, though they didn't completely hide the faded scars on his skin.

Over all of this, he wore a long, pristine white robe—loose at the shoulders, fitted at the waist—giving him the appearance of a scholar or a priest of knowledge.

He glanced at it for a moment, then discarded it without hesitation, letting it fall to the ground. He didn't see himself as a scholar, nor did he need anything that made him look like one.

Continuing his search, his fingers brushed against something solid in his pocket. He pulled out a small plastic card, staring at it for a moment before realizing what it was—a bank card.

He knew it belonged to John, but he didn't care. Right now, only one thing mattered: money.

He was aware that banks could quickly freeze suspicious accounts, so he decided to withdraw whatever funds were in it as soon as possible before the opportunity was lost.

Slipping the card back into his pocket, he took a deep breath. He had months before Iggy would return, and he had no intention of waiting idly.

I'll work. I'll try every job possible.

He didn't just need money—he needed experience. He had to understand how this world operated and how to exploit it to his advantage. Every job would be a lesson, every day another step toward something greater.

At the same time, he hadn't forgotten his true goal: reclaiming his power and dominion—his memories.

He looked at the forest around him, then took his first step out of it.

Whatever awaited him in this continent, he would not simply be a spectator.

As he walked toward the city, his thoughts intertwined like threads of smoke that refused to dissipate. It wasn't just about finding money or work—it was something deeper.

"What does it mean to be here?"

That question had echoed in his mind ever since he had left the book. All this time, he had moved out of necessity, out of obligation, but now he stood before another unknown.

In the world he came from, there were no cities or laws—only words, repeating endlessly. And now… now there was a burning sun above him, solid ground beneath his feet, and for the first time, he was walking toward something unwritten.

Yet, he didn't feel free.

There was an invisible weight clinging to him, as if the words that had shaped him were still trying to pull him back into their mold. Was he an independent person now? Or merely an extension of a story left unfinished?

He realized he hated that feeling.

He had never liked the idea of being bound to anything—whether it was a book, a law, or even a lost memory imposing an identity upon him that he hadn't chosen. He was Nullus, and that name itself was a void, meaningless, except for the definition he would give it.

But how did one create meaning? How could he be certain that his actions weren't just prewritten steps?

He clenched the bank card in his hand as if holding onto a tangible idea amidst the uncertainty. Money… work… experience… These were things he could choose. Even if they were just means to an end, at least they were his decisions.

He took a deep breath.

The city lay ahead. Opportunity lay ahead.

And if he was still just a shadow that had emerged from words—

Then he would find out for himself whether a shadow could become real.