"Family, love, reputation, money — everything that humans take pride in can be snatched away within a blink. Even your freedom, innocence, and sense of self were never yours to begin with. What makes you truly entitled? Just as fate has given everything to you, it can be taken without a complaint."

A faint semblance of words drifted across the vast emptiness.

. . . . .

'Ah!? Where am I?!?'

Chekhov Serebya suddenly awoke in a frenzy.

As a reputable college student, he would normally wake up to his girlfriend snuggling beside him. However, this time, he was facing a set of rather odd circumstances. He didn't even feel a bit of fatigue, and the even more peculiar thing was this pitch-black environment full of dead silence.

'Could I have been kidnapped?'

He attempted to squirm around and scream for help. At this moment, he realized that he couldn't move. Not only move, but he also couldn't even feel anything, not even his own breath.

'Do I even exist anymore? Am I dead?'

Chekhov paused for a minute, intending to calm down and search for clues.

'No, I must be alive. I'm still capable of thought, but I can't see, hear, move, or feel anything. It feels too real to be a dream. What genuinely happened to me?'

After reflecting on his thoughts and emotions for what seemed like hours, Chekhov theorized that his soul was somehow stuck in a realm that it shouldn't be in. He wasn't sure whether heaven, hell, or the afterlife existed, but he was confident that this mysterious place was neither of them. This place seemed more like an isolated domain of nothingness, so he decided to call it the Cosmic Abyss.

'If I ended up here, it shouldn't be wrong to assume that other people have also ended up here. But despite that, there's not a single soul in sight.'

Chekhov made many mental calls for help, hoping someone would answer his thoughts. Yet, no matter how much he cried or prayed, no one came. He eventually gave up and started thinking pessimistically that he was fated to wander the Cosmic Abyss alone for an eternity.

Hours passed by slowly and painfully, soon turning into days. Days turned into months, and months turned into years. Strangely though, Chekhov's memories were still fully intact, and he never underwent hallucinations or psychosis all this while...

During his time in the Cosmic Abyss, Chekhov had gone through his emotions many times; he had experienced them at every extreme. At one time he felt extreme anger. He wanted to scream at his parents, the heavens, and the gods for trapping him in this eternal suffering. Then he felt immense sadness and depression, hoping for his death that never came. At one point he even felt happiness. Perhaps he truly had gone insane, being thankful for the chance he had to stay alive.

After cycling through his emotions many times over, Chekhov gradually lost his sense of time completely. Before he knew it, when it felt like the snap of a finger, one million years had passed.

At this juncture, Chekhov had reached a state of complete calmness. He had perfected a near-absolute control over emotions.

He had accepted that he might be stuck in the Cosmic Abyss forever, but he wasn't at all irritated about it. In fact, even if Chekhov was given the opportunity to go back and live a normal life, he wasn't sure whether he'd want to accept the offer or not.

Suddenly, a warm feeling permeated through his soul. Something was intruding on the innermost part of his soul, but it almost felt like he was being cuddled affectionately.

Chekhov was startled, he immediately attempted to look around. However, his surroundings were unchanged. There was no sign of life or any other matter. It was still the same silent and black prison of the Cosmic Abyss.

‘What’s going on?!?’

Tiny black particles were forming in a spherical atmosphere that enveloped his soul. Most of the particles were revolving in a tight spherical motion, while some were moving in and out of his soul in curved bands. These mysterious particles were neither a form of matter nor energy, but they exhibited properties of both.

At first Chekhov thought this particle influx was an enemy attack or a rare cosmic phenomenon. But after further speculation, Chekhov realized that these black particles had been accompanying him since the very beginning. It was only after living for one million years that his soul was able to mutate, giving him the ability to sense and manipulate the dark energy around him.

‘This “dark energy” seems to also have a positive effect on my mental state. Although I went through my emotional extremes, I never suffered from psychosis or schizophrenia.’

‘It’s the source of power that has been nourishing my soul all these years.’

After the transformation of his soul, Chekhov had thoroughly tried and tested the limits on what he could do with dark energy. Yet, he couldn’t gather much information as there was nothing else to interact with.

Eventually, after floating in the Cosmic Abyss for eons and eons, he found another entity that exhibited strange behavior.

‘Dark energy is usually very dense in the Cosmic Abyss, but there’s a wall that is completely blocking my perception. I can’t sense anything there.’

‘Could it be the edge of this domain?’

Chekhov didn’t know that this was an abyssal rift, one of the few ways to traverse in and out of the Cosmic Abyss. Its immense suction force was quickly pulling him closer and closer, creating a heavy pressure on his soul. The abyssal rift would have already torn him apart by now if it wasn’t for the dark energy that was laced around him.

'I had never truly believed that I could survive here forever. Anyway, my journey through the Cosmic Abyss is bound to end sometime.’

As he was getting into proximity with the rift, his speed was increasing exponentially. Whilst Chekhov had no way to resist, he knew the best course of action was to stay calm and brace himself for the dangers that may be within.

‘Even though I've wandered this expanse for eons, I feel like I've only scratched the tip of the iceberg...'

It wasn’t long after that the rift swallowed him completely, filling his perception with immense brightness.

. . . . .

Taiheiyo Forest, Japan.

Along the coast of a remote island, a vast forest consisting of lush broadleaf trees spanned roughly across 100,000 square kilometers. This was the Taiheiyo Forest, one of the few virgin forests in Japan that had retained its natural beauty throughout the course of time.

The Taiheiyo Forest ecoregion experienced a humid subtropical climate, filled with mild winters and a long growing season. Its flourishing habitat was home to many of the exotic animals of Japan, such as the Odaigahara salamander and Japanese night heron.

Near the outer regions of the Taiheiyo Forest, a brightly colored passerine bird was descending to the ground after a tiring afternoon flight. When it was certain that there were no predators around, it landed beside a small unnamed river. The sun’s afternoon rays gave the bird a warm and welcoming atmosphere, enticing it to stay for a moment and relax.

As it lowered its beak to replenish its thirst, one could see its vivid reflection in the crystal-clear waters. It truly displayed the bird’s ethereal beauty. Its back and wing bows were glossy turquoise, while the scapulars and upper tail transitioned into cobalt. From underneath, the tarsi could be seen as yellowish brown.

However, if one noticed the more subtle details, there were faint black particles gathering in the bird's atmosphere. As the particles continued forming clusters, they condensed into a thin and compact tangible form that resembled a translucent dark sphere.

The bird’s head suddenly perched up, noticing that something was wrong. The first instinct of the fairy pitta was to flee. But as it motioned to flap its wings, the dark sphere instantly collapsed, constricting all the space within.

The bird’s tail and head were pressed together, instantly shattering its fragile skeleton. As the bird was compressed and disfigured into a more spherical form, a mushy paste consisting of internal organs and blood spewed out of its body.

The dark sphere continued collapsing until it approached a point of infinite density, then it mysteriously disappeared. Strangely, there was no sign of blood or flesh anywhere.

When the bird had completely disappeared, a young man who looked like he was in his late teens could be seen walking out from behind a tree. The afternoon sun shone its bright golden rays on his face, revealing his short black hair, caramel brown eyes, and smooth light skin. His attire consisted of a black fleece jacket and a small backpack, which complemented his well-built figure.

This black-haired young man was none other than Chekhov. After his soul had passed through the abyssal rift, he was exposed to an immense amount of pressure that forced him to lose consciousness. When he had regained consciousness, he found himself occupying a human body in this broadleaf forest.

In the first few hours after Chekhov had transmigrated, he found that he could devour objects by enclosing and collapsing the target in a sphere made up of dark energy. He had first tested this ability by devouring varying sizes of objects. By conducting many trials on pebbles, leaves, and chunks of trees, he found that his maximum sphere diameter was 2 meters.

He had then decided to test this ability on small animals. Here, he came across a few crucial limitations. In order to devour something, he needed to create a sphere that was strong enough to crush its target. Even if a miniscule section of the sphere was weak, the target would at most be killed and nothing would be devoured.

This limitation prevented him from devouring small animals on sight, as most of them would immediately run away before the sphere was complete. Thus, he had hidden near a river and snuck up on the oblivious fairy pitta who had stopped for a drink.

‘When I devoured that bird, I felt a slight increase in my soul power. It seems that the energy from animals is far superior to the energy from plants and inanimate matter.’

‘It’s also interesting that I can see the bird’s memories after I devoured its soul.’

As he was pondering about the specifics behind dark energy, Chekhov started walking across the riverbank. From the memories of the previous owner of his body, he knew that he could leave the Taiheiyo Forest by following this river for a few hours.

‘Since I’ve inherited these memories, it probably means that I had devoured the previous owner’s soul while I was unconscious.’

Rummaging through the previous owner’s memories, he found that he was an orphan born in Russia. With a stroke of good luck, he had happened to meet a woman who took pity on him and helped him get adopted by an elderly couple in Japan.

‘Coincidentally, both his first and last name are the same as mine. This world seems like an alternate reality of Earth.’

The previous body owner was a 17-year-old enthusiastic and outgoing adventurer. He loved to experience the beauty of nature by spending his free time on hikes and visiting verdant national parks.

It was currently late August, approaching the end of summer vacation, so the previous body owner had decided to visit the Taiheiyo Forest once again before school was back in session.

However, the current Chekhov didn’t care much about those sentiments. His only goal was to find life’s meaning. He wanted an aspiration that was truly worth pursuing.

Chekhov continued walking along the riverbank at a steady pace. By late evening, he was approaching the edge of Taiheiyo Forest. The sun could be seen as reddish yellow as it loomed over the horizon.

At this moment, Chekhov caught a very unusual scene in the corner of his eye. There was a scrawny young boy lying unconscious along the riverbank. The boy had dark brown hair and seemed not any older than the age of 13. Although his body was riddled with bruises and injuries, he was not in a critical moment of life and death.

‘This boy has recently been in a fight. The nearest town isn’t far from here; it’s likely that he was beaten up and left here by a gang of neighborhood delinquents.’

If Chekhov minded his own business, the boy would eventually regain consciousness and walk back to the city. He also had the option to be a kind Samaritan and help the boy out.

However, Chekhov was thinking about other ideas. He was confident that he could create a dark energy sphere strong enough to devour a child. Furthermore, this was a rare opportunity, as once he gets back to the city it would be difficult for him to secretly devour someone.

Chekhov raised his right arm, with his palm facing toward the unconscious boy, fingers outstretched.

A translucent dark sphere slowly started to materialize from thin air, enveloping the boy. But as the sphere was forming, Chekhov seemed to be in contemplation, lost in his thoughts.

‘Devouring him... does this make me a monster? Everything I learned from my previous life tells me that I should never hurt children. But why am I acting so nonchalant about this?’

During his previous life on Earth, Chekhov had read many novels where an average teenager had transmigrated into another world with supernatural powers. In the young lad’s journey, he would make friends, find love, and collect a harem of countless jade beauties. Everyone stood firm to their morals, and no one would ever go as low as killing innocent children.

Waves of distress that were locked up in the depths of Chekhov’s soul started to resurface. He could easily restrain these rising waves, but at this time he wanted to consider the burdens that a regular human would undergo. These waves surged through his heart, bursting with agitation and anger toward himself.

In his first life, Chekhov would have irritably said, “Killing an innocent child is inexcusable! If I murder him, then what's the difference between me and a bloodthirsty beast? Under any situation, I must stay loyal to my morals. After all, they are my core values that make up my worldview."

However, he wasn’t stubborn in adhering to the values of his past self. The eons that he had spent in the Cosmic Abyss had allowed him to become exceptionally rational due to his near perfect emotional control.

He turned his head slightly downward and to his left. He then faintly leaned over the river and peered into it, its pristine and peaceful waters creating a vibrant reflection of himself. He wasn't doing this to admire his own beauty, but he was trying to find his true self by looking deeply into his own eyes.

‘This child doesn't hold any significance to me. Nonetheless, the only reason I'm hesitating is because of my morality.’

At this moment, Chekhov lowered his arm back down. The sphere that enveloped the boy started to weaken, forcing it to dim and become more transparent.

‘Morality—this value is created by the whim of humans. It provides us with an excuse to justify our sentiments as the laws of the universe. Stubbornly clinging onto morality is like willingly tying my hands together. Is this what I truly desire?’

Chekhov then closed his eyes and fell into a state of concentration, trying to reach the waves of distress in his heart.

He found himself standing on a cliff, overseeing a giant oceanic world. The sun was high up in the sky, illuminating every corner of the water's surface. If one were to look at the horizon from any direction, all one would be able to see were the violent surging tides. These tides represented the fluctuations of anger, worry, and agitation. However, the dark-haired young man didn't seem flustered at all, in fact his expression was fully calm.

The next moment, the turbulent waves that were surging in his heart started to slow down, eventually coming to a complete stop. If one could investigate his sea of emotions, one would see the stillness and silence of the sea.

‘In order to find my true desire, I must not be controlled by the external world.’

Opening his eyes again, he found himself facing his reflection. The pristine waters displayed an unrelenting pair of eyes, glimmering with hints of amber and gold.

‘When one becomes detached from the external world and its matters, when one becomes detached from time itself… one’s source of meaning traces back to one's ordinary existence. Floating in the Cosmic Abyss for eons has taught me that every single moment that I am alive is the most special moment that I can have.’

If one were to look into Chekhov’s eyes, one would see the glint of determination. However, no one noticed it, even Chekhov himself was unaware that this tiny spark had the potential to illuminate the world into a blazing fire.

He turned his head back to its original position, facing the child. The black sphere appeared to grow darker and opaquer as he raised his arm again.

‘To exist, or to desist… perhaps only the Sea of Fate can decide. Nevertheless, I’ll need to make the best use of every resource and opportunity that I can get.’

Abruptly closing his outstretched fingers to form a fist, the black sphere collapsed into a singularity, crushing and devouring every bit of the boy's soul and body.