Hello. My name is Ray Allen.
Or rather—was. That would probably be more accurate.
Yes, I'm dead. Died at fourteen. Not a pleasant age to go, but I suppose there's no such thing as a convenient death.
The silver lining? It was quick. No pain, no drama. One moment I was there... and then I wasn't.
But even as a soul torn from its body, one regret clung to me like ash in the wind—I never finished my novel.
You'd think a kid like me wouldn't care about something like that. But when you grow up with nothing, the smallest dreams become sacred.
I was born with no parents, abandoned before I could speak. An orphan. Life taught me early that the world isn't fair, and no amount of optimism could change that.
People used to say things like, "If you work hard enough, your background won't matter."
I wanted to believe them. I really did.
But if that were true, why did so many hardworking people fail?
Why did they fade into the shadows while others, no better than them, basked in light?
I didn't have answers. I didn't even have questions at first. I just watched. Observed. Tried to understand people—the way they smiled, the way they cried.
Some were happy despite carrying mountains on their backs.
Others, miserable, even with the world handed to them.
None of it made sense. Their lives felt like puzzles I wasn't smart enough to solve.
I once asked an adult why people were like that.
They just chuckled. "You'll understand when you're older."
But I never got older, did I?
They say a child needs love to grow.
Maybe that's true. Maybe that's why so many of the kids at the orphanage clung to the idea of family like it was air. They ached for something I never understood.
Eventually, I was adopted too.
They were kind people, really. Tried their best. But even then, I couldn't grasp what made parental love so special. I wasn't cold—I just didn't feel it the way others did.
Still... I could recognize its shape. Maybe it mattered because it helped others become who they wanted to be. Gave them roots, or wings, or both.
But not me.
I had something else.
While others dreamed of happiness, I dreamed of understanding.
School was fun in its own way. Learning things came easy, but there was always a part of me that wanted more. Not just knowledge—creation.
I didn't just want to absorb ideas. I wanted to breathe life into them.
That's when I discovered web novels.
Free stories, written by people like me, posted on the internet for anyone to read. I didn't need money to enjoy them. I didn't even need permission. I just dove in.
And soon, I started writing my own.
The early ones were terrible—stiff dialogue, awkward plots, spelling errors galore. I was a kid, after all.
I got mocked. Told to quit. Told I wasn't good enough. But I didn't stop.
Because writing made me feel something I hadn't felt in a long time: alive.
Even if no one else understood me, my characters did. My stories did.
And slowly, others began to understand too.
Readers appeared. A few at first. Then more.
They didn't just read my words—they saw me. And in return, I saw them.
We weren't alone. We were all just trying to explain the world to ourselves, one chapter at a time.
The story I was working on…
It was set in the year 30,034 of the Cosmic Calendar.
Humanity had long left Earth, now a ceremonial training ground for young warriors—a cradle of nostalgia beneath the stars.
With the dawn of multiversal travel came chaos. "Zones" began to manifest—fragments of alien worlds overlapping with our own, fusing terrain, life, and disaster.
Zone Resonance, they called it.
One minute you were walking through a city; the next, you'd find yourself in a jungle from a different universe—inhabited by creatures that didn't belong anywhere.
Some Zones were benign. Most weren't.
Each was ranked according to its danger, from Level 1 to Level 5. Entire ecosystems spilled into Earth, and with them, predators that didn't recognize humans as anything more than prey.
To fight back, the League of Hunters was formed in ancient times by the humans—people trained to handle alien threats as they couldn't stand anything non-human, it disgusted them to their very cores.
Along with them came the Five Major Families, who rose to power through their own methods to find peace amongst themselves in those harsh times.
It was a world of metahumans, werewolves, vampires, intelligent beasts, and cosmic chaos.
At the center of it all stood my protagonist—bright-eyed, hopeful, determined to save the world...
...without realizing he was part of the reason it was falling apart.
People loved him. And they loved the League. But it wasn't enough for me.
I wanted to write a world where everyone was the protagonist of their own story.
And I died before I could finish it.
The first thing I saw after death... was fire.
Not hellfire. Not metaphor. Actual flames, licking through the twisted frame of a car. My body sat slumped in the back seat, unrecognizable now—just another charred casualty in a forgettable accident.
I stood nearby. Or rather, hovered. A soul without a vessel. Detached, yet painfully aware.
I wasn't alone.
A figure waited beside the wreckage.
Tall. Humanoid in shape, but not human. Dressed in tattered, flowing robes of deep blue that swirled in the air like smoke. Atop its shoulders rested the skull of a crow, too large for any natural bird. The skull floated, disconnected from the body, as though reality didn't quite apply to it.
Its presence was silent, yet it filled the world like a closing curtain.
"A pity, isn't it?" the creature said, voice like wind through hollow bone.
"You could have done so much more. You could have been so much more. But your fate..."
It sighed. "Happiness always ends at moments like this."
I turned to face him—or it. "Was it wrong for me to be happy?"
The words left my lips before I realized I was even speaking.
The creature tilted its head, gazing at the burning remains of what used to be me.
"Silly child," it said gently, "It's not wrong to be happy. But happiness is a trap. It arrives softly… and leaves scars. Unless you're willing to carry its consequences, it always ends in pain."
For some reason, those words didn't frighten me.
They soothed something inside me. Some old, unanswered ache.
He spoke with the certainty that no adult ever did. Not with platitudes. Not with pity. Just truth—ugly, unfiltered, and honest.
"Who are you?" I asked, stepping closer.
"I suppose I haven't introduced myself," the being said. "I am Death. Or rather, the concept you humans refer to as Death. But names make things easier, don't they?"
It lifted a hand, casual and open. "Call me Ryuk."
"Ryuk," I repeated. "I didn't think Death would look like… that."
"You thought," Ryuk replied, "but you didn't expect. There's a difference."
He gestured toward himself with a slow wave. "Every soul perceives me differently. I have no fixed form. I exist above your plane. This—" he gestured to the crow skull, "—is what you expect me to be."
I frowned, not sure whether to feel flattered or disturbed.
"So... what happens now?"
"The cycle continues," he answered. "Rebirth. Your soul returns to the stream, and you're born anew. Memory erased. A blank slate."
I exhaled. Somehow, I already knew.
All those thoughts—all the answers I'd just begun to understand—they'd disappear. Only the questions would remain, dormant, like seeds waiting to bloom again in a different mind.
"…But that's how it works for regular souls," Ryuk continued, fixing me in his eyeless stare. "You're different."
I raised an eyebrow. "Different how?"
"You're a creator," Ryuk said simply. "And creators are rare. Your desire to understand, to tell stories, to see others differently—that makes you… interesting."
He extended his hand again.
"I can give you a chance to finish what you started."
My eyes narrowed. "What's in it for you?"
After living among humans, suspicion came naturally. Nothing was ever free.
Ryuk didn't deny it. "I want something in return."
There it was. The catch.
"I want to experience the story with you," he said, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
"…That's it?" I blinked. "You don't want my soul, or my body, or eternal servitude?"
Ryuk chuckled, a dry rasping sound like pages fluttering in a crypt.
"Child, I am not a devil. I don't need your soul. I don't even need your permission, if I'm being honest."
He looked almost amused. "But I find humans fascinating. I've made this offer before. Some refused. Others trembled and wept. But you…"
He tilted his skull. "You're curious."
He wasn't wrong.
Curiosity had always been my sin and my virtue. I didn't feel drawn to his hand the way stories described. No mystical pull. No divine promise.
But I wanted to see.
To learn.
To write.
I wanted to understand a new world and the people in it. Their joy. Their grief. Their truths.
I looked at Ryuk's hand, then back at the burning wreckage that used to be me.
And then I reached forward.
Not because I hoped for something better.
Not because I wanted revenge, or salvation.
But simply—
Because I was curious.