Kuro was born where names went to disappear.
There was no sky when he opened his eyes—only a colorless stretch that felt unfinished, like the world had stopped mid-thought. He did not cry. There was no sound to carry it. Instead, he listened, and in that listening he learned something strange: the silence was afraid of him.
He did not grow the way others did. Days passed without meaning. Time brushed past him, then slowed, then avoided him entirely. When Kuro stood, the ground remembered being solid. When he walked, distance shortened out of courtesy.
He learned early that things ended around him.
A flicker of light tried to exist once. It trembled, shone bravely, then unraveled— not destroyed, just convinced it had never needed to be there. Kuro watched without emotion. Ending was not violence. It was correction.
He found people later, if they could be called that. Beings with stories clinging to them like fragile armor. They spoke of gods, of power, of becoming "the strongest." When they noticed Kuro, their words faltered. Their stories lost direction. One by one, they stepped back, unsure why fear had found them.
"Who are you?" one asked.
Kuro thought for a moment. The question felt unnecessary, but polite.
"Kuro," he said.
The name settled into reality like a final answer. The beings vanished soon after—not erased in fire or light, but gently removed, like sentences crossed out by an unseen hand.
Kuro wandered. Not searching—there was nothing missing—but observing. Worlds bloomed and collapsed like thoughts half-finished. He saw heroes rise, villains fall, and cycles repeat until meaning wore thin. Each time contradiction piled too high, he felt a pull, subtle but certain.
That was his life.
Not living. Not ruling.
Correcting.
He never hated existence. He simply stood beyond it, watching it strain under its own ambition. When the world grew too loud with impossible claims and broken rules, Kuro would step forward.
And silence would remember its place.
At the edge of everything, Kuro paused.
For the first time, something remained after he passed.
He did not smile—but if he could have, he might have wondered what that meant.