The wind on the hilltop whispered like a forgotten name.
Above, the stars blinked in a restless sky, as if searching for something…
or someone who had already vanished.
Sheng Luò sat alone.
His knees drawn in.
His eyes hollow with silence.
And his soul —
caught somewhere between the man he was and the thing he had become.
The world below was distant.
The world inside — fractured.
---
He remembered.
A voice.
Quiet. Sincere. Stubborn.
"I'll become a Writer, no matter how many times they reject me."
Saahil had said it with the kind of hope that shone through bruised eyes.
He had failed the Codex Trials seven times.
> "They said my words lack structure," he once laughed.
"But maybe structure was never made for me."
Sheng Luò remembered those words too well.
He had believed them.
He had believed in Saahil.
Even when Saahil locked his door.
Even when the final rejection came.
And then... silence.
Until the last page turned — one second before his final breath —
his Codex bloomed.
The world heard it.
But Saahil was already gone.
---
Sheng Luò clenched his hands.
He had wanted to be a Writer too.
He had waited. Hoped. Despaired.
He had done what no one else dared —
he burned his own bloodline.
He watched his house fall.
Watched his mother's scream collapse into ash.
His brother's eyes — open even in death.
He waited.
Waited for his Codex to awaken —
to punish him, or reward him, or curse him.
But it never came.
---
And so he walked.
Left the city.
Left everything.
Became silence.
---
Now, the wind wrapped around his shoulders like a faded memory.
Sheng Luò whispered to the dark:
> "He reached for the sky as if it might hold him…
But does anyone live in the sky?"
"Why can't I rest in peace?"
"Can a single soul fit in an entire world?"
---
And with those words, the wind slowed.
The air shifted.
Somewhere far off — in a place no Codex touched —
a blank page quivered.
---
[Flashback: Years Ago]
Saahil sat beneath a cracked lantern, feet swinging, face lit with boyish fire.
Sheng Luò leaned against the wall beside him, arms crossed, unsure.
> "You're a poet, Sheng."
"But I want to be a Writer," he replied.
Saahil smiled.
"Then prove it. Recite something. Anything. Right now."
Sheng Luò hesitated. Then — softly — he spoke:
> "He reaches for the sky…
But does anyone live in the sky?
Why can't I rest?
Is there room for a single soul in an entire world?"
The silence afterward was not empty.
It was filled with breath, unshed tears, and something neither of them could name.
---
[Present Moment]
On the hilltop, Sheng Luò opened his eyes.
He was not a Writer.
He was not a Reader.
No Codex called to him.
But the wind… listened.
And the stars leaned closer.
And the ground beneath his feet… began to remember his words.
> He was not following a path.
He was becoming one.