The Realm of Hasyara was the first. It existed before space had direction. Before time learned to flow. Before cause and effect knew one another.
Standing there felt like standing on the edge of something resembling a river—yet it was not water that flowed, but worlds. From an invisible upstream to a downstream that never arrives, life moved incessantly. Born. Developing. Destroyed. Repeated.
Mujun watched it without expression. He was untouched by that current. He did not drift. Nor was he cast out. He simply stood.
Around him, countless faceless white souls stood in silence. They did not speak. They did not move. They did not remember. Their silence was not peace—it was void.
Mujun did not know how long he had remained still. A few seconds. A few centuries. In Hasyara, the distinction was meaningless. He was alone.
A light panel appeared before him. Not because he summoned it. Not because he wished to see it. But because something older than his own will guided him.
Reflex.
Habit.
A system that never forgets.
In the center of that white space, only one sentence was displayed.
Merit: 974,378,545,092,349,249,877,329,847,328,745,230,129,342,392,873,482,723,497,239
That number no longer felt vast. Only heavy. Mujun had no intention of calculating. Yet his mind moved ahead of him.
Difference.
Accumulation.
Comparison.
He remembered the amount before Crocus. He didn't need to remember—he truly never forgot. The old numbers and the new ones stacked within his consciousness, grinding against each other like gears. The difference emerged on its own.
3,639,999,970,030
He felt no pride. He felt no disappointment. He merely recorded it.
The trauma of habit.
Once, calculating gave meaning. Now, calculating only proved that the journey was still far too long. To ascend to the next level, the amount he needed felt like a mockery. Not just large—but impossible. Even for a being who knew no death, that scale felt like a punishment wrapped in purpose.
He estimated. Reflex, again.
One world. Hundreds of billions. A few trillion, if the system aligned. Thousands of worlds were not enough. Millions of worlds were insignificant. What awaited him was a repetition on a scale that even his own mind was reluctant to name.
If there were other Awakened Souls, he might not have cared. Reincarnation after reincarnation. Slow. Unhurried. Without pressure. They would share the silence. Share the exhaustion.
But now—
There was no longer a voice calling his name in Hasyara. No other consciousness understood the weight of these numbers. No more witnesses.
The panel remained lit.
Cold.
Neutral.
Indifferent.
As if saying: Continue.
Mujun stared at it for a long time. Then his eyes—or whatever had replaced eyes—lowered slightly. Beneath the row of numbers, there was one simple choice.
Delete.
His finger hovered over it. One touch. All merit would vanish. All memories would unravel. The entire journey—world after world, love after love, loss after loss—would be severed like a thread that was never tied.
He would return to being one of those white souls.
Nameless. Faceless. Burdenless.
No more obsession with reaching the highest level of Hasyara. No more curse of knowledge. No more awareness that every world is only temporary. He would not remember his sleeping friends. He would not remember Crocus or any other world. He would not remember how long he had been walking.
Every world would feel like the first. Every love would feel like the only one. Every death would feel like the end. He would not be a slave to merit. He would not calculate. He would not estimate. He would not wait for the numbers to change.
He would be free.
…Free?
Is freedom being unattached? Or being unaware that we are attached?
Those who do not know, laugh.
Those who know, learn to be silent.
If he persevered—he would remain Mujun.
And remain alone.
If he deleted—he would not be alone.
But he would no longer be Mujun.
The numbers on the panel did not change. The button did not blink. The system did not persuade. It did not forbid. It simply provided a choice. Mujun stood at the edge of the river of time, with worlds flowing beneath him.
His finger still hovered.
"What should I do?"
The question did not echo. No one answered. No one encouraged. No one restrained.
The silence of Hasyara remained intact.
And Mujun… did not move.
Time—if anything in that place could still be called time—passed without witness. The light panel remained lit. The button remained there. His finger remained suspended.
And the decision… was not yet born.
It was unclear how much time had passed. Mujun's finger, floating above the panel, began to tremble. It moved slowly closer. But in truth, the panel required no touch. He didn't need to press anything. Merely by desiring it, the command would be executed. However, when the mind hesitates, the body often becomes a tool to confirm a decision.
Like flipping a coin.
Before the coin lands, the answer usually surfaces in the heart.
Hesitation does not arise because there are two choices. Hesitation arises when someone hasn't accepted the choice they have actually already made. In many ways, choice is merely an illusion to make one feel they possess freedom.
Mindset. Environment. Nature. Experience. Obsession.
All of these form a path that almost always leads in one direction. Man feels he is in control, as if his hands are on the steering wheel. In reality, the road he travels is already laid out beneath his feet.
Because of that, Mujun cannot give up.
He was too deeply involved in his obsession to climb to the peak of Hasyara's levels. To meet the Creator. To gain answers to every question he has ever asked or ever will ask.
The longer he lived as an Awakened Soul, the more he realized how small he was.
No matter how many worlds he saved. No matter how many beings he killed. No matter how long he lived or how complete the experiences he gathered. Compared to the totality of this existence, he was nothing more than a speck of dust that wasn't even visible.
His existence changed nothing.
The world kept turning. Hasyara remained Hasyara. One soul sleeping or awake made no significant difference among the countless numbers.
Yet he still wanted to be different.
Loneliness eroded his sanity. And if asked whether he was still sane in a normal human sense, the answer would likely be no. He had changed too far. Life after life created a chasm that could not be bridged between himself and ordinary souls. The longer he was aware, the wider that chasm became.
Yet he was still bound to one fundamental reality.
He had once been human.
And such creatures were not created to live alone.
No matter how strong someone is, prolonged solitude will break something within them. Mujun was smart enough and experienced enough to understand that.
For now, he was still Mujun.