The Otherworlder, the Voidborne, and the Keeper

The afternoon sun filtered through the high, arched windows of the university library, casting long, golden rectangles across the dust-moted air. Ioeane “Io” Dimlow Jaerrow, twenty-one and perpetually lean, sat buried behind a stack of weathered chronicles.

​Opposite him, his friend Brian leaned back in a creaking wooden chair, tapping the cover of a vibrant paperback. “I’m telling you, Io, the logic is flawless,” Brian said, gesturing with the book toward the ceiling. “The protagonist gets hit by a truck, meets a goddess, and boom—overpowered fire magic. It’s the ultimate escapism.”

​Io traced the spine of a leather-bound journal with a steady finger, his pale blue eyes flecked with gold as they shifted from the page to his friend. “It’s too linear, Brian.” He tilted his head, a silver streak in his dark brown hair catching the light. “Why must it always be a gift from a god? If a world has its own laws, the power should come from understanding the cracks in those laws, not just a handout from a divine entity.”

​Brian laughed, shoving the book into his bag. “You and your 'patterns.' You’d probably spend the whole adventure studying the metallurgy of the swords instead of fighting dragons.” He stood up, noticing the sky through the glass had turned a bruised purple. “Damn, it’s late. You coming?”

​“In a bit,” Io replied, his gaze already drifting back to a sketch of an ancient, geometric seal. “I want to finish this chapter on the Great Migrations. I’ll catch you tomorrow.”

​“Don’t stay until the ghosts come out,” Brian joked, waving a hand as he disappeared into the shadows of the stacks.
​Io stayed. He read until the silence of the library felt heavy and the ink on the pages seemed to vibrate. Seeking air, he made his way to his secret sanctuary—the campus library roof.

​He crouched on the edge of the stone parapet, notebook balanced on his knees, eyes tracing the maze of alleyways below. The city smelled of wet stone and old paper, and the sunset painted the brickwork in shades he had no words for. Most students were glued to screens or chatter, but he preferred patterns—the cracks in walls, the rhythms of footsteps, the hidden logic of the world.

​His fingers traced a small, brass gear he’d found in a thrift shop, spinning it absently. Tonight, something unusual pricked at his awareness: a soft hum beneath the soles of his boots, faint but insistent, like a heartbeat echoing through the city. He froze, instinct and curiosity warring. The sound pulsed again, and for a moment, he swore the shadows shifted on their own, writhing toward him. He was about to dismiss it as imagination—until the gear in his hand began to glow.

​Not a weak, flickering light, but a slow, liquid radiance that seeped through his veins, making his heart thrum in rhythm with… something else. The hum grew into a chorus, whispering in a language older than time. He felt it first in his chest—a tug, subtle, like the world itself exhaling. Then in his mind, a pull, deeper than gravity, stronger than thought. Patterns unfolded, unmade, and remade. Reality was bending, and Io’s instincts screamed both terror and exhilaration.

​And then the world disappeared.

​He was weightless, timeless, drifting in a void that devoured light, sound, and sensation. But as he drifted, the Void did not consume him. It recognized him.

​Suddenly, light erupted. Not from the sun, but from a gargantuan entity that defied the scope of his vision. He stood at the base of Yggdrasil, the Tree of Life. Its bark was woven from solidified starlight, and its roots were thick enough to cradle continents, twisting through the fabric of countless realms.

​The Tree hummed, a sound that shook Io to his very atoms. It was under siege—not by axes, but by the weight of the gods’ greed and the rot of stagnant fate. It reached out, not with a hand, but with a fundamental cosmic need. It searched for a mind that could perceive the "cracks," a heart that belonged to no god, and a soul familiar with the silence of the Void.
​It chose Io.

​The blessing began as a cold fire. From the depths of the emptiness, the Void Authority surged into him. It felt like liquid obsidian pouring into his marrow, turning his blood into a conduit for the "Nothing" that exists between realities. Simultaneously, the Absolute Magic Creation erupted from the Tree’s roots, a white-hot brilliance that wrapped around his skin like a second coat of armor.

​The two forces—the Absolute Light of Creation and the Absolute Dark of the Void—clashed and then spiraled, weaving together. The symbols of all known and unknown magic systems etched themselves into his retinas, flickering by in a microsecond. He felt his human limitations shatter. His "race" was being rewritten; he was no longer merely human, but something primordial.

​When the light settled, Io did not kneel.

​He stood at the roots of the World Tree, whose branches pierced the heavens and whose roots bound realms together. The gods fought endlessly over it. Mortals suffered beneath it.

​Io claimed guardianship.

​By Void Authority and Absolute Magic Creation, he became:
Keeper and Protector of the Tree of Life, Master of All Magic Systems, and Sovereign of Non-Divine Will.

​"Interesting… what a wonderful world,” he said softly, his voice carrying the weight of the silence he had just mastered.

​Thus began the new age—where adventures and life were no longer bound by gods, rules, or fate, but by the will of one who had touched the Void.