Nothing in This World Is Flawless, That's Why This Chapter is [Revised]

If I had to describe where I found myself, I'd say it was like floating inside a giant inkwell, an abyss of pure blackness. There was no up or down, just the sensation of existing in some kind of a limbo.

My thoughts were all I had, circling in a never-ending loop.

How long had I been here in this formless place? Time felt like an obsolete concept.

Had it been a minute or a century?

Could this be a pocket dimension?

Or was I dead?

It felt like a lifetime since I'd last held Putri in my arms. And now, yeah, I was just... aimlessly drifting.

I replayed that scene over and over—the Queen's stern face, Putri's horrified expression, that bolt of arcane energy. Oh man, I messed up big time. I could still hear the haunting emptiness in her eyes, like a melody you can't get out of your head, except it's a requiem. I couldn't shake off the feeling that I had inadvertently become the villain in my own story.

As I mulled over my mountain of regrets, something flickered. A smidgen of color—a brushstroke on this blank canvas of nothingness. These were memories—my memories. Snippets of my life at the airport, my dreams of becoming a mangaka, meeting Pyuan and Putri, and all the chaos in between.

I saw... our adventure.

What were we doing?

Ah yeah, the heartstone.

Wait a minute. The heartstone. That's it!

The heartstone wasn't just a quest item—If this pocket dimension was a byproduct of my emotional chaos, then the heartstone could be the anchor, the key to finding my way back.

I focused on that single memory, that palpable moment when I first touched the heartstone. It was like stitching a patch of vibrant color into this monochrome quilt of an existence.

And then, something magical happened—figuratively and literally.

The memory of the heartstone expanded, forming what looked like a... pathway?

At that moment, I knew. I had to step through it, even if I had no legs to step with. I mean, what did I have to lose, besides more time in this gloomy art gallery of despair?

Here goes nothing—or something? Oh, forget it. I'm going in.

I plunged through the luminous portal, the memory of the heartstone lighting my path. Gone was the monochrome void, replaced by a symphony of light and color so vivid it would make Beethoven envious. As I landed in this new reality, I realized I was whole again. There were my hands, my legs, and—thankfully—my sketchbook and pencil, right there with me.

A voice resonated from everywhere and nowhere at once. "Nanang, you've come a long way, in more ways than one."

Startled, I looked around. "Who are you? What is this place?"

"How should I put this..."

The voice paused, as if choosing its words carefully.

"I am the Creator."

Taken aback, I searched for the source of the voice, which seemed to fill the air itself.

"The Creator? What do you mean by that?"

"Have you found your life to be... unusual lately?" the voice asked.

"Unusual?" I paused to ponder the question. "You mean how one day I'm working at the airport, and the next, I'm meeting my original characters in a fantasy realm? 'Isekai,' they call it, right?"

"Exactly. Don't you find that... over the top?"

"I haven't really thought much about it recently, but sure, it's over the top."

The voice let out an ethereal chuckle. "That was me. I wrote that story."

A story? What is this guy saying?

The voice then asked, "You've been playing creator in your new world. Ever stop to think how you got those powers in the first place?"

"I assumed it was... magic, you know? Something that this world naturally has. It's part of the world-building—"

I paused, my words hanging in the air. World-building. That term suddenly took on a new weight, as if I had just turned over a rock to find a universe teeming underneath it.

"World-building," I repeated to myself, my mind racing as I mulled over the term. "Would that mean..."

When you build worlds, you don't just throw in a mountain here, a river there, and call it a day. You design the laws that govern them, the magic that flows through them, the characters that inhabit them. You become the architect of not just the landscape, but the very essence and rules of the universe itself.

A chill ran down my spine.

Could it be?

"Was I... am I... a character too?"

The Creator's voice seemed to deepen, resonating with a strange mix of empathy and cosmic detachment. "Ah, you're beginning to understand. Yes, magic is a part of this world's fabric, but it too is a part of a design. My design."

I processed the words, each one landing like a droplet of ink on the canvas of my mind. My design. My whole life I had thought of myself as a creator, someone who could shape stories and characters, but here I was, a sketch in someone else's sketchbook.

"Your humor, your imagination, your self-awareness—these aren't just traits; they're carefully crafted elements that make you unique. You've been questioning your existence, pondering over life's oddities, making jokes to lighten the mood, but did you ever think that maybe someone else laid the groundwork for all of that?"

That was it. I was just a character in someone else's grand narrative. I felt as if the pencil I'd been using to draft my life had suddenly been snatched from my hand.

"So you're saying..." My chest tightened. "My life, my joy, and my suffering—all of it—was just a plot point to you? You 'crafted' me?"

"Wait, are you mad?"

"Of course!"

"How can you be? You're a writer too, aren't you? You should understand what it's like to create a story—having your characters on the palm of your hands, having their fate rely on what you write for them." the Creator posited.

"That's not how I—" I stumbled, trying to find my defense. But really, there was none. I remembered the countless hours I'd spent hunched over my desk, sketching, erasing, redrawing. I'd created worlds and shaped lives, doling out victories and tragedies to my characters—all for the sake of crafting an engaging plot.

For a moment, I almost empathized with the Creator, seeing us as two sides of the same coin. But then I realized the reason for my anger.

"There's a glaring difference. In my story, my characters don't realize they're in a story. They don't have to grapple with... this existential crisis of being someone's literary device!" 

"That's... a fair point," the Creator conceded.

"Crafting a narrative is one thing; thrusting sentience on a character and expecting them to just roll with it is another ball game altogether."

"I'm gonna note that," the Creator mumbled, as if jotting down mental notes for future plot twists.

"Why did you do this to me?" My voice wavered.

I'm angry, but also scared. But mostly angry.

"Because..." the Creator seemed to take time to continue its line, "I need your help."

"You need my help?" I echoed, the words tangling up in my mind like a bunch of tangled earphones in a jean pocket. "For what, exactly?"

Yeah, I just couldn't understand what could an all-powerful Creator possibly need from someone like me, someone who's supposedly just a character he himself created?

The Creator's voice hung in the air.

I was seconds away from losing my patience, then... the words finally came out.

"I need your help... to fix my story."