Myron Malcohm Beckles was just an ordinary teenager living a typical 21st-century life-until one fateful day when a car accident changed everything. Instead of darkness, he found himself waking up in a strange world: the Taisho era in Japan, a perio...
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Myron's eyes fluttered open to a suffocating darkness, a void so complete it felt as though the world itself had been swallowed whole. The air around him was frigid, biting into his skin like icy needles. He lay on a surface that was neither solid nor soft, its texture cold and unyielding, and as he exhaled, the sound of his shallow breaths echoed endlessly into the abyss.
"Where... am I?" Myron's voice wavered, breaking the oppressive silence. He slowly sat up, his body shivering violently as he took in his surroundings—or rather, the lack of them. There was nothing. No sky, no horizon, no landmarks—only endless blackness above a gray, featureless ground.
"What is this place? Why is it so cold? Why is everything so... dark?" he muttered, his voice trembling as his breath fogged in the freezing air. "What... happened? Where's Tanjiro? What the hell is going on?"
As he stood, his legs wobbling under him, a sharp pain exploded in his skull, causing him to stumble. He groaned, clutching his head. The pain was relentless, throbbing like a war drum.
"It feels like I got hit... but when? How?" His words trailed off as fragments of memory clawed their way back into his mind. His body stiffened as recognition began to set in.
"I was... I was in Asakusa," he murmured. "I saw Muzan. I... I was standing in the street, and then..." His eyes widened. "And then everything went black. What happened to me?"
He glanced down at his hands, pale and trembling. "What the hell did he do? Why did I black out? There's got to be a way out of here..." His voice faltered as he clenched his fists, the echoes of his own desperation ricocheting back at him from the void.
Driven by mounting dread, Myron started walking, each step sending a hollow, metallic sound reverberating through the abyss. The sound mocked him, bouncing endlessly into the empty air. He quickened his pace, the echo of his footsteps amplifying with every step, as though the void was alive and watching him.
The isolation pressed down on him, his chest tightening with every breath. Sweat dripped down his face despite the cold, and the silence began to feel deafening. "Why is there no way out?!" he yelled into the nothingness, his voice trembling with panic. "Is this a dream? A nightmare? Is anyone here?!"
His questions went unanswered, swallowed by the unfeeling black.
And then, far in the distance, a shape emerged.
Myron froze, his breath catching. There, in the distance, lay a figure sprawled on the cold, gray ground. His heart leapt—a sign of life, of someone else trapped in this unholy place.
He ran toward the figure, hope battling the terror bubbling within him. "Hey! Are you alright? What happened to—"
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