Year 20 Time Unit, Month 9, Day 12
Location: The Blood Desert
In the heart of a crimson desert, colored like dried blood, a man sits on a solitary chair..No shade shelters him, and nothing surrounds him but a molten horizon beneath the sun's merciless heat.
He sits there, like a stone forgotten in the open. His eyes drift aimlessly, his expression careless, defiant—as if the sun held no dominion over him, despite the sweat dripping from his brow.
He spoke with a mocking tone, as if addressing the void:
"Well then… since you've made it here, I suppose you understand nothing."
He sighed, then added, stretching his lips into an irritating smile:
"What are you expecting? That I'll explain? That I'll talk to you?"
But there was no one there.
Nothing.
The nearest living creature was over twelve hundred kilometers away.
Then he said with more sarcasm:
"I know that!"
Wait… is he talking to me?
"No, I wasn't talking to you. Relax, haha…"
Oh… so I was wrong.
"No, you weren't. You were right. I was speaking to you—but not you."
Hold on… what?
"I'm speaking to the one you're narrating for… the one behind the curtain. The reader, I think you call them—or whatever."
He lazily lifted his hand, pointing at nothing, as if he could see them all.
"And you, don't interfere with what I say or do. I know you're writing all this, but honestly, it's annoying."
He paused, then tilted his head slightly and said:
"Did you understand anything they told you before? About Tharos, and Lucan, and my poor black friend?"
He laughed—a deep, long laugh, echoing with mockery that seemed centuries old.
"Of course not… You didn't understand a thing. And that's what makes it fun."
Then suddenly, he added in a firm tone:
"I said stop that."
What?… I haven't even spoken.
He said in a weak voice, broken by the heat:
"Alright, alright… you won't interfere with my speech. Understood."
Then he inhaled deeply, as if drawing his words from the depths of the red earth beneath him:
"Where were we? Ah, yes… since you haven't grasped anything yet, let me explain a few things about this place… this strange world."
He burst into loud laughter, then muttered like scolding himself:
"It's not strange. No. You're the strange one here… at least, for now."
He raised a sweat-covered finger and pointed aimlessly:
"Let's begin. First, my name is Ozal Karn. But you can call me just Ozal. Not because we're friends… simply because you don't have a choice."
He furrowed his brows suddenly, as if struck by a thought from behind:
"Oh, wait… I forgot. You can't talk to me anyway, hahahaha. What a fool I am."
Then, regaining his calm tone, he continued:
"In any case… as you can see, we're in a red desert. Why is it red? Good question. The answer is simple: blood.
There was a war here… no, a massacre. Over ten million took part. All of them died. And the one who remained?... Me… hahahahaha."
He fell silent for a moment, then added slowly:
"How did they die?... I don't know."
Then came the voice…
Another voice—dry, internal, as if spoken from a mouth without a body:
"He killed them."
Ozal froze. Then he turned slowly and muttered with dry sarcasm:
"Oh… him. Looks like you know more than you should, even though you're just a narrator."
I whispered to him, as I always had, as a writer:
"Of course. I'm the one shaping you now."
His face twisted into a crooked smile, and he said:
"Ah… so you want to play that game?… Very well."
I felt something collapse.
"What are you doing? No… wait… don't—"
But it was too late.
Ozal's eyes widened for no reason, and he laughed a heavy laugh that seemed torn from the bowels of the earth:
"Now… I can tell you some truths, uninterrupted. Don't worry… I only hid him. He'll return once I finish. No one dies here—only gets postponed."
He took a deep breath, as if preparing for a long speech, then lifted his hand into the air, moving his fingers as if plucking strings of an invisible harp only he could hear.
"Did you know… this is a time before the important events? Everything you know… hasn't happened yet. Everything you will know… won't be what you expect."
He paused, as if watching an unseen expression, then continued with a lazy smile:
"Fine, I'll explain. But don't expect logic—time here is like a child playing in the mud. It doesn't like order."
"The Earth—or what's left of it—has gone through five great ages..There are others—minor, dormant in the folds—but they don't concern you… or rather, you wouldn't understand them even if you tried. Let's stick to the main five."
"The age we're in now? It's called the Age of Forgetting. Simple as that."
"Its duration? Just 56 time units. Don't worry about the type—not hours, days, or centuries. Just fifty-six. After that, everything begins—or ends, depending on your point of view."
"It's called the Age of Forgetting because people… forget. They forget their names, their loved ones, their pain… They even forget that they're forgetting. As if everything is gently wiped away, without resistance."
"But… do you like surprises? The real reason behind the forgetting… is me."
"Yes, I am the one who bends the necks of memories. Who extinguishes lights in minds. Who makes them repeat their mistakes, thinking them new."
"I'm trapped here. I cannot leave this age. I repeat it over and over, like a broken song on a scratched record. As if time itself enjoys watching me redo everything, endlessly."
"Why? I don't know. No one ever told me. Perhaps… there's no one left to tell."
He stood briefly, then sat again, gazing at the fiery horizon:
"In this age, two wars occurred. The first was called the War of Forgetting. A long, painful war, with no real reason beyond fear—mine and theirs. I was the enemy—faceless, army-less, weaponless. Just an idea… and one idea is enough to destroy a world."
"The second war is called the War of 25. A simple name, because they didn't have time to invent a longer one. It will begin in five time units from now."
"Imagine, just five units… and everything will descend into another hell. They'll attack me again—with whatever scraps of will they still possess."
He smiled faintly, tinged with disdain:
"But… it won't be a war. It will be a slaughter. They are weak… pitiful. They stand bravely, but don't realize they are like a pile of sand before the sun."
Then he looked straight at you—or the narrator—or whoever is reading this—and said in a low tone, almost confessing:
"I don't kill them… I merely exist. And my existence is enough to make them vanish."
He closed his eyes, and continued in a voice like a fevered dream:
"Some say forgetting is mercy.
But they've never lived in an age where someone like me controls memory.The Age of Forgetting isn't a random name—it's a mark, a curse, a constant reminder that we are nothing more than stories that repeat themselves—and erase themselves."
Then he raised a finger to the sky, as if drawing an invisible circle:
"Ozal Karn. That's my name. But just call me 'Ozal'. Easier for you… and for me."
"And if you think you sympathize with me, you're mistaken. No one pities the void. And me? I deal with the void every day… like an old friend."
His voice fell silent. Then he exhaled slowly, as if exhausted from speaking—despite never having moved an inch.
He gazed toward the horizon, where the sand rippled like the breath of an ancient inferno, and said softly, without any spark:
"This age… doesn't have much worth saying. No glory. No deep secrets. Just repetition… and forgetting."
Then he turned again toward the nothingness, and stared as if he could see your face—or see through you—and added with a hint of mockery:
"What do you think? Did I talk too much? Are you tired of me yet?"
He rose slightly from the chair, then sat again, as though finding no purpose in the motion.
"Very well… come back when you're ready again. I have more—I always have more."
Then he smiled that dry smile that showed no teeth, and said:
"Because I haven't finished yet…Don't forget, there are still four more ages… waiting to be told."
He reached down into the sand, as if it were a clock, then whispered with an indistinct tone:
"Time here doesn't move with your presence… but it waits. And so shall I…"