His legacy would find no epilogue in this void—only eternity resonating in chambers of silence. He would linger in that limbo, ghostly fingers on lifeless strings, muted voices no longer sowing worlds in others’ hearts. No discoveries to dignify his name, no scores to justify his infinity. Cosmic irony pierced him: the existential emptiness he’d fled for eons now stood as his sole monument.

  The millennia of creation—his symphonies that defied black holes and consoled civilizations—would be devoured by the rust of desperate time. Only the echo of his mind would persist: infinite loops of choreographed regrets, thoughts dancing in a universe without spectators. A composer turned static score, imprisoned in an auditorium where even the gods had ceased to applaud.

  His story could not end this way.

  Clutching his dulcimer like a castaway to his last plank, the Bard defied fate with his final breath of will. He knew he’d never hear the notes, nor feel his melodies echo in other souls… but as long as he created, he’d remain himself. After all, every minstrel dies twice: first when they cease to create; second when their body and soul are reclaimed by mortality. He’d cheated the second death for eternities—he would not let the first defeat him now.

  His fingers moved. And then he remembered.

  He remembered every journey: to the multiverse’s farthest corners, to the souls he’d met there. Every battle, every apocalypse, every heroic act he’d witnessed. He conjured lovers and friends, triumphs and defeats, farewells and remorse—moments of doubt and valor. He recalled his children, scattered across distant lands, and every worry and pride they’d stirred. He summoned such detail that, finally, memory dissolved, and he knew it was time to look ahead—and create anew.

  He wondered: What if he’d died old? What legends would have been lost? Would his marriages have endured, or would his wives have preceded him to the grave? What if he’d intervened—without poems or verses—in lands teetering on chaos or ruled by tyrants? What heroes and villains might have emerged? How would his days have unfolded had he wielded a sword instead of a lyre?

  Then he thought of her: Schwi. How would her days with Obsidian unfold? Would the girl lean toward verse or magic? Would she fulfill Mithrill’s dream and become her grandfather’s true successor? Would she cross portals with Ruby and Mithrill, weaving tales he could never imagine?

  The more he created, the more he understood: stories needed no notes to exist. Crystals interlaced into an infinite mandala, revealing how every life he’d touched—heroic, mundane, forgotten—was a link in the great cycle. At its center, an incomplete circle: his own story, awaiting its final stroke.

  “For whom do I create, then?” he murmured to the crystals, where his loved ones’ faces shone like constellations. “If there are no gods… let my final song be for my audience!”

  Inspiration struck.

  Time—or what remained of it—halted. Amid the whirl of possibilities, a previously invisible crystal caught his eye: one glowing faintly with a sepia-toned scene, a fragment of a story that once wandered his mind’s ocean but had long been lost like the smallest drop.

  This was the tale of a nameless man.

  At first, he was no one: a drop in the vast sea, bearing a name on paper but with weight so slight it might as well have been air. Like all men, he too had a purpose: Find a Name.

  But unlike others, he refused a bland, insignificant title. He craved a name that would echo through history, one remembered for generations. He wanted every victory and obstacle to find meaning in life’s grand symphony.

  His secret weapon was music. A master of many instruments, his skill was admired village-wide, but his identity lay in his first dulcimer—bought with coins earned as a child. That instrument became his symbol: the start of his journey, his promise of eternal echo.

  Over years, he honed his craft under the North Star’s gleam. His concerts filled taverns with joy, ovations, and chants, leaving admirers who shared nights of passion after performances. Nothing seemed beyond reach: neither enraptured hearts nor beauties found in dim-lit inns.

  In his mind, his next step loomed: perform before a king’s court, win a princess’ hand, and crown his legend. Yet deep down, he knew this was a mirage to deceive himself.

  Years prior, his homeland—or rather, the land that imprisoned him—had gone to war with its neighbor. The nameless man cared nothing for motives, casualties, or politics: he saw only another hurdle in his quest for a historic name.

  He’d filled taverns with soulful music, yet stages grew harder to secure. He often begged to perform, trading for copper coins or paying venue fees. His loyal followers even when passionate were few; crowds never swelled. His fleeting romances left bitterness: passionate one-night encounters, devoid of true love.

  Thus he learned, painfully, that war had erased space for minstrels. Soldiers lacked spirit to celebrate; peasants had no ears for ballads amid conflict’s clamor. Art—welcomed in eras of heroes and legends—had no place in a world demanding firewood, grain, and ammunition.

  Soon, his mortal, starving body—another obstacle—demanded sustenance and shelter. Reluctantly, he accepted his parents’ offer, despite estrangement since youth: a modest farm shielded by army pacts. They proposed a strategic marriage to a neighbor’s well-off daughter.

  With no real choice, he agreed, convinced he’d still forge a legend. Between plowing and tending livestock, he stole nights for local concerts, sacrificing sleep and his wife’s goodwill. She discovered his infidelities on their wedding day.

  The girl was beautiful and meek, yet no ethereal queen of his ambition. The marriage lacked love; had it depended on his frustration (and not drunkenness), even lust would’ve been absent.

  Still, from those hollow nights came three children. Suddenly, his hunger for a name yielded to the need to name them: he called the eldest Seth, the son Jormunn, the youngest Lucy—borrowing names from old legends his wife also favored.

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  It was while cradling his children and lulling them with cradle songs that he realized he might not need a glorious name: he was content simply being “Dad.” They loved him unconditionally; their tiny hands around his neck meant more than any tavern’s applause. Here, he found the true essence of love.

  Raising three children wasn’t easy, and the monotony of rural life strayed far from his troubadour dreams, but he discovered an ally in his wife. In his children, he found a chance to heal old grudges and silence arguments, even if she no longer stirred romantic desire in him after all these years.

  Amid farm chores and paternal duties, the nameless man uncovered a new facet: not that of a legendary hero, but of a beloved father whose legacy could be etched in children’s laughter and shared dreams.

  But as if fate warned him against growing too complacent, it snatched his companion without warning, without fanfare. Long ago, when the gods deemed war insufficient punishment for mortals, they invented plague. She fell ill in a breath and was buried behind their home within weeks—the cold refuge where she, too, had labored to build a life.

  He’d never truly known her. He didn’t know her favorite flower or author, despite access to her library. He ignored her dreams, whether she yearned for a legendary name like his. Perhaps, deep down, she hadn’t cared. Resentment barred him from befriending her; he never truly saw her, obscured by his own obstacles.

  Days, weeks, months… the nameless man pondered his mortality: Would he die at peace, with so much unresolved? Would his children, as they grew, keep admiration in their eyes or uncover the hollow man behind “Dad”? He realized he was no a young idealist anymore; his North Star would fade if paralyzed by grief.

  For five years—a stroke of luck, he thought—he devoted himself to the farm: toiling sunrise to sunset, hiring skilled laborers, hoarding coins, abandoning tavern escapades. Sleepless nights were spent practicing music; mornings, battling time.

  His plan was clear: save enough to secure his children’s future, entrust them to loyal servants, and escape to lands unscarred by war—a fresh frontier where his ambitions might finally take root. The farm flourished under his relentless care; Seth, who was soon to enter adulthood, could take over the farm when needed. For the first time, the weight of his choices felt less like a burden and more like a thread in a tapestry far grander than himself.

  Yet he wondered: Was it worth it? No matter his efforts, the gods’ dice were cruel—success abroad was never guaranteed. Worse than fear was the thought of returning to his children as a nobody. He dreaded the day they’d see the hollow man behind the “Dad” mask.

  The day finally came. The nameless man mustered courage, kissed each child, and vowed to return draped in glory. He swore his music would echo worldwide, and they, his heirs, would inherit a legacy worthy of his blood.

  That night, before leaving, he lit a lamp in their room and tuned his dulcimer. He sang of Ragnar?k, the twilight of the gods: verses of collapsing and rebirthing worlds. He hadn’t lived that battle but knew it through old books and ballads from his youth. His trembling chords mingled with the night wind’s whisper—a farewell ritual, a blessing for the souls he left behind.

  At dawn, he departed in a rented carriage, accompanied by the young maid he’d hired for company… and whom he’d fallen for during the journey. As the landscape faded, he repeated justifications: This was right. The children would be fine. All would be justified.

  Reality soon proved him wrong.

  A week later, the man and maid made love in a roadside Inn. Amid caresses and whispers, faint smoke drifted past the window, followed by urgent hoofbeats shattering the silence.

  Kingdom mercenaries burst in, ordering immediate evacuation. The war had spread: nowhere nearby was safe.

  Panic drove him to beg and bribe, spending most of his savings. He even considered futile force but secured a mercenary’s horse without it. With meager supplies and the maid clinging to him, he galloped desperately. Each hoofbeat on snow throbbed with dread: his only hope was to protect his children in time.

  When he finally reached home, silence struck first: no creaks, no crackling flames. Only ash—a gray shroud over remnants of his past. The house that held their laughter and lullabies lay flattened, as if swatted by a giant. Trembling, he sifted hot debris, seeking life—a hanging door, a breath in the rubble. His heart pounded so fiercely he feared it would sync with the ruins’ last pulse.

  Near despair, a dull thud halted his search: his foot struck something hard. Moonlight revealed the worst truth—a small, blackened hand, consumed by fire, protruded from shattered bricks.

  In that moment, nothing else mattered…

  Years—perhaps decades—passed, though he stopped counting. His instruments, even the emblematic dulcimer, fell silent. His days drowned in regret, melancholy, and endless drink. The youthful fantasy that once drove him curdled into a nightmare of a man who’d seen too much.

  One sober morning, he paused at a puddle and saw hair as white as winter. He knew his days were numbered. He’d been no hero, no villain, not even a father worth remembering: just a man shattered by his choices.

  In youth, music and stories had been his refuge: escaping an imposed profession, a foreign war, and later, an unwanted marriage. He’d fantasized about the worlds in his songs, longing to embody their heroes and relive their legends. Each verse carried him through his mind—the one place he thought he’d never be wounded.

  But in time, he discovered even that sanctuary wasn’t safe. The shadows of his mistakes invaded, forcing him to confront the raw truth: there was no escape.

  He wanted to remember how to escape that pain, to flee the reality that tormented him daily. He yearned for the power to become that teenage boy again—the one who still fantasized, dreamed, and clung to hope, who found refuge in a happy corner of his mind. Now, the weight of reality would be his sole companion at death’s door.

  The bard inhaled a shaky breath and froze. This was, without doubt, the most forgettable tale he’d ever unearthed.

  He hated this nameless man: despised him with every fiber of his being. He wanted to hurl himself into the narrative, strike him, scream, force him to feel the shame of his cowardice. Why had he resurrected such a hollow, mediocre story? Why not let it fade, as it deserved?

  He longed to rewrite every scene: temper the tragedy, inject pride, force the man to stay with his children, show his wife a shred of gratitude, to not flee when his heart needed him most.

  But nothing changed. Here, unlike other worlds, his notes and wishes held no power. What reality had written remained immutable.

  Yet a thought halted him: the bard never left a song unfinished. This story, however insignificant, wasn’t over.

  What if the man got a second chance? A chance to flee further—to realms where even his mind couldn’t haunt him. What if this pitiful, forgettable soul could become a hero? What if, after such a journey, he mustered the courage to confront his demons?

  Then he saw it: hidden potential. This trivial anecdote could become his magnum opus.

  He adjusted his dulcimer, breathed deeply, and let a single note—clear as a challenge—resonate across realities. With it, he fused his grieving heart with the nameless man’s. In that instant, they became one.

  As the final vibration faded, an echo slipped into the bard’s memory: an ancient name, fleeting, a recollection so fragile it would vanish from reality as if never existing… yet brimming with meaning.

  Ouroboros.