FADE TO BLACK
Voice-over (Deep and Very Ancient)
—Year 312 of the Posterior Era.
A very old calendar on a peeling wall. The page reads "312 P.E." in printed letters. The wind stirs it. Outside, a gray sky and a vast, heavy darkness.
The perspective pulls back and we see an entire city beneath that sky.
—Three hundred and twelve years since the world broke.
The Rift. A vertical opening in the sky, like a badly stitched wound. It is not black: it glows with a pale, sickly light. The sun has not risen over the horizon in a long time. The Rift pulses. Like a heart. Like something alive.
The perspective moves slowly toward it.
—We call it the Rift. It was not a nuclear war. It was not a punishment. It was an accident. Or so say those who survived.
Ruins floating. Entire buildings suspended in the air, roots upward, as if the earth had spat them out in a hurry. A tram passes beneath them, indifferent.
People walk down the street without looking up. No one looks at the Rift.
—The world before has already been forgotten. Its names, its languages, its gods. All of it was lost when the Rift appeared.
An old, crumpled map on a table. The world before the Rift: continents, seas, borders. The perspective draws closer. The map begins to crack, to crumble like ash. The ashes rise. The map vanishes. Only dust remains.
—And then the Panel appeared.
A Panel floating in the air, glowing. Around it, people walking with their Panels open, as if they were part of their bodies. A child looks at his for the first time, eyes wide. An old man weeps in front of his. A crowd in a square, all with their eyes on the air, lit by their Panels.
—No one knows who created it, or why. No one knows who administers it. We only know that without a Panel there is no profession. Without a profession there is no rank. Without rank there is no future.
A Path. A road of light that rises from the ground to the cracked sky. Ten steps. The last, the highest, is lost in the Rift. A man kneels on the third step, bleeding from every orifice: his nose, his ears, his eyes rolled white. He climbs one step. Falls. Dies. No one picks him up.
The perspective stays on the empty step.
—And above all the paths, ten ranks. From ten to one. From Whisper to Origin.
The five gods in the cracked sky. Five enormous figures, distant, impossible to comprehend. One with its mouth open. One with its eyes closed. One with a quill. One with an iron chest. One facing a door. They are motionless. They look downward; they are beings who transcended many thousands of years ago.
The perspective pulls back and we see that they are part of the Rift.
—Many try to ascend. Few succeed. Those who reach rank one become gods.
The Church of the Fervent Orator. Worshippers shouting in a square. The voice of the crowd like a roar. A priest with his mouth open, the sun rising from it.
The perspective trembles with the shout.
—The Fervent Orator says the world is held up by the word.
The Circle of the Eternal Dream. Sleeping bodies in temples thick with smoke. An eye closing in the half-light. A moon carved into the walls. Silence. Only slow breathing.
—The Eternal Dream says all of this is a dream.
The Temple of the Hand That Writes Destiny. Scribes copying texts without pause. Quills moving by themselves. A quill with an eye at its tip. The eye blinks.
It looks at the perspective itself.
—The Hand That Writes Destiny says the world is a tangible text.
The guild of the Iron Heart. Worshippers with ritual wounds. Blood dripping onto a metal altar. An iron heart that beats. The veins glow like red-hot fire.
—The Iron Heart says pain is prayer.
The Pilgrimage of the Doorless House. Figures walking from door to door. A threshold that opens onto the void. A pilgrim crosses. The door closes. He is gone.
—The Doorless House says the world is a threshold.
A dark Panel. A name that does not appear. A blank file. The perspective draws closer. In the center of the emptiness, a word flickers: "ILLEGIBLE." Then it disappears. Only the hollow remains.
—But there is something that not even the gods can see. Something the Panel cannot record. Something that exists where there should be nothing.
Han Byeol in front of the computer. The light of the screen illuminating his face. The migraine. The humming. The Panel floats beside him, dark, inaccessible. He rubs his temples. The perspective moves in on his face. In the reflection, the Rift.
—A hollow file.
The cracked sky. The Rift pulses like a heart. Something moves inside. A huge eye opens. Then another. Then another. The Rift is not a wound: it is something that sleeps and waits, impatient to come out.
—The Twelve Days.
Han Byeol's room. The unmade bed. The "island" leak in the ceiling. The computer on. The empty chair. The perspective moves in on the chair. It is empty. But the game keeps running. Only...
—The Twelve Days before they erase him.
Han Byeol typing in the game. His fingers move fast. The Panel flickers. A line of text appears and disappears: "12 Days Before Oblivion." The perspective holds on the screen. The text is erased. But something remains.