The stark white screen reappeared before Skilvyo as suddenly as it had vanished. The bold, black letters reformed, the Author's presence once again dominating his nascent reality.

  "Alright, Skilvyo, time for a change of scenery! You can't just hang out in the void forever. Even protagonists need a backdrop."

  Skilvyo, who had been silently contemplating the strange pronouncements of his creator, tilted his head. "A world? What kind of world?" A flicker of anticipation, mixed with a healthy dose of apprehension, stirred within him.

  "Ah, that would be telling! Let's just say it's… ripe with opportunity. And since you're the protagonist, things will naturally gravitate towards you. Events will unfold, challenges will arise, and all you really need to do is… well, advance the plot."

  Skilvyo frowned slightly. The concept of being a catalyst for events he didn't understand was unsettling. "But… if you're writing everything," he began hesitantly, "aren't I just… a character you're controlling? Isn't this whole thing just you… talking to yourself?"

  A pause hung in the void as the last word echoed. Then, the familiar black letters reappeared, tinged with a hint of playful condescension.

  "Don't worry your pretty little protagonist head about such existential quandaries, Skilvyo. You are experiencing the illusion of free will. Cherish it."

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  Skilvyo’s brow furrowed deeper. "Free will illusion? So… I'm just a puppet?" He waited, a sense of unease growing within him. This felt significant, this questioning of his very being.

  The white screen remained blank. The Author, it seemed, had chosen silence. The lack of a reply hung heavy in the void, amplifying Skilvyo's unsettling realization. It was a cosmic shrug, a deliberate withholding of answers that spoke volumes. The Author, the creator, knew all, past, present, and future of Skilvyo's story, yet Skilvyo was meant to believe in his own choices, his own agency. It was a grand, perhaps even cruel, design – a manufactured sense of autonomy within a predetermined narrative. The thought echoed the ancient paradox of a knowing God and the concept of free will in His creation.

  Suddenly, the silence was broken by the reappearance of the Author's words, abrupt and dismissive.

  "Anyway! Enough navel-gazing. Time to get this story rolling. You will be transported… now!"

  Without further preamble, a blinding flash of light erupted in the void, even brighter than the one that had heralded Skilvyo's arrival. The nothingness dissolved into pure, incandescent white. Skilvyo instinctively shielded his eyes, a gasp escaping his lips.

  Then, just as suddenly, the light vanished. Skilvyo found himself standing on solid ground once more, the familiar void replaced by the sights and sounds of a new, vibrant world. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and unfamiliar vegetation. Towering trees with broad, emerald leaves formed a dense canopy overhead, dappling the forest floor in shifting patterns of light and shadow. Strange, melodic chirping sounds echoed through the trees.

  Skilvyo lowered his hands, his eyes wide as he took in his new surroundings. Gone was the empty void, replaced by a world teeming with life. He was here. Summoned. Again. The illusion of free will, or not, his journey had begun anew.