Overlord: The Blank Essence

After wasting time on useless things like that, he quickly began working on his plans.

As he thought about how to proceed, a metaphorical light bulb popped up over his head and began to shine like the sun that hadn't graced the Earth in centuries.

With all the maturity of a responsible young adult stuck in the body of a Japanese middle-aged man, he moved quickly toward a corner of the room and placed his hands on the top of the holo-cal projector platform.

He clicked a certain button on the platform, causing the calendar view to shift. A yellow paper-shaped option was added to every date slot projected on the holo-screen.

Without hesitation, he selected the yellow option on a random date. The screen immediately went blank, replaced by an empty page with a soft yellow background.

This was the 'notes' feature, which he used mostly for project deadlines, guild raid schedules, and bill payments.

Although he could've used his nano-neural interface to make these updates, he deliberately avoided it for a specific reason.

"It's safer this way," he muttered.

While it might have seemed overly paranoid, he thought that a little caution was far better than ending up dead in a ditch somewhere

Even though his cranial interface wasn't currently connected to the virtual internet—and it probably wouldn't matter in the long run—he still chose not to take any chances.

'I can't afford to make mistakes now. Not with everything on the line.'

Thinking along these lines, he adjusted a few more things on the holo-board before finally turning his attention to the skill he wanted to learn.

Actually, the skill was already decided. He knew exactly which ability would be his best bet in this environment.

In a world without supernatural powers—or, honestly, any world—that ability would be ridiculously convenient to have.

So now, the million-dollar question was: if the ability was already decided, what the hell was he doing with the holo-board instead of training it using his essence?

Well, here was the thing: even though he knew which ability he wanted to learn, it wasn't exactly easy to master.

He still wasn't entirely sure how his essence allowed him to train any ability, but he at least understood the basics.

The [Essence of the Blank], as his power was called, essentially granted him Limitless Potential.

In simpler terms, it meant he could learn anything. And by anything, it meant anything—whether it was reading the stars and hand patterns to predict someone's future or generating mana bombs like a gamer. The essence didn't care about logic or physical limitations; if he could imagine it, he could do it.

However, here was the catch: he'd have to start from scratch and actually learn the ability. The essence wasn't a magic shortcut; it demanded effort.

For example, if he started learning the ability he wanted right now, it'd probably take him weeks to reach a level where it was actually useful.

Based on what he instinctively understood about the essence and the complexity of the skill, that estimate felt accurate.

Taking this into account, along with several other factors, he needed to devise a simpler version of the ability—one that was easy to learn, practical, and usable even under surveillance or in public.

Preferably, he should be able to use it at a decent level by tomorrow to deal with the supervisor.

Though he realized he was being incredibly greedy, he also knew this was essential for his future peace of mind.

After all, despite its limitations—like requiring actual effort—the [Essence of the Blank] was ridiculously overpowered.

No one could deny it: the ability to learn anything and grow without limits was monstrous.

It was a cheat, a hack, and he was immensely grateful it was bestowed upon him.

In fact, if he still managed to screw up his life and end up as an emotionless skeleton despite having such an OP power, he'd deserve to step into the sun and call it a day.

Determined to succeed, he began designing experimental versions of his desired power, using his finger as a holo-pen on the screen.

At first, he just scribbled aimlessly, playing with the interface. But as the minutes ticked by, he realized it might take a while to finish.

...

Nearly two hours later, after brainstorming and discarding countless ideas, he finally settled on a single design.

Though he was sure someone else could come up with a better version, this was the best he could manage, and he was satisfied.

It should be pretty easy to learn, he thought—or at least hoped, because if it wasn't, he'd be in deep trouble tomorrow.

After reviewing the design one last time and committing every detail to memory, he deleted the note and emptied the digital trash can on the calendar.

Satisfied that he'd covered his tracks, he moved to his bed, leaned against the cold, hard wall, and prepared to begin.

Sitting in a lotus pose, he relaxed his shoulders and focused. He visualized the ability in his mind, concentrating intensely on a point just above his right index finger.

Five minutes passed. Then ten. Then fifteen.

After nearly 30 minutes of concentration, something finally began to happen. It was small and could almost be completely ignored, but it surprised him nonetheless—a tiny piece of energy, no larger than a seed. Its insignificance was notable, yet it brought a smile to his lips.

Upon its emergence, a connection formed between him and the spark, accompanied by an intuitive feeling in his mind. With all the confidence he could muster, he commanded the energy.

The spark, which was now floating freely over his forefinger, froze as if sensing his intentions. It obediently began to move towards his forehead, and even before he could physically see anything, it entered directly into it.

…

[The Following Day]

The air was thick, heavy with the acrid stench of burning chemicals. Suzuki Satoru adjusted his gas mask tighter around his face as he stepped out of his apartment building. The weak glow of artificial streetlights barely pierced the dense smog that blanketed the city like a suffocating shroud.

Overhead, the sky was a mottled gray, the sun's presence was reduced to a faint, forgotten memory.

He adjusted his tie, a small, futile attempt to maintain professionalism in a world where even the atmosphere felt oppressive.

He wasn't really alone, as the streets were bustling with grim-faced figures, their hurried steps echoing against the cracked pavement.

Automated announcements were sounding from speakers on every corner, their cheery tones a cruel contrast to the bleak surroundings. "A productive day ensures a brighter tomorrow!" the voice chirped, though no one seemed to believe it.

Satoru's footsteps fell in rhythm with the mechanical clanking of machinery in the distance. Like everyone around him, he kept his head down and avoided eye contact with the occasional patrol drones that hovered above, their crimson lenses scanning the crowd.

A faint cough escaped his lips, a product of the ever-present pollution rather than illness, but he stifled it quickly. Drawing attention was never wise in this world.

Arriving at his company building—a monolithic structure of steel and glass that loomed like a sentinel over the desolate city—he pushed through the revolving doors. The sterile interior greeted him with a sharp contrast to the chaos outside. White walls, fluorescent lighting, and the faint hum of computers created an environment devoid of warmth.

His colleagues, seated in identical gray cubicles, glanced up as he entered. Some quickly looked away, their faces etched with discomfort. Others offered him fleeting looks of pity, their gazes lingering a second too long before returning to their screens. The weight of their silence pressed down on him, but Satoru kept walking, his steps steady despite the unease building in his chest.

The supervisor's office was at the end of the hallway. The journey felt longer than it should have, the corridor stretching endlessly as his heartbeat quickened. The polished tiles reflected his worn shoes, the scuffed leather a testament to long days and longer nights.

He paused at the door, a simple plaque reading "Section Chief Hasegawa" staring back at him. The frosted glass offered no glimpse of the man within, only the faint outline of a figure seated at a desk. Satoru inhaled deeply, steadying himself, and knocked twice.

"Come in," came the curt reply.

He pushed the door open to find Hasegawa seated in his usual spot, a thin, sharp-eyed man with a perpetual frown etched into his face. Holo-screens displayed data and documents in layers around him, but his focus was solely on Satoru. The supervisor gestured to the chair opposite him without a word.

As Satoru sat down, he felt the weight of Hasegawa's gaze, scrutinizing him like a predator sizing up its prey. The silence stretched between them, heavy and oppressive.

"So," Hasegawa finally said, his voice cold and clipped. "Care to explain your absence yesterday?"

Satoru swallowed, his throat dry. The words he had rehearsed on the way here felt inadequate now. He opened his mouth to speak, but the sharp gleam in Hasegawa's eyes were warning him: this wasn't just about yesterday. This was a test, a performance, and failure was not an option.

Satoru's hands rested on his lap, his fingers twitching ever so slightly. The weight of Hasegawa's piercing gaze threatened to crush him, but he didn't flinch. Instead, he allowed himself to exhale slowly, and relaxed his posture.

'Then, it's good that I don't have to answer him.' With a smile, he silently gave a command which, fortunately, was followed immediately.

From the depths of his mind, a small speck of purple energy surged forth and started to float and dance before his eyes. It hovered right above the center of the table, but as expected, Hasegawa didn't notice.

One of the properties of this energy was its complete invisibility and imperceptibility to anyone else but it's creator (Satoru). In fact, it was completely invisible to anything & anyone that wasn't him. In a world that was so technologically advanced it was necessary property for him to actually use it.

The spark of energy slithered through the air with deliberate intent, like a predator homing in on its prey. Hasegawa, unaware, continued to stare at him, his holo-pen tapping a slow rhythm against the polished desk. His brow furrowed slightly, perhaps noticing a faint, inexplicable unease.

Soon, the purple thread of energy reached him. It coiled around his head for a brief moment, almost testing, before slipping inside like water through a sieve. Satoru watched as the change took place.

Hasegawa's sharp, calculating eyes softened, their brightness dimming as though a light had been extinguished. The tension in his shoulders melted, replaced by an almost imperceptible stillness. For a fleeting second, his expression went blank, a quiet void taking hold, before it returned to its usual stern demeanor—though Satoru could see the difference.

A tether, an invisible but tangible bond formed between them, linking their minds together. He could feel the presence of another mind one that he felt he could mold and shape easily. Testing it, Satoru projected a simple thought: 'Speak as you normally would. Don't draw attention to the change.'

Hasegawa straightened in his chair, the faintest flicker of obedience crossing his face. "You've been unreliable recently, Satoru," he said, his tone sharp but hollow, as if he were merely reciting lines. "We can't have you disrupting the team."

Satoru nodded, feigning discomfort, though inside he marveled at the ease of control. The supervisor's words flowed naturally, seamlessly, but the content and delivery were exactly what Satoru had willed him to say. The power was absolute, yet subtle enough to avoid suspicion.

"I understand, sir," Satoru replied, his voice steady, even as he mentally explored the new link. His thoughts were a chaotic jumble of memories, emotions, and priorities. As his position in the network was superior he could easily sift through them, rewriting, suppressing, or amplifying as he saw fit.

"I'll ensure it doesn't happen again," Satoru continued, forcing a tinge of shame into his voice.

"Good," Hasegawa replied curtly, but his gaze lingered on Satoru for a moment longer. Understanding what he meant, Satoru projected another command: 'Call me after lunch break. Act as though nothing has changed.'

Without saying anything, Hasegawa turned his attention back to the holo-screens on his desk, his movements smooth and unbothered. To anyone else, it would seem as if the exchange had been entirely ordinary. They might even think it fortunate that he wasn't being heavily punished and was let off with a simple warning.

But Satoru knew better. As he stood to leave, he cast one final glance at his supervisor. Beneath the facade of normalcy, Hasegawa now belonged to him—mind, body, and soul. And no one would ever know.