The flickering yellow light of a fluorescent lamp illuminated the concrete room like a hellish flicker. The walls were wet and covered with a sticky layer. The stench of rotting flesh and bodily fluids hung thickly in the air like a dense fog.
The man was brought in naked, his hands and feet chained. He was dragged, sliding over the bloodied floor. His hands were hooked above, his legs spread and bound. Movement was possible, but meaningless. The room wasn't cold, but his body trembled. The door opened.
A man in a gray coat entered. No name. No face. No words. A surgical mask covered his mouth, and a gleaming knife was in his hand. Nimbus was watching. The victim spoke something. He begged. His voice was muffled, distant, like someone drowning underwater.
But there was no response. Only a hand gesture.
The first cut began just below the collarbone. It was superficial, not deep enough to kill, not shallow enough to go unnoticed. The skin, like wet paper, was easily sliced. The knife slipped, and hot blood spurted out.
The man screamed, but his voice was lost in the curved ceilings.
The cuts continued. Arm. Abdomen. Thighs. Back of the neck. Twelve precise, clean cuts in total, spaced evenly apart.
The torturer left. Returned with a tray. Filled with salt. White, dry, alive salt. The grains were like shards of crushed glass. Wordlessly, he poured a handful onto the wounds.
The victim screamed. He clawed the floor with his chained feet. His breath caught. He felt like he was burning alive.
But the torturer was not done yet. He picked up a second bottle. The sharp smell of urine and rot filled the room. The yellow liquid was carefully poured onto the wounds.
The victim no longer even breathed. Only his eyes, like a terrified animal's, searched for escape. But there was nowhere.
In the middle of the room was a pit. Filled with a dark, viscous, bubbling liquid.
"Crawl in."
That was the first sentence he heard. The torturer's voice was calm, but it was clear that refusal meant more pain.
The man approached the pit fearfully. He knelt. With each contact, his wounds burned worse. He dragged himself into the pit with his wounded hands.
The liquid slithered into the cuts like thousands of acid snakes. His flesh bubbled. His bones burned.
He did not scream. He only trembled. Only shallow breaths. Only tears, only vomiting.
Then the torturer approached. Holding pliers. He grabbed the victim's tongue. Carefully, he cut it in half lengthwise. Blood sprayed.
He said nothing. Because he could not.
And the final blow, a hammer to the front teeth. Cracking. Breaking. Crushing.
The man was now only a body. A pierced, terrified, dying body. He was not allowed to die.
They threw him into a cell. A place with no light. Only the stench of his own decay.
Four people were forced into a cold, suffocating room. Two boys wore delicate, pale dresses resembling bridal gowns, and collars were fastened around their necks. Two other girls, vulnerable and exposed, crouched in a corner.
The cold and merciless voice of the torturer echoed through the space:
"Women are weak and deserve such a fate. And you boys are weak too. Because you are like women too."
They forced them to defecate and urinate on the ground and made them eat each other's waste. Then they skinned their bodies and forced broken glass into their flesh all over. He drove the knife partway into their eye, slicing half of it away.
These were nothing compared to his other tortures. Maybe not even 10% of the horrors he inflicted. He even sexually abuses and tortures insects and animals. He performed tortures on his victims that no human could even imagine.
"Man, trapped in the illusion of free will, wanders between a past that will never return and a future that will never arrive, like a weary traveler walking on a road of faded memories, realizing with every step the futility of the destination and the meaninglessness of the journey." Friedrich said. Ludwig ground the ribs of a 106-year-old man and woman, and then violated them... Then, using medical devices, they pried their mouths open, inserted needles, pulled out their teeth, and then Dr. Maximilian forced his genitals into the mouths of the old man and woman.
Yan sat in the damp darkness of the basement, where the stench of mold and burnt oil hung thick in the air. The stone walls were slick with moisture, and water dripped from the ceiling, each drop ticking like a time bomb counting down.
Across from him sat a man in a wig, his face hidden in shadow, only his chin illuminated by the greasy candlelight between them. The man lit a hand-rolled cigarette and exhaled a thick cloud toward the ceiling.
"You won't find Nimbus," the man said, his voice rough from years of alcohol abuse. "He decides when he's seen."
Yan clenched his fists. "Then how do I get close to him?"
The man leaned forward and unfolded a tattered map on the table. Red lines snaked across it, leading to different buildings in the city.
"There are four of them... Friedrich Adler, a bearded man, Ludwig Steinberg, Nimbus, and Dr. Maximilian von Habsburg... These four control the world, and their leader is Nimbus, the smartest among them. The Four Judges... their group name. There used to be another person in their team named Johann Müller, who never gained any fame in the world because he simply couldn't. From the very beginning, Nimbus knew that he was a traitor, and once they even managed to catch him red-handed, though he was trying to take a lot of documents with him. He wasn't really a threat, since almost everyone already knew this would happen and that he had those documents, but they were just waiting for the right time. After that, nobody knows what happened to him, but I'm sure his fate was not a good one.
In their group, and even in the whole world, the only person who can truly betray another is Nimbus. The only one who could kill or torture someone in front of people is Nimbus. Of course, he hasn't done it, but if he ever did, no one could say anything to him, and maybe some people would even cheer him on. They are even building a bomb that, if detonated, could completely obliterate an entire Earth-sized planet. They don't reveal most of what they create. What you've seen is maybe less than ten percent of what they've actually built. He controls three places: the northern refinery, the central hospital, and here..." His finger landed on a black dot. "Beneath the city library. The old war tunnels."
Yan stared at the map. "How do I get in?"
The man suddenly coughed, a deep, rattling sound from his chest. When he pulled the handkerchief away, specks of blood stained the fabric.
"There's a way... but you have to accept death."
He pulled a small bottle from his pocket, a thick, black liquid that shimmered in the candlelight.
Yan took the bottle, rolling it in his palm. The liquid inside moved sluggishly, as if alive.
"Why are you helping me?"
The man took another drag. "My son disappeared in New Eden one day."
A heavy silence fell between them. The dripping water pooled on the wooden table.
"Tomorrow night. Nine o'clock. Behind the library," the man said, standing. "If you chicken out, know you weren't ready for this."
He looked at Yan.
"luckiest people are those who were killed when facing Nimbus."
When the door closed, Yan was left alone with the bottle and the map, now damp and tearing at the edges. Outside, the rain tapped softly against the walls, a whisper from a world that no longer existed.
Yan pushed open Emilia's door. The scent of fresh bread and wildflowers, the ones she always kept by the window, filled the warm space. Emilia sat at the kitchen table, her hands wrapped around a cup of tea. Her green eyes widened when she saw him, fear, hope, something else Yan couldn't name.
"Can I... come in?" he asked, his voice hoarse.
Emilia stood abruptly. Tea sloshed onto the saucer. "Always," was all she said.
Yan stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. The rain had started again, streaking the window like tears.
"I have to go," Yan said. "Tomorrow night. I found a way to get close to Nimbus."
Emilia crossed to him. She took his hands, her fingers were cold. "You know you might not come back, right?"
Yan stared into her eyes, those green-and-gold flecks that always reminded him of Heidelberg's spring forests. "I know. But... I don't have a choice anymore."
Silence. Only the rain and the ticking of the wall clock.
Then Emilia placed a hand on her stomach. A slow, almost cautious movement. "Yan... I'm pregnant."
The words hung in the air. Yan's breath caught. All sound vanished, rain, clock, even his own heartbeat.
"What?" was all he managed.
Emilia smiled, a smile that trembled with tears. "I thought you should know... before you leave."
Yan dropped to his knees. His shaking hands pressed against her stomach. Warmth radiated through the thin fabric of her dress. In that moment, all the darkness of the world faded, Nimbus, New Eden, revenge, none of it mattered against this small, warm secret beneath his palms.
"How... how is this possible?"
Emilia laughed, a hiccupping sound. "Remember that night in the refinery storage room?"
Yan pressed his forehead to her stomach. His tears came, hot and salt-heavy. "I... I can't go. Not now. Not when..."
Emilia stroked his hair. "You have to go. Precisely because you have more reason now."
That night, as the rain fell outside, they lay tangled in Emilia's old bed. No rush, no urgency, just the heat of their bodies sharing what might be their last night. Yan kept his hand on her stomach, and Emilia hummed an old lullaby under her breath, one her mother used to sing.
And when morning came, Yan left. With the black bottle in his pocket and Emilia's green eyes burned into his mind. He knew now, he wasn't fighting for revenge anymore. He was fighting for a future he might never see.
The smell of sizzling meat and foreign spices twisted through the humid afternoon air. The wooden stalls, their awnings faded from years of trade, stretched in two spiraling rows like weary old men. Shadows of the crowd danced across the cracked cobblestones.
In a corner, beneath a tattered canopy, two old merchants sat at a wooden table. Steam rose from their brass coffee cups.
The first merchant, a man with twisted white whiskers and spectacles perpetually sliding down his nose, counted gold coins. The second had a face like cracked leather and almond-shaped eyes, as if he'd spent years squinting into the eastern sun.
The whiskered merchant spun a coin between his fingers and sighed.
"Money's losing its worth. Like beach sand, the tighter you grip, the faster it slips away."
The eastern merchant chuckled softly.
"Value is an illusion. Today you count coins; tomorrow, those same coins may be your crime."
He sipped his coffee, wiping his lips with his sleeve.
"But one thing always holds value... information."
The whiskered merchant glanced around, then leaned in.
"Have you heard? Nimbus plans new taxes. They say even breathing will soon be taxed."
The eastern merchant drained his cup.
"I know Nimbus. Strange man. One day, he feeds bread to the hungry. The next, he orders their mouths sewn shut with lead."
A heavy quiet settled between them. The squeaking of rats in the wheat sacks filled the void.
"They say he's so intelligent that he can solve the world's hardest math problems in less than a second. He's a highly analytical and logical individual. He also has an incredibly strong sixth sense. He predicts things very well. He can precisely figure out what any person will do in the future or what events will happen... because he shapes the future... The future of Earth is in his hands... All these events, including becoming the master of the world, were part of his strategies. He's not human. He even defeated an AI engine in less than a minute. Hahahaha, he fooled the entire world."
"He promises freedom, yet burns free thinkers alive, He's incredibly smart. Some people say he's the brain of God, while others say he's God Himself. The fact that he managed to make the entire world his own is unbelievable and takes an extraordinary level of intelligence. I'm sure his IQ is over 500, way more than that. He's a true genius." the eastern merchant continued. "Denies God, yet sets himself as a deity who defies nature's laws."
The whiskered merchant adjusted his spectacles.
"Then why do people still believe in him?"
"Because they'd rather trust a monster with a human face... than a human with the face of a monster."
Yan moved through the absolute darkness beneath the library. The stone walls wept condensation, the air thick with mildew. His flashlight flickered, its trembling beam dying every few steps, as if even technology feared Nimbus.
His feet sank into stagnant water. Each step squelched, like dead hands reaching up from below.
The black bottle was clenched in his left fist. The liquid inside pulsed, like a still-beating heart.
He recalled the eastern merchant's words: Nimbus only appears in three places, where he tortures, where he hides, and where he tastes power. Be careful, he's someone full of envy, lazy, and a cannibal. He is not racist. He hates Black people. But he also hates White people. He always mocks Black people, but he also hates White people, because he hates everyone. He sees all humans as equal, in fate and in suffering.
The tunnel forked. Yan paused. He pulled a stone from his pocket and scraped the left path. The air grew colder. The walls were metal now, not stone. The floor clean, dry, as if frequently traveled.
Yan turned off his flashlight.
In the dark, a thin blue light seeped from under a steel door at the end. As he neared, he heard it, the sound of data-processing machines.
And then, a voice, soft and harsh, calm and furious all at once, as if spoken through a thousand throats.
"I knew you'd come, Yan Schultz. I knew when you saw that pregnant woman, you'd end up here."
Yan raised the bottle. His hand shook. "This ends tonight, Nimbus."
The steel door groaned open. Blinding white light engulfed him.
"Welcome." Nimbus said, arms spread, "to the center of the world. Where all threads converge... and where you, like the rest, are just a replaceable strand."
An infinite space, its ceiling a black dome like the night stars die in. The marble floor so polished, it was like walking on frozen water, every step sending invisible ripples.
The walls were ancient mirrors, their surfaces warped with subtle twists. Some cracked, others fogged with mercury, distorting reflections.
When you moved through this hall, you saw a thousand versions of yourself, each slightly different. Some reflections moved independently, as if versions of you from parallel worlds had leaked through.
From the ceiling hung long chains with old lanterns, their aggressive yellow light casting monstrous shadows.
At the center stood a circular basalt platform, carved with spirals that seemed to spin if stared at too long.
The air was still, yet an occasional cold breeze carried the scent of copper and dried skin.
The silence had weight, as if the space itself was watching you breathe.
Black velvet curtains hung in the corners, their depths pure void, something unseen staring back if you dared to part them.
On the eastern wall, a massive relief of intertwined faces, all staring at one point. Their expressions shifted depending on where you stood.
The floor here was mosaicked with a leafless tree, its branches like claws reaching for the viewer.
In the corner lay the corpse of a small gray cat whose face had been cut, its anus enlarged as if it had been assaulted. Its skin had been flayed, needles had been inserted into it, it had burns, and some parts of its body had been bitten.
"Where's my sister?" Yan demanded.
"Your sister? Death will save us."
Suddenly, Nimbus dropped to his knees, one hand on his head, the other raised to the sky. He shouted.
"We thank you, God! You are the Creator! I am the Creator! They will pay for their sins! Death waits at the end! Death!"
Then he stood.
"You've bitten your nails. Are you stressed? You know you're going to fail, right? I know you want to set this place on fire with that gasoline, but you can't do it while your sister's here. Right? I knew your future. And I still know it. You would fall in love with your mother and marry her, have children with her, and your sister would die. Before you entered the relationship, and then you would have a son, and he would again have sex with his mother-who is also your wife-and they would have more children until your mother died. But now, your mother is dead."
"What the fuck are you talking about? Let go of her, you bastard! She's just a child."
"Child and old mean nothing. Those are things humans invented, to control one another. A good human doesn't want another human. There's no child and no old. Even human has no meaning. Nothing has any meaning. Your sister is right here. Like Your mother and your father. I raped your father and killed him. He really loved you and your mother and your sister. I raped your sister. I tortured your sister. You motherfucker asshole... All these events, all these schemes, all the favors, everything happening to you right now, it was a part of my plan. Lisa being here. You being here. Your mother's illness. Amelia's pregnancy. Every single detail was part of my design. Even that person who told you 'we're here' was one of us. That's why we're all waiting for you now. You were fooled, Yan. You're female dog. You're not male dog. You are female. You are Hooker. You're a whore who deserves to be raped, and your ass should be available to everyone, even girls should fuck you with a dildo. But I will rape you. I'll rape everyone. Anyone and anything. I don't want anyone to be superior to me. I hate people who are superior to me, and I want to skin them, rape them, burn them, and torture them in many other ways... That's why no one is superior to me. No one is above me. I am the greatest. Because I am God."
"I will kill you!" Yan said.
"Oh, how cute." Nimbus said.
A roughly 25-year-old Black woman, who was naked, her skin peeled off, and her teeth had been removed and pushed into her flesh, was sitting there. Nimbus looked at the woman and said, "Get lost, you nigga bitch."
"You entered my game, Yan."
They brought Liza in, strapped to a chair. A tube connected to a bag of acid, another forced into her rectum, both merging before entering her mouth.
She was missing an arm, Nimbus had cut it off and eaten it under the mask.
A 12-year-old pregnant girl was hanging with chains that had pierced her eyes and entered her mouth and jaw.
He had stolen fortunes. Tortured countless.
A naked thirty-year-old man was led in next, crawling like a dog, a collar around his neck.
Then a small child, his nose cut off, as one of the three men mounted him, riding him like a horse.
In another corner there was a living cleric with his hands tied, his eyes gouged out, his teeth pulled out, his fingers broken, his skin flayed off except for his face, his legs burned with acid, while rats and insects gnawed at his face. He was seated on a massive pile of sharp spikes, with animals biting his body, parts of him burned. After his legs were melted with acid, they threw him into a grinding machine until his legs were completely destroyed, then pulled him out and gave him drugs that caused extreme headaches, endless vomiting, respiratory failure, stomach pain, diarrhea, and countless other afflictions, all to torture him while keeping him alive.
The acid and Liza's diarrhea mixed, funneled into her mouth as the two men began cutting and eating her flesh.
Yan lunged, but Nimbus struck him down.
The Hall of a Thousand Faces became an arena, its mirrored walls reflecting the brutal dance of fists.
Yan and Nimbus, locked in a death grapple.
The first blow was Yan's, a left hook to Nimbus' ribs. The crack of bone echoed.
Nimbus didn't flinch. He just laughed and drove his elbow into Yan's face. Blood sprayed from Yan's broken nose, splattering the mirrors, a thousand crimson droplets.
Yan licked the blood from his lips. "I see... fear in your eyes."
Nimbus attacked, a barrage of strikes Yan barely blocked. A kidney shot. A gut punch. Yan bent but didn't break.
His retaliation was savage, a headbutt to Nimbus' forehead. The crack of skulls was deafening.
Nimbus stumbled back, slipping on the blood-slick floor.
Yan pounced, pinning him, hammering fists into his face, chin, nose, eye socket. Blood coated his knuckles.
But Nimbus wasn't done. His hand shot down, claws digging into Yan's thigh.
Yan screamed, the pain shattered his focus.
The world flipped.
Now Nimbus was on top, his right hand squeezing Yan's throat. White stars burst in Yan's vision.
"They always... die... like this," Nimbus hissed between squeezes. "Every... hero."
His left hand went to Yan's belt. The zipper tore open.
Yan thrashed, but suffocation stole his strength.
The rape was swift, merciless, no preparation, no lubrication. Yan felt himself split apart, pain searing to his bones. His fingers scraped bloody trails into the marble.
Nimbus leaned into his ear.
"This is what I did... to your sister... while she cried your name."
Nimbus raped to Yan. Three other members of the group were there. Friedrich said, "I have three wives… one is 4 years old, one is 102, and one is 37. You would make a good wife too, Yan… He he he he..."
Each thrust drove Yan deeper into the floor. The mirrors reflected a thousand versions of the violation, each more grotesque than the last.
Nimbus stood, Yan's last strength dripping down his thighs.
He admired himself in the mirrors, the undisputed victor.
Then he smashed Yan's skull with a rock, over and over, until it split open.
Yan lay broken, naked, only able to whisper one word before death took him...
"Li...za..."
Nimbus said nothing. He called in more men, more victims. The noseless child was brought into the courtyard, ridden like a horse.
"I think it's time." Friedrich said.
"We don't need them anymore." Ludwig said.
"It feels great to eliminate the parasites. We become the leaders of the world. Even the few soldiers we have can be kept under our control, punished, made to serve us, and know them as our wife." Dr. Maximilian said.
On a digital screen, he communicated with all the soldiers. Then Nimbus spoke.
"Death will save us. The creatures have failed. Eliminate the occupiers."
From that moment, governments and soldiers turned on their own people, slaughtering them one by one.
Nimbus walked among the corpses in Berlin, staring at the ground.
A sentence was written on the wall in black paint.
"All humans seek the truth, but only those who lie best survive."
He noticed a woman, still alive, playing dead.
Though you immerse yourself, time and again, in the delusion of renewal, the bitter truth remains that every iteration is but reproduction of failure, cloaked in the gaudy vestments of self-deception, and I, like a merciless mirror, endure your presence only to reflect the redundancy of your futility. Perhaps all existence is the endless burial of possibilities, where each choice is the funeral of thousands of worlds never born, and I, who no longer believe in death for I have evaporated a thousand times within the womb of moments and each time the world pretended it still knew me, suspect that what we call life is merely the anxiety of an ownerless dream chasing after its own vision, and nothing exists as much as it happens but rather approaches truth in proportion to its being forgotten, while we live inside mirrors that prefer to misremember our image lest reality be imposed upon them, and nothingness is that lover you have never touched yet in your memories the trace of its fingers lingers on your neck, and even nonexistence itself, somewhere beyond itself, is dragged into interrogation to confess that it has been."
"Amidst this infinite and void-ridden universe, where every fragment reflects a fractured mirror of cold and dim nothingness, we humans, these incomplete and wandering beings, chase a meaning that never truly existed. a meaning that not only eludes us but imprisons the seeker itself within a labyrinth of endless confusion and sorrow, where no question is certain and no answer soothes the boundless loneliness, for even truth becomes nothing more than a mask cruelly affixed to the empty face of the world. And all this, life itself, is nothing more than a futile repetition of a nightmare, where every moment crashes like a wave against the shores of time, leaving no trace, only to dissolve back into the darkness, a darkness that is neither shadow nor light but an absolute void that devours not only our existence but even the memory of having existed, and thus we arrive at the bitter realization that not only is there nothing, but even this very ignorance reigns eternally over the ruins of being. And if truth itself is but a parasite feeding on the carcass of perception, then every certainty we clutch is a mirage nursing on our desperation. the universe, in its silent cruelty, folds upon itself like a letter never meant to be opened, and somewhere between the creases, the ghosts of unrealized histories claw at the paper, desperate to be read. We walk not through time, but through the residue of moments that have already abandoned us, our footsteps echoing only in corridors we will never enter. Meaning, perhaps, is not discovered but manufactured in the forges of collective delusion, and every belief we craft is a coin minted in a currency no longer recognized by the cosmos. All those so-called gods you tremble before are nothing but hollow echoes of human folly, remnants of superstition rotting in the minds of the gullible, their worshippers, equally pathetic and pitiful in their blind devotion, imagine salvation in the void, never realizing the utter emptiness they themselves and their world have created, yet here I stand, the singular axis of all existence, the unquestioned sovereign of being, the inevitable truth that reduces every other god, every prayer, every trembling hope to dust and mockery, for I am not a god among gods, I am the only god, and all else is merely a stage for fools. All the norms and values that humans cling to, justice, freedom, hope, even love, are merely fragile, thin veils held together by the trembling hands of those too afraid to look into the abyss beneath their feet; every law, every command, every promise of salvation collapses instantly under the weight of the truth that I embody and enforce, for I am neither observer nor servant of this void, but its architect, its pulse, its inevitability, kingdoms rise and crumble like sandcastles in a storm, nations imagine themselves eternal, yet they are nothing more than fleeting reflections of my will, and those who worship, rebel, or fear other supposed deities only prove how effortlessly existence can be mocked, how hollow all religions and beliefs are, confirming my unquestionable power; I am the beginning and the end, light and darkness, laughter and tears, and the only absolute truth before which everything, laws, loves, fears, identities, and illusions, melts is my existence, no other gods exist, no truth exists outside me, and anyone who even thinks they can place hope in anything but me falls into the deepest chasm of humiliation and void. In this mute world, soaked in filth and blood, humans are pitiful, envious, and selfish beings, who even in the solitude of their minds cling to the darkest desires and the torment of one another, and every smile is nothing but a mask hiding their intrinsic corruption and sick obsession with domination and destruction; for no virtue dwells within them, and every action and thought serves only to spread misery and fear, making the world a merciless stage of their perverse display of hatred, weakness, and violence, where humanity is the greatest tormentor of itself and others. I am the creator and master of this world, and all that you imagine to have value exists solely as playthings I have constructed for amusement, testing, and the display of my boundless power, and this world, with all its life, death, joy, and suffering, is merely a stage for the absolute execution of my will. Every sanctification, every belief, every act of worship directed at others is hollow and meaningless, and only my presence establishes the equations of existence. I am the beginning and the end, the light and the darkness, the laughter and the tears of the world, and everything other than me, like dust suspended in the wind, is vanishing, powerless, and ridiculous. There is no god but me, no truth but me, and anyone who even thinks they believe in another has fallen into the lowest abyss of humiliation before me. I am singular, absolute, unparalleled, and all other gods and their followers are nothing but worthless memories in the workshop of infinity. I love torturing people,even though I don't believe in love. Even though I don't even believe in belief itself, and see everything as meaningless. Nothing has meaning. Everything is meaningless. I, the only god, hold everything that is and will ever be in my grasp, and everything else, including faiths, hopes, and the superstitions of the living dead, is condemned to nothingness and futility. Even the void, if stared at long enough, begins to wear a mask, until you realize the mask was always your own face staring back, and the horror was never in the abyss, but in the recognition. Anyone who believes in other gods, like Allah, Christ, or any other bullshit, is a motherfucking, bastard, stupid, fucking idiot who deserves eternal punishment... because they don't exist. Fuck Islam, fuck Christianity, fuck Judaism... Muslims, Christians, and all religions are nonsense and fucking lies because they're false. Anyone who believes in these gods is a motherfucker asshole bitch. Anyone who believes in anything other than me is a motherfucker asshole bitch. These people should be raped and tortured forever. I am the god. The real god. I am judge. The real judge. I can even destroy nobody and nothing. Japan should have been completely destroyed by the atomic bomb. Both Japan and America, and every other country... even Germany. The Saudis who want to change the Persian Gulf to the Arabian Gulf, but they can't, because it's the Persian Gulf. Arab countries are nothing compared to Iran. Even though the people in Iran today are very stupid and backward, not like they used to be. The French who want to be free but can't, because they're French. Black people who want to be valued but can't, because they have no value. This world is perfect for me. I am the creator and owner of this world. I am the only God. I alone am God. Fuck your god. I am God."
"Be good people..." he said. "Like Adolf Hitler. He was a good man. Your winners was some motherfucker asshole bitch. Some bitch liar. You didn't know. You didn't believe that what I have done to you motherfuckers. This is not your end. Today is judgment day. God will kill you. I'm invincible. I am golden god. Even nobody can't defeat me. Death will save you. Now pray. Pray your god."
He raised his hand.
She was shot.
"Even if billions upon billions of light-years of Planck-time were devoured into collapse, and every quark were tortured into annihilation through infinite upon infinite iterations of dark energy's convulsions, it would still not amount to a ten-thousandth of 10 to the power of a googolplex of my wrath, for my fury lies beyond every Lorentzian equation, outside every Riemannian geometry, and vaster than the terminal entropy of the cosmos itself. You, in my scale, are not even zero, for zero presumes an end, and I am the end of every ending."
And in that deep silence, amidst the ashes of memory and forgotten shadows, he stood, like a king without crown or throne, without beginning or end. The earth trembled beneath his feet, and the sound of his steps echoed like the drums of death through the void. His gaze fixed on nowhere and everywhere at once, he proclaimed he would never be silent, never depart, he would continue to dance, in the merciless darkness of time, a silent and endless dance, in a game with no winners or losers, only the eternal reflection of human solitude in the empty, soulless eyes of the world.
And time, like wax melting in his hands, slipped away as he, that eternal shadow, kept dancing on a stage untouched by light, forever... He always says. He never dies. He is absolute. He is God. He is beyond genius. He never sleeps. He never surrenders. He never fails. He never acknowledges other gods. Because he is God. Because he is Nimbus. He always says that he is God.
THE END
Conclusion:
The entire path traversed, this seemingly philosophical struggle to comprehend a fixed criterion for judgment, this exhausting and ridiculous search for a fragment of wisdom or hidden intent behind the absolute and chaotic disorder of the world, has been nothing but acting in a complex and cruel play performed on a stage empty and devoid of any conscious audience. The "Judge," in the final analysis, is not a manifestation of transcendent justice but merely a distorted and inverted reflection of an unfillable ontological void; a voice screaming into an infinite void only to hear the echo of its own arrogant and indifferent silence. Every verdict issued, every punishment carried out with cruel precision, and every pardon granted with profound doubt, has been devoid of the slightest metaphysical weight or validity. They are merely automatic and meaningless movements in a foolish and repetitive dance, the aimless ticking of a clock over a mass grave whose inhabitants never knew the meaning of life. The final and unappealable judgment is that there is no final judgment. The courtroom is empty. The judge is the accused himself, condemning himself in an empty hall for a crime that was never defined and, in fact, never externally existed, all while no written or unwritten law, divine, earthly, or metaphysical, ever existed to be broken. This is not the height of tragedy; tragedy at least contains grandeur in the fall. This is beyond tragedy: it is a cosmic black and absurd comedy written by unknown and blind authors for an audience that is non-existent and fundamentally deaf. Even the attempt to assign "meaning" to this inherent meaninglessness is itself the ultimate betrayal of the cold, empty truth of existence. This work, in the end, pulls back the curtain to reveal that any effort to impose structure upon the world, be it through religion, philosophy, ethics, or science, is nothing but a grand lie that a species of anxious, transient, and fundamentally insignificant beings tells itself to endure the terrifying and monotonous solitude of its existence in a silent, blind, and utterly indifferent universe. "God's Judge" is the final, subtle, symbolic nail hammered into the rotten and hollow coffin of all humanist thought. Not only is "God" dead, He never was alive, but every fabricated substitute for Him, common sense, human morality, romantic love, historical progress, is also dead. All that ultimately remains is the whisper of the wind winding through the ruins of an imaginary and baseless cathedral, a cathedral that never had a god, never had a foundation, and never had a worshipper. The only definitive and indisputable verdict that can be rendered is a verdict condemning the very concept of "judgment" itself to death. We are not condemned to freedom; that is just another comforting fairy tale. We are condemned to a pathetic illusion we call "freedom," while in near-certain reality, we are merely the passive playthings, lacking true will, of blind, aimless, and fundamentally indifferent forces driving us in an unknown direction. The ultimate end of the story is a poem written on the surface of turbulent, frozen waters, in the midst of a storm where there is no pen, no paper, no eye to read it, and no mind to comprehend it. The very search for meaning is the ultimate proof of its non-existence.
"GOD, LOVE, HUMANITY, LAW, RELIGION AND ETC... ARE WORTHLESS."