Many people spend their lives wondering what lies beyond death. The question has haunted philosophers, priests, and scientists for centuries. Orion was no exception—though, in his case, wondering wasn't the right word. He was a man who built theories, tested them, and revised them, never satisfied until he could back his conclusions with evidence. It was expected of him. After all, he wasn't just any man—he was a scientist, one with accolades stacked high enough to cast a long shadow in his field.
Orion's brilliance had been recognized early. By the age of twenty, he had been invited to work for the International Science Union (I.S.U.), an organization so secretive and powerful that even the word "government" felt inadequate to describe it. And now, at thirty-five, he was not just a researcher—he was one of the leading figures in the world of science. His name was whispered in conferences, his publications read in hushed reverence. The kind of man who had his pick of cutting-edge projects and could change the course of human knowledge with a single paper.
And now… he was dead.
Orion could recall the moments leading up to it—the smoke, the roar of helicopters, the shouts over comms that had been drowned by explosions. He remembered the searing heat, the sight of his teammates—no, his friends—falling one by one. The grief and the anger hit him at the same time, a double blow that made his chest feel hollow even now.
Wait.
A thought struck him like lightning.
"Why… can I still think?"
The realization was unsettling. His body—if he even had one—felt absent. No heartbeat. No breath. No pain. He couldn't move, couldn't touch anything, couldn't even feel the familiar weight of his own existence. And yet, his mind… his mind was perfectly intact, running clear and sharp.
"Shouldn't I… I don't know… be on my way to the underworld? Or waiting for my number to be called for rebirth?"
The scientist in him kicked in, even here in this strange nothingness. He began sorting through the theories he'd studied, the philosophies he'd scoffed at, the afterlife myths he had once read for amusement. If he was honest with himself, there was a part of him—quiet, buried—that had hoped for a more poetic ending. He'd imagined, perhaps, a host of radiant angels with harps and trumpets, descending in a blinding glow to welcome him into some eternal paradise as a reward for his sacrifice.
But instead…
He was floating in nothing. A lightless, formless expanse where distance and time meant nothing.
The absurdity of it all pulled a short, humorless laugh out of him. I risked everything, and this is what I get… floating in God-knows-where.
His amusement didn't last long. Reality—or whatever passed for it here—reminded him of the truth: he was dead, and he didn't know what was happening to him.
Then it came.
"Fool..."
The word slammed into his mind like a thunderclap.
It was a voice—but not a voice. It wasn't carried by sound. It wasn't bound by air or vibration. It echoed directly into his thoughts, bypassing every sense. It was ancient—older than mountains, older than the earth itself. Its tone was deep, resonant, and raw, as if each syllable cracked with the weight of a thousand storms. And though it was unfamiliar, there was something disturbingly familiar about it.
Orion understood the meaning behind it instantly, even though it wasn't in any language he knew.
His first reaction wasn't bravery or wit. It was fear.
"Who… who are you?" he demanded, his voice—if he even had one—trembling. "And what do you want with me?"
For a moment, silence pressed in around him like a suffocating blanket. Then—
Crackle.
Laughter.
But it was not the laughter of joy. It was the laughter of something that had seen too much, endured too much, and found bitter amusement in the folly of mortals.
"You have my shard."
Orion froze. Out of all the answers he'd expected—judgment, reincarnation, oblivion—that was not one of them.
"Your… shard?"
The image of the glowing crystal he had held just before death flashed in his mind. The Divine Shard. The reason his team had been slaughtered. The reason he had defied orders. The reason he had smashed it rather than let it fall into enemy hands.
The reason he had died.
"Wait," Orion said slowly, his scientist's curiosity clawing past his fear. "If this is the best time to ask questions before I… move on, then I need to know—how did I end up here? What is this place?"
The voice replied, each word heavy as if dragged from the depths of eternity.
"Like I said… you have my shard. Sigh… a mortal like you will not understand. But… listen. Listen well.We have no time. No… time."
The repetition wasn't just emphasis—it was desperation. The voice carried the weight of an endless struggle, as though its owner had been holding back something vast and terrible for longer than Orion could imagine.
And Orion—against all instinct—found himself listening intently.
Somewhere deep within, a realization stirred. This voice, this presence… whatever it was, it wasn't simply talking to him. It was reaching into him, brushing against his very essence, leaving behind a sensation he couldn't quite describe.
Like a stormcloud pressing against his soul.
Orion swallowed the fear and steeled himself. "Then speak. If you've dragged me here, if I have something that belongs to you, then tell me what it means. Tell me why I'm not just… gone."
The void seemed to grow colder, the darkness shifting around him as the voice gathered itself for what came next.
And for the first time since his death, Orion felt the faintest pull—like the world itself was leaning closer to hear.