Darkness was not like what humans imagined when they switched off the lights.
It was more like a viscous liquid, slowly seeping into Ethan's consciousness, pushing him toward a bottomless abyss.
When his heartbeat stopped, he thought he would feel nothing at all—but in the void, his senses were unusually sharp. The air seemed to freeze, and a low, droning hum filled his ears, like someone far away constantly striking an ancient bronze bell.
"Wow…" Ethan muttered weakly, unsure if the words came from his throat or just echoed in his mind. "I didn't expect to die and still get surround-sound BGM."
He tried to raise his hand, only to find that his body no longer belonged to him. His limbs were ethereal and translucent, like shadows diluted in ink, swaying slightly with the undulations of darkness.
In this boundless sea of shadow, the only visible thing was a faint streak of light beneath his feet. It was not bright; instead, it carried a sickly pallor, like moonlight glinting on ice—so cold it made his scalp tingle.
Ethan hesitated, then moved his "body." Each step caused ripples to spread across the ground, as if this darkness were a pool of water and he an unwelcome intruder.
"What is this? Heaven's security checkpoint, or Hell's VIP red carpet?"
He couldn't help teasing, but the sound was swallowed by the darkness, leaving no echo.
As he pressed forward, vague shapes gradually emerged in the distance. They looked like shadows, yet were stranger—tall, twisted, as if invisible hands had stretched them, their limbs completely out of human proportion. Each figure wore a mask: some like crying children, some like indifferent elders, and some simply blank, without features.
Ethan's throat tightened.
He had never feared ghosts, but these things made his first instinct clear—turn back, or keep moving, lest these "orphans of a masquerade" drag him into the abyss.
"Should've known better than to agree to that drink," he sighed. Though a complaint, his voice carried a trace of belated regret.
At that moment, the shadows all bowed simultaneously, as if welcoming some approaching presence. The air grew heavy, and a chill slid up Ethan's spine, making his hairs stand on end.
The darkness ahead silently split open.
It wasn't light—but an even denser black. Countless eyes swirled within, varying in size and blink rate. They had no whites, only grayish pupils, fixed on Ethan like countless icy daggers piercing his mind.
A primal fear gripped him.
Yet, oddly, it sparked a strange smile at the corner of his mouth.
"Heh… so the death realm's welcome ceremony is just hundreds of eyeballs staring? Seriously, could we get a less… perverted opening next time?"
The eyes seemed to understand, or perhaps they didn't care at all. From deep within the darkness came dragging footsteps, each step twisting the space around it.
Finally, a figure emerged.
It wore an ancient black robe, the hood concealing its face, leaving only the cold outline of a chin visible. In its hand hung a lantern—not a flame, but a small, constantly shifting white mist, sometimes forming a bird, sometimes a human, then fracturing into countless screaming whispers.
Ethan instinctively knew the lantern held a soul.
"Ethan Veil," a low, hoarse voice rasped, as if squeezed from stone crevices.
Ethan froze.
"Oh, you know me? So high-end, the death realm even has a guest list?"
The figure gave no reply, simply lifting the lantern. Its light cast over Ethan's soul, and he instantly felt a bone-chilling force surge through him, threatening to tear him apart and then reassemble him.
He tried to resist, but his hands would not rise, and he could only allow the force to pour in.
Suddenly, countless whispers filled his ears. Layered together, they surged toward his brain like a tidal wave.
There was crying, cursing, praying, and deranged laughter.
Amid this chaotic noise, a single word emerged clearly:
—"Nightmare."
Ethan's eyes widened.
His soul was utterly consumed, plunging further into an even deeper, bottomless darkness.