The Eye of Death stayed open, as if someone had ripped the world inside out.
But the reverse side wasn't divine truth—it was a messy, ridiculous collage.
The first thing Ethan saw was a cascade of faces—faces he knew.A street insurance hawker.A laid-off man cursing the government all night.A student who had flunked exams.An old man too poor to afford a doctor.Each face screamed, each mouth spat different words, but together they merged into a cacophony so absurd it was both laughable and tragic:
"Don't die! Don't be poor! Don't lose face! Don't fail! Don't be forgotten!"
Ethan froze.He had thought the Void was some higher-dimensional entity, a dark god beyond comprehension. But what it revealed now was just a landfill of human fears—like Styrofoam piled in a junkyard, rubbing together, squeaking and bursting.
"…So you're born from us being scared?"Ethan couldn't help laughing, tears streaming from the Eye of Death as black ink.
The Void seemed to understand, answering with a thunderous roar—not majesty, but millions of complaints amplified to deafening volume."I can't make ends meet!""I don't want to go bald!""Why does my girlfriend like rich boys?!"A tidal wave of human fear swept across the underworld.
Black humor peaked here:All the Void's grand rituals and schemes were nothing but psychological trash heaps, stacked up until they took shape.The so-called god was just a swollen mass of collective "fear," bloated enough to swallow worlds.
Aileen staggered up beside Ethan, pale as chalk."What do you see?""The truth," Ethan said, his throat bitter with laughter. "The Void isn't a god. It's us—a horror movie written by humans, brought to life because the audience was too damn invested."
He looked at the ocean of terror and saw only a giant punchline:Fear of death created the Grim Reaper.Fear of poverty created a bottomless abyss.Fear of being forgotten created the devouring fog.Piece by piece, these fragments stitched together the monster—the Void.But the creature had no mind, only parroting human fears.
"Afraid of the dark! Afraid of ghosts! Afraid of exams! Afraid of humiliation! Afraid of loneliness!"The voices rose and fell like a stand-up comedy act where every audience member was screaming instead of laughing.
Ethan laughed so hard he nearly choked."So this is your god? Cooking meals out of human fear? My god, your cuisine is worse than a college cafeteria!"
The Eye of Death burned hotter, urging him to look deeper.He saw the cycle of fear:Children feared the dark—so darkness grew teeth.Adults feared unemployment—so cities became devouring beasts.The elderly feared loneliness—so graveyards swelled into the Void's roots.
This wasn't oppression from outside. It was offerings, freely given.
"So we're both farmers and livestock," Ethan muttered.
Then came a wild, absurd thought: if the Void was nothing but collective fear, could it be fought with laughter?Fear thrived on solemnity, on people taking it seriously. But what if everyone treated it like a joke?
He shouted:"Raise your hand if you're scared of death! Shout if you're scared of being broke! Count with me if you're scared of your wife—one, two, three!"
The battlefield spirits froze. Some even joined in, yelling "Three!"Then came an explosive, impossible laughter—sharp as blades.The Void trembled, like a bad clown caught fumbling its trick.
A thought flashed in Ethan's mind: this might be its weakness.
But then a cold whisper seeped from the Void's depths:"Rebel… don't think laughter erases fear. Fear is the cheapest, best-selling product of all. Humanity cannot discard it—they need it to remind themselves they're alive."
Black waves surged again, sharper than before, drowning out the laughter.
Ethan grinned bitterly.Yes. Fear was their inheritance. Exposing it didn't erase it.But at least now he knew—the Void wasn't supreme. It was a pathetic collection, a joke writ large.
And jokes—could be rewritten.