"How did I come here?" Zerath muttered under his breath, his voice echoing faintly in the vast emptiness around him.
His gaze slowly lifted, and before him stood an old man with hair as white as snow and a long flowing beard that reached his chest. Draped in a robe of pure white, embroidered with faint golden threads that shimmered under the divine light, the man radiated an aura that seemed to press down on Zerath's soul. A golden halo hovered gently above his head, its glow neither blinding nor dim, but rather carrying the weight of eternity itself.
The old man sighed softly, his steps measured as he descended the marble stairs that led down into the center of the colossal white hall. Each step echoed like the toll of a divine bell, resonating with an ancient authority. At last, he came to stand directly before Zerath, his eyes filled with a mixture of curiosity and compassion.
"I am wondering the same thing," the old man said, his voice deep yet harmonious, as if it bypassed the ears and struck directly at the core of Zerath's being. "How did you get here?"
"I… don't know," Zerath replied, his brows furrowing. "Well, I was fighting the Heavenly Church members and then—" His words broke off suddenly. His pupils dilated as a flood of confusion overtook him. He tried to recall the final moment, the clash of blades, the burst of holy light, but his memory dissolved into nothingness like smoke slipping through his fingers. "I… I don't remember what happened after that," he whispered, his voice low and uncertain.
The old man's expression softened as he released another weary sigh. "Looks like those Heavenly Church members ended your life," he said, his tone calm yet laced with a trace of sorrow. "And instead of your soul being carried to the Judgement Realm, it somehow slipped through the cracks… and arrived here."
For a moment, silence stretched across the grand hall. Zerath stood motionless, his posture rigid but his expression unnervingly calm. Not a flicker of fear or panic crossed his face, not even the slightest twitch of resistance.
The old man tilted his head slightly, studying him. Strange… he thought. Normally, humans tremble and despair upon hearing of their death. Yet this one stands still, his eyes unwavering. He is different.
Breaking through the quiet, Zerath's voice rang out, firm yet curious. "What is this place?"
The old man's lips curled into a faint smile. "This is God's Domain," he said slowly, lifting his hands slightly as though presenting the endless expanse around them. "And this place… belongs to me."
"God's Domain…" Zerath repeated, his eyes narrowing. His gaze locked onto the old man, sharp and unyielding. "Does that mean… you are a God?" His brows furrowed, his voice carrying both suspicion and reluctant awe.
The old man smiled, his golden halo pulsing faintly as if affirming his words. "I am not a God," he corrected gently. "I am the God. The only one."
Zerath tilted his head slightly, his curiosity refusing to wane. "Then… what's your name?"
"Eryon." The old man's lips curved into a serene smile. He could sense that the young man before him was not masking his emotions—his composure was genuine, his calmness authentic. Eryon found himself intrigued, his ancient heart stirred by this unusual soul.
"Sir Eryon," Zerath said after taking in a deep breath, his tone steady.
Eryon raised his brows slightly. "Say it."
"What now?" Zerath asked, his face showing a flicker of confusion.
"Now," Eryon began, his voice solemn, "I must send you back to the Judgement Realm. There, your actions will be weighed and measured. You will be judged for the deeds of your previous life, and then cast into either Hell or Heaven, as destiny decides."
Zerath lowered his head slightly, silent for a few moments. Then he gave a small nod, as if accepting something he had already expected. "Alright," he said simply.
Eryon studied him carefully, his curiosity growing sharper. No resistance. No begging. No fear of judgement. What kind of life has this one lived to face death so calmly?
"Hmm…" Eryon mused aloud, his eyes glowing faintly as he peered deeper into the fragments of Zerath's soul. "I see… your actions, your choices. You lean heavily toward the darker side of balance. There is a high probability you will be sent to Hell."
Zerath lifted his head, meeting the divine gaze without flinching. His lips curved into the faintest of smirks, though his eyes remained cold. "It's fine," he said quietly. "I've always believed suffering doesn't end even after death. Whether it's life or the afterlife… pain is eternal."
He took a single step back, his presence strangely resolute, as if even Hell itself could not shake his conviction.
Eryon smirked faintly, his golden halo shimmering like a quiet flame. "That's right," he said, his voice carrying the weight of ages. "Suffering is eternal. This entire universe is founded upon it. Those who do not suffer… remain stagnant, unchanged, forever bound to mediocrity." His eyes flickered as though gazing far beyond the present moment, seeing countless lives rise and fall through endless cycles of pain.
Zerath tilted his head slightly, his expression calm yet thoughtful. "Why did you make the world like this?" he asked, genuine curiosity lacing his tone.
Eryon chuckled softly, not out of mockery but as though amused at the sharpness of the question. He gave a slow nod. "You ask good questions. And your consciousness… it is mild, unshaken. I have never encountered a soul like yours." He began pacing around Zerath, his robe flowing gently behind him, every step echoing across the vast white hall. "But to answer your question…" He stopped suddenly and turned his eyes back to Zerath. "I didn't."
Zerath's gaze deepened.
"I didn't create this world," Eryon continued, his voice low yet firm. "Nor do I possess the authority to destroy it. I am not the maker, Zerath. I am merely the operator, the caretaker who ensures the cycle continues."
Zerath's brows furrowed. He looked into Eryon's ancient eyes, searching for any trace of deceit. After a long pause, he spoke again, his tone steady. "Then who created this world?"
Eryon's lips curled into a mysterious smile. "I don't know." With a sudden flicker, his figure blurred and then reappeared directly before Zerath, as if the distance between them had never existed. His hand rose, and he gently patted Zerath on the head like one would to a curious child. "I don't know who created this existence… or why it was made. That being lived before time itself began. But what I do know is that this creator—whoever or whatever it was—divided all things into good and bad, light and darkness. And you…" His smile sharpened slightly. "You lean toward the darker side."
For the first time since arriving, a faint smile touched Zerath's lips. It wasn't forced, nor arrogant, but genuine, almost amused. "You said you are the God," he said calmly. "And now you're telling me there may have been another before you. Perhaps even others still."
Eryon chuckled, his laugh reverberating across the hall like a rolling tide. "You're sharp, Zerath. Yes, you're correct… but not entirely." His eyes dimmed with an old sadness. "The one who created this… thing… may no longer exist. I have never seen anyone, not since the first flicker of time itself. For all I know, I may be the last remnant of a divine order that no longer exists."
Zerath stared into his eyes, silent for a long while. The truth—or perhaps the lack of it—didn't disturb him. Instead, he nodded once. "Alright. Send me to the Judgement Realm."
Eryon studied him carefully, his gaze warm yet calculating. Then, unexpectedly, a gentle smile crept onto his face. "You know," he said softly, "I've changed my mind. I won't send you there."
Zerath blinked, his calm expression faltering slightly. "What do you mean?"
"I'm going to send you somewhere else," Eryon said, his voice carrying an edge of intrigue.
"A different place?" Zerath asked, his brows furrowed.
"Yes," Eryon nodded, his halo glowing brighter for a moment. "A place even I do not control. It was not shaped by my hands, but by the will of the creator itself. Only souls who have crossed their moral limits ever end up there."
Zerath's eyes narrowed. "Crossed… moral limits? What do you mean?"
Eryon's smile turned strange, almost playful, yet his words were heavy. "When a soul becomes either too virtuous… or too corrupt… when their essence grows so extreme that neither Heaven nor Hell can contain them, they are cast into that place. It is a crucible. A realm where one is given the chance to ascend toward godhood itself—if they truly strive for it."
"Godhood?" Zerath repeated, his voice quiet yet edged with curiosity. His eyes locked on Eryon, unyielding. "You said you are the only God. How could anyone else ascend to such a position?"
Eryon threw back his head and laughed, the sound echoing like a storm across the vast hall. "Excellent. I expected that question from you." His eyes gleamed with amusement. "Yes, I am the only God now. But that doesn't mean the seat cannot be claimed. If one were to take my place, they would become the next God. Of course…" He smirked. "No one has managed to kill me since the dawn of existence."
He leaned closer, his voice lowering, almost conspiratorial. "But… one can also become something less, yet still powerful—a demigod. Such beings stand just below me. They wield great strength and enjoy all the privileges of divinity… but without the burden of carrying the eternal responsibilities I shoulder."
Zerath remained still, his calmness unshaken. Yet deep within his eyes, for the first time, a spark flickered—interest.