The underworld was not silent.
It breathed.
Every stone in that endless cavern seemed alive with the whispers of the damned, every shadow crawling with the restless movements of souls who had not yet learned how to stay still. Flames did not burn here the way they did in the mortal world; they smoldered low and cold, painting the walls in colors that were neither red nor orange, but some strange hue that belonged only to death.
In the middle of that cavern stood a single man.
He was bound in chains of black iron, the links glowing faintly with runes that shimmered like dying stars. His wrists were raw, his ankles bruised. Once, he had been a man of flesh, of voice, of laughter, of sin. Now he was little more than a soul clinging stubbornly to its form, shaped by memory and guilt.
The other souls did not gather close. They recoiled from him, as if even in death his presence was poisonous. He had been cursed by those who had known him in life, condemned not only by the gods but by the very people he had once lived among. He carried their hatred in his very essence, like a shadow stitched into his being.
And before him sat the Lord of the Underworld.
Upon a throne carved from obsidian that drank the light around it, the Lord reclined with the stillness of eternity. His face was hidden behind a mask that seemed to shift each time the man tried to focus on it—sometimes young, sometimes ancient, sometimes skull-like. His eyes, however, were constant: pale flames that saw everything and pitied nothing.
The hall was vast, guarded by towering sentinels in armor forged from darkness itself. Each carried a spear taller than a mortal house, the tips dripping with venom that hissed as it touched the floor.
The Lord spoke. His voice was not a sound but a resonance that trembled through the marrow of the soul.
"Your punishment is complete."
The chained man raised his head slowly. For countless ages he had heard only curses, only screams, only silence. Now, to hear those words… his lips twisted, and to the surprise of all who watched, he smiled.
The Lord's gaze burned through him.
"Your sins have been weighed, and their debt has been paid in full. Where do you wish to be reborn?"
The cavern stirred. The lesser souls whispered among themselves. None expected mercy, not for him. The guards shifted but said nothing.
The man laughed softly, though his voice cracked from the dryness of endless years. He straightened as much as his chains would allow. His eyes, dull yet still carrying the spark of defiance, met the Lord's.
"Reborn?" he said. "After all I have endured, after all they spat upon me, cursed me, hated me… You would give me life again?"
"Such is the law," the Lord replied. "Even the greatest sinner finds an end to torment. Speak, and the gate shall open."
For a moment, silence held. The man closed his eyes, and in that darkness he remembered faces—faces twisted in rage, faces spitting hatred, faces that once loved him but had learned to loathe him. He remembered the betrayal, the crimes, the blood. He remembered the weight of being despised by every voice that had once spoken his name.
And yet he smiled again, a bitter, broken smile.
When he opened his eyes, there was no plea, no gratitude. Only resolve.
"Send me to a world," he said slowly, his words echoing across the cavern, "where I cannot see you."
The Lord of the Underworld leaned forward slightly upon his throne. His eyes flared. For a long moment he said nothing. The hall itself seemed to still, as though the stones and shadows awaited judgment.
Then, with a voice that carried finality, the Lord answered:
"So be it."
He raised his hand.
The guards moved at once, their spears striking the floor in unison. The sound was like thunder in a stormless sky. The runes upon the man's chains flared, then shattered into sparks that dissolved into nothingness. He staggered forward, free for the first time since his death.
The ground beneath the throne trembled, and from the depths of the cavern a vast gate began to rise. Taller than mountains, its surface shimmered with light that did not belong in the underworld. Symbols older than creation burned upon it, each one a promise and a curse. Beyond the gate, no soul could see clearly—there was only a veil of brightness, a horizon that promised rebirth.
The Lord gestured to his guards.
"Take him. Let him pass."
Two of the towering sentinels stepped forward, their footsteps cracking the stone beneath them. They seized the man by his arms—not roughly, but with the inevitability of destiny—and began to lead him toward the shining threshold.
The man did not resist. He walked with them, smiling still, though his smile was neither joy nor triumph. It was something deeper, stranger—a smile born of a soul who had lost everything and yet clung to a final choice.
As he neared the gate, the air grew warmer, brighter. For the first time in uncounted ages, he felt something that was not shadow, not cold, not despair. He felt the edge of possibility.
The Lord of the Underworld watched silently from his throne. His voice followed, calm and absolute:
"You wished for a world where my eyes cannot reach. You shall have it. Step through, sinner reborn, and be forgotten from these halls."
The man tilted his head back one last time, casting his gaze toward the throne. His smile widened, but he spoke no further words.
The gate's light surged, swallowing his figure as the guards released him at its edge.
And then, with a sound like the sigh of a dying star, the man crossed the threshold—
and was gone.