⟨Teleporting to meet the Sentient⟩
⟨Teleportation succeeded⟩
Before I could process anything, the world twisted once again.
That same feeling returned—the unbearable soreness, like my nerves were being wrung out and reshaped.
An ache not just in my body, but in something deeper. Like my existence itself was being dragged across a bed of nails.
I didn't even have the time to scream or resist before everything shifted.
And when it did…
Darkness.
Nothing but it.
No floor. No sky. No walls. No light source.
Just a pitch-black void that stretched on forever in all directions. A suffocating silence settled over me.
'Where am I now?'
Then, without any warning—
Snap.
The sound cracked through the void like thunder in a vacuum.
A single round table emerged in front of me. Elegant. Ornate. Out of place in this endless nothing.
And seated across it was a man.
No, not just a man.
Someone whose face was completely obscured—as if reality itself refused to render it.
He wore a crisp, black tuxedo, perfectly fitted and untouched by the void around him. His presence bent the space just by existing.
I glanced down instinctively—to find there was nothing there.
No hands.
No legs.
No body.
Just… me. A floating consciousness.
It was a strange realization. I felt myself "sitting" across from him, mirroring his posture, but I lacked any physical form.
And then, he spoke.
"You seem perplexed," he said, his tone smooth, eerily calm. "I guess that much is normal."
His words echoed with clarity—perfect English. No accent. No dialect issues like before.
'This guy… he knows about me.'
That much was obvious. His casual tone, the fluency of his speech—it wasn't coincidence.
Either he already understood my language… or he read my mind the moment I got here.
Both were unsettling.
But I chose to go with the former. It gave me a fragile illusion of control.
I took a figurative breath, steadying myself, and replied, "Why am I here?"
He let out a soft laugh, almost amused. "Quite the choice of words. Usually, people ask who I am, or what this place is, or even what they are."
I smiled faintly—polite, measured. "I guess I'm different."
"Oh, you sure are," he said with a chuckle, voice like a ripple in still water. "And to answer your question… I just wanted to have a chat with you."
My nonexistent brow would've furrowed if it could. "A chat? About what, exactly?"
He tilted his head, as if weighing the words. "We'll get to the part where I tell you everything you need to know… in due time. But before that, how about a bit of a casual conversation? A warm-up, so to speak."
I didn't know who—or what—this being truly was. But one thing I knew? Panic was the worst choice here.
Losing my cool could mean losing more than just this "chat." So, I kept my tone level and nodded politely.
"As you wish."
He leaned forward slightly, resting his chin on his clasped hands. Even though I couldn't see his eyes, I felt them drilling into me.
"Tell me," he said slowly, voice dipped in something strange—curiosity? Sadism? A test?
"Which fate would you prefer? One in which you save yourself and others—but lose someone precious to you. Or a fate where you save that precious someone—and the world—but at the cost of yourself?"
The question echoed.
Odd. Heavy. Loaded.
It wasn't just hypothetical. I could feel it in his tone—this question mattered.
Because it wasn't simple.
The obvious answer—the one drilled into you by every story, every movie—was to sacrifice yourself. Be the hero. Save the ones you love. Die smiling.
But life wasn't a fairy tale.
People didn't just move on because they were saved.
Some people couldn't bear the weight of loss. Some broke from it. Suppose I sacrificed myself, and the person I saved—the precious someone—ended up ending their life because I was gone?
Then what?
All that sacrifice would be meaningless. The world would be intact, sure—but hollow, for them. Just a cage of memories and grief.
I sat there silently, my thoughts swirling like a storm in the dark.
This wasn't a choice with a clean answer.
I said it bluntly, without a hint of hesitation. "Depends on that precious someone. On how they'd take my loss."
The man didn't even pause. His response was immediate, sharp. "What if they kill themselves because of your demise?"
I didn't flinch. Didn't blink.
"Then fuck the world," I said.
He laughed.
Loud and full-bodied, like a thunderclap in the void. But strangely enough, there was nothing malicious in it.
No mockery. Just pure amusement—like he'd genuinely enjoyed my answer.
It was the kind of laugh that echoed endlessly, reverberating through the emptiness around us.
When the laughter finally died down, he wiped away an invisible tear from his hidden face and leaned back.
"Good," he said. "Very good."
Then he straightened again, his tone shifting ever so slightly. "Now… you get to ask a question."
I didn't even need to think.
My mind was already there—sharpened to a point.
"Were you the one who killed me?"
The change was instant.
His relaxed posture vanished. The easy smile faded. He straightened in his seat like a puppet pulled taut by invisible strings. And from his form… something heavy began to radiate.
A suffocating pressure. Dense. Cold. Ancient.
It wasn't just intimidation—it was the sense that I was now in the presence of something incomprehensibly powerful.
A being that could erase me with a flick of its fingers.
Then, in a voice that was barely a whisper—yet deeper than the ocean—he replied.
"What if I did?"
Just four words.
But it was enough to turn the air heavy and poisonous, even if I didn't have lungs to breathe it in.
Somehow, that one question didn't feel rhetorical. It felt like judgment.
As if I was standing at a divine tribunal, and the wrong answer would mean total annihilation.
My entire essence tensed.
Even without a body, I could feel my soul grit its teeth.
And I answered. Quietly, steadily.
"Then I'd ask the question… why?"
The weight in the void shifted.
It felt like he was staring into me—through me—with eyes I couldn't see.
But then, just like that, it was gone.
The pressure lifted.
His posture relaxed once more, and the suffocating atmosphere dissolved as if it had never been there.
He let out a hum of approval. "Then I would tell you truthfully."
I leaned in, or tried to. "Then do it."
But he only chuckled. The playfulness returned.
"Nope. It's my turn to question."
'Son of a—'
He raised a single gloved finger to where his lips should be.
"Shhh. No bad words."
My thoughts immediately screeched to a halt. He could hear me.
'He can mind-read,' I thought, dryly. 'Wow. What a surprise.'
Honestly, I don't know why I was even shocked at this point. Nothing about today—no, this entire experience—had been remotely normal.
But still, something inside me clicked. Tightened.
Because no matter what he said—or how calm he acted—I knew.
This man, or being, or whatever he truly was…
He had killed me.
There was no proof. No confirmation. No confession.
But every instinct I had screamed the same thing. It wasn't a gut feeling—it was certainty.
Without a sliver of doubt I could say that this man in front of me was the reason for my demise.