Death was not the end—but a queue of fate.
And at the very front of that eternal procession stood a boy.
Unnamed.
Eyes wide, not with fear, but curiosity.
Between stars long forgotten, a void pulsed—an Axis Sanctum untouched by mortals. From the outside, it resembled a concave sphere of opposing forces, split down the middle like two battling gods locked in stillness. One half blazed with divine essence; the other, seethed with infernal shadow. Power radiated from both, unmeasured and absolute.
Within this sanctum lay two kingdoms: one of eternal life, the other of eternal death. Here, judgment was held. Fates, delivered.
A road of souls stretched across the sanctum's heart—gaseous yet solid, a bridge between destinies. Step by step, they marched in solemn cadence. Time didn't flow here, but still, the line moved—one soul every minute.
At the road's end stood the Table of Fate—three feet tall, sixty centimeters wide. Modest in shape. Infinite in significance. No soul, not even the holiest saint or the vilest tyrant, could bypass it.
At its center rested a massive book—larger than any earthly tome. Its pages shimmered with sacred ink: blue for virtue, red for sacrifice, black for sin. Each name, each deed, marked with unerring precision.
To the right of the table, a golden road ascended toward a radiant gate—not forged, but alive. Pure harmony breathed through its frame. It sang serenity.
To the left, a grim path of scorched bones and drifting soot led to a gate of eternal flame. Beside it stood a figure forged of molten rock and blackened steel, with jagged stumps where wings might have grown. Fire pulsed in its veins. Souls met it with terror… or longing.
Some walked into Hell like returning home. Others believed they'd fooled the system. Most trembled, weeping:
"Had I known…"
At the Table of Fate sat two beings—modest chairs beneath them, but their presence made them thrones.
On the right, the Archangel: luminous, serene, absolute. Justice and mercy in perfect balance.
On the left, the Archdemon: regal, oppressive, enthroned in shadow. Pride and ruin etched in every breath.
They judged together—never speaking to each other, but eternally aligned in duty.
Another soul knelt now before them, ten feet from the boy. She pleaded. Sobbed. Answered truths not asked aloud.
But forgiveness had no currency here. Only truth.
The Archdemon pointed without emotion.
"Gate of Envy."
The flaming gate opened. The soul staggered forward, limbs failing under the weight of finality.
The boy stepped up.
Lean. Fragile. Bones poking beneath broken skin. His presence was quiet—but not submissive. He didn't kneel. He looked around, blinking.
Then he muttered, "So… immortals don't get hungry, huh?"
He hadn't cried. Not at death. Not now.
He had no name. No past of note.
Born orphaned—father dead the day of conception, mother gone at birth.
By age three, his adoptive parents accused him of stealing a debit card. He didn't even know what one was.
Thrown out. Survived by begging. Then errands. Then obscurity.
Died in a cold alley. No one noticed. No one mourned.
Now, he stood here—before gods.
Unfazed.
The Archangel and Archdemon regarded him. Their eyes searched for a name. A record.
Nothing.
The book fluttered, searching… then stopped.
Blank.
No ink. No virtue. No sin. No misdeeds. No kindness. Just… absence.
Only two faint names hovered at the top: those of his parents.
The divine pair exchanged a look. Surprise. The first emotion they'd shown.
Michael—the Archangel—rose.
His voice rang clear, a calm storm of truth and fire.
"Souls without names or records are usually stillborn… or children taken too soon. They are reborn elsewhere.
But you... you belong to no path. Neither womb nor gate."
The boy looked down. The smoke-white floor rippled slightly beneath his bare feet.
The Archangel continued:
"Though we are of opposite realms, our judgments are unified. But your existence… defies classification."
Then the Archdemon stood—Lucifer, his chaotic presence shifting the very air. His voice, though rich in darkness, was oddly composed.
"A trial awaits you. In Purgatory.
Not to atone. But to prove.
Your fate will be yours to carve—if you survive."
The boy blinked. Then... he smiled.
A trial for him? A nobody?
Something stirred.
Not fear.
Purpose.
Michael raised his staff. Lucifer did the same. Together, they struck the ground. Light and shadow fused into a swirling vortex. The boundary between them bloomed into a great door—neither holy nor damned.
Above it: The Veil.
Above Michael: Michael, Guide of Souls, Terror of Demons.
Above Lucifer: Lucifer, Prince of Pride, Enemy of Light.
Michael stepped forward. With one hand, he touched the boy's chest—marking it with divine light.
Lucifer followed. His mark flared in infernal red.
Their voices rang out—one voice, two powers.
"You are Micafer.
Child of the Veil.
Born of neither light nor shadow. A creation of both."
The door groaned open—dark, vast, unknown.
Michael's tone hardened.
"This world isn't yours alone. The moment you enter, your trial begins."
Then, almost as an afterthought:
"Don't die on me."
Micafer took a breath. Something flared on his chest—white and red, colliding in a radiant spiral.
He stepped forward.
Not as a hungry outcast.
But as something more.
And so, he entered the Veil—
Eyes forward.
Back straight.
Ready.