An endless stretch of souls marched forward in solemn cadence—each step measured, each pause a beat within the rhythm of eternity. They moved in strict alignment, advancing about once every minute. Silence was their only companion.
At the forefront stood a peculiar table—three feet tall and sixty centimeters wide—positioned at the terminal end of the parade of the dead. It was no ordinary table, but the Table of Fate: the final destination of all souls, from saint to sinner, with no detours nor escapes.
At its exact center rested a massive book, reminiscent in size of a lexicon of biological sciences, if not slightly larger. Its pages were not crafted from earthly pulp, but from a divine medium no mortal hand could replicate. The script upon them shimmered with sacred authority—written in radiant blue, solemn red, and deep black inks. Each page bore a name, marked with a tab like an eternal bookmark.
Flanking the table were two diverging paths. On the right, a narrow, luminous road paved in gold and silver led toward a magnificent gate. Its structure was ethereal, crafted not from metal or any periodic element, but from something pure and living. It radiated harmony—a visual hymn of serenity.
To the left lay a dreadful route of bones and blackened ash. Skeletal remains paved the path, and the air danced with slow-moving particles of soot. This road led to a gate of solid, unnatural flame. Beside it stood an abominable figure—part molten rock, part blackened steel, its body veined with liquid fire. From its back protruded two jagged bone-like stumps, remnants of wings never granted. Conscious and proud, it welcomed souls either by terror or desire.
Some souls approached Hell's gate as if returning home. Others walked in with delusional confidence. Most trembled, broken by regret.
In front of the Table of Fate sat two beings on modest chairs—thrones in nature, though not in appearance. On the right, a radiant Archangel, his presence a symphony of light. On the left, a regal Archdemon, exuding gravity and darkness. Their auras clashed but never touched, divided by a narrow line of absolute tension. They judged souls in tandem—reviewing lives, casting verdicts, sending each to the gate they had earned.
The Archdemon seemed pleased with the frequency of souls sent his way. The Archangel, however, bore no expression. Their features surpassed all other beings present—divine and terrifying.
The process resembled confession. What was said between the soul and the divine duo remained a sacred secret. None knew their final fate until the judgment was spoken.
A soul knelt now before the table—ten feet away from the end of the line—pleading for mercy, sobbing, answering unasked questions. But in this realm, forgiveness was no longer currency.
The next in line was a boy—young, lean, almost skeletal. He stood lazily, picking his nose, unfazed by the grandeur or dread around him. His thoughts were shallow but oddly sharp.
"So… souls don't get hungry, huh?"
He came from no clear status—not rich, not poor, not average. Forgotten from birth. His father died the day he was conceived, struck by a speeding truck. His mother passed the moment he was born. Orphaned before he took his first breath.
At three, falsely accused of stealing a high-value debit card, something he had no idea on how to use, yet he was thrown into the streets.
He survived by begging, then running errands for the wealthy. His innocent face won him scraps. As he aged, he lost even that edge. Eventually, he died unnoticed in a cold alley—just another forgotten corpse.
"Next!"
The Archdemon's voice boomed.
With a lazy gesture, he pointed toward the Gate of Hell. The condemned soul rose, trembling, and began a sluggish walk toward damnation.
That gate operated in layers—each level a worsening descent:
The Gate of Regret – For liars, gluttons, the lustful and greedy. Burned by their own vices.
The Gate of Indolence – For those who wasted their potential, who chose inaction. Torn apart endlessly for their complacency.
The Gate of Envy – For the jealous, the resentful. Cursed with eternal longing and never-ending absence.
The Gate of Ruin – For the violent and vengeful. Souls thrown into a lake of fire to die spiritually—repeatedly.
The Final Gate – The culmination of all evil. Reserved for traitors, blasphemers, murderers, and the prideful. Their agony is eternal, their souls shattered or consumed.
This condemned soul was assigned to the Gate of Envy—the third layer.
"Huh. Enjoy the rest of your life," muttered the boy.
He stepped forward, still picking at his nose, unbothered. To him, Hell was simply a continuation of the life he already knew. Heaven, he imagined, would've been boring anyway. He scanned the area—no sign of a middle path, only this damned table between two extremes.
Still, he approached with no fear—more curious than concerned.
The divine pair regarded him with piercing stares. Oddly, no name was found for him in the Book of Fate. That was rare. But name or not, everyone had a record.
The book stirred. Its pages flipped like leaves in a storm, searching for his entry… and then stopped.
Blank.
No blue ink. No red. Just a faint black marking at the top: the names of his parents.
This was unprecedented. No deeds. No sins. No virtues. An empty life—yet not without pain, not without struggle. He had not sinned, not lied, coveted nothing. Never harmed. He was invisible, even to sin.
The divine beings exchanged a look.
They could not simply assign him any fate—no gate will accept him,
The Archangel stood. His voice was calm, but divine.
"Souls with no names and no records are usually stillborn or those who die too young. They are reborn into higher realms. But you… you do not belong to any path, neither womb nor gate."
The Archdemon rose, his tone far less chaotic than before.
"A trial will be created for you. A world shaped by both our powers. If you survive it's test, you shall earn a divine name and another chance at life. But beware—you will become mortal again. And in this trial… you can die."
For the first time, the boy's face changed—eyes widening with a hint of excitement. Inside him taught grew,
A trial personally for me—a nobody?
He stepped back as instructed.
The two beings raised their hands—Michael with his right, Lucifer with his left. Twin staffs appeared in their grasp. Together, they pressed them into the ground. A surge of sacred power erupted, more than aura—something fundamental to existence.
The line between them thickened, splitting into a vast door of swirling black and white. It shimmered. Above it, a title appeared:
The Veil
Above the Archangel's head: Michael, the Guide of Souls, Terror of Demons.
Above the Archdemon's head: Lucifer, Prince of Pride, Enemy of Light.
Michael gave the final command.
"This world is yours alone. Your trial begins the moment you enter. None can tell what you should prepare for,"
then added with dry disdain,
"Don't die on me."
He stepped forward and marked the boy's chest with a divine symbol—visible only to spirits. Lucifer followed, marking the opposite side. Together, their voices rang with celestial authority:
"You are Micafer—Child of the Veil. Born of light and darkness. A creation of chaos and harmony."
A new name. A new fate. A new world.
"Go, my son. Go!" they thundered.
The door opened. Micafer's chest glowed—white and red flaring from each side. He stepped forward, a chill crawling down his spine.
A trial just for me. A path made for me. A world waiting for me...
For the first time in his life—or afterlife—he felt something powerful:
Purpose.
And with that, he walked into the unknown.
"For better… or worse."