The Second Trial
"Why do you seem so lost?" A voice.
It was the Keeper—the very first time I saw him.
My figure was bound, as always. I could only look at him, but I said nothing.
"You have accrued quite the karmic debt. Do you know what this means?" it asked.
I remained silent. The memories burned. I had become a monster. I killed my only friend and love with my own stupidity. All I wanted was one thing—just one.
"Kill me," I mumbled.
"Hmm?"
The Keeper stared intently at my soul.
"Your past is your past. It isn't the end—"
"JUST FUCKING DO IT! I SAID… DO IT!" I yelled. I had lost the will to live. I wanted nothing. I couldn't live with the memory. I wouldn't be able to sleep. I'd lose it every single time and eventually…
Do something I'd regret.
But I don't regret killing those bastards.
Not one bit.
The Keeper stared at me.
Amused.
"I cannot do that," it said.
"Useless," I spat—and then I felt it. Pressure.
"Do you know you stand before a god?"
"Fuck you. God, my ass. Kill me if you're really a god. Erase me."
"Fine… I will grant you that. But on one condition."
"Condition?"
"I will reincarnate you through the devices of fate. All you have to do is die a horrible death."
"More horrible than what I just experienced?" I scoffed.
"Pathetic. A pathetic death."
I understood.
"No."
"Just once. Or do you wish to pass through the circle of reincarnation and live as you were meant to?"
I pondered. "Why am I doing this?"
"Entertain me. And I will grant your wish."
...
...
"How did a one-time thing turn into countless lifetimes of torment?" I muttered.
I wasn't supposed to be clearing any karmic debt.
Bastard brainwashed me.
Sigh.
Creak.
The door.
I turned—and then…
The figure again.
It came out, neck bandaged tightly. Bleeding black blood, but bandaged nonetheless.
"It's time you die," he said.
A knife.
Guy had a knack for finding weapons. Probably raided the school cafeteria or kitchen.
Whatever.
I cracked my neck left and right.
"Come at me, you bastard," I said—and he did.
A knife swung at me. I stepped back, feeling the sharp edge slice through the air. Then I moved—lifetimes of combat instinct triggered in a single moment. My arms shot out. I grabbed his knife-hand, twisted it, and slammed my elbow into his face.
"Argh!" he grunted—but I didn't stop. I twisted his wrist, forcing the knife loose.
"DAMN YOU!" he roared, landing a knee in my gut.
The knife had already dropped. I couldn't reach it, so I ducked and spun, sweeping his feet out from under him. My heel knocked the weapon far from his reach.
"Tch." He clicked his tongue, spat something black—but when it hit the floor, it turned to blood.
"Hmm."
He took a stance—boxing-like. I rushed. He jabbed. I caught his hand and drove my knee into his abdomen.
"Argh!" he groaned.
I grabbed the back of his neck and brought his face down on my knee.
"Ugh!"
Black ooze poured from his nose. It turned red as it touched the floor.
"Alright, come," he said, serious now.
I didn't.
Fuck you.
I pivoted—he noticed. I was heading for the knife. I needed to end this.
"No, you don't!"
"ARGH!"
Pain.
I made a mistake. I underestimated him. Again.
My shoulder.
Another knife.
He had another one.
Damn it.
I yanked it out.
"FUCK!" I screamed. More pain than expected.
BAM!
A running knee to my face. I staggered—but I didn't fall. I grabbed his knee and kicked his other leg out from under him. He lost balance and collapsed.
I stabbed the knife through his knee.
"ARGHH!" he roared.
I raised the knife to end it—but he grabbed my wrist.
I pushed. He resisted.
"WHY WON'T YOU FUCKING DIE, YOU SHADOWY BASTARD?!"
He yelled.
Wait.
What?
BAM!
OH FOR FUCK'S SAKE!
ANOTHER KICK TO THE GROIN?! WHAT'S THIS BASTARD'S DEAL WITH MY LIL' BRO?!
"DAMN IT! GAY ASS BASTARD!" I roared. He was already crawling away, catching his breath.
He grabbed another knife. I saw it this time. Hidden in his waistband.
How the hell did he not slice his balls off carrying that many blades?
"This ends now," he said.
"Wait!" I shouted.
"What?!"
"You called me a shadow, right?"
"...Yeah. Because that's what you are."
"But that's what I see you as—a shadow in human form."
CRASH!
The knife.
"What?!" he gasped. "But… the system says you are—"
"—the one who forgot," I finished.
And in that instant—it all made sense.
The one who forgot.
I forgot.
I am the one who forgot.
Suddenly, I remembered the system's note:
[Note: Once YOU die, your soul will be stuck in eternal limbo forever, as the one you fight is...]
It emphasized YOU.
It was trying to tell me something.
The torment of self.
Self.
Myself.
"As the one you fight is… you," he completed.
"YOU ARE ME, YOU STUPID BASTARD!" I shouted, still holding my groin.
And then—like light shattering darkness—the figure's shadows peeled away.
And I saw him.
Me.
Same clothes. Bandaged neck. Bloodied nose. Shocked face.
I remembered that face.
"Larson," we both said in unison.
[DING!]
[YOU HAVE PASSED THE SECOND TRIAL]
And then—
Darkness.