The first thing Alex felt was not pain, but a cold that seemed to emanate from within his bones, a profound stillness that silenced even thought. He opened his eyes. Above, a sky of twilight purple, crossed by slow rivers of greenish light, stretched into infinity. There was no sun, no moon, no stars. Only that somber and silent spectacle.
He was lying down. Not on the rain-soaked pavement where life had left him, but on the rough, damp wood of a small, ancient boat. The boat glided silently across a river of black water, smooth as obsidian. There were no visible banks, only a gray mist that merged with the horizon.
"Awake, at last."
The voice was deep and resonant, like stones clashing at the bottom of a well. Alex sat up abruptly, the movement strangely light, as if his body had no weight. In the stern of the boat, a hooded figure held a long oar. The face beneath the hood was a blur of shadows, but two points of silver light gleamed where eyes should have been.
"Where… where am I?" Alex's voice came out as a whisper, faint and ethereal. He looked at his own hands. They were translucent, with a faint bluish glow, like a ghost of himself.
"You are on the Lethe. The River of Forgetfulness," said the ferryman, without turning his face. "A shortcut. Most do not remember the crossing. You are an exception."
Death. The word echoed in Alex's mind, not with panic, but with a chilling resignation. He remembered. The glare of headlights, the sound of a horn, the sudden impact that tore him from the world.
"So this is it. End of the line," he murmured, more to himself.
The ferryman let out a dry chuckle, a sound like dry branches snapping. "End? Boy, for souls like yours, this is merely the antechamber."
The boat continued its silent journey. Gradually, a colossal structure began to materialize through the mist. It was a black stone monolith that rose from the river and pierced the purple sky. Countless steps, wide enough for an army to march, led to a gigantic gate at the top. Souls, translucent figures like Alex, but in shades of purple, green, and gray, formed a silent queue ascending the staircase.
"The Tribunal of Souls," announced the ferryman, guiding the boat to a small dock at the base of the monolith. "Your stop. Don't make me wait for your return."
Alex didn't understand what he meant. He disembarked, his ethereal feet barely touching the stone steps. As soon as he stepped off the boat, an invisible force pulled him, dragging him upwards, past the line of apathetic souls. He wasn't walking; he was being summoned.
The doors of the Tribunal opened with a creak that shook his very essence. The hall was vast, an empty, cavernous space supported by pillars that vanished into the darkness above. In the center, on a raised dais, sat three figures. They were the Justiciars. They had no definite form, appearing as statues of solidified smoke, wearing cloaks that seemed woven from night itself.
The voice did not come from a mouth, but echoed directly in Alex's mind, cold and impersonal like a coroner's report.
Dissolved? The idea terrified him more than death itself. To be erased, to cease to exist. For the first time since he awoke, a flicker of defiance shone in his soul.
"No," he said, his voice firmer than he expected. "I don't accept."
The hall fell silent. The three figures seemed to lean forward, the smoke of their bodies stirring.
"What law?" Alex retorted, desperation sharpening his tongue. "A whole life, with dreams, with fears… all of it just to become… fuel? There has to be something else. A second chance."
The voice shifted, becoming less a declaration and more a sibilant proposition.
One of the Justiciars raised an arm made of shadow. An image formed in the air before Alex. He saw seven thrones and, on each, a figure of terrifying power. A warrior wreathed in flames, a queen whose gaze promised despair, a being made of shattered mirrors…
The proposition hung in the air, heavy and dangerous.
Alex was paralyzed. It was a death sentence, a task for a god, not for an insignificant soul like his. But the alternative… was oblivion. Nothingness.
"And if I fail?" he asked.
He looked at the image of the Seven Kings. It was madness. It was impossible. But it was a choice. And having a choice was infinitely better than having none.
He took a deep breath, though he no longer needed air.
"I accept."
The instant the words left his lips, the Justiciars rose. The shadows of the hall converged on Alex, enveloping him in an icy darkness. A searing pain shot through his ethereal form, as if red-hot iron were being driven into his soul. He screamed, a silent sound that did not echo in the hall.
When the pain subsided, he looked at his arms. Two chains of dull, black metal were now clamped to his wrists, the links disappearing into his very essence. They felt cold, heavy, a symbol of his pact.
The ground beneath Alex's feet vanished. He was falling. Falling through the darkness, the weight of his new chains pulling him down, toward the colossal, hungry heart of the Underworld. His second chance had begun.