Death was not the end— but a queue of fate.
Between stars forgotten by time, a void pulsed—a Sanctum untouched by mortal charts. From the exterior view, it appeared to be a circular concave of contrasting powers—bilaterally symmetrical—with one half of pure essence and the other of infernal darkness, radiating power superior to every other.
Within this Axis Sanctum, two kingdoms lay: one of eternal life and the other of eternal death, and there, judgment was held and fate was rewarded.
In a gaseous but solid pathway just at the divine entrance of the heavenly realms, 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 a step forward 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: of justice and accountability. No soul, from saint to sinner, could bypass nor escape it.
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. Its very presence carried terror. 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 and the cry of certain words: Had I known!
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, with authority and divine grace, justice and righteousness. On the left, a regal Archdemon, exuding gravity and darkness. His presence—formidable and terrifying. Both beings' divine presence clashed but never touched, divided by a narrow line of absolute tension. They sat with purpose—judging 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. Nevertheless, eternal life was only meant for a few.
The process of judgment 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 with broken skin and disoriented shape, like malnutrition was his lifetime companion. He stood lazily, studying the environment and self-consoling souls who ended up on the left path, unfazed by the grandeur or dread around him. His thoughts were shallow but oddly sharp.
"So… immortals 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 age three, he was falsely accused of stealing a high-value debit card by his adoptive parents—something he had no idea 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, but 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 commanding gesture, he pointed toward the Gate of Hell. The condemned soul staggered forth, limbs quaking beneath the weight of of finality.
That gate operated in layers—each level a worsening descent:
• The Gate of Regret – For liars, gluttons, the lustful, and the 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 torment.
• 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. Guess thats what you lived to earn," muttered the frail boy.
He stepped forward, 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, scanning the soul before them. Oddly, no name was found. 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 given alms. He was invisible, even to sin.
The divine beings exchanged a look. For ancient beings of all times, they seemed to be surprised. This was a delusion of the rules of nature—to be either good or bad.
Thinking further, they could not simply assign him any fate—no gate would accept him.
The Archangel stood. His voice was calm, but divine and apt, radiating blinding light from his very being.
"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."
A pause in the Archangel's speech built the tension in the frail boy. Then he continued,
"Although of separate leagues, our judgments are fair and justifiable."
Then the Archdemon rose, unfolding his regal and chaotic presence and continued—his tone far less chaotic than before, as if he was about to engage in something that could change not just the world, but the heavenly realm.
"A trial will be created for you. In a world you shall be sent—not to atone for any wrong deeds, but to decide your fate by your own hands. Surviving the test will earn you a divine name and, above that, another chance as a mortal. And beware, in this trial… you can die."
For the first time, the boy's face changed—eyes widening with a hint of excitement. Inside him, a thought grew:
A trial personally for me—a nobody?
The tension within him was overwhelming, but still, fear did not touch his soul.
The two beings raised their hands—Archangel with his right, and the Archdemon 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 slowly, splitting into a vast door of swirling black and white. It shimmered with a presence of both good and evil. And 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 isn't 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."
Then Michael 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, whole and sovereign:
"You are Micafer—Child of the Veil. Born of neither light nor shadow. A creation of both."
The door opened with a roar and a hush, revealing a dark, cloudy void penetrable by any view.
Micafer's chest blazed—white and red colliding, spiraling, radiating—and above all, a symbol. He stepped forward.
For the first time, something stirred in him.
Not hunger. Not fear.
Purpose.
And with that, he entered the Veil.
Not as and hungry outcast, but us one reborn—confident, unyielding. A second path to grace would not slip past him