The truck careened down the mountain road. Its driver gritted his teeth as he gripped the steering wheel.


    Next to him, a thug with a scarred face clutched a pistol. Constant sweat dripping on his forehead. His hand trembled. His aim was unsteady as he fired shot after shot towards the roof of the truck.


    Bang! Bang! Bang!


    The bullets tore through the metal. Each impact producing ringing notes.


    Tun—Tun—Tun


    Rict Rex flattened himself against the cold steel. The cold wind howled around him, blowing away his cloak.


    His fingers dug into the metal grooves of the truck’s cargo hold, seeking purchase. One wrong move, and he’d be gone forever.


    Another shot past him, missing his head by mere inches.


    The driver snarled. "Hold the damn thing steady, you idiot! He’s still up there!"


    Scarface cursed under his breath, reloading. The truck swerved again, harder this time.


    Rict Rex''s body jerked violently, his grip slipping.


    To save, he pulled himself back, rolling behind a raised metal vent. Cover. Temporary, but enough.


    He needed to act—fast. His mind raced through possible strategies. He couldn''t risk jumping off at this speed. He had to stay on and figure out where they were headed.


    Scarface climbed halfway out of the passenger window, leaning out dangerously far as he took another shot. The bullet ricocheted off the truck.


    Men only fought harder when they sensed their quietus approaching. A coward at the edge was more dangerous than a fearless soldier. This thug, Scarface, was slipping into desperation. That made him volatile. Unpredictable. It was often the weak who caused the most destruction, not out of strength, but out of the sheer stupidity.


    A sharp ping cutting through the metal. He was getting bolder.


    Then the road curved—a brutal, sharp turn.


    The driver had already pushed the limits of control.


    It swung. The entire vehicle turned violently to the side.


    Rict Rex felt the world tilt as his body was wrenched from the surface. His fingers clawed at the truck’s edges, but the force was too much.


    He was airborne.


    A split second of weightlessness. The cold night air rushed past him.


    It was as if the world had no interest in his survival.


    A crack. Pain exploded through his back, a paralysing impact that stole his breath.


    His vision blurred, the world tilting in and out of focus. His limbs refused to move. His mind fought against unconsciousness, but it was futile.


    Darkness swallowed him whole.


    Consciousness returned.


    A dim light pressed against his eyelids. The air smelled… clean. Not the damp, rotting stench of cartel hideouts. His body ached but not of wounds but of soreness.


    A ceiling. Wooden beams.


    He shifted slightly, slight discomfort. He was lying in a bed—an actual bed. Not a cartel warehouse, not the cold ground, but a bed. That was his first clue something was off.


    Then he noticed the other figure.


    A man lay in the adjacent bed. Rict Rex''s instincts sharpened. He scanned the room. The furniture was expensive—too expensive for some low-life hideout. His mind reeled. Was he in some cartel leader’s mansion? A private estate?


    He needed answers. Now.


    He turned to the unconscious man, narrowing his eyes. The guy didn’t look like a cartel. No visible gang tattoos, no scars. But appearances could be deceiving.


    Rict Rex reached out, gripping the man’s shirt collar in a firm yank. His voice was rough. “Wake up.”


    No response.


    His patience wore thin. He grabbed the man’s shoulder and shook him hard. Still nothing.


    His gaze fell to a nearby table. A jug of water sat there, untouched.


    He snatched it, splashing its contents over the man’s face in a single motion.


    The man stirred slightly, his face twitching.


    Still not enough.


    Rict Rex reached into his pocket, pulling out his knuckle dusters. He pressed the cold metal against the man’s cheek.


    “We need to talk.”


    <ul>


    <li> </li>


    </ul>


    The air rushed through the open window, dragging the curtains into a restless dance. They billowed and twisted, caught in the invisible currents.


    The living room, illuminated in the soft glow of warm white lighting, should have manifested comfort. But the man seated on the sofa remained detached from his surroundings. His skin, though touched by the ceramic hue of the lights, remained eerily pale, as if light had failed to reach him.


    Avin—or Lord Croxeus, sat with his usual expressionless demeanour. His golden eyes glowed, reflecting nothing yet seeming to see all. His face, a perfect beauty of indifference, betrayed no trace of emotion.


    Before him, two figures knelt, their heads bowed. Their voices, filled with hesitation, reverence. An unspoken desperation behind their questions.


    Ah… this is unbearable.


    He inwardly sighed. To be treated with basic respect was foreign to him, let alone being worshipped as a god.


    It was suffocating.


    To be revered is to be reduced. The higher one stands, the more their actions become inevitable. A beggar may act on impulse, but a king’s every breath is doctrine.


    Each moment dragged on, the weight of expectation pressing against him. He had been improvising since the beginning, spinning half-truths and false wisdom.


    It was exhausting.


    The interface flashed in the corner of his vision. Still active, still useless. He had reopened it again and again, keeping it on standby, hoping that someone outside would notice the glitch and pull him out.


    The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    So far, nothing. Sylvia remained offline. Each attempt to log out had met the same error screen.


    Ard finally spoke. “My Lord… it might be out of line, but I must ask—why did you save us?”


    Silence.


    A simple question, but it carried weight. Why would a God need a reason to save mortals?


    For Avin, it was guilt, but for Croxeus?


    “Even a God does not act without reason,” Croxeus said in a measured tone. “You may not yet see your purpose, but in time, you will understand why you were saved.”


    A deft manoeuvre.


    A response that held no real answer, yet it left the impression of profound wisdom. Deflection disguised as enlightenment. Only those in power could wield such tactics effectively. If a man of low status spoke in riddles, he would be dismissed as a fool. But if a God did the same, it became prophecy.


    As expected, his words took root. Ard and Tiya, deep in thought, began to contemplate their so-called ‘greater purpose.’ A small nudge, and their minds filled in the gaps, creating their own justifications.


    Humans craved meaning. It was effortless to exploit.


    A movement.


    Croxeus noticed it immediately—a shadow, stretching and shifting from the first floor. Two figures hid themselves behind a wall, attempting to eavesdrop.


    His eyes narrowed. With a thought, he activated [Clairvoyance]. The vague scene sharpened into clarity.


    Ah… so they’re here.


    He had anticipated this. Unlike his initial encounter with Tiya, he wouldn’t be caught off guard again.


    The risks of additional minds in play were obvious, but his circumstances were already unfavourable. More variables did not change the equation—they just complicated it.


    Time dilation. One hour in the real world was stretched into eight in the simulation. Even if the team outside had discovered the glitch, it would take time to extract him. He was stranded here for hours at the very least.


    His role was set. He had accepted it.


    Rising from the sofa, his golden eyes glinted. “Ah, I see,” he said. “It seems your friends have awakened as well.”


    The figures hesitated, caught in the act. But hesitation was a fleeting thing—one of them stepped forward without fear. Rict Rex.


    His mind screamed for answers. The man on the bed had given him nothing. Though he hadn’t caught every word of the conversation downstairs, he was certain of one thing—the strangely dressed man wasn’t a cartel leader.


    He wasn’t some high-ranking figure in a drug syndicate. No, this was something else entirely.


    A priest maybe? A fanatic? No—he looked like a cult leader.


    Rict Rex’s eyes narrowed. He had seen enough manipulative figures in his life. He needed to determine whether this man was a danger, and if necessary, deal with him.


    At the sound of Croxeus’s voice, both Ard and Tiya turned.


    The other figure hiding behind the wall emerged as well—a man with dishevelled hair, wariness in his eyes. Ronny Rudd.


    “Who are you?” Shouted Rict Rex.


    The words immediately ignited Ard’s temper. The insolence—this man dared to speak that way? To Lord Croxeus?


    “You fool! Do you realize who you’re even talking to? This ma—”


    “I didn’t ask you.” Rict Rex’s tone cut through. His eyes remained locked on Croxeus. “I asked him.”


    Croxeus raised a hand, silencing Ard with a mere gesture. Then he spoke in a calm and knowing tone. “I am what I must be. Nothing more, nothing less.”


    Rict Rex scoffed. “Listen, man. I asked a simple question, not some hakuna nonsense.”


    Ard clenched his fists. “Forgive my defiance, my lord, but I can’t stand by while someone speaks to you like that. You don’t understand… He is beyond you—beyond everything.”


    Rict Rex exhaled sharply. Of course, a cult leader.


    The pieces were falling into place. The unnatural healing of his wounds, the absurdity of the situation, the strange reverence from the two beside him. A lunatic pretending to be some prophet, manipulating the weak-minded.


    He had dealt with fanatics before. The only question now was whether this ‘Prophet’ was simply another fraud or something more dangerous.


    “Is that so? Then I’m a time traveller from the 69th century.” Rict Rex said, mocking. “Enough of the theatrics. Where are we, and who the hell are you people?”


    Croxeus remained silent for a moment, studying him.


    Then, with a movement of his wrist, he summoned his trident staff.


    Within seconds, vines burst from the walls, weaving and spiralling like living creatures. Flowers bloomed—vivid, rich, vibrant—filling the air with a scent too perfect to be natural. The space around them transformed, shifting into something unreal. Then, with a mere breath of will, the life he had created vanished, dissolving as if it had never existed.


    Silence. The scent of flowers, still there.


    “To be called a god is excessive, but to say I am a creator—that would not be inaccurate.”


    The air felt heavier. Both Rict Rex and Ronny stood frozen, minds struggling to rationalize what they had just witnessed.


    Rict Rex’s first thought, I’m drugged.


    Ronny, I must be dreaming.


    Rict Rex stood his ground. “I’ve seen these tricks before. I know what you’re trying to do and trust me, it’s not gonna work. I see right through y—”


    But his words were cut off by a thump sound. The bottom of Croxeus’s staff struck the wooden floor. Instantly, reality bent to his will.


    Darkness. Absolute.


    Not a wisp of light. Not even the hint of a shade. Yet, they could see each other, every detail, every expression. Lightless but utterly seen.


    Panicking. Rict Rex said, “wha—what is this? What kind of drug did you give me? Psilocybin? LSD?”


    Ronny fell on the floor frightened. Ard and Tiya watched in reverence.


    Croxeus spoke with a whisper that resonated like a cosmic decree. “There is much you do not understand, child. Much that you do not even know you are ignorant of. I say—open your eyes.”


    The void shifted.


    Infinite specks of light emerged. Swelling in number. Converging and drawing closer.


    Not stars, but entire galaxies. Uncountable. All spinning in a silent, cosmic ballet.


    Spiral, elliptical, irregular, each kind.


    They were being pulled into one, drawn towards its heart.


    The Milky Way.


    Croxeus announced. “You think you understand the world. You think reality is as your senses dictate. But what is real? What is not? What lies beyond? What is the root of existence?”


    A shift. Again, they plunged forward. Faster than light. Faster than thought.


    Drawn deeper into the spiral arm.


    The Solar System.


    The Sun blazed before them. The Source of life.


    But then, time accelerated. Planets revolved at impossible speeds. The Sun itself spun in feverish haste.


    Then—it expanded. Red, colossal. A dying star in its final act.


    The Earth was swallowed whole. Consumed. Erased from existence.


    Then, the space broke. Stars from a distant galaxy marched like mad fireflies.


    Worlds dance, torn and trembling.


    Inevitably the war of stars ends. The beast of two galaxies is born, nameless and unwitnessed.


    The Sun now, casted its skin into the void, leaving only a pale corpse.


    A white Dwarf. A ghost in a graveyard.


    But even the ghost fades. The white dwarf cools, shrinks, slows.


    Heat—lost, light—disappeared. Death.


    Not just Sun, several stars burn out. Leaving nothing but empty gas and dust.


    The black hole appears. They feast in the dark swallowing hole.


    Not much later, the black holes feast upon their kin. Weak are devoured, strong grows stronger. Fewer, larger, hungrier.


    Until only one remains. The last God.


    All that was, all that breathed, dreamed, manufactured. Now gathered at one place.


    But even this God starves.


    Power is not self-sustaining. It is a parasite, feeding on its own hosts, growing ever larger until there is nothing left.


    Empires rise, devouring nations. Kings rule, stepping upon lesser men. But there comes a time when nothing remains to be conquered, no prey left to consume. The strong, left with no choice, must turn on each other. The final truth of power is that it does not last. It cannot. It is doomed to destroy itself.


    Hawking radiation. Its edges become smaller, colder, lighter. Until it''s nothing.


    Death of Death.


    The final fate of the universe is not fire nor wrath, not punishment nor judgment. It is something far worse than all of these.


    It is oblivion. It is the loss of even the possibility of meaning. It is the death of the very concept of existence itself.


    Not even the dead will remain. Not even the memory of the dead will remain. Not even the hint of memory will remain.


    And what is a god, in a universe that cannot remember gods?


    Croxeus spoke in absolute silence. “For one who is born, death is certain. Living, non-living. Real, imaginary. All things end.”


    Silence.


    Then, his voice again. “What you call ''now'' is already gone.”


    A bright light. Then, a shift—violent, immediate.


    They were thrown back into the living room, crashing onto the wooden floor, gasping for air. The room spun around them, nausea wracking their bodies.


    Croxeus stood unshaken. His golden eyes, intensifying. His expressions, unreadable.


    “You are nothing but a candle, holding flame against the eternal fire. Burn as you will–soon, the fire takes its own.”