"How about we play a little game?"
D'andre's words reverberated throughout the domain of light.
Xandros felt a sudden surge of terror flood his very being.
He was suddenly bathed in the bleak realization that he stood at D'andre's mercy.
In this space, D'andre is king, and Xandros is nothing more than a weak pawn to be used however the king pleases.
No matter what he did or who he tried to call, he would still end up at the mercy of the white‑haired archmage.
His mind wandered, even though he knew there was no way out, his stubborn will to survive bombarded his thoughts with countless useless ways to try to escape.
Offer something of great value in exchange for his life.
Reveal the cult's secret if need be. Who cares at this point? He was on the verge of death in a place no one could reach, even if he spilled the secret to save his life, no one would ever know.
If D'andre had a forgiving heart and spared him, he would confide in his intelligent older brother and seek ways to correct his mistake without harming the cult's cause or drawing unnecessary attention.
Unfortunately, D'andre was not the forgiving type.
Before he could finish his racing thoughts, an intense pressure formed around him.
The ground beneath him turned excruciatingly uncomfortable, and the gravity weighing on him became unbearably heavy, pressing down on him.
He gritted his teeth against the pain, but it overwhelmed him regardless.
"Your cult has committed unspeakable evil in this world. You, above all, have taken thousands of lives. What punishment do you think befits someone like you?"
D'andre asked, mockingly.
Xandros echoed the word in his mind.
It was no news to him that his actions were evil, he had embraced his dark side long before his teenage years. Did he ever feel bad? No.
Humans were always destined to die, so what was wrong with hastening the process for a worthy cause?
"I asked a question. Aren't you supposed to answer?"
D'andre asked, his tone dripping with coldness.
Xandros lifted his head, grimacing, to meet D'andre's gaze and was met with the brilliant fire of righteousness burning in his eyes. The intensity sent a grave discomfort through every fibre of his being. In defeat, he dropped his gaze to the ground, still unable to answer.
He snapped his fingers, and the unnatural pressure tormenting Xandros intensified.
And a gravity that dragged him to his knees.
These three torments bombarded the powerless cultist.
Xandros fought the urge to cry out in pain under the onslaught.
"I asked: what punishment do you think you deserve?"
The question came again—did he have an answer? Yes. But would he give it? No.
Killing a single human naturally subjects you to the same fate. Killing hundreds makes you a murderer who deserves a torturous death, and killing thousands makes you a demon—in this case, death itself is mercy!
Death alone is eternal slumber, eternal rest.
All your struggles and accomplishments die with you. You lose the human urge to face problems and find solutions or the desire to set a tedious goal just to feel fulfilled.
For someone like him, that was mercy.
Did he want that mercy? Of course not—he hadn't even seen the dark seed ritual succeed, he had worked for far too long to not see his cause come to fruition.
Then what punishment does someone like him deserve?
Even D'andre, the one who asked the question, could not find the right answer.
'I am not the creator of this world, charged with absolute judgment—but that doesn't change the fact that a bastard like him does not deserve to walk the earth again.'
On Earth, some religions believe in forgiveness and cleansing of sin—a murderer can become innocent, a whore can be made pure, and a deceiver can become the most truthful person.
He didn't subscribe to such beliefs.
'Every sin deserves fitting punishment. On Earth, humans were foolish enough to create laws that save murderers and cheaters from damnation. Serial killers who brought nothing but death are set free to walk among us while the victim's family remains torn apart for eternity—some even take their own lives, unable to bear the loss. Meanwhile, those with unforgiving hearts seek revenge and end up serving time? What kind of bullshit is that?'
D'andre frowned as his mind drifted through various schools of thought.
His mood made the domain even more unbearable for the powerless cultist.
Xandros cried out as the torment seemed to intensify by the second, his facial orifices bled profusely, and he felt as if his insides might burst at any moment.
For the first time in ages, he truly felt the terror of death.
Meanwhile, his tormentor abruptly rose from his throne and strode toward him, his body radiating power and authority, his cold eyes burning with hatred and anger more intense than anything Xandros had ever seen.
He wanted to crawl away from his position and flee.
He tried, despite the crushing gravitational pull on his body.
But he was weak and helpless.
D'andre appeared before him before he could even take a single step backward.
"You deserve every painful thing in this world, you bastard!"
D'andre's voice thundered across the place.
The angelic archmage lifted his foot and stomped down on the cultist's face.
The cultist could only let out a pained cry.
But the angelic archmage was too furious to care.
He stomped his face again, each blow more forceful than the last.
Xandros was bleeding.
His face was horribly disfigured.
His mouth was missing dozens of teeth, even when he tried to scream, no sound came out.
He felt death's tight grip on his shoulder.
When he opened his eyes, he saw no endless brightness—only blood, his own.
At that moment, he began to recall every moment he had ever lived—his beginning.