As a psychology graduate, I was actually aware that the brain functioned like a complex machine. The moment the power was cut, the screen would go black. Clinging to that logic, I lay in my cold, desolate bed and swallowed the pills—each one feeling like a bullet loaded into a magazine. I hadn't even lived a quarter of my life, yet I was utterly alone. No family, no lover, no one to hear my silent scream. There was only a world that no longer needed my existence.
When I closed my eyes, I was certain that eternal darkness would greet me. I certainly didn't expect the smell of cheap incense.
"He... He has the mark! It's confirmed now!"
The voice trembling in my ear was old and unstable. The only thing I was sure of was the terrifying amount of hope screaming through his words.
My eyes snapped open. As my vision cleared, I expected to find myself in my apartment. I was wrong—colossally wrong. I wasn't even in a hospital. I was lying upright on a cold, long stone slab. The air was thick with the scent of wax and herbs, but beneath it all, there was a smell that seemed to pry open my very mind.
"Look at his face immediately! Below the right eye!"
I tried to move my body, but it felt strange. Lighter. Smaller. Younger. I focused on my hands, and shock washed over me. Instead of the worn hands of a man exhausted by the chaos of his old life, I was staring at the hands of a teenager.
I looked around. An old man in black robes stood before me. His clothes were frayed at the edges, simple, but spotless. Behind the old man stood a statue of a figure I didn't recognize—a figure of pure, unadorned stone, polished to a mirror shine. In this humble room, this masterfully crafted statue was the only detail that demanded attention.
The old man lifted me by my shoulders. His eyes were wide, tears streaming down his face. He looked at me not as if he were looking at a boy, but as if the answer to a question he had dedicated his life to had suddenly materialized before him.
" The Black Star," he whispered, his entire attention focused on my cheek. "The Ink of the Divine. It has been centuries since it was last bestowed upon us."
At that exact moment, I felt a burning sensation under my right eye. It wasn't painful; it felt more like a call being etched into the depths of my soul.
Perfect, I thought, the irony tasting bitter on my tongue. I killed myself to escape a life without meaning, only to be dragged into a world where meaning is forced upon me.
The old priest turned to face the small but faithful crowd behind him—people with tired faces but an absolute cleanliness in their souls.
"The silence is broken! The Lord has heard our silent screams and chosen us as witnesses to history once more. The Era of the Seven Deadly Sins ends today. The Messiah has returned!"
It was difficult to maintain my rationality in the face of this spectacle. I wanted to scream. I was a researcher of science and absolute truth. I was an atheist. And now, apparently, I had been chosen as their Savior.