At one o'clock in the morning, under a sky choked by silence, the sleeping city was violently jolted awake. The roar of police sirens shattered the stillness, chasing a lone motorcycle that tore through the empty streets. The calm night morphed into chaos, pierced by the thunder of gunfire.
My name is Olaf. I am a monster. I have taken the lives of a hundred children, violated countless women, and stolen fortunes I couldn't even spend. Will my end be in a cold cell, bound by the laws of men? Impossible. I would rather embrace death than captivity.
I fixed my gaze on the asphalt ahead. The headlights of a massive truck pierced the darkness, rushing toward me from the opposite lane. I didn't swerve. I steered straight into its path, raising my hand in a mock salute. The driver slammed on the brakes, the screech of tires echoing into the night, but it was too late. The impact was deafening. The motorcycle shattered into a thousand pieces—and so did I.
Yet, as my consciousness faded, I felt not a single shred of regret.
Time lost its meaning. Suddenly, I found myself suspended in an endless, suffocating void. The only sound was the slow, rhythmic dripping of blood.
"Do you feel no regret?" a voice echoed from every direction, ancient and heavy. "What of the lives you extinguished? The souls you crushed beneath your cruelty? Do you not repent?"
The drops of blood in the darkness began to bubble and boil. My memories materialized before me like a twisted cinema—every scream, every plea for mercy, every drop of blood I had spilled.
Did I regret it? No. If I were cast back into the world, I would do it all over again.
"So, that is your answer…" the voice hummed.
My sight abruptly returned, though my body felt weightless. I looked down and saw my own mangled corpse. I was nothing but a soul now. Surrounding me in the ethereal gloom were the faces of every victim, every grieving mother and father I had wronged. I smirked.
Do they miss me? Hah. They want me awake. Death is too merciful for them. They want to tear me apart. But I am dead now. How can they punish a ghost?
Suddenly, the void shifted, and a towering figure materialized before me, clutching a massive, ancient tome.
"How much do you know of the Court of Heaven, Olaf Michael Alexander?" the figure asked, his voice shaking the very fabric of my soul.
"I know the righteous get Paradise, and the wicked get Hell," I spat, crossing my arms. "So let's get on with it. Do your worst."
"As you wish. Your first punishment: seven lashes with the Chains of the Abyss."
A colossal gate groaned open behind him. Black flames writhed within, radiating a heat so intense it began to melt my ethereal form even from light-years away. Three chains shot out from the dark, binding me with a pain that defied human comprehension.
A shadowy executioner stepped forward, wielding a chain forged of pure agony. He struck.
At the first lash, my essence evaporated. I was obliterated, only to be dragged down into the seventh layer of the earth, reforming in darkness. I screamed—a sound so wretched that it would have shattered the eardrums of every living mortal.
I was pulled back, chained once more. I saw the executioner raise his arm for the second strike. The memory of the first lash paralyzed me. I died and reformed, died and reformed. He struck again. I evaporated, descended, and returned—this time weeping openly. I, Olaf the ruthless, begged for mercy. But the executioner had none. I died and revived over and over until my mind began to fracture.
"It... it is over," I whispered, broken. "Seven."
The keeper of the book looked down at me coldly. "No. Three remain."
In a blind panic, I tore at my wrists with my own teeth, biting through my legs like a rabid animal to escape the chains. I broke free, running into the void with everything I had. The executioner struck the ground. I looked down and realized I hadn't moved a single centimeter. The illusion of hope was part of the torture.
When the first punishment finally ended, I was a hollow shell, stripped of all arrogance, begging for the void of true death.
But the keeper merely turned a page. "The second punishment. Open the Eighth Gate."
The gate roared as it opened. In that Hell, I lived lifetimes. When I starved, I was forced to devour molten rock. When I thirsted, I drank the boiling, bitter sap of Zaqqum. Centuries upon centuries dragged on. The concept of time, of my past life, of my pride—all burned away, leaving only raw, infinite suffering.
"Release him," the keeper finally commanded.
I was pulled out, trembling, unable to form words. I wept silently, curled into a fetal position.
"The third punishment," the keeper declared. I flinched, my soul bracing for obliteration. "If you were resurrected now, you would only return to your sins. Therefore, we shall cast you into another world. A test. Live, suffer, and face judgment once more."
He snapped the book shut. The world went black.
I woke to the smell of... life.
A gentle breeze brushed against my face. I opened my eyes, gasping for air. I was standing in a vibrant meadow, the sun warm on my skin. I looked down at my hands. Small. Unscarred. I was a child.
I fell to my knees, burying my face in the soft grass, weeping uncontrollably. It wasn't joy. It was the overwhelming, crushing relief of not burning. I found a nearby lake, staring at my reflection—a ten-year-old boy. I drank the cool water until my stomach ached, sitting there for hours, terrified that if I blinked, I would wake up back in the chains.
"Hey, Andrei!"
I froze. My heart hammered in my chest. I slowly turned and saw a group of boys running toward me.
"Where were you? Answer us, Andrei!" one of them demanded.
Andrei? Is that my name now? I thought, my mind racing. I couldn't let them know who I really was. If I sinned, if I showed my true nature, I would be sent back to the Eighth Gate. I had to play the part.
"I... I don't remember," I stuttered, forcing my voice to tremble like a scared child's.
"You forgot again? Did you eat the temporary Forgetting Mushroom?" a boy named Dave sighed. "Andrei the fool. If Sister Olit finds out, we're doomed."
"Listen," another boy said, stepping forward. "Your name is Andrei Leon Mark. You are teen years old. Sister Olit is your caretaker."
"Alright," I whispered, committing every detail to memory. "I am Andrei."
"Good. Let's hurry. Mark, use Wind Magic—the wind is good today."
"Magic?" I slipped, my eyes widening in genuine shock.
"We're not playing, Andrei," Dave rolled his eyes. "We all possess magic."
Before I could question it, Mark raised his hands, and the wind literally bent to his will, lifting them slightly. I stared in awe. Power. Real power. I tried to mimic his hand movements, but nothing happened.
"Andrei hasn't awakened his power yet," Dave said to the others. "If it doesn't appear in childhood, it never will."
I lowered my head, feigning sorrow. But inside, my mind was sharp. Even without magic, I will survive. I will be the most perfect, obedient child this world has ever seen. I will never go back to the fire.
"Wait—I sense wind energy," a soft female voice called out.
A woman hurried over the hill. She was stunning, but I didn't look at her with the eyes of a man; I looked at her with the calculating gaze of a survivor analyzing his keeper.
"Thank God! I thought you were kidnapped. Andrei, you frightened me so much, little one," she said, pulling me into a warm hug.
"I'm sorry, Sister Olit," I murmured, burying my face in her shoulder to hide my calculating eyes. "I didn't mean to scare you."
"It's alright, sweetheart," she smiled, patting my head. "Come. I cooked your favorite—potatoes and meat."
Potatoes and meat? My stomach churned at the thought of such bland peasant food, but I forced a bright, innocent smile.
"Thank you, Sister! I can't wait!" I chirped, grabbing her hand.
I am Olaf the monster. But from today, I am Andrei the innocent. And I will do whatever it takes to survive