The prison block was never quiet, but today, it was alive in a way it hadn't been in years.
Normally, only a handful of guards patrolled these halls.
But today, the corridors were lined with them, armed, armored, standing at attention like sentinels.
Overkill? Perhaps. But for the man they were escorting, no precaution seemed excessive.
Four guards marched in formation toward a reinforced cell at the end of the row. The door groaned as it opened, revealing the figure inside.
He sat on the edge of his cot, arms wrapped tightly in a padded restraint suit, his mouth covered by a heavy muzzle.
A man who had once moved through the world like a shadow now sat under the harsh glare of prison lights, exposed.
Iskar.
A killer of world leaders. A battlefield phantom who had sown chaos across nations. A man whose name had been whispered in fear, until, against all odds, he was caught.
And now, he was going to die.
His execution had been declared a global spectacle. "Some of his murders were public," the announcement had said. "So will his death be."
As the guards hauled him to his feet, the other inmates erupted. They pressed against their bars, shouting, chanting, his name, the one history had given him.
"TERROR! TERROR! TERROR!"
Iskar said nothing. There was nothing left to say.
They dragged him forward, past the jeers and the howls of men who would never see the sun again. The death chamber waited. On the other side of the glass, the witnesses stood, grieving, furious, hollow-eyed.
They had come to watch the monster die.
They finally released the heavy restraints of the bodysuit as they fastened him to the execution table, the cold leather straps securing his arms, chest, and legs. Electrodes were pressed against his skin, a final, humiliating precaution.
With a soft hydraulic hiss, the bed tilted upward, forcing him to stand facing the observation window, forcing him to meet the eyes of the people he had widowed, orphaned, and ruined.
The official in charge, a man with a grim, practiced demeanor, stepped forward. His voice was flat, echoing slightly in the sterile room.
"Iskar Al Sirius... do you have any last words?"
Iskar's gaze swept over the group behind the glass. His voice, unused for so long, was a dry rasp, yet carried an unnerving calm.
"No... I'm good."
A ripple of disbelief, followed by furious murmurs, passed through the wifnesses. The reaction seemed to anger them more than any speech could have.
Perhaps they had expected a torrent of remorse, a final, desperate plea for forgiveness that they could righteously deny. Or maybe they had braced for a villain's manifesto, a confirmation of his monstrous nature, so their hatred could burn pure and justified until the end.
It was a ritual, this last words ceremony. A final transaction between the condemned and the world. But Iskar offered nothing. He was not participating.
And while he simply felt that speaking changed nothing, he was dying regardless, they took it as the ultimate insult.
It was as if, with his casual dismissal, he was telling them that their pain, their need for closure, their very presence here, was beneath his notice. He was denying them their final part in the story.
The executioner stepped out and stood with the witnesses. Standard procedure was a quiet injection, but Iskar was certain these families had paid for something more.
Two guards carried the controls. On the signal, both pressed their buttons.
A brutal numbness hit first, a void of sensation. Then the pain erupted. Iskar's body arched against the straps. A choked scream ripped from him, raw and involuntary.
Through the haze, he saw the families. Some looked away, eyes squeezed shut or hands over ears. But others watched, unblinking, their gazes hollow and fixed on his convulsing form.
His vision shook, then dissolved into a blank, starless dark.
He felt nothing. As if he'd simply stopped being.
'Is this what death feels like?'
"The feeling of death is non-existence. Like before birth. You have no recollection before you were, and after your body dies, you have no recollection of life, unless you reach a realm for souls. Without the pain of dying, most wouldn't even know the moment had come."
Iskar startled at the voice. Suddenly, he was whole again. He could move. He turned and stepped back.
A tall figure stood before him, clad in a clean white robe etched with softly glowing marks. Where a face should have been was a shifting expanse of dark space, pinpricked with distant stars.
"Who are you?" Iskar managed. Even for him, this was unsettling.
"I am the Unnamed. Speaker of the Limbo."
"Unnamed? Limbo?" Iskar muttered, unsure what question to even ask.
"I gave up my identity when I gave myself to this place. Limbo is the afterlife that existed before gods. The true, original state. It inspired all others, the Elysium and Tartarus, the Field of Reeds, Valhalla and Hel, Svarga and Naraka. When mortals die, they go to the afterlife of the gods they believed in."
"I'm not... religious. Why—"
"Precisely why you are here. Limbo endures to accept those who reject other gods, or are rejected by them. Now, we mustn't waste time. Whatever I tell you will not remain with you. So, choose: a second life, or give your soul to the Limbo."
"...A second life," he said without hesitation. A part of him was weary, but a deeper instinct clawed for another chance.
"I see. Like all Limbo-dwellers, you must earn your rebirth."
The void around them shifted, solidifying into the stone floor and pillars of an ancient, empty temple.
"Limbo will grant your wishes. In return, you will participate in the Trials of the Afterlife. Understand... if you fail, you will remain here to serve until you are eligible to try again. I will leave you. When you have made your choice, break this stone. You will be transported."
The Unnamed offered a simple, unremarkable rock, marked with a single golden symbol. Iskar took it. The Speaker vanished, leaving him alone in the silent temple.
Iskar held the rock, his mind not on the choice of a second life, but on the trial itself. Now that he knew gods and realms like Limbo were real, his imagination ran wild.
Would he face some grotesque monster? But the Unnamed hadn't mentioned combat. Maybe it was a puzzle, a test of wits. He looked down at the stone. 'The Unnamed did say I can try again.'
He took a deep breath and squeezed. To his surprise, the seemingly hard rock crumbled easily in his hand.
His form dissolved into shimmering particles, reforming an instant later on the sandy floor of a vast, circular arena. Sunlight, or something like it, beat down from a featureless sky above towering stone walls.
'So I am fighting.'
His eyes scanned the environment. Across the expanse, another figure materialized. But between them stood not a monster, but a single, ordinary-looking wooden door, standing upright and unsupported in the center of the arena.
Infront of if wers weapons, ranging from swords, axes, poles, but... he noticed the lack of modern weapons.
A disembodied voice, resonant and impartial, echoed around him.
"You have made your decision. The rules are clear. Kill your opponent, and you will earn your rebirth. Die, and you will return to Limbo to await your next attempt. There are no rules in this fight. Survive. It does not matter how. Now... may the Limbo Trial begin."