One step—and the world vanished.
Didn't darken. Didn't explode. Simply... ceased to exist.
The hero stood in whiteness. Absolute, all-consuming whiteness. There was no floor beneath his feet—yet he stood. There was no ceiling above his head—yet the space didn't seem endless. It was simply... empty. White. Nothing.
He turned around. Medusa was gone. Dolor was gone. Only whiteness.
"Medusa?" His voice sounded strange. Flat. Echoless, resonanceless. The words died as soon as they left his lips. "Dolor?"
Silence.
Not just the absence of sound. A real, palpable silence. It pressed on his eardrums, seeping into his skull. The hero could hear his heartbeat—rumbling, unnaturally loud. He could hear the blood rushing through his veins. He could hear his own breathing, each breath a hurricane.
He took a step. Then another. Direction didn't matter—it was the same whiteness everywhere. No landmarks. No shadows. Even his own shadow had disappeared.
—What the hell...
The hero walked. A minute. Five. Ten? He didn't know. There was no clock. No sun. Time lost its meaning in this emptiness. Maybe a second had passed. Maybe an hour.
He stopped. He tried to remember—how long had he been walking? How many steps had he taken? The numbers were slipping away. His memory was becoming cloudy, blurry, like the whiteness around him.
Medusa. Dolor. They were with me. We left the theater. We...
What were they doing? He couldn't remember. Fragments—blood on the stage, the Puppeteer's mask, an embrace. But the details slipped through his fingers like water.
—No,—the hero muttered.—No, no, no. I remember. I was in the dungeon. I died. Many times. I...
How many times have I died?
Hundreds? Thousands? He didn't know. He didn't remember. The deaths merged into one blurry mass of pain.
Panic began to rise, cold and sticky.
An hour? A day?
The Hero was sitting. Or standing. It made no difference. The whiteness remained unchanged.
He tried to remember his name. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
What was his name?
Hero. My name is Hero.
But it wasn't a name. It was a definition. What was his real name? The one in his past life, before the dungeon?
He didn't remember.
"Fuck!" he screamed into the void. "FUCK!"
His voice didn't echo. The whiteness swallowed the scream as if it had never been there.
The Hero slammed his fist into... what? There was no floor. But his fist met resistance—hard, but invisible. His knuckles cracked. The pain flared, bright and real.
Good. The pain is real. I am real.
He struck again. And again. The skin on his knuckles split, and blood flowed. Red. The only color in this whiteness.
He stared at the blood, mesmerized. The drops fell, vanishing into the whiteness. Or didn't they? They simply... ceased to exist.
A day? A week?
The hero lay. Or floated. He wasn't sure.
Hunger had disappeared somewhere long ago. Thirst, too. His body demanded nothing. Only... existed. In the whiteness.
He thought of Medusa. What did she look like? Green skin. Snakes for hair. Golden eyes. Right? Or were her eyes silver? Or yellow?
What color were her eyes?
He couldn't remember.
Panic rose again, but weaker this time. Dulled. Like everything in this place.
"Medusa," he whispered. "Forgive me. I'm forgetting you."
The words dissolved into silence.
A month? A year?
The hero didn't move. Why? Movement was meaningless. It wouldn't get him anywhere.
He thought. Or maybe he didn't think. Thoughts came and went, formless as whiteness itself.
Who am I?
A man. Was a man. From another world. Came here. Died. Resurrected.
Why?
To... rise? To break free? To survive?
Why survive?
He didn't know.
He didn't remember why he'd started this journey. Was there a goal? Was there a reason? Or was he simply... walking. Because he couldn't stop.
Eternity?
"Hello."
Voice.
Not his. Alien. But familiar.
The hero opened his eyes. When had he closed them? He couldn't remember.
Before him stood... himself.
An exact replica. Same clothes, same scars, same haggard face. But the eyes were different. Empty. Like the whiteness all around.
"Who are you?" the hero asked. His voice sounded hoarse, as if he hadn't spoken in ages.
"You," the replica replied. "Or what's left of you."
The replica crouched down next to him. She smiled—eerily, unnaturally.
"You've been here a long time," she said. "A very long time. Time has lost its meaning, hasn't it?"
"How long?" the hero crouched.
"I don't know. Years? Decades? Or maybe just an hour. Time doesn't exist here." The replica tilted its head. "Do you remember why you came?"
"I..." the hero tried to remember. "I was climbing. Up." From the dungeon.
— Why?
— To... get out.
— Why get out?
The hero opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. There were no words.
— See? — the copy chuckled. — You don't remember. Because there was no reason. You simply existed. Died, resurrected, moved on. An endless cycle. Meaningless.
— No, — the hero croaked. — There were... people. Medusa. Dolor. They...
— Who? — the copy tilted its head. — Do you remember their faces?
The hero closed his eyes. He tried to imagine Medusa. Her smile. Her snakes. Her...
Emptiness.
— No, — he whispered. — I don't...
— You've forgotten them, — the copy stood up. — As you forget everything. There is nothing here but whiteness. No pain, no death, no suffering. Only peace. Eternal, absolute peace.
"I don't want peace," the hero clenched his fists. "I want... I want..."
What do I want?
"Nothing," said the copy. "You don't want anything. Because you're no longer human. You've died so many times that you're no longer alive. You're just... a function. A mechanism. Resurrection after resurrection, without purpose, without meaning."
The copy stepped closer. Her face was centimeters from the hero's.
"Stay here," she whispered. "Embrace the emptiness. Become part of the whiteness. There will be no pain here. No death. There will be nothing. Isn't that what you wanted? After all this suffering?"
The hero looked into the copy's eyes. Empty. Lifeless.
Maybe she was right.
He was tired. So damn tired. Of pain, of death, of the endless dungeon. Maybe peace was what he needed. Just... let go. Forget. Dissolve into the whiteness.
He closed his eyes. There was no darkness in the whiteness. But when the hero closed his eyes, he saw it. Not a white void. Not a black abyss. Something... in between.
And in that darkness, a face appeared.
Medusa.
Not clear. Blurred, like an old photograph. But he recognized her. Snakes, green skin, golden eyes.
Golden. Exactly. Golden.
"Medusa," he whispered.
Another face appeared in the darkness. Dolor. Gloomy, silent, with endless pain in his eyes.
Then others. People he had met. The old tree man from the cursed forest. The succubi from the brothel. The skeletal scientist from the city of bones. Even Lilith and Astaroth.
Everyone he had met in the dungeon.
They are real. They exist.
"I remember," the hero croaked. "I remember them."
He opened his eyes. The copy stood before him, smiling.
"Are you sure?" she asked. "Perhaps this is just an illusion? A hallucination? The whiteness is playing tricks on your mind."
"Perhaps," the hero replied. "But even if it is an illusion... it is MY illusion. My memories. My people."
He stood. His legs trembled, but they held him.
"I don't want peace," he said. "I want pain. I want death. I want life. Because it proves that I exist. That I am real."
The copy stopped smiling.
"You choose suffering?"
"Yes," the hero stepped forward. "Because suffering is real. Pain is real. Death is real. And this whiteness..." he gestured at the empty space, "...is nothing. And I don't want to be nothing."
The copy looked at him for a long moment. Then she nodded slowly.
"You have accepted yourself," she said. "You have accepted what you have become. Not human." Not immortal. Something... in between. Alive and dead at the same time.
She stepped back. She began to dissolve into the whiteness.
"Then go," her voice grew quieter. "Go on. Suffer. Die. But remember—you chose this path. No one forced you."
The copy disappeared.
The hero was alone in the whiteness. But now it seemed... smaller. Not so absolute. He saw edges. Boundaries. An exit.
He stepped forward. Then again. And again.
The whiteness began to darken. Gray spots appeared in the void. Then shadows. Then shapes.
Another step—and the world returned.
The hero fell to his knees, breathing heavily. Under his hands was stone. Real, hard, cold stone. He pressed his forehead to the floor, feeling its texture.
Real. This is real.
—Hero!
Medusa. Her voice. He looked up and saw her—running toward him, snakes fluttering, her face contorted with worry.
She fell beside him and hugged him.
—You... you stood there for a few seconds and just... stared into space," she said quickly. "Your eyes were open, but you didn't react." I called you, shook you, but you didn't answer. I thought...
"How much?" the hero croaked. "How much time has passed?"
"Maybe thirty seconds," Medusa replied. "No more.
Thirty seconds."
For him, an eternity. For her, half a minute.
The hero laughed. Hysterically, madly. Medusa hugged him tighter.
"Are you okay?" she asked quietly.
"No," he answered honestly. "But I'm alive. And that's the main thing."
Dolor approached, silently extending his hand. The hero took it, helping him rise to his feet. His legs trembled, the world swam before his eyes, but he stood.
He turned around. Behind him was a door—simple, wooden. They had come through it. But white light seeped through the cracks. The emptiness was still there. Waiting.
"Never again," the hero muttered. "Never again, never again." "What happened there?" Medusa asked.
The hero looked at her. At her golden eyes. At the snakes poking at his cheek, checking to see if he was alive. At Dolor, standing next to him, silent and trusting.
"Nothing," he replied. "There was nothing there. And that was the worst part."
Medusa didn't ask any more. She simply took his hand.
"Let's go," she said. "The next floor awaits."
The hero nodded. His fingers squeezed her hand—warm, real, alive.
I chose suffering. I chose pain. I chose life.
They moved on. Away from the white room, away from the emptiness.