chapter 09 : Welcome to the Kingdom of Bogars.

A moral stab pierced us without our awareness. As a result, a fuse was lit, igniting a bomb on the verge of explosion in my story—after the departure of the cursed yet elegant man, as I called him. My brother, my friend, Suleiman Agha, and our uninvited guest, who suddenly appeared, disrupting all calculations and plans set in place to salvage whatever could be saved—especially after the secrets surrounding the fall of the Kingdom of Bogars were revealed. Could the presence of the Merchant of Death alter the inevitable fate of this kingdom and the destiny of the Supreme Priest Morpheus?

A paradise on earth—this is the least that can be said to describe the lush greenery of the grass and the abundance of flowers planted on a hill so enchanting that hearts are captivated at first sight. Surrounding it are numerous trees—pines, oranges, apples, and many other divine blessings bestowed by the Creator upon His creatures, destined to live in this world before the first sacred cry erupts. Then, all living beings will perish, drinking from the cup of death until not a single soul remains standing before the will of the Almighty. Only then will the final chapter of a tale, inscribed before creation itself, unfold. Each of us will play the role written for us. The only real question is: Where will you spend your eternity? This is what you must ask yourself before asking anything else.

Following a brief religious introduction by a Jewish rabbi consumed by arrogance—much like Iblis before him—who saw the evident truth but refused to follow it, a Christian priest took over. He adhered to all Christian denominations, from Catholic to Orthodox, yet refused to unveil the truth, persisting in the misguidance established by his spiritual father, Saint Peter. Finally, a Muslim scholar and imam concluded this religious discourse, only to find himself in the midst of a battlefield set up just for him. Hell surrounded him on all sides, while kings and sultans observed from their thrones, wielding the sword of execution, awaiting a single word from his lips that might shake their rule. They were ready to respond with the infamous phrase reserved for scholars and truth-tellers: "I see heads that have ripened and are ready for harvest." But he could not flee, for he was shackled by chains—chains forged by the very decisions and fatwas that had shaped the fate of countless Muslims, for better or worse. This is why I believe that the greatest and most difficult responsibility is that of an imam and a scholar.

Leaving behind the gates of religion, we now return to the gates of the Kingdom of Bogars. There it stood, gleaming like pure gold in its immense beauty and grandeur, nearly touching the sky. Guarding it were towering sentinels—massive in stature, clad in cursed black armor, their dark eyes as ominous as the abyss. They stood in a defensive formation, an impenetrable wall blocking my path, along with the one who possesses me and those three scoundrels beside me.

One of the guards spoke in a harsh tone:

"Stop right there! Where do you think you're going?"

Yazur replied with mocking disdain:

"I'm here to bury your king. But if you prefer, I can bury you first and then deal with him later."

The guard responded firmly and with unwavering seriousness:

"One step forward, and I'll send you straight to the Vault of Mortos the Great. Our king, Morpheus, is a just ruler who has led this kingdom to greatness and glory."

Yazur stared at them while the three scoundrels remained silent.

"Judging by your physical and spiritual state, it seems he truly made all the right decisions. Now, step aside before I end you. I've endured the annoyance of one person who wouldn't stop screaming the entire journey, but I won't tolerate you lot. So, I'll say this politely—please, move out of the way."

The soldier scoffed:

"Go to hell. Or better yet, I think I'll book you the first ticket there myself."

A powerful laugh echoed—one carrying the force of an impending storm, though they remained oblivious. Yazur bent slightly, scooped a handful of dust, and brought it close to his lips, blowing upon it. Instantly, the dust transformed into sharp, spear-like stones that shot straight into their hearts, felling them in an instant. He spoke in a calm yet slightly amused tone as he advanced toward the gate, opening it and stepping inside.

"There is only one way to kill the people of the Kingdom of Bogars—by piercing their hearts."

Spark: "How do you know that?"

Yazur Yaturk: "Tell me, who do you think is the true founder of the Vault of Mortos the Great?"

Kairos: "I assume it was Mortos the Great."

Yazur Yaturk: "No, it was named after him because I allowed it. In fact, I handed him the keys to power."

Marco: "Then who is the real founder of the Vault of Mortos the Great?"

Yazur Yaturk: "My brothers and I."

Spark: "You have siblings?"

Yazur Yaturk: "Yes, seven brothers. I killed four of them for the sake of that ungrateful human. But the worst of them all is my eldest brother, Juro. No more questions—let's move on."

As Yazur and his companions entered the kingdom's gates, they found grand houses made of white marble, gleaming in the distance. Turning to the right, Yazur's gaze fell upon a mysterious man—like the rest of the Kingdom of Bogars' inhabitants—seated on a stone chair, bound by chains from head to toe, unable to move. As soon as he saw them, he spoke hastily:

"Welcome to the Kingdom of Bogars, Merchant of Death. Are you here to relax or to work?"

Yazur replied:

"Something far better—writing a new page in the history of this kingdom."

The man responded:

"You shall not pass until you read your fate from the Book of the Future, my lord."

Startled, Yazur asked:

"My future? I already know it. And you claim to know it as well?"

The man clarified:

"I am not speaking to you, Merchant of Death, but to the one inside you. Your name, please."

Yazur Yaturk: "His name is Abdeljalil Belamri. Hurry—I don't have all day."

The man opened the book at the speed of light—so fast that it made one question whether he was truly bound by chains. Then, he stopped at a specific page, his voice trembling with fear as he gazed at me with piercing eyes that seemed to cut through my heart while I remained imprisoned in this body.

"Oh… I am sorry, dear one. Fate has not been kind to you. The past repeats itself. The past repeats itself. The past repeats itself."

Spark: "Alright, we get it..."

Yazur Yaturk turned toward him, shouting:

"Shut up! This is neither a joke nor a game!"

He then turned back to the man, his voice laced with anger:

"Continue—will history repeat itself?"

The man did not answer. Instead, he merely offered a wide smile—one concealing countless untold secrets.