Chapter 8A: You're Not Perfect

My mouth is now dry, "Gaze of eternity?"

Falastor nods, "It is the burden of perfection—the eternal judgment of every flaw, every failure. To carry my essence is to stand under that gaze forever. Many have tried. None endured."

The words hang between us, and for a moment, I hesitate. It's not fear exactly—more like the weight of the unknown pressing on me. But the memory of Rin, the betrayal, and the unrelenting pressure to survive pushes me forward.

"Fine," I say at last, my voice firm. "If that's what it takes, then let's get this over with."

Falastor tilts his head, almost curious, like he's surprised by my resolve. "Very well, mortal," he says, his tone carrying a warning. "But understand this: there is no undoing this trial. Once it begins, you will either prove your worth—or shatter under its weight. I will also gaze at every memory and emotion you have ever had."

I nod, fists clenched at my sides. "I'm ready."

His golden eyes lock onto mine, burning with an intensity that feels alive. "Then let us begin."

The moment he speaks, the ground beneath me falls away, and the world dissolves into blinding light.

I feel it immediately—thousands, maybe millions, of unseen eyes fixed on me. It's not just a feeling; it's a weight, like the air has turned to lead. Every breath, every twitch of my muscles feels magnified, like even the smallest movement is being judged. My chest tightens, and I can't shake the sensation that I'm on the verge of being crushed under the sheer intensity of their gaze.

The voices come next. They're not loud, but they're everywhere, a maddening hum that worms its way into my head. Some are mocking, others are soft and insidious, whispering things I can't quite make out. They're all focused on me, tearing me apart piece by piece. It's like my every thought, every choice, is being picked apart by this endless, invisible jury.

The eyes seem to judge every choice I have ever made, and the voices accuse me. I see visions of my childhood, teenage years, and adulthood. I see visions of my orphanage I see myself hitting another child in a rage. I hear the voices begin to mock me, "Low born, Violent, Angry, Insolent." The eyes are almost worst they silently judge me with scorn.

Next I see visions of my teenage years stealing on the streets back in Ashfield. I see myself grabbing bread that a child dropped for me. I pick it up and eat it like a dog eating table scraps. The voices mock again, "Dog, scavenger, parasite, insect." Eyes bore into me almost painfully now.

Next memory happens in adulthood my most vulnerable memory. I see a vision of myself yelling into an earpiece, "The fucking security is still here Finn! God dammit! I am going in!" The voices are like needles digging into my flesh, "Bad leader, rash, terrible friend, coward."

I feel the weight of the eyes and feel like crying now I can see why any host would break upon seeing all of this spotlight on their worst moments. I feel horrible with each memory I feel like I am losing a piece of myself. I refuse to back down though I am more self-aware than the average person. Anything they say to me is nothing I haven't said to myself before.

I begin shouting at the voices, "Yeah, I've screwed up. A lot. And I'll probably screw up again. But that's me. I am human and I accept my flaws this is who Jack Vesper is and I am not ashamed of it."

The eyes fade away, but the whispers remain pouring in insults directly into my brain, but I refuse to yield. I shout, "You can all watch, judge, and whisper, but none of it matters. I decide who I am, not you" The voices fade away now leaving me alone in the pitch black mindscape. I relax a little, but I don't let my guard down. I realize that can't be the only reason Falastor has never had a host. 

I blink, and suddenly I'm surrounded by countless versions of myself—no, warped reflections. Some are grotesque, twisted exaggerations of my worst flaws: hunched, weak, sneering with contempt. Others are impossibly perfect, radiating an air of flawlessness that feels alien, unattainable. They shift and shimmer like broken glass, each image cutting into me with its silent accusation.

I want to look away, but there's nowhere to look. The mirrors are everywhere, forcing me to confront what I am—and what I'll never be.

Falastor's voice echoes, smooth and sharp. "Do you see it, mortal? The weight of imperfection. The pull of unattainable perfection. Can you bear the burden of both?"

I snort, shaking my head. "Mirrors, Falastor? You really think mirrors can break me?" My voice stays calm, steady.

The images sneer back at me, their silence louder than any shout. But I press on. "I've never been perfect, and I've known that for as long as I can remember. You think I don't see my flaws? That I don't already carry them with me every day?" I meet the eyes of one grotesque reflection, then another, refusing to look away.

"But here's the thing: I don't need to be perfect. I don't need to live up to some impossible version of myself. My value isn't tied to how flawless I am or how close I come to some ideal." I let out a dry laugh, gesturing to the reflections. "These? They're just echoes, shadows. They can't hurt me unless I let them. And I don't plan on letting them."

The shifting images seem to hesitate, their edges blurring. Falastor's voice returns, this time with a trace of something like amusement. "Hmph. Perhaps you are more than a fleeting mortal, after all. Let's see if you can hold onto those ideals until the end."

The void closes in, and I'm standing alone under a harsh, glaring light. It's blinding and hot, as if it's peeling away every layer of my being. There's nothing to hide behind, no shadows to retreat to. I can't tell if the light is exposing me or burning me alive—or maybe both.

I stand there, fists clenched at my sides, sweat pouring down my face. The light feels like it's about to crush me, but I force myself to breathe. In. Out. Steady.

I open my mouth, despite the scorching intensity of the light. "Is this all you have, Falastor?" My voice doesn't shake. It's steady, firm. "This isn't a test of strength. It's not about holding on to anything. It's about letting go."

The light flickers, almost like it's waiting for me to crack. But I don't.

I close my eyes, not to escape the light, but to meet it fully. I let the heat wash over me. I don't fight it. It's stripping away everything, and maybe that's exactly what I need. Maybe I've been carrying all this weight—this need to be perfect, to prove myself—when all I really have to do is accept the truth of who I am.

I've screwed up. A lot. I've hurt people. I've made mistakes. But that's not all I am. Those things don't define me. They're just pieces of the puzzle. I don't need to hide from them, or run from them. I just need to accept them.

I take a deep breath, and I let go. I let the light burn away all the pressure I've been carrying—the need to be flawless, the need to be better than I am. I don't need to be perfect. I'm just me. That's enough.

And just like that, the light begins to fade. It doesn't burn as hot. It doesn't press in on me with the same intensity. It's still there, but it's no longer trying to break me. I've let go of the fight. I've let go of the need to be anything more than what I am.

When I open my eyes, the blinding light is gone. The weight has lifted. I'm standing in the void, but I'm not alone. I'm here—whole, imperfect, but whole.

I hear clapping in the endless void. Then Falastor appears in front of me. Falastor's voice echoes through the silence, a reluctant note of respect in his tone. "You endure. You are the first, mortal, to withstand the gaze of eternity."

I exhale a long, shaky breath, but I don't feel broken. I feel... free. I nod, not in pride, but in quiet acceptance. "I told you," I murmur, my voice steady, "I don't need to be perfect. I just need to be me."

Falastor's smile is genuine, an unexpected softness to his usual cold demeanor. "Most humans, when stripped bare like that, lose themselves. They can't bear it—the raw exposure, the ruthless judgment. They crumble, shattered by the realization that they are, at their core, imperfect. Mortals are so deeply afraid of their flaws being seen, so desperate to be accepted, that the very thought of their imperfections being laid bare is enough to break them."

He pauses, eyes narrowing as he studies me, the golden light of his gaze flickering with a trace of admiration. "I've watched countless souls fall before the gaze of eternity. They scream. They plead. They hide. But you? You didn't flinch. Most mortals can't even accept that they're less than perfect, let alone confront it head-on. Perfection is their unattainable dream, and the moment they fail to reach it, they collapse. They can't live with the weight of their flaws, and they certainly can't bear the gaze of others looking at them, dissecting them, pointing out every little shortcoming."

He lets out a breath, almost amused. "Humans are so fragile in that way. The fear of being judged—of being seen as flawed—drives them to madness. They want acceptance, crave it in a way that makes them weak. When it's denied, when they face the reality of their imperfection, they break. They fall apart. It's an inevitability. But you... you stood tall, even with the entire weight of your own imperfections staring you down. You conquered it. You became more than what I thought was possible."

The admiration in his eyes sharpens. "You've done what none of your kind ever could. Therefore I willing to form a proper pact with you. The only human that has ever impressed me."

Falastor's golden eyes are still fixed on me, an unspoken weight in the air between us. His words echo in the void, an acknowledgment I never thought I'd hear from him.

He steps forward, closing the distance between us, and the moment he does, a strange energy swells around us, pulsing like a living thing. The very fabric of the void shivers. The air feels thick with power, as if the universe itself is holding its breath.

"This is not just a mere pact, mortal," he says, his voice low and filled with something unfamiliar—respect, perhaps. "This is a binding, a union of essence. You will carry a part of me within you, and I will walk with you, in shadow or in light. There is no turning back from this."

He extends his hand, and for a moment, I hesitate. The weight of the decision is not lost on me. This is more than an alliance. It's a transformation—something that will change me at my core. But I've walked this far. The choice is mine, and I know what I must do.

I reach out, my hand trembling just slightly, but I take his in a firm grip. The moment our skin touches, a sharp pulse of energy shoots through me, and a searing sensation courses through my veins. It's not painful, but it's intense, like the heat of a forge wrapping around my soul.

The light shifts again, but now it feels different—warmer, almost comforting. I can feel the power of the pact settling within me, an ancient force that is both foreign and strangely familiar. It fills the empty spaces inside me, but it also exposes them. A part of me feels like it's been branded, a permanent mark on my soul.

"I have chosen you, Jack Vesper," Falastor's voice murmurs, deeper now, like the sound of thunder rolling through the air. "You are no longer just a mortal. You are the vessel of my essence, and in return, you will gain the strength to shape your own destiny. The gaze of eternity will never fully release its judgment—but now, you will hold the power to see through it, to bend its weight, to use it." I feel a singe of pain on my arm as a black tattoo is stitched into my skin, and my very soul. The tattoo is Falastor's sigil burned onto my skin forever. "The pact is made," Falastor concludes, and the space around us shudders with finality. "And now, you are more than you ever were.

I feel it—deep inside me—a new fire, a shift in my very being. The pact is done. I've made my choice. And no matter what comes next, I will face it with everything that I am. Imperfect, but whole. Ready to walk this path, wherever it leads.