Death Is The Beginning

A man lay on the cold floor, his body nearly lifeless. His black hair gleamed under the dim light, his tanned skin bore a refined quality, and his clothes were tattered beyond repair. Slowly, he opened his eyes, blinking twice before glancing around.

Around him, others lay in a similar state—motionless, disoriented, barely clinging to consciousness. Though they did not resemble him in appearance, they shared his circumstances. One by one, they began to stir, awakening to their unfamiliar surroundings. Yet the man felt no urgency to rise. The mere thought of exertion irritated him; even the effort required to sit upright seemed like an unnecessary burden.

Then, the murmurs of confusion turned into frantic voices. Though their fear was apparent, the man remained indifferent to their distress. They turned to one another, desperate for answers.

"Where are we?" someone asked.

The man finally sat up, his expression twisting into one of confusion as he silently echoed the question in his mind. Where am I?

The panic escalated, the tension thickening as fear gripped the crowd, particularly the women, whose anxiety manifested in trembling voices. It was only a matter of time before hysteria consumed them all, or so the man predicted.

Then, a voice cut through the chaos.

"Everyone, calm down!"

A man with long brown hair, a strong build, and piercing brown eyes stood among them. His voice, though commanding, carried an undeniable composure. Like a lone star piercing the night sky, his presence drew every gaze, even that of the reluctant observer.

For a moment, silence reigned.

"I understand that you're all confused," the brown-haired man continued, his voice steady. "But if we succumb to panic, we won't be able to make sense of this situation. We need to communicate. Let's start by sharing where we were before we arrived here."

A leader.

In times like these, a leader was exactly what they needed. Like a herd of lost sheep, they instinctively gravitated toward him, clinging to the hope that he might provide clarity.

The reluctant man, however, saw no reason to follow the masses. Nor did he feel compelled to reveal anything about his past.

One by one, the others spoke. A man recounted walking his dog before everything went black. Another had been standing on his apartment balcony when his world suddenly blurred. Each person shared their last memory—except for the reluctant man.

The brown-haired leader's gaze eventually settled on him. Noticing his silence, he moved through the crowd, stepping toward the lone figure who had chosen to stand apart from the rest.

Eyes closed, the man attempted to recall the moments before his arrival, but his memories were a haze. The only thing that remained clear was the bleak reality of his life—a 20-year-old man stuck in a dead-end job, barely scraping by to pay rent.

A light tap on his shoulder pulled him from his thoughts. He opened his eyes slowly.

"Hello there. What's your name?"

The man hesitated. He had no real interest in participating in whatever this was, but refusing to answer would only alienate him further. If he dismissed the one person trying to establish order, the crowd would surely turn against him. So, with a practiced smile, he responded,

"Oh, me? My name is Bernard Sylvester."

"A pleasure to meet you, Bernard." The man extended his hand in greeting. "I'm Arthur Francis."

Bernard shook his hand, not out of sincerity, but to maintain appearances.

Arthur, huh? A kingly name—no wonder he's trying to rule over everyone else, Bernard mused silently.

"So, Bernard," Arthur continued, "do you recall anything about how you got here?"

If he had, Bernard would have lied. But the truth was, his memory was blank. Meeting Arthur's unwavering gaze, he simply said,

"I don't remember."

A wave of frustration rippled through the crowd. Their voices rose, their expressions twisted with suspicion and anger. Bernard had unwittingly become their scapegoat.

"How can you not remember?" a woman with smudged lipstick sneered.

"You're the only one refusing to answer!" a bespectacled man shouted.

Bernard maintained his pleasant expression, but beneath the surface, irritation churned.

Of course. When people lack answers, they turn on the one who stands apart. Typical.

The hostility escalated. A man from the crowd, his fists clenched, stepped forward, ready to strike. But before he could get close, Arthur intercepted him.

"Enough!" Arthur's voice was firm yet calm. "Blaming Bernard won't help us. Let's focus on what we do know."

How noble, Bernard thought, smirking inwardly. He's willing to trust anything anyone says without a shred of evidence. How amusing.

The tension dissipated, and the crowd dispersed, though Arthur remained close to Bernard. Without a word, he sat on the ground beside him and patted the spot next to him.

"Sit," he said.

Bernard hesitated before complying, still perplexed by Arthur's persistence. After a moment, he voiced his thoughts.

"Why are you still here?"

Arthur exhaled, staring ahead. "Truthfully? I don't remember anything either. I just woke up here."

Bernard blinked. So that's why he helped me?

He thought back to the crowd's reaction. They had turned their anger on him for his lack of answers, yet none of them had questioned their so-called leader. Hypocrites. But, of course, why would they challenge the only person willing to take charge?

Feigning surprise, Bernard glanced at Arthur. "So that's why you stepped in?"

"Not just that," Arthur admitted. "I can't stand seeing people being singled out for no reason. What they did to you was wrong."

Bernard gave a slow nod. "I see."

For the next hour, they spoke, their conversation occasionally interrupted by the hushed murmurs of the crowd. Then, without warning, a figure descended from above.

Clad in a flowing black cloak, a scythe in hand, it hovered above them, its very presence suffocating the air in the room.

The crowd fell silent, their fear tangible.

The figure let out a few soft coughs before speaking.

"Welcome to the Death Realm. I trust you are all prepared."