The darkness wasn’t gradual. One mont Elara was drowning in pain, magic tearing through her body like fire through paper. The next, she was standing in ’white’.
Not a room. Not exactly. Just... whiteness. Endless in all directions. No walls. No floor she could identify, though sothing solid existed beneath her feet. No ceiling, though the space felt enclosed.
She’d been here before.
Elara turned slowly, cataloging details with clinical precision despite the circumstances. Sa featureless white expanse. Sa sense of existing outside normal physics. Sa—
Yes. There.
In the distance—though "distance" was a aningless concept here—she could see ’him’. The System. Or whatever it called itself. That vaguely humanoid shape made of shifting geotric patterns and light, hovering at what approximated eye level.
Elara looked at it with the sa expression she’d use for a particularly tedious spreadsheet.
Then she looked ’up’.
Because the System was an interdiary. A program. An interface. And she’d learned in her first life that when dealing with programs, you didn’t waste ti yelling at the user interface. You demanded to speak to whoever wrote the code.
"I know you’re there," she said flatly, addressing the empty white sky above her. "If you’re going to lecture , at least have the courtesy to do it directly instead of hiding behind your automated response system."
Silence.
Elara waited. She was good at waiting. Her entire second life had been an exercise in patience—watching, calculating, letting others make mistakes while she collected data.
She examined her fingernails. They were clean here. Perfectly manicured. Interesting. Her actual body’s nails had been ragged from clawing at bedsheets during the magical overflow. This representation was idealized.
’Projection based on self-image,’ she noted ntally. ’Or possibly the System’s default template. Useful data point.’
The silence stretched.
Elara sighed—a deliberate sound, projected into the void. "Fine. I’ll wait. I have nothing but ti, apparently. Unless you’re planning to kill while I’m stuck in this white room, in which case, please proceed. Standing here is inefficient."
A sound rippled through the space.
Laughter.
Female. Light. Musical, even. Like wind chis in a sumr breeze—the kind of sound that belonged in ditation videos and nature docuntaries, not in confrontations with cosmic entities.
Nothing like the heavy, distorted voices movies always gave to gods and demons. No echoing bass. No dramatic reverb. Just... a woman’s voice. Pleasant. Almost ’gentle’.
"’You called ,’" the voice said, emanating from everywhere and nowhere. "’aning the sigh counts as a summons now? How convenient.’"
Elara’s expression didn’t change. "You’re the one who put here. I assu that ans you want sothing."
"’I gave you a life to live. Don’t you think you should live it like a normal human?’"
"Define normal."
"’Not like a robot.’" The voice held faint amusent. "’I gave you a human existence, not a chanical one. You don’t feel emotions the sa way others do—yes, I know. Alexithymia. I’m aware. But that doesn’t an you ARE a robot. There’s a difference.’"
Elara tilted her head slightly. "You’re criticizing my operational efficiency?"
"’I’m criticizing your blatant disregard for basic self-preservation!’" The gentle voice sharpened. "’What the hell are you doing, treating your life like it’s a disposable resource? Playing with death like it’s a joke? You don’t even have the slightest bit of fear. Do you know how hard it is to get a human life?’"
"Statistically speaking, approximately 385,000 humans are born every day, so—"
"’Not the point!’" The voice actually sounded exasperated now. "’Do you have ANY idea how long the cycle takes? How many incarnations, how many levels of existence you have to pass through? From microorganisms to insects to simple animals to complex animals and FINALLY to human consciousness? We’re talking millions of years of accumulated spiritual developnt. MILLIONS. And you—YOU—don’t even care!’"
Elara processed this. "So reincarnation operates on a progression system. Noted. Though that raises questions about the chanism for mory wipe between incarnations and whether—"
"’Focus!’"
"I am focused. You’re the one who started explaining cosmological chanics."
Silence. The kind of silence that suggested an immortal being was counting to ten.
"’I gave you two chances,’" the voice said finally, with forced calm. "’The first was your original life. You died betrayed and alone. So I gave you a second chance—a new world, a new body, even the dical research you loved so much built into your new mother’s legacy. What MORE do you want from ?’"
Elara raised one hand, like a student asking a question in class.
The voice paused. "’...What.’"
"Wait. I need clarification." Elara’s tone was perfectly neutral. "You’re claiming responsibility for my transmigration. But I didn’t see any divine intervention at my death. No light. No voice. No ’you have been chosen’ mont. Just poison, darkness, and then waking up in this body. So either you’re lying about your involvent, or your process is so subtle as to be indistinguishable from random chance."
"’I—’" The voice sputtered. "’Are you QUESTIONING ?’"
"Yes. Data should be verified. You could be a hallucination caused by poison-induced brain damage. Or a manifestation of my dying consciousness trying to impose narrative structure on random neurological firing. I’m not going to accept claims of divine authority without evidence."
The white space rippled. For a mont, the temperature dropped—not physically, but ’conceptually’. The sensation of standing before sothing vast and ancient and NOT PLEASED.
Then, unexpectedly, that musical laughter again.
"’You really are impossible,’" the voice said, sounding almost fond. "’Fine. You want proof? Look behind you.’"
Elara turned.
A figure stood there now—translucent, shimring, barely more than an outline. But recognizable.
It was her. Her ’original’ body. The one from Earth. Twenty-nine years old, wearing the business suit she’d died in, standing with perfect posture and empty eyes.
Next to that figure, another appeared. The ’original’ Yue Lian. The princess who’d owned this body before Elara’s consciousness invaded it. Younger, softer, with frightened eyes and hands that shook slightly even in death-mory.
"’Two souls,’" the voice said quietly. "’One body. That’s not natural. That’s not random. I facilitated the transfer because both of you were dying at the exact sa mont—one from poison, one from despair so deep it was killing her from the inside out. I gave you her body. I gave her peace. And I gave you a second chance.’"
Elara studied the two figures. "Where is she now? The original princess?"
"’Gone. Dissolved back into the cycle. She wanted to stop existing—truly stop, not reincarnate. I granted that wish.’" A pause. "’You’re welco, by the way.’"
"For what?"
"’For EVERYTHING!’" The exasperation was back. "’Child, first—mind your language. Second—I gave you soone who’s willing to die for you. Multiple soones, actually. Those beast knights? That devotion isn’t normal. I weighted the probabilities. And you don’t even CARE. You don’t think that’s enough?’"
Elara’s expression remained flat. "Wait. First—there’s no one who would die for . That’s not how loyalty works. They’re bound by enchantnt and circumstance, not genuine attachnt. Second—I’m ’emotionless like a cat all day’ as you so eloquently put it. I can barely speak properly to people. So are you seriously getting angry at for not performing emotional gratitude I’m neurologically incapable of feeling?"
"’That’s not—you’re missing the POINT—’"
User Comments
0 comments from readers