The moment Ethan stepped through the Gate of the Void, he expected to see churning abysses, blazing hellfire, or at the very least some cliché infernal décor—lava, bones, demons, maybe even a sprinkle of sulfur for good measure.
Instead, what greeted him was a theater.
An utterly ridiculous, reality-defying theater.
There was no audience, only rows of empty seats, each coated in dust, as if tickets had been bought but no one had bothered to show up. At the center, a heavy red curtain hung, spotlights blindingly bright upon it, though the light carried no warmth at all.
"…Is this heaven's waiting room?" Mason muttered, his voice bouncing endlessly in the hollow space, like a stupid laugh stuck on repeat.
"Looks more like a rehearsal hall for some washed-up troupe," Ethan said, his gaze fixed on the curtain, a deep sense of absurd foreboding tightening his chest. "Except here, the audience is missing, the actors are late, and we—well, we're the clowns who wandered onto the wrong script."
The curtain suddenly split open—not drawn back, but torn apart by its own impatience to conceal. The stage was empty. From above descended a floating loudspeaker glowing faintly green.
"Welcome, brave intruders…" The voice crackled through it, dripping with sarcasm, like a choir of judges, priests, and sleazy salesmen all speaking at once. "You have trespassed into the sanctum of the Void. Now, you will witness destiny's performance."
The entire theater flared to life, lights blazing as though a grand play was about to begin—except the cast list did not include them. Laughter rose from the seats, low and mocking, though not a soul was visible.
"Where's that laugh coming from?" Karl frowned.
"Probably the air laughing at us," Ethan replied coldly, though irritation prickled under his skin.
The curtain behind the stage flickered into a massive screen, projecting scenes of their journey: the Death Labyrinth, the black pyramid, devoured souls, the betrayal of their companion. Their whole absurd ordeal, edited into something resembling a cheap horror flick.
"Please enjoy your highlight reel," the loudspeaker drawled. "Every breakdown, every punchline, was a masterpiece of the Void. You thought you were resisting—but you were only reading your lines."
"Goddamn it," Mason spat. "So we're not even extras. We're just the joke of the script."
Ethan stayed silent. He could feel the theater itself staring at him, as if the walls and lights were all just eyes.
The screen shifted again—now showing their future: death, consumption, dust, or eternal servitude to the Void. Every ending dripping with mockery.
"So this is it?" Ethan's voice was cold. "We fight our way here just to watch a bad ending?"
"Wrong," the speaker sneered. "You're here for auditions. The Void requires new actors—and you fit perfectly."
As the words echoed, the empty seats filled with figures. Not strangers—but their dead comrades. Dressed as spectators, clapping, whistling, laughing stiffly. Their smiles were frozen, their eyes hollow, their applause mechanical.
Mason went pale. "…They're dead."
"Yes," Ethan whispered. "But here, the dead make better audiences than the living."
The curtain rippled. From its folds stepped a black figure in a robe, face hidden by a mask, only a wide, ear-to-ear grin visible.
"I am the stage director," the figure intoned. "Your roles are: the foolish clown, the sacrificial lamb, and… the failed hero."
Ethan smirked. "You forgot one role—the punchline of the playwright."
Scattered applause rang through the empty theater, as though even the Void itself appreciated the irony.
Mason shouted, desperate: "We're not here to act! We want answers!"
The stage director spread his arms like a ringmaster greeting his crowd. "Answers? There are none. You have never been free. Every step you took was staged scenery. Heaven and hell are illusions. There is only the theater. There is only the Void."
The seats began to tremble. The dead companions chanted in unison: "Encore! Encore!"
The scene was suffocating in its absurdity—a crowd of corpses demanding an encore.
Ethan laughed. He laughed like a madman. "So that's it. We've been fighting all this time, only to end up as jokes for the audience."
His laughter and the applause of the dead fused into a grotesque symphony.
The lights went out, leaving only the stage director's voice echoing in the dark:
"Welcome to the first act beyond the Void Gate—Absurd Lives."