Zario, holding on to the remnants of clarity in this formless existence, tried to look around, but the action itself, habitual and natural in the world of matter, here lost its definition, since the space surrounding him had no directions, no boundaries, not even a hint of the presence of another entity, leaving him in a crushing, infinitely stretched emptiness that not only surrounded, but seemed to penetrate the very structure of his perception.
However, the feeling of someone else's presence did not disappear.
It did not manifest itself in form, sound, or movement, but remained, like a shadow existing without a source of light, evoking in him a rare, almost forgotten feeling of tense anticipation.
And the next moment…
It has taken shape.
Not through appearance in the usual sense, but through a change in reality itself, which, as if obeying someone's will, began to shift, to rebuild, to acquire a structure that was previously alien to it, as if an invisible force, hidden beyond the limits of perception, decided to give this place a form accessible to understanding.
The void trembled.
Its formlessness began to disintegrate, giving way to outlines, at first barely discernible, then increasingly clear, increasingly stable, until the chaotic, incomprehensible environment turned into a space with depth, distance and direction.
In front of Zario, at a distance that was impossible to measure but which he could still sense, columns began to rise.
Huge.
Rising with a slow, majestic inevitability, as if they were not created but emerged from the very fabric of this reality, growing upward, tearing apart the remnants of the former emptiness.
There were five of them.
Each of them was different, but at the same time they maintained a common harmony, as if they were parts of a single design, embodied in stone, which did not look dead, but, on the contrary, seemed filled with a hidden movement, barely perceptible, but constant.
The surface of the columns was covered with patterns.
Complex, graceful, deep-going, intertwining lines that were impossible to fully grasp with a glance, because they conveyed more than just decorativeness, but something more – meaning encoded in form, a pattern expressed through beauty.
And in each of these columns, as if carved from its very essence, there was a throne.
Not separate, not added, but a continuation of the structure itself, perfectly integrated into it, as if the column and the throne were a single whole, separated only to emphasize their purpose.
Entities sat on the thrones.
Five.
Their presence required no confirmation, for it was felt with the same clarity with which gravity is felt—not visible, but inevitable.
They were dressed in clothes that could not be called simply outfits, since the fabric of which they were composed did not obey the usual laws, shimmering with shades that had no names, changing shape depending on the angle of perception, as if they themselves were trying to go beyond the limits of what they were.
And even though their faces remained hidden, inaccessible to view, in their silhouettes, in their stillness, in their very manner of existence, one could sense a beauty—not superficial, not human, but deep, almost overwhelming, such that any comparison loses its meaning.
Beauty bordering on something unattainable.
Beauty in which power was hidden.
And Zario, for the first time in a long time, found himself not the one looking down on, but the one standing before those whose existence cannot be measured by conventional categories.
The irritation that flared in the depths of Zario's consciousness rose sharply and vividly, like an echo of a nature that had known no subordination for centuries, since the very fact that someone was looking down on him felt less like a circumstance than like a violation of the very essence of his existence. However, no sooner had this feeling formed than it was instantly tempered by another, far colder and more precise reaction – instinct, honed to the extreme, and a mind accustomed to assessing threats without illusions, the very next second clearly indicated that the beings standing before him were beyond comparison, beyond the scale of power, and that any resistance in their presence was devoid not only of meaning, but of possibility.
Even without this internal assessment, without relying on experience and calculation, the very atmosphere emanating from these creatures was so oppressive that any living being with even the rudiments of perception would have realized that before them were not enemies or opponents, but something fundamentally different, standing beyond the usual understanding of strength.
And at the moment when this realization finally took shape, one of the creatures, sitting on its column, moved slightly.
Traffic was minimal.
So much so that it might not have been noticed if space itself had not responded to it, as if recognizing its right to change reality.
The hand went up.
Smoothly, gracefully, without effort, as if the gesture itself were not an action, but a manifestation of a decision already made.
The snap of fingers sounded almost silent.
And yet…
It became an event.
Right at the point where Zario was, space distorted, as if a thin film had been momentarily torn, and from this deformation, without transition, without gradualness, four more figures appeared.
The five, barely aware of each other's presence, exchanged brief, extremely precise glances in which there was neither trust nor hostility, but only a cold, instant recognition of beings of equal strength, after which their attention, almost synchronously, as if obeying a single impulse, rushed upward again - to the towering columns where sat those whose existence defied comparison or understanding in conventional categories.
The space froze.
Not in a physical sense, but in a deeper, more elusive way, where reality itself seemed to be waiting for the continuation, already knowing that it was inevitable.
The voice sounded again.
But now it was impossible to determine its source, since it did not come from any one of the figures, nor from any specific direction, but existed everywhere at once, penetrating not into the ear, but into the very structure of consciousness, filling it completely.
— All the candidates for the Death Festival are here.
The words were not an announcement.
They were a record of fact.
A statement that left no room for doubt or objection, as if the selection process that had brought them here had already been completed, and now the next stage was opening before them, one that could not be avoided.
As soon as this statement had dissolved in perception, another voice took its place.
Distinguished.
And yet it possessed the same impossible, almost frightening purity, in which any imperfections inherent in living beings were absent.
"Players of the Death Festival..." A short, measured pause, in which there was a sense not of indecision, but of absolute control over every moment, "I declare the game open."
The meaning of these words, despite their apparent simplicity, was felt much deeper than their literal meaning, since the very word "game," uttered in this place, in the presence of these entities, lost all lightness, turning into something much more fundamental - into a system in which something immeasurably greater than just victory or defeat was at stake.
And then…
One more voice.
With a tint that is barely noticeable, but obvious enough to introduce dissonance into the perfect harmony of the previous ones.
The slight mockery hidden in his tone did not destroy the majesty of the moment, but gave it a disturbing depth, as if the one speaking saw something more than the rest.
— Look... we have high hopes for you.
These words were not supportive.
They sounded like anticipation.
As a demand veiled as favor.
And with a barely perceptible snap, which sounded not like a sound, but like an affirmation of will, from one of the beings seated on the columns, the space around Zario instantly responded, as if obeying not the action, but the very fact of intention, after which his essence began to be enveloped in snow-white sparks, at first rare and almost weightless, then increasingly dense, saturated, until they turned into a continuous stream of light, devoid of a source, but possessing an internal structure in which one sensed not chaos, but a strict, incomprehensible pattern.
The sparks didn't just touch him, they penetrated.
Passing through the remnants of his perception, through the boundaries of what could recently be called his "I," they began to blur the outlines of his existence, erasing the distinction between the inner and the outer, between where he ends and something else begins, as if the very concept of individuality was being dismantled here into its components.
The next moment…
Reality has disappeared.
It did not collapse, did not gradually disappear, but was taken away, torn out from under him without a trace, leaving in its place a state in which there were no landmarks, no points of support, no sense of direction, while his consciousness, deprived of the usual anchors, found itself drawn into a movement that had neither beginning nor purpose in the usual sense.
And before his consciousness, already losing stability under the pressure of what was happening, finally plunged into darkness...
He only managed to understand one thing.
This was just the beginning of something new and big.