Alice and Marinna paid no heed to this sensation of strangeness, akin to a disjointed intoxication; they listened to the discussion as best they could, all while experiencing this peculiar feeling.
Two silhouettes they recognized were conversing apart from the group, sitting on two chairs facing one another; they had their drinks and a few biscuits, an almost mocking smile upon their faces and frustration in their discussion.
Their impression was that of a withered tree beside a lion holding a two-tailed serpent between its paws, and a man who seemed not to belong to it all, followed by a mirage. Vague, almost uncertain. They could not help but narrow their eyes to be sure and certain of what they were seeing. Although certain they were there, both seemed almost like a projection coming from afar.
Their existences were stubborn, as though they had shriveled, even shrunken, under the effect of something. The two resembled themselves, yet from the most different of angles: one looked almost like an old man who had lived a fine life, all his goals fulfilled; the other resembled rather a serious man, but far more serious than he used to be, almost like a war general or a commander. Yet the final silhouette seemed to gaze down upon them with a superior look, as if dealing with two beings he did not consider human.
From afar, Marinna thought their gazes were empty, like those of a dead fish, or of something that no longer held the slightest trace of vitality or hope... their gazes seemed frozen in two distinct states, like a sort of decay that had lasted forever, something eternal; their eyes reflected something unknown, mysterious.
...
The two men were speaking of a subject of the utmost importance, at least to one; the other was merely annoyed by his exasperating behavior.
— You've completely lost your mind, I swear! There is nothing left in you but madness and ideas completely disconnected from reality; are they the ones speaking for you? said Thomas Stormen, who appeared utterly exasperated. Pull yourself together, and stop talking to me about these most disgusting and filthy suggestions that are gnawing at your twisted mind. Come back down to earth and stop making such fantastic and delusional suggestions to me, understood! I am neither your brother nor one of your kin, so show some tact toward my poor mind.
"How did I ever manage to end up speaking with this being inferior to me? He is decadence, I am the ascent toward the summit, the one who will touch the sun with his bare hand.
I am better than them, I am better than them in every way! This is neither a boast nor a way to prove anything; it is simply a reality, they must accept it just as I have accepted this part of myself.
I cannot slow down for what I am; my will is a weapon that only superior persons can wield. I am superior, so I have the duty to push forward for this to become reality." thought Thomas Stormen, looking at Paul with a faint smile.
— And above all, stop talking to me about your damn dreams or nightmares, I am not your psychologist, said Thomas Stormen, annoyed by Paul's words. I certainly listen to the group, because I have the best empathy in the group—the rest of the group having less than I do, and above all, I know how to catalyze the group—but that does not mean you must dump upon me all the horrors your sick brain sends back to you, because at this rate, it is I who will go mad listening to you talk about all these horrors prowling through your mind.
Thomas viewed Paul as a sort of dead tree, something that in time would end up becoming grass for other species. He detested that kind of person, or at least that type: he seemed to have no motivation, and even less of a real objective. Something their eyes spoke for them.
— Is the strongest of all afraid of my poor problems? said Paul Vågen mockingly. I know that what I might say can be poorly perceived, or even fill certain people with disgust, but that in no way justifies why I should not share them with others. My vision of my thought is not wrong, it is merely fragmented by these strange dreams I have; there is nothing wrong with speaking of these things to others. Look, you are not dead, so I can say them, and besides, these are only thoughts—no thought has ever killed men just by being spoken, has it? So there you have it, the matter is settled...
Thomas looked at him with the most astonished eyes; he seemed almost frustrated by this madman's inability to understand the situation he found himself facing. He almost seemed to understand his mother, who struggled with him because he had too big an ego; now, it was his turn to deal with someone who also had a very big ego.
— Nothing is settled, Paul, absolutely nothing, replied Thomas Stormen. Do you find your way of speaking or even thinking normal? Not for me, quite the contrary, I would say: you are the very representation of the skeleton whispering into the artist's ear, but unlike the devils who speak to make things move forward, you are the madman who does nothing but plunge others into your personal madness; that is why you need to shut your mouth. You are truly a selfish child who thinks only of himself by wanting to talk about his madness to others, while I just see a profound moron.
— I find that a bit harsh, coming from you, declared Paul Vågen. No one ever said that madness could make us regress. I would even say it is quite the contrary: madness offers virtues that few people suspect. You see, I believe I have already read that somewhere, and I even believe I have already said this phrase, to the effect that madness brings benefits. And besides, there is nothing selfish or individualistic about wanting to share my dream with others.
Paul resembled something that should never have lived, a fish living in total darkness and yet completely out of its usual habitat; it had learned to breathe like any other species and had ended up in these places by mistake. And thus, he had remained incapable of achieving, let alone thinking like everyone else; incapable of fulfilling his sole mission in this world: to die and then vanish for good. He was a being apart, something that could not stay on a straight line without moving, a sort of monster or creature that had to assert itself through all kinds of aberrations to show that he was superhuman, that he was this lion and not a dying tree slowly burning out; he was both, in all his great honor...
Because of this, Thomas had quickly understood that this was not a real problem, even though he could not affirm it with absolute conviction. It was impossible for this man to be a threat, he... had neither feeling nor aspiration to begin to become or be dangerous. To him, he was that harmless thing, fertilizer for flowers, a beast stripped of any form of violence.
Yet for some reason, he feared him too; he was certainly harmless in appearance, but he could very well become dangerous—who knows what a man cornered in his own madness might become? He was a paradox, someone non-linear, someone who followed no habitual pattern.
— Do you ever listen to yourself speak? Because right now, I truly feel like I'm talking to a madman in a psychiatric hospital who refuses to admit it, said Thomas Stormen. You are completely out of your mind; you can even take that as a compliment, because for the rest, there is nothing left to say... You are the most racist person I know; you are fatphobic, antisemitic, anti-disabled, you are against everything and everyone. I'm even convinced you believe in nothing—neither in some unknown god nor in yourself. You must be one of those nihilists who believe in nothing, even though the world is far more beautiful than people think. And on top of that, you're completely selfish; you constantly think only of yourself before thinking of us, the very members of your group—remember, when we were back there, you abandoned us just for a chocolate cake. Do you realize how individualistic you are? So don't tell me your words will bring anything good to other people's minds; I'm already starting to get a headache just listening to your nonsense, so avoid piling it on.
Paul was no less human, with his own prejudices about the world; because of this, Thomas was a bit disappointed by him. He understood feelings, like anyone else, but for once, he was experiencing a deep, genuine disappointment. He was a deeply empathetic person, experiencing the emotions of others as a simple characteristic common to everyone and everything; in Paul's presence, he seemed entirely devoid of the slightest emotion. He found it almost ridiculous.
— It sounds like I'm talking to a brother I never knew; it's both wonderful to have someone who understands us, and thoroughly annoying, replied Paul Vågen with a smile. Granted, I have a good number of flaws, but I'm not sure I'm a fundamentally selfish, let alone individualistic person; I function this way because ever since I was a child, due to my shyness, I spoke very little, and when I expressed myself in writing, my dyslexia would catch up with me, so no one truly paid attention to me. Perhaps I'm simply used to thinking of myself first before others, but that doesn't make me what I am not, and telling the truth is not a form of discrimination—I find it is the first step toward accepting ourselves as we are...
— Stop with your Good Samaritan speech, retorted Thomas Stormen, who hated being taken for a fool. I didn't say whether you were doing it on purpose or not; it was merely an observation of your personality. And stop playing the poor child who can't speak properly—that stupid manipulation won't work on me, understood, so stop telling me your poor-child bullshit. You are the plague in human flesh, you are the cancer spreading to the heart of man, so stop taking me for an idiot. You know, I listen to every discussion in this group, just like Alice and Marinna who are listening to us right now. I've listened to your conversation with Leonard and Ulrich, and even your other discussions, so don't make me doubt what you truly are: a strange man.
Paul was also, at least to his own mind, someone empathetic; he seemed to want to feel the emotions of others but failed to understand them as he would have liked. He loved feeling all things, yet he was in no way able to express that love, finding himself incapable of feeling the slightest empathy or emotion toward them. Yet from time to time, or with certain persons, he seemed to perceive something of the person standing before him without even realizing it.
— So strangeness is forbidden nowadays? It takes all kinds to make this world work, retorted Paul Vågen. Your kindness isn't very sturdy, from what I can see, nor is your empathy—how does it work, on a remote control? One moment you activate it, the next you turn it off? Nor is your altruism either. What do you expect from me? That I keep my mouth shut just because you're listening? This is turning into anarchy of yours; you are not God, so cut out your god complex, understood, because you're going way too far in your delusion now, understood. I was merely submitting my thoughts to you; where is the harm in that?
— You're good at this game, from what I can see, truly very good; had it not been for me, everyone would have believed you, with your baby act of complaining about injustice because monsieur is being discriminated against on account of his ideas to carve up all the other groups, or at least the boys, to stuff them into mystery boxes, and to rape all the other girls because they well deserve it, right? said Thomas Stormen, laughing. That is precisely why I want to spare the others from having to endure what I must hear from your mouth—yes, of course, right now, that wasn't what you told me a few moments ago, but you certainly suggested it to me when we were back there, so stop looking at me with that face of someone who has been betrayed by his friend. I have never claimed to be the best person in the world, but between you and me, I am by far the most altruistic person. Granted, I don't show it, but I put the interests of others before my own.
Paul was about to stand up, but immediately settled back into his seat; he still had that little biscuit with him and his small coffee in his hands, smiling with an almost childish look, yet his gaze plunged straight into his opponent's soul, seeking out every desire hidden within; his legs were crossed, one of his hands holding his coffee, the other resting upon one of his thighs.
Thomas was also sitting in his armchair, but he felt someone behind him; he heard a noise, that of the waste bin: someone had just opened it to drop in a piece of paper. Then, the act finished, he heard footsteps coming up behind him, right to his armchair.
He glanced slightly to see who it was, but heard the person step forward until passing his seat; a most discreet, faint laugh brushed her lips, followed by a most delighted smile. She stopped behind Thomas's seat and leaned down, placing both hands on either edge of the chair, then brought her face close to the hollow of Thomas's ear... It was him, it was Paul.
Thomas had understood upon looking at him, then looked ahead, only to find that Paul was still there, watching him with a smile surely meant to deceive, or crafted to deceive someone, yet he had no intention of revealing who was going to be deceived... it almost reminded him of their first meeting.
— I was merely sharing ideas and reflections born of my dreams with you, you don't need to say it out loud, they'll all think I'm one of those madmen; besides, it's as if I'd actually harmed someone, so for the love of God, stop saying it like that, replied Paul Vågen. You really can't have any fun here anymore; now you have to walk the straight and narrow just so you don't get scolded by Mr. Perfect; truly, there is nothing wrong with what I said—granted, raping girls isn't right, but the idea in itself is genuinely more amusing, more rivalry, more games... I was only proposing this idea to help the group, if the group survives then I survive too, true my view of things is different from yours but it leads to the exact same end points, so shouldn't we rejoice? Feelings are a weakness when building a bridge toward our future, for all these beliefs and feelings aren't worth a penny in my eyes; to construct our church, or better yet, our village, we will have to do what must be done, because respecting an idea simply because it is ancient is a foolish belief that will lead us straight into a wall; even if I know what is good, what obliges me to do it? Morality? It is as illusory as gods, one day it's there, the next it's gone, for just because a thing is forbidden does not make it evil, nor because it is permitted does it make it just; the end justifies the means, and you know it as well as I do, to achieve freedom, one must get their hands dirty, and more than once.
The voice came from behind him; the Paul in the armchair was not speaking, bringing his coffee to his lips in silence, a simple, frozen smile upon a face that had grown so mysterious, a shadow bearing countless secrets about all things. The man before him must be the magician, and the man behind him, the hanged man—it definitively reminded him of their meeting.
Thomas gave a slight sigh and a smile; he closed his eyes for a few seconds then quickly reopened them, amused by it all. He had always found Paul bizarre yet interesting, even knowing he was one of the most mysterious and strange individuals... after all, here, there were only the most peculiar people.
He merely smiled, but his eyes were focused; Paul smiled back at him, but his smile was entirely different. The man behind him, who was also Paul, smiled as well, but in a much lighter way; he gazed into Thomas's eyes, while Thomas seemed to look straight ahead. He seemed to understand his desires, which ran through him; he was the ambition of the other, which was merely the inevitability of an omnipotence that already knew everything about existence; he knew, watching him with a calculating eye and an almost mystical calm.
The voices spoke, but both men, while discussing, seemed to fixate on something behind Paul's armchair, a painting in the distance; their eyes did not leave the canvas, a representation or an authentic painting by Anton Kaulbach: an elderly man, perhaps a scientist, with another man behind him who seemed deeply bound to him. The man and his demon...
He was both, he knew it, but he himself was completely uninterested in that, for he felt vastly superior to it all; he even found it amusing, yet he was nonetheless impressed by this sleight of hand, because being both the prisoner and the interrogator is something few people can pull off at the same time... but being the demon and the scientist is even harder, especially if the man facing you was himself; yet the funniest part was that he truly looked like a priest or an adventurer with a military man talking to a man like him.
He did not know what these experiments were about, but they were quite different from his own, and he knew it; he was not afraid of the unknown, the unknown was a means for him to prove he was the best. For being the strongest is one of the hardest tasks, especially in places that play tricks on our own minds and brains.
— Now you want to play the noble knight, wanting to put our team to good use, declared Thomas Stormen, almost amused. Really? Because I see no sincerity in your speech; there is only one fact I have understood: you want to see blood, your sole request is to see dead people. I am not surprised, because I know you from patching up all your blunders; you are not a nihilist, nor are you a fake nihilist, you are somewhere in between, undecided, walking a razor's edge; you believe in life, but not in its morality or its codes, so you play with it, especially with your most absurd acts that reveal the monstrosity of your philosophy and your conscience to justify it all. You see, I understand you, you are like an open book to me, I understand you just as well as I understand others, hence my towering empathy; I am a man who listens to the hearts of others more than my own, by the way, for one only needs to open one's heart to discover the other.
"Is he right? I don't know. Can we truly know what our own minds hide? Or should we let ourselves be guided by others? Being a true nihilist or a fake nihilist, does it really matter? I'm not so sure it does; ultimately, we are everything and nothing, we don't need to slap labels on our heads to know who we are, but it is both easier to know ourselves and, to understand oneself, one sometimes has to turn around to face oneself... is he right? I no longer know, or perhaps I don't really want to see. But I know I am not good, I love seeing fear in the eyes of others, it gives me a sense of happiness, terrorizing them makes me laugh, for morality is nothing, we invented it ourselves, so we can easily reshape it according to our own vision of things. I do not believe in this world, nor in the worlds I imagine for myself either; if both are as false as each other, nothing makes sense if we don't find meaning right here. I love madness, because we are free to do whatever we want, whether true or false, for the absurdity of some of my actions may simply be the justification of what I truly am, one of the most authentic and lost persons—for aren't we all lost? Within us, there is no philosophical term to say that we are everything and nothing, a point on a curve, then a line, then a murder; we are the blood of our actions and the madness of our minds, nothing is authentic if we hide from ourselves, so let's dance until death takes us, we only have one life, we might as well ruin it as much as possible, to make it as marvelous as possible." thought Paul Vågen, smiling in a cold, emotionless way.
A voice rose behind him, sounding delighted, almost moved; he felt it drawing closer to his ear, and out of the corner of his eye he saw two hands resting on the sides of his armchair tighten their grip. He almost regretted having started this discussion...
— It seems it's my turn now, said Paul, speaking from behind him with that same tempting smile. Salutations and venting actions are merely there for whatever I need to create a backdrop for my ambition, for my ideologies; fear and murder are nothing more than plugged-in people who are only polite after being reminded of all that we are. For judgment compels a most righteous correction, doesn't it? But love is one... for I love to see them thus, trembling and obedient before the judgment of their sin; this only resurrects respect and love within them, just as I have for them, it is the tension, one must forgive me just as one forgives them at that moment; they are creatures, one must only grant them an eternal death.
"Life... is a hard thing, harder than one hoped when coming into the world... for we are not free, we are merely people, nothing exceptional, we are but the tragic hero of our poor story. Yet certainly I am that, but I will be free to be that poor hero, for there is nothing more tragic than not having a hand in our destiny, in our life; I am free, and by this right I shall be the man who defies the heavens, for what are we, apart from flesh and bone? We are but beings of a linear life, of the most monotonous existences, might as well live the superman life of this tragic story; for before what should I bend the knee, before whom? God? He is dead, what's the point; before good or evil? These are merely concepts, might as well shatter them to create new ones; so why should I be forced not to be the one who ought to listen to all this? I am a man and, by this right, I am beneath everything that exists in this world, and what is outside of it is not of this world. I am the beginning and the end of my own tragic story!" thought Paul, watching him—him who was watching him out of the corner of his eye, without trembling.
"Killing... I have killed to be alive, to be able to exist, murder is only a means, it is merely a comma on a grand canvas where we see each of our actions displayed. Murder is a thing as beautiful as it is poetic, the song of the dead is a most divine thing. Every low blow has a reach, even upon our life, sometimes, with not even a 10% chance of succeeding, I must succeed, but we must do it because the demonic path cannot fail, they cannot lose, for a demonic heart has no right to lose, has no right to fall or fail, it must win at any cost. Even without a chance of winning, it must want to win, even without arms it must fight, even without a head it must have the heart of victory, this path cannot lose, this way is the weapon of our soul. Evil is a most simple path, but no, isolation and the most unsettling solitude await you, but I love that, the fear and the fresh, almost muddy blood stinking in the damp air, it is almost a dream... a paradise of blood, paradise and good are mere illusions in a world as strange as this one... evil is merely united to virtue, heaven and earth are witnesses to it, blood has been flowing since the dawn of time, good is a concept made to lock us away; the demonic path is an ironic thing—do we need reference points? Call it whatever we like, good or bad, but it is a most noble path! The most authentic one! It is the very essence of man!" he continued to think, with a smile that Thomas could not see, yet the most authentic and unhealthy of smiles.
— Based on what, your own crimes? replied Thomas. Granted, justice is required, but it is not for you to take the law into your own hands; you are far too cruel, even malevolent, to reign, you would only kill them for your own pleasure, or perhaps to gain even more power. A society does not function this way; if it does, then we can say that society has already failed in its quest for justice, we must help the world, not destroy it. A just world is built upon altruism and the well-being of the people who dwell in these places, rather than thinking only of oneself; selfishness has no place here, especially if it is only to destroy everything afterwards.
Paul smiled at this. Yet he continued to watch him, while also gazing at his other self sitting on the opposite armchair, who was watching him too.
— Our life is ultimately like a grand theater; order and life hang by a mere script, is our existence already decided in advance? Are we masters of our own destiny? declared Paul. Life is a mystery that must be unraveled through acts both good and bad, justice matters little, for no one will look at these acts, but rather at their outcomes—good or bad—whether things move forward as they should. Thus justice is merely illusory, for it springs from the same room as disorder, order and chaos are one and the same, so justice is as ephemeral as the flame kindled by the very first man who ever created it, everything is an illusion in this theater of life... one only needs to breathe life into their desires for reality to follow them, for I grew distant from the shiver of men, writing them off as trash by the wayside, and as they passed, that sensation transformed into jealousy, then into a profound hatred for them; it felt real to me, because I wanted to destroy them all and everyone!
He inhaled, then reflected for a few seconds before uttering a short sentence, almost like a whisper. The phrase sounded so strange that he did not know whether it came from him or someone else, but it struck him like poetry, like that of a celestial muse passing beneath the stars of a dark moon... of a moon without light.
Yet something he had not anticipated seeing occurred: both identical figures spoke at the same time, their lips and voices resonating as they uttered this phrase, as if it were their very being, as if they were nothing more than that, or rather a messenger on a quest, guiding man toward the end of a sky.
— "The angel falls from the heavens because of his revolution, the generation of all things comes through the abolition of every rule, for every thing has a beginning and an end, but war has none, for that was the will of the heavens. For that shall never fall, treason or rebellion, it will always drag him back to this culminating point, for all things are violence."
He continued into the hollow of his ear with the same calmness, but this time with more insistence in his words; he knew how to speak well, he would have made a good comedian or a war general.
— Perhaps... no, surely, said Paul, lightly chuckling behind Thomas's ear. But who has not already killed or wounded someone? We have all committed crimes of a moral or psychological order; even if sometimes we have done nothing, we are nonetheless sinners purging our crimes, so where is the wrong in my actions? I am merely myself, and I do what seems right to me so that the world where I am... my acts are nothing less than justice.
— What are you rambling on about now, what do you take yourself for, a messiah? You really make me laugh, you are nothing, so get down off your magic cloud, understood, retorted Thomas. Truly, between your twisted ideas and now taking yourself for the savior of the story, stop dreaming! You are nothing more than a raving madman. There is nothing wrong with believing we are the hero of a story, even I believe that, but now you're going way too far, understood, pull yourself together, Paul... I'm saying this for your own good. We all believe we are born thinking we are heroes, but sometimes, the end of our lives does not reflect what we had imagined. So, let's keep it from ending far too soon!
Thomas listened to him with that same annoyance he had always felt when speaking with someone he considered inferior to him. Yet he felt toward him the same thing as for a brother, or someone one holds dear; he felt a much more intimate empathy for him, not the kind seen for the rest of the world, no, one of the most personal kinds.
Yet... he almost felt as though he were in a dream, or a mystical illusion, listening to a madman lay out his most delusional ideas; it was a harsh thing, for who knows what will happen to us after listening to him—will we become just as mad? This man truly was that rotting tree, but one that seemed to hide a monster within its decayed bark...
He exhaled, almost tired of speaking, or even of reflecting on all of this... but a candle flickered to life within him, as if to remind him that he was the only one who dictated his own law, his own vision of the world, and not a beast in blue, a mad beast in blue meant to dictate a vision perverted by his own thoughts.
He straightened slightly in his armchair, crossing his feet and hands. Behind him, the man tightened his grip on the sides of the armchair, to the point of seeming to draw closer to him—at least, his breath grew closer. The other was still sitting across from him, but his posture had changed: his feet were no longer crossed. He had leaned forward, his feet planted in front of him, while maintaining that same small smile.
He smiled in the face of this change. A mocking chuckle rose from his smile before these two men; the nonsense of this scene almost made him want to correct them both, but he knew he could not, he was curious, and at the same time far too confident in his own victory.
— All the same, the things you say are something else, you are just as imperfect as anyone else, so why put yourself at the center of the equation when we are just as imperfect as you are? he continued, after this brief moment of silence, looking at Paul with a most smug gaze. You are truly a strange person, why must everything necessarily be destroyed? It's illogical, plus your ideas are utter nonsense. Truly, you are an imperfect person, almost a failure in the eyes of a world that drags along other failures, but also successes... the world is full of successes and a few failures like you and others, so why refuse to be that failure, to be that dyslexic who doesn't understand the world around him and doesn't understand himself?
He paused briefly before continuing and finishing the sentence he had left hanging; this time, he smiled slightly, almost mockingly to show them the truth, to the person standing in front and behind him.
— You are not the hero of your own life! You are nothing more than an extra watching it from the outside; it will do you no good to intervene, for if you do, your end will merely be written in advance... you will never be the tragic hero of your story! For your story ends right where that of a true hero begins.
Paul listened to him all the way to the end without interrupting. As Thomas spoke, his expression barely shifted, but upon hearing the final word, a hearty laugh escaped his throat, almost melodious—a mocking laugh steeped in madness.
— Heheheheh! Hahahahahhaha!
He tilted his eyes to the side, looking as though he were pondering the sentence he had just heard with complete gravity, before allowing an amused smile to break across his face at such a peculiar situation.
— We cannot truly say what we are, for who are we really? It is these very flaws that made the man I am today. It is these flaws that shaped me. What is so surprising about that? We are all human beings harboring the very same dreams taking root within each of us; I have never changed since the day I entered this world...
His gaze settled on Thomas, still accompanied by that smile which seemed to know neither awkwardness nor hesitation in its eyes.
He looked at his other self on the armchair facing Thomas; when their eyes met, they understood each other instantly through a single glance, for they were one—their desires, their hatreds, and their fascination with the world being shared, as were the plan and the idea that had just germinated within them.
— But I do not accept the notion that there are heroes and non-heroes in this world—who says who or what they are? So whether I am an extra or just a person like any other, that is not enough for me; why should someone be a hero and not me? said Paul—or at least, the beast in blue standing behind Thomas's armchair. Yes... you could say I envy them, that I hate them for it, so I will destroy them all so that I may become, so that I may be that tragic protagonist of this story. Fufufu! I will kill the hero and his companions so I can be the hero of my own story, for if there is no hero left, then there will never be his story, but another... I will do it until the turn comes for mine... for my story.
He chuckled lightly once more, then gave a slight shrug of his shoulders. He merely listened again to his most absurd words, all while staring at the other to catch the final thought in his mind.
— I think you're listening far too much to that little parasite of a thought, aren't you? said Thomas, staring out of the corner of his eye at the Paul standing behind him. I think you haven't quite understood the allegory of life; there exists an infinity of stories that exist and will exist in this reality of ours. There exists, therefore, an infinity of heroes as well as villains who will themselves be the protagonists of their own stories... you too will be the protagonist of your own story, but you will remain nothing more than an extra in the story of life itself.
He paused for a moment, his face taking on a more frank expression, his eyes narrowing for an instant as he watched out of the corner of his eye the old serpent of madness sitting across from him. Then he raised his voice to make sure both of them heard him loud and clear, and that they would finally understand.
— It is all well and good to play the alchemist like Cecco d'Ascoli, but thinking this way will not make you any better than anyone else, for everyone has their own way of doing things, just like you or me; but you must not forget that I will always be better than you, said Thomas, looking at Paul in his armchair. We are all adventurers, but the adventure must stop there; you are not the Count of Saint-Germain... so do not run from this possibility. Everything has its place in the universe, though sometimes it is not what we expect of it, but that is how it is and we must accept it, as God has decided.
He did not reply; he merely stared at him with the gaze of a dead fish, accompanied by that small smile, most baffling and sly. Thomas only stared back at him with an air of superiority; behind him, he heard a faint, mocking laugh, then heard that voice in his ear once more.
— My words are nothing if not the most authentic, said Paul into the hollow of his ear. Life is merely a theater where we must experiment with the possible to learn where we are incapable of going... the immorality of a thing is something vague, for we must test it to categorize it as such; what is good can become bad, and what is bad can become good, depending solely upon us and our subjectivity. The possible can become impossible; the order of things is purely subjective.
The words he spoke were like a blood-red rose in a meadow of snow, blood dripping from this rose and falling onto that small mound of snow at its feet. These words were nothing but poison, much like this flower straight out of hell.
His words were like a sweet melody, yet behind this speech lay a tragic reality: that of concealing his hideous, infamous, and disgusting crimes; he was merely justifying everything he did, as though it were nothing but good...
He understood it instantly upon hearing his words. He could clearly see that he would not be able to change him with simple words; after all, no one truly changes, we remain what God intended to make of us, regardless of our free will.
— Do you remember the box I transported and brought to a group? he continued behind the armchair, while staring at Thomas's back; he was smiling in an unnatural manner. Have you finally understood what I was carrying in that wooden box?
Upon hearing this, he could not fathom what he was thinking, nor why he had changed the subject so abruptly...
— No! I don't know, nor do I know what those brownish spots meant, said Thomas, perplexed by his question. What are you driving at...
He turned to the side to face him, or at least to try and see what he was thinking... when he looked him in the face, he saw upon this Paul's visage the widest of smiles; he was showing all his teeth, his eyes crinkled, almost as if holding back laughter from a far too important joke, a few small tears glistening at the corners of his eyes, and his cheeks slightly flushed.
He could not understand why he was smiling in such a grotesque manner, with eyes as empty as a void... then, like a lightbulb turning on, he remembered something that had happened in the other facility. Throughout the first week, people from certain groups had disappeared in a strange manner, and then the groups would receive mystery packages with the missing person's name written on the box in marker or something similar.
The group behind this was Group Twenty—or at least the idea originated from their group leaders, even if each of its members had indirectly participated in these macabre creations. Inside this mystery package was the missing person, or rather their corpse; they were all dismembered, from their arms to their feet, including the head, with only the torso left intact, at least for the men; often, the women were raped, and then their breasts were cut off along with their limbs; all of this was arranged inside this waterproof wooden box (crafted from materials from the cutting workshop), where a pool of blood had coagulated inside the box along with the rest of the person's body.
Often, behind or on the sides of the wooden boxes, there were thick, brownish spots... as he realized what he was thinking, he was filled with disgust. Then came the connection: piece by piece, he understood where those spots on the box had come from.
He raised his eyes toward the man behind him; when he saw that face with that same grotesque smile, he realized the monster that stood behind him, feeling almost overcome with the urge to vomit; he turned his gaze and his head to look at the other Paul, still sitting in his original armchair, almost to verify that it was false, that he had been mistaken... but the other did nothing but smile, as if to confirm it.
— How could you do such a thing! said Thomas, completely lost in the face of this sudden revelation. So, the idea you had suggested to me, you actually did it... do you realize what you've done... of course you don't! You don't realize your own actions... you are the devil, along with all the others... you are a demon, no, the devil himself!
— The devil, you call me? said the shadow of the hanged man standing behind him. True, they all called me that when I handed them the box in person.
He was still smiling as he continued to speak; Thomas could do nothing but listen, almost spellbound by the words flowing from this monster's mouth, and even as he listened to him speak, he was disgusted by the very words that had spellbound him.
— Their speeches of fear entranced me, bewitched me, giving me shivers of joy, he said with such a joyful air. The power of an individual is not necessarily in keeping with the scale of the miracle he can engender by performing the act of the miracle... that sensation of terror, of fear they felt united us; it is the only universal truth in the cosmos. My curiosity for the unknown and my hatred toward others led me to their doorsteps, and I devoured them one after another. This dread of the forbidden carved within me an infinite respect. One must honor these master desires, one's love for everything. So why not tell me what you feel, my dearest friend?
— What I feel? Disgust, that is what I feel about your question, Thomas said sharply, disgusted by what he was dealing with. I already viewed you as low... but now, I see you as lower than the earth itself; you are a vile being, an error, an anomaly that must be eliminated right now! You are nothing more than a vile monster...
He noticed that the left hand of the Paul standing behind him was melting like a candle: blood and flesh dripped down his arm, where the entire bone of the left hand was now exposed, the stream of blood and something else he could not identify dripping onto his chair and onto the floor.
He was slightly disgusted by it. Yet the smile did not change; he smiled at him just as he had seconds earlier. The magician facing him uttered a soft laugh upon seeing this, drawing the Perfectionist's attention.
— Why are you laughing? said Thomas.
He heard once again that their voices were synchronized with their words, which deeply annoyed him once more. The turn of events was completely surreal.
— I...
Neither of them could hear what he was saying anymore, or at least they tuned it out entirely. He himself stopped speaking and watched the scene unfolding before him; even though he wanted to intervene, he could not make sense of the machination playing out right in front of his eyes.
They spoke almost in an apotheosis, in unison. With a unified voice that nearly defied all logic, a mirage—or the realization of an unexpected cosmos—offered itself to his sight. Both of them looked at him with the eyes of exploring alchemists and the smiles of demons.
— I…
Their hair seemed almost to float in the air; their clothing appeared to shift as though transforming, and they seemed to feel their hearts beating within their hands, all of it swirling inside them, through their bodies and minds.
A kind of power they unleashed at that moment took the shape of a comet, vaporizing their small space by a few centimeters so as not to draw too much attention from the others; they wanted only him, only his attention. Their landscape seemed shattered into a thousand pieces. A sort of blast of air swept across the small room, and bodies trembled like a caterpillar caught in the storm.
— "I hate everything in this creation! Absolutely everything!"
The two of them emitted an almost mystical glow: the man behind him radiated a golden light mingled with a very pale dark blue that blended into a nearly reddish gold. The Paul sitting in the armchair glowed with a dark grey-blue-green touched with mercury blue.
Both smiled, their gazes fixed upon him without making a sound, their eyes focused entirely on his person and nothing else.
— Madmen! Both of you, you are completely, utterly insane! You're completely out of your minds, seriously! said Thomas, who looked both angry and weary of the scene. What do you want in the end, Paul? Speak up, for crying out loud. You aren't mute, so state your wish, damn it!
The man behind him drew closer to the chair until he was pressed right against it, his skeletal left arm resting on one of the sides, alongside his other arm still covered in flesh; he looked down at him from above, the way one looks at prey, with a smile at once deeply mocking and cruel.
— Hahahahahahahahaha… Hahahahahahahahahahahahahaha… !!!
He laughed while staring him dead in the eye. He didn't understand why, but he heard another laugh right in front of him, a laugh just as mocking as the first.
— Hahaha… ! Hahahahahahahahahaha… !
Thomas turned slightly and saw that the man sitting in the armchair was laughing too; the former mercurial serpent was laughing as well. Both were laughing at him, at his person, at his ignorance—two pillars of evil laughing at his inability to grasp the situation unfolding before his eyes.
Meanwhile, Alice and Marinna could not understand the scene playing out before their astonished eyes. They were witnessing a spectacle they grasped not at all; they were nothing more than extras in this play.
But his laugh soon dissolved into silence, even though one could still hear it by closing their eyes, as if he were the muse of his other self; in that brief moment of quiet, a sort of last-minute invocation took place, to which Thomas had no time to react in any way whatsoever.
He had stood up, though Thomas could not recall when; Paul had stood up. A bluish-golden light appeared on the right side of his hand, accompanied by an invocation circle just as golden, with a few blue glimmers and a script he could neither read nor understand. Other smaller circles appeared right where the first one, that of the invocation, had emerged... then a golden spear, bearing inscriptions just as golden, appeared in his hand!
— Der Speer des letzten Testaments vom endgültigen Untergang! said Paul with one of his happiest smiles.
Thomas had no time to do anything before the other Paul grabbed him from behind; he seized his arms and pinned them to his chair, immobilizing him, gripping him so tightly that he had no time to react—under normal circumstances, he could have, but right now he was caught in a strange sensation, akin to intoxication.
Paul aimed the spear at the one holding Thomas, reciting a few words before the attack was unleashed:
— Licht Divina! said Paul, but he uttered one final word to Thomas, who was trying to break free while watching him from afar. The play is over...
The spear was hurled at full speed, like a bolt of light that pierced through the chair, impaling Thomas and the Paul holding him from behind. Both spat blood, and then Paul—who had remained near his armchair after launching his attack—rushed toward Thomas and the spear, driving it even deeper into the flesh of them both; a faint sound echoed... followed by a soft laugh escaping his lips.
He was laughing like a madman, saying as he looked him dead in the eye:
— Attempting this was more than madness. More than insanity!... Pure madness! said Paul, leaning heavily on the spear as it sank slowly into their flesh, consumed by a mad laugh. Hehehe! Hahahahaha! But now, this act strikes me as majestic; seeing things from this angle... makes me happy! Hehehehe! Hahahahahaha!
He tilted his head down to look at his wounds; blood was flowing profusely over the armchair and streaming onto the carpeted floor. He could see his flesh throbbing like a beating heart, his flesh turned a dark pink color, and a few of his bones were visible. Thomas looked behind him to see what had become of the second Paul, and saw that the other had also been transpierced by the spear, right through the heart.
He was smiling with blood smeared across his gums, blood dripping from his mouth and from the spot where he had been impaled, yet he continued to smile serenely while looking at him. Paul's gaze seemed almost mocking toward Thomas.
Thomas began to feel unwell, starting to suffer from hallucinations as his blood drained away.
He felt himself slipping away, as though the lights were beginning to go out, and then... he saw no more lights; he saw only that he was in a dark place, underwater, air bubbles escaping his mouth, and then he saw the two Pauls dancing.
They were dancing as if in a waltz, holding one another; one of the Pauls wore a sort of short veil with tiny lights gleaming along all its edges upon his head, while the other leaned over him—as he was nearly falling, his veil trailing backward—catching him, of course, with his skeletal hand dancing in the air, adorned with his veil of luminous stones. The other drew close to his face, almost to admire him, the one made of the darkness of the night, crowned with the transparent veil of lights upon his head and within his mind.
They danced, spinning together, letting each other fall only to catch one another; the dip of this waltz was majestic between these two reflections of self.
Beneath a nocturnal and murky sky, a macabre and spellbinding waltz seemed to suspend time, carried by a dark grace. The former mercurial serpent guided the demon with the movement of an almost royal elegance, dressed in black, while the demon leaned back, his skeletal hand floating in the shadows of the night, abandoned to this mystical embrace. Their hands brushed and intertwined at the peak of their choreography, reaching toward the darkness as if to grasp an inaccessible glimmer.
The demon, with hair of a pale, almost whitish blond, looked somber, contrasting with his other self, his leader, who possessed golden-white hair. The two Pauls gazed at one another, but the demonic Paul—the demon—was enveloped about the head in a transparent, diaphanous veil that seemed to carry and diffuse a spectral light from another world. Suddenly, one's gaze is drawn downward: his left arm reveals itself to be entirely skeletal, made of bare bones bleached by death. This dance of shadows and light, an eternal tango between life and madness, frozen in the immensity of the night's void.
Thomas watched this with wonder, yet he felt himself sinking deeper and deeper into its dark depths; just as he was about to close his eyes, he found himself caught in the middle of this dance, the two Pauls taking him from both front and back and spinning together. This time, it was he who wore the transparent veil of lights; he allowed himself to be guided, almost spellbound by this dance.
The dance lasted but a moment before he began to sink once more... but this time, he placed his hand over his wound and emitted a faint white light from his palm; little by little he stopped drifting downward, and the wound vanished the moment he withdrew his hand from where it lay.
He smiled, tapping himself lightly on the head for having allowed such things to happen when he was far stronger than Paul; he had just noticed something—a specific detail—that would allow him to turn the tide of events.
"He really got me! He doesn't possess a spear, at least to my knowledge, so this must come from an object—either a Lotus Artifact or a simple Spiritual Treasure possessing solar-light and illusion faculties of a certain power, enough to trap a small area in an illusion like the one surrounding me... I am far too kind, I let myself fall right into it like a child, just because he wants to prove to me that madness is more righteous than reason... but I also possess an item that can tip the scales in my favor." thought Thomas with a smile, after realizing what he had stumbled into.
Looking upward, Thomas noticed they were standing there watching him... then, in a slightly amused voice, as he drew forth a ring inlaid with a pure white diamond, adorned also with other sapphires and rubies set within this most splendid band, he said:
— Infinitum temporis cosmos! said Thomas with a broad smile.
Space twisted as a sort of white light burst from Thomas's back, beginning to devour something that defied all logic: this place where he stood, as pitch-black as the night, instantly became as starry as outer space, with its golden clouds and heavenly bodies as luminous as they were golden, radiating within this magnificently dark yet deeply golden sky.
Thomas stood there; behind him, an aureole of sorts hovered at the level of his head, extending down to the base of his neck—a circle of intricate dimensions reminiscent of a sacred wheel. This circular structure was engraved with esoteric symbols, mysterious glyphs, and geometric patterns of unimaginable precision. A hue of glowing gold and patinated bronze blended with labyrinthine structures that seemed to stretch infinitely within the circle.
At the summit and along the edges of this aureole, enigmatic inscriptions and sculpted friezes bore witness to an ancient, forbidden knowledge. The light emanating from these motifs possessed an almost aggressive intensity, evoking the light of a celestial being descended upon the earth. Farther back, in the depths of this backdrop, textures resembling ancient parchments or sacred bas-reliefs intertwined within the obscurity.
Attention shifted away from Thomas for a moment: he noticed that the Paul with the skeletal arm had vanished. Yet the other Paul was still accompanied by that most sneering of smiles... he understood where that smile came from, lowering his eyes to see the second one standing below him, equidistant from himself, the other Paul, and the Paul towering above him.
The Paul with the skeletal left arm stood tall, framing a face marked by fierce intensity. The Beast in Blue, the Monarch of Fear and Disillusionment, glared at Thomas, who was caught between him and his other body; their eyes met in an electric face-off, his gaze that of a predator, eyes narrowed in dark jubilation.
Thomas turned his eyes away from this demon to look upon the old serpent of madness; their eyes met as well, in an exchange of perverse connivance and absolute defiance, where time itself seemed to have stopped. His sneering smile stared him down—a mixture of unhealthy fascination and an almost fraternal, if not deadly, rivalry.
Both of their faces seemed so close to his, positioned between the two of them; one a demon, the other an ancient serpent—at least the air between them vibrated with a palpable tension, heightened by the threatening auras emanating from the three of them. This sidereal cosmos background amplified the loneliness of their impending clash of ideologies, as though the rest of the universe had vanished to leave room for nothing but this shared gaze.
Like a theatrical performance that had never before seen the light of day in this reality.
Behind these three figures preparing to collide in a battle of epic proportions lay a backdrop of the most enchanting, breathtaking beauty—a dark abyss studded with distant stars, where stellar dust blazed with a golden, nebulous glow, sweeping across the background like bursts of supernovas, bathing their thin shadows in a twilight, dramatic radiance.
— Let us dance until we kill each other, said the demon, the beast in blue, smiling as he looked down at Thomas. Death will be your only salvation... I shall be your death!
A faint laugh of connivance united the three of them, all speaking with that slight smile at the corners of their lips. Yet the eyes of all three were filled with an unshakeable determination.
— You can keep trying to play at this, but I'm telling you in advance, I am going to win, said Thomas, stretching his hands out into the infinite cosmos. I am the best and the strongest here!
— The show is over, the grand finale is about to begin, said the old serpent of madness, looking down upon him with disdain. The scene has been played out… your end is foretold!
The silence of their words lingered in the air of the cosmos for an instant, before all three launched their techniques at top speed to claim victory as swiftly as possible.
— Omnium rerum exstinctio…! said the beast in blue.
— To phos tes apeirou lamprotetos…! said Thomas, the strongest of them all.
— Spectaculum ad finem vergit…! said the old serpent of madness.
When their attack was unleashed, rings of light, like spheres of illumination, enveloped their bodies. Then these spheres swelled within the cosmos, but before that they condensed into a very small orb covering each of their bodies entirely—spheres of light of perfect dimensions. Having thus condensed and being projected across the cosmos at a breakneck speed, these three orbs exploded so rapidly that the shock was staggering, so violent when those three attacks collided in the cosmos.
The energy orbs clashed and detonated; the impact was so ferocious that everything shattered, all the celestial bodies exploded, and a blinding flash of light pierced that ancient cosmos which had blazed with a thousand fires. Then came night, pitch-black night... and then, like shattering glass, everything cracked; the cosmos fractured, and the ocean of night collapsed.
Thomas found himself in the dark; he could still distinguish his clothes and his hands, but he could no longer see more than a few inches beyond his armchair, where he was seated once again, without a single trace of a wound—nothing remained. Then... a light flickered on, a bedside lamp, and he saw that it was Paul who had turned it on. Each of the other lights came on, one by one, and he saw everyone again, as if he alone had moved.
— You really are a troublesome person, you know that? said Paul Vågen, looking at him once more as he spoke. You figured it out much quicker than I would have hoped, but oh well, after all, we're talking about you... What did you think of all that? Of realizing that, in the end, it was all just a simple dream? What would you have done if it had really been the case?
— Not much, replied Thomas Stormen. But I won't forget what you did, all the crimes you committed to prove your vision was "right" for you... don't think I'll forget them easily, unlike you, who must have already forgotten everything they felt when they saw you with that box. I do not forget who I am dealing with, nor what I have to do.
— I'll tell you once more: I don't expect to be understood, retorted Paul Vågen with a faint smile. My actions concern only me; I know what I've done, and the crimes I've committed, but the deed was worth it... so if necessary, I will do it again, because I know it will have to be done again, and I will be there for it. The silence of my deeds resonates only within myself.
The two stared at one another in total contradiction. They heard something—a sound that interrupted their focus on each other for a moment... the sound of footsteps approaching them.
Thump… thump… !!
The two stared straight into each other's eyes; a smile appeared on their borrowed faces for that future conversation which would one day come to pass. An intense joy and hatred welled up instantly in both their hearts—a future yet novel confrontation that would return to their hearts when it came back, to surge once more in that upcoming conversation.
Thomas looked at him with a faint smile, then raised his arm slightly a few centimeters from his body to pick up his tea, which was almost finished; he crossed his feet and tilted his head. Paul had both hands resting on his armrests, a vacant expression in his eyes, thinking of something else.
They remained in silence until the very end, waiting for the footsteps to reach them so they could move forward once again. After all, he was bound to return one day; it was only a matter of time before he, too, came back.
Alice noticed a strange sound drawing closer to where they were, and soon Marinna began to hear that same noise as well. She turned around toward the source of the sound—it was a steady rhythm of footsteps advancing rather quickly, and then everyone stopped talking to focus on the sound that everyone had now noticed.
Thump… thump… thump… thump… !!
They all heard the sound of footsteps drawing closer and closer to the spot. The noise echoed clearly and precisely; the person in question carried a cane, and his steps were strong and sharp. The sound of his footsteps was distinct, pacing evenly, each step making the exact same sound as the one before it, managing to banish the silence of the place simply by moving. The pitch-black night faded away, along with the echo of his footsteps resonating.
They all knew what or who this noise came from. It simply meant the grand return of their instructor: Mr. Sakanami. The few remaining conversations flickered out like candles, everyone staring at that pitch-dark forest, which served as the lair of this hallway.
The footsteps were still present, evenly spaced, but to all of them, it lasted longer than expected; they had lost all sense of time. All their senses had become blocked, and every step he took made their hearts beat so wildly it made their heads spin.
One step, then two, and five thousand more steps—they no longer knew where they were, they no longer knew where any of them stood. The only thing that did not fail them, at least for the moment, was their sight; everything else was frozen, locked inward. The only thing they looked at was that hallway.
Then the final footsteps were soon heard echoing in the corridor.
Thump… thump… thum…
A silence enveloped the group, everyone holding their breath, their gazes fixed like cocked rifles on the pitch-dark corridor. They all knew it was Mr. Sakanami, but at that moment, none of them managed to overcome this fear. The fear that he knew, that he had understood what they had done to their former... one of the most primordial fears.
In a microsecond, everyone had thought of a thousand and one of the most catastrophic scenarios possible; they had thought of everything, or at least hoped they had thought of everything. Then...
A slightly wrinkled hand, marked with a few scars, grasped the edge of the wall...
End of this episode.
Thank you for reading.