When the Void Gate closed, there was no light—only the unveiling of an old curtain. All the stage lights turned on at once, shining directly onto the survivors. For the first time, they clearly saw:
They weren't in a sanctuary, nor a battlefield. They were standing in a vast laboratory.
The walls were made of black glass, behind which twisted shadows squirmed, dissolving like discarded illusions. Hanging from the ceiling were labels: "Sample ID: Human.""Sample ID: Death God." Cold, bureaucratic tags, like price stickers, reducing existence to inventory.
"Welcome to the showroom of truth."
The voice was aged, dripping with mockery, like a bored tour guide. "You thought you were fighting? Saving? No. You were just entries in a spreadsheet, occasionally causing statistical noise."
No one spoke.
Then the walls began to play a "demonstration film."
First scene: Humanity's deaths. Infants born, growing, aging, dying. Each death turned into a wisp of pale energy, siphoned into pipes.
Second scene: The Death Realm. Not a grand afterlife, but a recycling depot. Death gods were nothing but collection agents, transferring life-energy into the Void's storage tanks. Judgment, reincarnation—it was all fancy window dressing.
Third scene: The Void Cycle. Energy pooled, processed, and pumped back into the human world. New lives were born, destined to die again. A perfect cycle. A factory assembly line of souls.
"See?" the voice chuckled like a cheap salesman. "Death isn't an end. It's a battery swap. Your lives are just charging and discharging. War, love, laughter, despair—all decoration. Keeps the batteries busy before they expire."
Someone screamed, "What about us? Our choices? Our struggles?"
The voice laughed softly. "Choices? Struggles? Those are sparks from the generator. Pretty for a moment. Gone the next. Don't worry, we record them too—under the heading: 'Anomalous Behavior.'"
The survivors shivered as the cold truth sank in.
Ethan stared at the screen, his voice ragged. "So we're just… livestock?"
"Livestock? Too vulgar." The voice feigned a sigh. "In the reports, you're called 'Cycle Samples.' Sounds much more refined, doesn't it?"
Applause thundered suddenly—from behind the glass. Thousands of eyes in the Void clapped like theatergoers.
The absurdity was unbearable: the stage actors were them.
Ethan's companions broke down. Some sat in stunned silence. Others cackled hysterically. One muttered, "So my whole life was just… powering someone else's lamp."
The shadow reappeared, bowing like a master of ceremonies. "The conclusion is simple. The Death Realm is a processing plant. Humanity, the batteries. And the Void? The only customer. Every death, a line item on the invoice."
Silence followed.
Ethan whispered: "So the ultimate truth… is that we never truly lived."
The shadow applauded. "Correct! That's today's truth bomb. Absurd? Absolutely. Tragic? Utterly. Entertaining? For the audience, certainly."
And behind it, the sea of eyes laughed as one—an orchestra of cold, merciless mirth, drenching the laboratory in absurdity.