What he was doing here was managing souls—those who had lived and acted, and now needed to be judged, for better or for worse. But this place wasn't Hell, nor was it Heaven. It was a judgment hall. It was the Place of Infinite Existence.
Here, rare souls arrived to be weighed by the Administrator, their deeds laid bare, their rewards or punishments determined by the paths they had chosen.
It was also a place one could only come to under extraordinary circumstances. Some arrived to begin anew. Others reached their final and irreversible exit from the endless loop of death and reincarnation. And though death itself was unwelcome here, countless souls longed for it, without knowing why.
Reaching this space was not a matter of will. Desire, prayer, or obsession could never bring you here. No path led to it, no map ever marked it. Its existence was unknowable, unexplainable, and—perhaps—irrelevant, for even those who entered soon forgot how they had come.
No one could find the Hall of Infinity. Instead, the Hall found them, when it deemed them worthy.
At the heart of this unreal place, seated on a floating platform above the endless corridors, was the Administrator. In appearance he was just a man. In demeanor, he had the air of an office worker trapped in an endless shift.
He worked with mechanical precision. Sign a paper. Sip his coffee. Watch the document vanish. Then repeat. And repeat again. The process formed an infinite loop.
The only pause came when his cup ran dry. Without a sigh, without breaking rhythm, he would snap his fingers, and a fresh cup appeared on the desk beside him, steam rising from its surface. He would take it in hand, drink, and resume the cycle—sign, sip, vanish, repeat. Again and again. The infinite loop endured.
Until finally—suddenly—the process froze.
A space opened before him, and this one was different. Unlike the others, it wasn't ordinary.
It was golden. Entirely golden, glowing as though cast from pure twenty-four carat light. The letters engraved across it radiated brilliant white, unlike the usual black inscriptions of other souls.
This one was different—through and through.
The Administrator adjusted his glasses slightly and began to read aloud with perfect clarity. His voice cut the silence like a knife, yet rang clear like a distant bell.
"Soul Number: SN–0000–0000–##^/##%#%#."
He paused, eyes narrowing.
"Oh… this is surprising. Why can't I see the soul number?" he murmured, his expression shifting. Perplexity etched across his face—but behind it, a spark of interest.
The usual mask of indifference, the weary monotony of an overworked clerk, cracked. Something stirred behind the glass lenses.
"My, now this is interesting…" he said, almost to himself. "Soul numbers represent creation itself. They are the record of a being, the foundation of its existence. And yet—this one is hidden. Hidden even from me. That's… unusual. Something's at play here. Hahaha…"
He let out a sudden laugh, sharp and amused.
"Anyway, let's not dwell on it. But this one has… caught my attention."
Shifting his focus, he read further down the radiant page.
"Place of Existence before Death: Lower Dimension—LD-1985-1750-7499-6415.
Galactic Sector: Milky Way.
Planet: Earth—E-998."
"Ohh, will you look at that," the Administrator said, stroking his chin. "Another strange twist… this golden, radiant soul once existed in a lower dimension. And on such a desolate little place. No wonder it died and ended up here."
"And this… this amount of merit," the Administrator muttered, adjusting his glasses as the golden script unfolded, "it seems he did something in that world. Something with a staggering impact. But in such a place? To earn this much?" He shook his head lightly. "Curious… very curious."
He tapped the paper with a finger. "Well, no use speculating. Let's summon the one in question—though most of his record is unreadable to me. A rare thing indeed."
He snapped his fingers. A portal appeared below the floating platform, wide enough for a single person to step through.
From it, a figure emerged—translucent, the faint outline of a fully grown human male. His body was incorporeal, shimmering faintly as it hovered.
The soul glanced around in confusion, unable to comprehend the vastness of the hall, the endless portals, the unreal sky. Finally, his gaze rose, and there he saw it: the Administrator seated above, papers and coffee at hand. Their eyes locked.
The soul's confusion deepened. Who was this man? Was he a god? A judge? A clerk? The hall itself defied understanding, and so did the figure before him.
The Administrator's expression remained flat, his tone steady—like stone, but not unkind. His voice carried the strange weight of authority, like something just beneath the voice of heaven.
"Soul Number: SN–0000–0000–##^/##%#%#."
He paused, then continued:
"For the merits you have earned in your life, on your world—Earth, designation E-998, within the lower dimension LD-1985-1750-7499-6415—you have been granted the right to appear in the Hall of Infinity and Judgment."
At the mention of the Hall, his voice deepened slightly, carrying force. Then, with casual ease, he lifted his cup, took a sip of coffee, and carried on.
"For the merits you have acquired, you are offered two choices."
He raised one finger.
"The first: you may undergo guided reincarnation of your own choosing. You may return to existence, correct what you could not in your past life, or pursue what you missed."
Then a second finger.
"The second: you may forfeit reincarnation and instead accept true, eternal rest. The final afterlife. Freedom from the infinite cycle of rebirth."
The Administrator leaned back in his chair, exhaling softly, coffee in hand. His glasses caught the light as he regarded the soul.
"The choice is yours. So Decide."
And he took another calm sip, as he waited for the person to make his own decision.
As he waited, sipping his coffee, thoughts drifted through his mind. None of this was normal. In all the endless years he had worked here, it was unheard of to encounter such a soul.