The battlefield no longer had boundaries.
Corpses piled into makeshift bleachers, souls burst overhead like discount fireworks, and the air stank of charred desire, fractured laughter, and chewed-up "justice." Someone sang. Someone sobbed. Someone hawked life insurance—"double payout at death!"—only to choke to death on their own fine print.
Ethan stood at the heart of this grotesque opera. In his palm, an eye slowly opened.
The Eye of Death.He had stolen it from the labyrinth of Nothingness—an organ that could see through all illusion. Not part of any human anatomy, more like a wager tossed at a rebel.
"Be careful," Ronan had once warned him darkly. "Some things, once you see them, you'll wish you'd gone blind."
Now the eye was open.
The world flipped.
The enemy soldiers shed their disguises. What remained were hollow marionettes. Their faces nailed into perfect smiley masks. Some had sticks rammed through their chests, jerking left and right at the "director's" whim.
Ethan's throat went dry, and he nearly laughed."So all these wars were just puppet shows? What am I then—an understudy playwright?"
The Eye kept turning, stripping more illusions.
The sky—once a storm of blood and lightning—peeled back, revealing a blank, faceless visage. Neither god nor monster, just emptiness staring down like a bored spectator about to crumple the stage.
The ground—once fractured into endless abysses—resolved into a colossal chessboard. Each square replayed the same tragedies: empires rising, empires collapsing, heroes falling, fools usurping. The pieces shouted slogans, only to combust in the next instant, scattering into ash.
"Ha. Brilliant," Ethan muttered. "Civilization's nothing but a tacky chess match—and the player's just a disinterested audience."
His laughter drew the others' alarm.Aileen clutched her ears. "Ethan! Stop looking—your eye is crying black tears!""This is joy," he rasped, though his voice trembled.
The Eye wasn't just revealing illusions. It was drowning him in knowledge. Every soul's pain. Every cycle of history. Every absurd excuse for "divine judgment." All crammed like knives into his skull.
He saw the Bureau's past: self-styled guardians of order, really just janitors for the void. He saw countless rebels: erased or converted into "proxies." Even Ronan—his fallen brother—was just a scripted footnote.
"So none of us… ever had a choice." Ethan's laugh was jagged.
He lifted his gaze. Nothingness was gathering into a colossal curtain. With each ripple, souls burst like popcorn, showering confetti across the stage. Applause thundered from an audience that didn't exist, mechanical and soulless.
Black comedy had reached its peak.They fought, bled, and suffered—only to become a sideshow for an empty void.
He remembered his mother's words: "Don't take life too seriously. It was always a farce."
Now he understood. He just hadn't realized the playwright was Nothingness, the audience was Nothingness, the stage itself was Nothingness.
"Then…" His voice cracked into a growl. "The only choice left is for me to steal the director's chair."
The Eye's pupil contracted into a blade, slicing open the curtain. A hollow laugh spilled out, Nothingness taunting:"Come, rebel. Show me your improvisation."
Souls still howled. Puppets still danced. The absurd play still raged.
But for the first time, Ethan no longer felt like an audience member, nor a chess piece—he was the one preparing to smash the stage.