The three doors trembled in the white void, their colors spilling across the crowd like rivers of molten light.
For a long, breathless moment, no one dared move.
Then a voice broke through the silence — sharp, defiant.
> "Who are you?"
Heads turned.
A man stood in the open, fists clenched, voice cracking with fear and courage.
Beside him, a woman grabbed his arm and screamed,
> "Are you blind? He's a god!"
The crowd murmured, echoing her words in a hundred languages — god, deity, savior, angel.
The being of light paused. Then — it laughed.
Not cruelly, but with the soft amusement of something ancient and tired of being misunderstood.
> "A god…?"
The laughter deepened, vibrating through the air like music played on strings of thunder.
The being's radiance began to dim, the blinding brilliance folding inward until a shape stepped forth — a man, barefoot, tall, perhaps in his forties. His eyes still shimmered faintly, but his voice was now human, steady, and calm.
> "No," he said, smiling faintly. "Not a god. I am not such a lowly being."
The crowd recoiled — some confused, some terrified.
He continued, walking slowly across the light, hands clasped behind his back.
> "You mortals have given me so many names.
In one age, they called me Domun."
As he spoke the name, his form shifted — his face aged, robes turning to gold dust, his voice echoing with echoes of forgotten temples.
> "Another time, they said Ki… or was it Gi?"
The form changed again — now a woman, tall and serene, eyes glowing like twin moons.
> "Then came Keb, Geb… titles from civilizations that no longer exist."
His voice grew playful, flickering through forms — a child laughing, an old woman whispering, a young man smirking.
Each word was a lifetime. Each breath a rewrite of reality.
Finally, he stopped — settling into the shape of a man in his thirties. Ordinary clothes, bare feet, a calm expression that somehow felt more terrifying than the divine light before.
> "But names are weighty things," he said. "They come and go like stars."
He smiled — a warm, unsettling smile.
> "You may call me Mr. Orbis."
The name itself rippled through the void.
Some people flinched.
Others felt their hearts skip — as if the syllables themselves were too heavy to bear.
Mr. Orbis raised a hand, and the three colossal doors began to hum louder, their colors merging into a swirling halo behind him.
> "Now that introductions are done," he said lightly, eyes glinting with cosmic amusement,
"shall we begin?"
And the laughter — soft, endless — echoed once more, as the doors started to open.
He smiled faintly. "Now, I have little time, so I will be brief."
Lorenzo — still trembling — suddenly realized something impossible: he could understand everyone. The air itself translated their words.
Mr. Orbis continued, his voice carrying weight and warmth.
"These three doors," he said, gesturing to the giants behind him, "lead to three realms. Or perhaps… three worlds. Each one is under attack as we speak."
He pointed to the green door. "This one offers normal danger. The safest path — for those who fear too much."
Then the yellow door flared. "This one is hard. It will test your soul."
Finally, the red door burned with living flame. "This one…" — he smiled darkly — "hell."
And then, as the crowd gasped, a fourth door rose from the earth — black as night, pulsing faintly with gold veins.
Mr. Orbis' eyes gleamed.
"This door," he said softly, "is mine. Only I may choose who enters it."
The black door breathed, like something alive behind it was waiting.
Mr. Orbis stood before the crowd, the four colossal doors humming with power behind him. The air shimmered with heat and fear.
"Each door," he said, his tone suddenly colder, sharper, "has a limit. When that limit is reached, the door will close itself and vanish."
He looked over the sea of humanity — billions trembling, whispering. "So…" He smiled faintly. "Choose wisely… and fast."
With a wave of his hand, the doors creaked open — just slightly ajar, light spilling out from within like the breath of different worlds.
The crowd exploded into chaos. People screamed, pushed, trampled one another. Families tore apart in panic. The green door — glowing gently — drew the masses first. It was the "safe" one, and safety was all they wanted.
Marcus clutched his younger brother's hand as the crowd surged.
"Wait!" he hissed, voice nearly lost in the storm. "Something's wrong."
But his warning came too late. The green door slammed shut with a deafening clang, its light snuffed out. Gasps rippled through the plain. Moments later, the yellow door began to seal as well, vanishing into mist.
Marcus looked around — no more choices. The red door still burned open, flames licking its edges like a living thing. He turned to his brother, eyes fierce.
"Go!" he shouted, shoving him forward. "We don't have time—just go!"
His brother stumbled through the blazing threshold, and as Marcus followed, the red door closed, sealing them both from sight.
When the echoes faded, silence returned. Only a hundred people remained — frozen in fear, unable or unwilling to choose.
Mr. Orbis regarded them with quiet amusement, hands clasped behind his back. "So," he said softly, "you've chosen nothing."
A man in a black suit stepped forward, trembling but defiant.
"Why should we listen to you?" he shouted. "How can we trust any of this?!"
Mr. Orbis' smile widened — slow, serpentine.
"Trust?" he said, voice turning into a whisper that filled the air itself. "Oh, my dear man… this was never about trust."
He raised a single hand. Shadows rippled outward like a tide.
"This," he said, "was about selection."
The ground began to split beneath the remaining hundred as the black door behind him stirred — opening, not by choice, but by command.