The cosmic void, where Han Iruma had confronted Dread, reformed around him—not into a familiar landscape, but into a canvas of swirling stars and nebulae. The divine entity's voice still echoed in his mind, a promise of reincarnation, a bargain for his soul. But the cold, calculating anger that had replaced the terror of his death had not faded. On the contrary, it burned with renewed intensity, fueled by the absurdity of the situation.
"So, if I understand correctly," Han began, his thoughts sharp as steel, "you, an entity claiming to be divine, have the power to reincarnate me into another world. And all you ask in return is that I acknowledge your existence? That's disarmingly simple for an omnipotent being."
Dread, whose form fluctuated like a shadow cast on a wall of smoke, seemed amused by his sarcasm. "Simplicity is often the mark of truth, Han Iruma. Mortals complicate what is fundamental."
"Or perhaps it's an attempt at manipulation," Han retorted, his financial analyst mind taking over. "You're offering me a second life, an escape from death, in exchange for adherence to your... dogma. It's spiritual blackmail, nothing more, nothing less."
"Blackmail?" Dread's voice was tinged with amused curiosity. "I offer you an opportunity that billions of souls will never have. A chance to continue, to grow, to understand. And you see it as blackmail. Your cynicism is admirable, Han."
"My cynicism is the fruit of observation," Han replied. "I've seen how blind faith can be exploited, how promises of paradise can justify the worst atrocities. In my world, religions were tools of social control, crutches for the weak, pretexts for wars. Why would it be any different in yours?"
The space around them transformed again, taking on the appearance of a devastated battlefield. Corpses lay on the ground, broken swords, torn banners. In the distance, cities burned, their black smoke rising toward a reddening sky. Han recognized the signs of a medieval world, brutal, as Dread had described.
"This world, Caelundra," Dread explained, his voice resonating amidst the distant cries of the dying, "is a testament to the faith of men. Empires have been built and collapsed in the name of gods and goddesses. Wars have been fought over sanctified patches of land. The suffering you see is the direct result of devotion, of unwavering belief."
Han observed the scene with a cold gaze. "And you, Dread, are you the grand architect of all this? Do you revel in this suffering, this violence?"
"I am an observer, Han. A guardian. The choices of mortals belong to them. I merely offer them tools, paths. What they do with them is their own affair."
"Tools?" Han sneered. "You give them faith, and they slaughter each other in your name. That's a strange form of divine guidance."
"And you, Han Iruma," Dread retorted, his voice becoming deeper, "you lived without faith, without god. And yet, you caused your own downfall. You fired a man, and that man pushed you under a train. Suffering is not the exclusive domain of believers, is it?"
The remark hit Han full force. He had always considered Tanaka as simple collateral damage, a negligible variable in his equation of success. But death—his own—had been the direct result of his arrogance, his lack of empathy. A bitter truth he had never wanted to admit.
"Human nature is imperfect," Han conceded. "Whether one believes in a god or not, cruelty and selfishness are inherent to our species."
"And that's where you're wrong, Han," said Dread, his voice filled with ancient wisdom. "Faith, true faith, is not a crutch for the weak, nor a pretext for war. It is a force. A force that can move mountains, heal diseases, unite peoples. But like any force, it can be perverted, diverted from its purpose."
"And you," Han asked, his piercing gaze fixed on Dread's elusive silhouette, "are you here to pervert it? To manipulate men at your whim?"
A silence settled, heavy with meaning. The battlefield faded, replaced by a neutral space, a sort of cosmic courtroom. Dread stood before him, his form more defined, more imposing.
"My objective is to create a world subject to my will," Dread admitted bluntly. "A world where order reigns, where chaos is controlled. Men, in their freedom, are often the architects of their own destruction. I seek to guide them toward a more... stable path."
"Stable? Or enslaved?" Han didn't back down. "You want puppets, not free beings."
"Freedom, Han, is an illusion. Men are slaves to their passions, their fears, their desires. I offer them an alternative: peace through obedience."
"And if I refuse to obey?" The challenge was thrown down, clear and sharp. Han Iruma, the atheist, the man of logic, would not bow before this entity, whatever its power.
"Then you will be a grain of sand in the gears, Han. An anomaly. And anomalies are often... eliminated." Dread's voice was calm, but the threat was palpable.
"I prefer to be a free anomaly than an obedient puppet," Han replied, a cold smile stretching his lips. "You told me I was an interesting experiment. Well, I propose an even more interesting experiment."
Dread tilted his head slightly, like a scientist faced with a new hypothesis. "I'm listening."
"Reincarnate me," Han said. "Throw me into this world of faith and superstition you've created. Let me see with my own eyes if your order is so perfect, if your will is so unshakeable. I will not acknowledge your divinity. I will not submit to your will. On the contrary, I will seek to break this order you consider stable. I will prove that even in a world where magic exists and gods manifest themselves, reason and human will can triumph over superstition and divine tyranny."
The violet flames in Dread's sockets intensified, pulsing with new energy. "You defy me, Han Iruma. You defy the order I've spent eons building."
"I defy you," Han confirmed, his gaze unwavering. "And I will prove to you that your faith is a weakness, that your power is an illusion, and that your will is not absolute. I will be living proof that humanity doesn't need gods to forge its own destiny."
A laugh, deep and resonant, emanated from Dread. It wasn't a laugh of joy, but of anticipation, of challenge accepted. "Very well, Han Iruma. The game is on. You will be reincarnated. Your memories will be sealed until the opportune moment, for I want you to discover the nature of this world for yourself. And when you remember, when you understand the scope of my power, we'll see if your atheism is still so... militant."
The space around Han began to contract, the stars transforming into twinkling points of light, then into a blinding whirlpool. He felt an irresistible force pulling him, drawing him toward an abyss of light and sound. But even then, on the edge of consciousness, Han Iruma's last thought was a silent oath: he would not bend. He would not submit. He would have his revenge. On Dread, on this world, and on any form of divinity that dared to hinder human will.
"I will be your greatest mistake, Dread," he murmured, as darkness enveloped him, pulling him toward his new life, his new challenge. The atheist's challenge against the divine, a battle that would shape the destiny of Caelundra. And perhaps, beyond. The countdown had begun.