This was the last place one would ever visit before either they began a new beginning—or discovered their final, irreversible end.
Reaching this place was not a matter of will or desire. No prayer summoned it. No ritual unlocked it. No path led here that could be traced in maps or measured by stars. How one arrived was unknowable, unexplainable, and perhaps irrelevant. You didn't find the Hall of Countless Doors. The Hall found you.
And in the heart of that impossible place, upon the floating platform high above the endless corridor, sat the administrator. A man in appearance. An office worker by vibe. But neither of those labels held up under scrutiny.
He continued his work with robotic efficiency—signing a paper, sipping his coffee, watching it vanish, then repeating the process again. And again. And again.
Then, his coffee ran dry.
Without so much as a sigh, he snapped his fingers. A fresh cup appeared on the desk beside him, steam curling from its lip. He took it in hand, took a sip, and resumed. Until, without warning, his pen froze above the next page. It wasn't ordinary. It was golden—completely golden. The paper glimmered with impossible shimmer, and the inked letters across it were radiant white.
This one was different.
He adjusted his glasses slightly and read aloud with perfect clarity, his voice cutting through the air like a quiet bell:
"Soul Number: SN-0000-0000-0000-0001
From Lower Dimension: LD-1985-1750-7499-6415
Galactic Sector: Milky Way
Planet: Earth-E-998"
The words continued in tight lines, columns of data stretching across the page—metadata describing a soul in finer detail than any mortal language could ever hope to convey.
The administrator's expression, usually somewhere between indifferent and exhausted, twitched. Barely. A flicker of genuine interest stirred behind his glasses.
This was not a normal entry.
This soul, designated SN-0000-0000-0000-0001, wasn't just a soul.
It was the first.
The first to exist in the timeline of its dimension. The origin point. A primordial node. It was unique in a way that even the administrator—whose knowledge spanned realities—did not often encounter. And its merits… were staggering.
As the administrator read, a portal materialized just below the floating platform. Unlike the countless others drifting across the hall, this one formed with solemn precision. It rotated slowly, silently, until a figure emerged—a translucent shape that resembled a fully grown human male.
The figure stepped out onto the corridor's central carpet, his incorporeal feet resting gently on the red-and-gold path.
The man looked up.
So did the administrator.
They locked eyes.
The soul looked confused, as any being would in this place. He blinked, turned, stared into the void, then back to the throne high above him.
The administrator spoke.
His tone was flat, detached—but not unkind. It was the voice of someone delivering ancient instructions for the thousandth time.
"Soul SN-0000-0000-0000-0001.
For the merit you have achieved in the life you lived on your world—Earth-E-998, Dimension LD-1985-1750-7499-6415—you have been granted audience here in the Hall of Countless Doors."
He took another sip of his coffee, then continued:
"You are given a choice.
You may undergo a guided reincarnation of your own choosing, should you desire to return to existence.
Or you may pass into true and eternal rest—the final afterlife. A place outside the cycle. No rebirth. No return.
The choice is yours."
The administrator set the golden page on the table and waited.
This was not normal protocol. Most souls never made it here. Fewer still were offered a choice. And none—until this very moment—had ever held the title first.
Below, the translucent figure stood in silence.
His name, in the life he'd lived, had been Anthony Grey.
He didn't feel divine. He didn't feel ancient. He felt like… a person. A deeply confused, out-of-place person. Everything around him—the floating pillars, the endless portals, the strangely chill office-worker-throne-guy—all of it felt like a dream powered by stress and bad cafeteria coffee.
He opened his mouth to speak, to ask what the hell was going on—but he didn't get the chance.
Golden text materialized in front of him, floating in mid-air.
Name: Anthony Grey
Merit Grade: Super Grade
Karma Points: 100,000,000,000,000,000
Divine Worship Points: 100,000,000,000,000,000
He read it.
Then read it again.
And then again.
Nothing made sense. The numbers were absurd. The words even more so.
"Wait… what?" he muttered.
His voice echoed slightly, not through the space, but inside his own thoughts.
"This… can't be right. Karma points? Divine… worship points? What even is that? Isn't that, like, for saints? Prophets? Actual good people?"
He looked around, but no one answered. There was no angel to re assure him. No booming godly voice. Just the administrator, sipping coffee and watching him patiently.
"But I wasn't…" Anthony whispered.
Then he spoke, his voice hoarse and low.
"I wasn't good. Not even close. Not even a little. In fact, I was far from anything resembling a good person. Not even a shadow of one."
The words came bitterly. Not out of guilt. Not regret. But from a raw, stunned honesty. The kind that doesn't need defending.
"The definition of good?" He scoffed. "I wouldn't know it if it hit me in the face."
He raised his head, looking at the administrator.
"I was called a walking disaster. A merchant of death. That's what they called me back on Earth."
And it wasn't an exaggeration.
Anthony Grey had been a weapons developer—no, not just a developer. He was a visionary of warfare. He didn't just build weapons; he redefined them. Pushed their limits decades ahead of their time. He brought fiction to life, creating machines of destruction once confined to science fiction novels and action movies.
From directed energy rifles and railgun artillery to city-scale shielding systems and fully operational warships capable of low-orbit engagement, Anthony had dedicated his life to making the future of war arrive early—and loud.
As a boy, he'd been obsessed with destruction. Not violence. Not blood. But the mechanics of it. The concept. The power.