The encounter
After achieving my initial goal, I started incorporating new habits into my daily routine—studying mana and the creation of skills, working out, reading books from the glowing screen mounted into the wall across from the desk. I explored the different items I could create with dark mana, analyzed the runes carved into the floor, and mentally mapped out the cube's internal structure.
Time passed.
I created a few basic items—a notebook and pen, some rocks and slabs of metal—and then, my proudest invention: a mana sword. The core of the blade was forged from dark mana, while I honed the edges with red mana, giving it a deep violet center and a crimson outline that shimmered in the dim light of the cube.
I couldn't create too many items. The size and complexity of the object determined the number of mana circles consumed needed to manifest it, and since constructing a single mana circle took 10 years, and my body could only hold 32 circles in total at a time. I limited myself to only making things I deemed necessary.
As more time passed, I deepened my understanding of the runes etched across the cube's surfaces. I could interpret their meanings now, to a degree, but I still had no clue how to deactivate them—let alone replicate them. So, I kept studying, training with my sword, and pushing my body to its limits.
I had learned everything there was to learn about the structural integrity of the cube. No surprise—there wasn't a single flaw in its design. So my new goal became simpler, in theory: polish my swordsmanship and sharpen my blade until it was strong enough to cut through the indestructible.
Years blurred by.
My mastery over my mana had advanced to the point where I could now isolate and manipulate fragments of my own soul. I placed a fragment into my sword, and the effect was immediate—its blade glowed with a haunting purple light, the edge cloaked in a crimson mist. Encouraged, I tried placing a fragment into a rock.
Nothing happened.
The rock remained unchanged, dull and unresponsive. I retrieved the soul fragment, though it resisted me as if it didn't want to leave.
Curious, I drew a crude stick figure onto the wall and imbued it with that same fragment. What happened next was… unexpected.
The drawing sprang to life—not in full three-dimensional form, but it moved along the wall like a character in a drawing, alive within the 2D plane. It could speak, though not in any language I recognized. Still, I felt the emotion behind the words that it spoke.
I named him Lark.
Maybe I was losing my mind—imagining a friend to ease the crushing solitude—but I didn't care. For the first time in centuries, I wasn't truly alone.
Whenever I wasn't studying or looking for a way out, I talked to Lark. I told him stories about my parents and siblings. His replies were nonsense—"BLING BLING BANG BANG BOOM BOOM"—but over time, I began to believe I was starting to understand him.
I gave him different questions, recorded his responses, and tried deciphering his language.
One day, I thought I'd cracked it. I asked him, "Are you sentient, and can you understand me?"
His response: "BONG BONG BLING!"
After a frustrating round of translation, the sentence I landed on was: 'Mountain is pineapple.'
I sighed.
Lark had zero intelligence. Absolutely none.
So, I gave up on that side project and dove deeper into perfecting my swordsmanship and longsword knowledge, raising them both to (S) Rank. With my increasing control over my soul fragments, I decided to give Lark a companion. This time, I drew the new figure with care and precision, then infused it with a fresh soul fragment.
The second creation stirred to life.
I named him Rob.
To my surprise—and relief—Rob could actually speak. Over time, we grew close. We shared stories. We mocked Lark together. He wasn't the brightest, nor the most patient, but he was a friend. And after so long in isolation, that meant everything.
And that, dear reader, is how I got to where I am today.
⸻
Basil set his pencil down and stretched until his back popped. Rising from the ground, he stared at the wall—the same damn wall he bashed his skull against every day.
"Finally," he muttered to himself, "everything's ready."
Drawing his latest mana sword—a weapon forged with a purple core and wrapped in red mist—he closed his eyes and channeled mana through his arms and into the blade.
With a furious roar, he unleashed everything he had into a single, devastating strike.
CRACK.
The sword shattered.
When Basil opened his eyes, he found only a faint scratch on the wall—barely a fingernail's depth.
Dropping the broken hilt, he fell to his knees, screaming in frustration.
A faint laugh echoed behind him.
He turned.
Lark bounced along the wall like a lunatic, cackling. "Hak Hak Hu hu ahal ahak!"
Rob giggled. "Damn, he's really roasting you."
Tess, watching quietly, looked away and said, "Don't feel bad, Master. I'm sure you'll get it next time."
Basil sighed, standing up slowly. "Yeah… You're right, Tess. Next time."
He laid back down on his makeshift bed, running a calloused hand along the cold, unyielding wall. Should I just give up? End it all?
His eyelids drifted shut.
⸻
He opened his eyes to darkness.
An infinite void surrounded him, cold and ominous. From the shadows emerged a figure—startling at first, but as his eyes adjusted, Basil saw that she was… beautiful.
Tall. Pale. Long black hair flowing like liquid obsidian. A tattered blindfold covered her eyes, and a black halo floated lazily above her head. Her snow-white wings contrasted starkly against the black mist of her tight, curve-hugging dress.
She carried a massive scythe, black as night.
She approached him, each step slow and deliberate, her sadistic smile growing wider.
As she passed by him, she brushed her fingers across his cheek, then leaned in from behind.
"You smell of anguish and torment… of death and despair," she whispered into his ear. "This delights me."
Licking her lips as she circled back in front of him. With one hand, she lifted his chin. With the other, she raised her blindfold.
Behind the fabric—black eyes.
Two endless voids stared back at Basil. He was lost in them, drawn into a cosmic ocean of shadow, like a soul adrift in a starless sky. His body felt weightless. Sound vanished. For that brief, paralyzing moment, there was nothing but her eyes.
"Do you wish to die and not return?" she asked, her voice slithering around him like silk dipped in frost.
Basil blinked, shaken, and snapped back to himself. He shoved her away. "Who are you? What do you want?"
She laughed—a twisted, melodic laugh.
"I am the Goddess of Death. Adith. I've been watching you for some time now. Through every moment of torture. Every suicide. Every scream. My sister claimed you as hers… but your scent reached my domain. And I couldn't resist."
She bit her lip and stepped closer, drawing the scythe around his neck.
"So what do you say, Basil? Give yourself to me."
She leaned in and whispered in his ear, "I'll make it worth your while."
Basil blushed, caught off guard by her seductive tone. "What… what do you want?"
She ran a finger down his chest.
"Just for you to die… and become mine."
He didn't respond.
Maybe I could end it here, he thought. I wouldn't have to suffer anymore. I could finally be free.
His fist clenched.
And then he punched himself in the face.
No. I still have to avenge my parents. They gave their lives so I could live. I'm not what happens to me. I'm what I choose to become.
He smiled at Adith.
"I'm sorry. But I must keep going. There's still so much I have to achieve. So forgive me, Adith—but I can't die today."
She clicked her tongue, annoyed, and turned away.
"I see. Very well. I'll send you back. But if you ever change your mind… just say my name."
She paused mid-step.
"Oh—and before I forget. Heed these words: 'The words of friends can sometimes mean nothing… or they can sometimes mean everything.' The rest… you'll have to figure out yourself."
Then she walked into the void, her black dress trailing behind her, her pale thighs and flowing hair catching Basil's gaze.
He whispered, more to himself than to her, "I've never seen the color black look so beautiful on someone before."
He closed his eyes—
And vanished.
⸻
Adith remained in the void, frozen mid-step. Her expression, once playful and sadistic, softened for the first time in centuries.
Her lips parted slightly, and a light pink hue dusted across her pale cheeks.
She glanced over her shoulder into the space where Basil had once stood.
"…What's that supposed to mean?" she muttered, quietly, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear.
She stood there in silence, arms folded, black halo floating slightly above her head.
——
Basil awoke back in the cube.
"Well that's just great," he muttered. "Another goddess with riddles."
He raked a hand through his long brown hair, making it even messier than before.
"What the hell does 'the words of friends' even mean?"
He stood and launched into his workout: 5,000 push-ups, 7,000 sit-ups, 1,000 lunges, and a full stretching routine. As he trained, questions buzzed in his mind.
If Adith could reach me in here… that means Sarien can too. So why hasn't she contacted me in over six hundred years? What do they really want from me?
His thoughts were cut short by an absurd conversation echoing nearby.
"Oh, Tess, darling dearest, I think I may be in love with you," Rob proclaimed, dropping to one knee.
"Haha, but I've only known you for a day, Sir Rob," Tess replied, backing away awkwardly.
Basil peeked over and grimaced. "Ugh."
Rob caught him staring and snapped, "WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT, YOU NAKED NEANDERTHAL, YOU SAUSAGE-FACED MOTH—"
Before he could finish, Lark flew out of nowhere like a spider monkey, latching onto Rob's face and shouting, "BLINGA BLINGA BAZINGA!"
Rob screamed, running side to side, his words muffled beneath Lark's cackling.
Basil and Tess broke into laughter.
Through the giggles, Tess said, "You guys are such good friends."
Basil's laughter faltered.
Wait.
That's it.
He jumped up. "Lark, you're a genius!"
"Bong bon?" said Lark.
"He, eh?" echoed Rob.
Basil closed his eyes, gathering dark mana in each hand. Pressing them together, he slowly pulled them apart, forming a long purple blade. He used 11 purple mana circles to construct the body, and one red mana circle to sharpen the edge.
The final result was flawless—a purple longsword wrapped in swirling red mist.
"This is the best one yet," he whispered. "Even if it did cost me 120 years of mana gathering."
He faced the wall and remembered Lark's nonsensical chant.
"Hak," he said, slicing the wall vertically.
"Hak," slicing again.
"Hu," as he stabbed once.
"Hu," stabbing again.
"Ahal," he roared, slashing downward with two-thirds of his strength.
And finally, he screamed:
"AHAK!"
He swung upward with all his might, creating a storm of blades that shredded through the wall like paper.
"Haha… HAHAHAHAAA! IT WORKED!!"
He stared in disbelief at the gaping hole in the cube's wall.
"Finally… I can get out of this fucking box."
Tears streamed down his face.