• The One Who Bargained (1)

"No…"

That was Jarren's voice. It was low like a whisper, but with a spark of defiance in it, a resolve. It was pointless though—this defiance—because once again, Jarren was dead, killed by the same being he created.

He had been forced to experience what he had inflicted on countless other extras, and now, just like the expendable, meaningless extra he was, he too was dead.

Dying inside the Gates had one grim consequence; their souls were instantly transported into the Gate Crypt where they would await to be reborn as defenders of the Gates and its Trials. They would either return as Gatekeepers or twisted Paragon beasts, it all depended on how powerful they were before death.

Given that Deremiah Morcant was only as powerful as a fist full of mud, Jarren was certainly on his way to becoming a brainless, soulless Paragon beast.

However, when that word had left his mouth "No," there was a silence that echoed within the Crypt. Jarren was standing in the midst of this silence, capsuled by the darkness around him, his translucent form shimmering like a golden silhouette, faint stars spiraling away from him with each shallow breath.

He stared high into pitch-black void above as though waiting for a reply to his statement. But no, only silence greeted him, and for a moment, Jarren wondered if the Inquisitor had even heard him.

"I don't agree to this death, and I demand that you give me another chance!" his voice rose, tainted with frustration.

There was still silence even after that. The Inquisitor—the voice that had always remained so calm, so absolute, speaking to the participants as they struggled through the impossible Trials—was not a voice meant to be spoken to.

Jarren knew this, he knew it more intimately than anyone because he had written the Inquisitor, sculpted the same voice that judged the weak and rewarded the strong. Yet, despite that, he also knew that it was not impossible, and there were no rules against communication with the Inquisitor.

It was ingenious, really. The Inquisitor to everyone was the detached game master, the one who knew all the rules and regulated the entire game. No one at all suspected that he could also be spoken to just as he could speak to them, albeit a little more limited.

However, Jarren had included this when he created the lore behind the Inquisitor. In the upcoming arc that he was unable to finish due to his untimely death, he had plans for another extra character, one who was supposed to be the first one to attempt this, and when it worked, the character and the Inquisitor bargained.

This was what Jarren intended to do. To use the plot device he had created for his final arc and save himself one more time. Jarren wanted to bargain with the Inquisitor.

"Are you going to answer me or not?!" he demanded, more forceful this time, his brown eyes burning in the Crypt's darkness.

"Who are you?" the Inquisitor's voice arrived almost immediately after, echoing off the unseen walls.

"Who am I?" Jarren repeated the question, sounding insulted. "To you, I should be God."

The Inquisitor was silent after that, but Jarren could sense the confusion and curiosity swirling on the other end, as if the Inquisitor were trying to comprehend what was happening.

"I believe you to be Deremiah Morcant, child of the Ander Salmarian slums. However, one like you should not possess the knowledge that I can be spoken to."

"One like me?" Now, Jarren was truly peeved. Being addressed condescendingly by something he created himself was more degrading than he had anticipated. "Do you know who I truly am?"

The Inquisitor was silent once again. But at least now Jarren could tell that he was starting to catch on. No mere boy from the slums would dare to speak to him this way, let alone know how.

"I am curious," the Inquisitor replied. "You called yourself a god."

"What else would I be if I was the one who created you, the one who created the Gates and everything existing in Uxetor?" Jarren shot back, dripping with pride.

Once again, the Inquisitor took a moment to respond. "You expect me to condone this?"

"I expect you to listen, Ancient Larkalot!" Jarren boomed.

That name thundered inside the Crypt, it was a name long forgotten, one only a few had ever known. Catching the Inquisitor by surprise, the name caused him to once again fall into silence, one that echoed inside the darkness. Jarren, on the other hand, stood assured in himself, hands clenched at both sides.

"You know my true name?" the Inquisitor asked.

"I know everything about you, Larkalot," Jarren replied confidently. "I gave you this fate, you see? I made you greedy, selfish. And when your greed led you astray from the other Ancients, and to commit those transgressions against the Primordials, I made it so that this was your punishment."

The Inquisitor did not speak, it seemed as though he could not. This news was overwhelming.

"You were brought low," Jarren continued, like a knife twisting deeper. "The first Ancient to be conquered by the Primordials in eons. And now you're trapped here, forced to serve as the middleman between them and the Marked, the game master of the Trials."

Jarren could feel the Inquisitor's mind running wild. No one in the entire three realms—save for the Primordials themselves—knew of this. It had happened such a long time ago, and even more importantly, it had happened in the Aether Plane, where no mortal eye could see, and no mortal hand could reach.

If anyone was to have such knowledge, they would have to be a Primordial, an Ancient or... a god? So was it true? Was this Deremiah Morcant actually a god? Did he truly create the Uxetor?

"If all you say is true, and you are the one who has brought this fate upon me, then why ever would I help you?" the Inquisitor asked.

"Because having a king owe you is good," Jarren responded almost immediately, "but being owed by a god is better."

The Gate Crypt hummed after that, vibrating more intensely through the indiscernible black stone beneath him and even in the tense, shadowed air.

Jarren smirked. "Let's be honest, Larkalot. The only person who can free you from this eternal bondage is me. The Primordials will keep you trapped here forever to ensure the Trials function properly. And the Ancients? They still refuse to go to war with the Primordials, not even for your sake. They haven't, and they never will."

His voice dropped low. "However, I can change that. I can alter specific courses of events, and I can set you free from the Gates." His eyes narrowed and darkened. "Bargain with me."

The Inquisitor's reply came swiftly, faster than before. "You spoke of honesty. If I am being held to that standard, then surely you, mighty god, would not mind being held to it as well. I have a question."

Jarren frowned a little, a bit worried that the Inquisitor was seeing right through his glorious facade. However, he managed to keep his cool, breaking to a mischievous smile and shrugging nonchalantly.

"I don't see why not," he replied. "You are the Inquisitor. So go ahead, inquire."

Now, the booming voice took its time once more, as though intentionally allowing the tension to build up before he asked; "How does a god as mighty as you—one who created all of Uxetor, the Gates and its Trials—die in the very first one?"