????. Hell's Border. Scriba
Darkness. Cold. Silent.
I felt weightless... like a drifting soul. I once had a name - but long ago, or maybe just now - I lost my sense of self. My body... did I have one?
Still, it was comforting. Like a great burden had been lifted from my shoulders.
Then something grabbed me.
It yanked me downward - no, inward - towards a shell.
A body?
Light exploded around me. Blinding. Burning. It stripped my thoughts off my mind.
'Where is this?'
'Who—?'
"Your name is Scriba," said a raspy voice from above.
"From now on, you work here," it added, monotone, as if announcing the weather.
As I looked up, my breath got stuck in my throat.
There, looming just beyond the shattered wall of the monastery, rested a severed head the size of a mountain. Dried and ancient, it dominated the blasted landscape beyond, half-sunken into a crater scorched into the earth like a forgotten god's grave.
I had to crane my neck just to glimpse its face... or where a face should've been.
No eyes. Only cavernous craters, each wide as a lake.
Its cheeks had sloughed off and sagged against the rubble, as if centuries of rot had melted flesh to wax. From its neck, cleanly sliced with precision, poured a slow, constant stream of thick, black blood. It hissed as it met mossy stone, eating away at the ground like acid.
"Seen enough? Then get to work," the head said.
Its voice didn't carry across the distance - it simply was, pressing directly into my thoughts like a commandment. The head never moved, yet its yellowed, crooked teeth shifted slightly, just enough to mock the act of speech.
I blinked, realizing how long I'd been staring. My neck ached. I turned my gaze away and finally noticed the monastery around me.
Its ruins barely clung to shape, stone pillars split in half, vines devouring whatever still stood. The giant altar where the head once belonged was long gone, now just a scorched platform beyond the wall. A toppled stone cross leaned crooked beside it, pointing at nothing. There was no sun here. Just a churning canopy of black clouds, glowing faintly with a colorless light that seemed to bleed in from nowhere.
The floor beneath me creaked. Wood, soaked and warped. A thick, moldy green carpet of moss coated the stone, giving it a hairy texture. Craters in the ground made it seem porous, unstable.
The scent hit me next: a mix of sterile bitterness - like sanitizer... and the deep burn of strong whiskey.
The roof had caved in long ago. The north and south walls barely stood, bricks crumbling, their shapes twisted by time. To the west, where the head lay, there was no wall at all. The east wall, strangely enough, was untouched - pristine, as if untouched by decay.
Rooms? There were none. Only a wide, open hall... the size of a cathedral's heart, with emptiness stretching in every direction.
I looked down.
A wooden chair.
I was sitting.
In front of me stood a table. Upon it, a blank book, bound in ash-colored leather, the kind that breathed when touched.
It didn't belong.
None of it did.
Still, I gathered what little courage I had and asked, "Who are you?"
The head coughed once—deep and phlegmy. Then, in a voice that rumbled like thunder cracking through bone:
"My name is ______. But you may call me by my title: The Auditor of Souls."
He raised his voice for that last part—clearly for dramatic effect.
"And you, Scriba, were chosen after a long and careful selection process to become my partner. Congratulations."
He smiled.
I didn't believe a word of it.
There was no selection. That grin wasn't kind - it was smug. If anything, I was here to replace him... or to do the work he no longer cared to do.
"So if this is an honorable position, I can... respectfully decline, right? Hehe?"
"Ha. Ha. Ha. So funny," he said.
Then flatly: "No."
I sighed.
"At least tell me who I was before. And what I'm supposed to do."
He grumbled, the air around him vibrating with displeasure.
"You were some unimportant, lesser demon."
Then he burst into laughter.
"And your first and final name... given by your killer, mind you... was Imp. The lowest of the low. Possibly the only insulting thing anyone could call something like you."
He laughed harder, choking on his own amusement. If he'd had a body, I was sure he'd be rolling across the moss.
I just stared. Blankly.
Why is that so funny to him?
Still... I was oddly grateful for the new name. Scriba. At least it sounded like something.
I had no memories of my past, so why should I care?
He sobered.
"Your task is simple. Document the life of a certain individual who's caught the attention of our mistress. Write his biography—from beginning to end."
He leaned in - not physically, but I felt it. Like the pressure of a mountain shifting.
"Be grateful. To be commissioned by her means you are under her protection. But... the task is important. Very important. If you screw this up..."
He paused. The air dropped ten degrees.
"...then death will be the best outcome you can hope for."
Great.
So this was it.
No way back. No way out.
I swallowed the bile rising in my throat and asked, "Who is he? The one I'm supposed to write about? And how will I learn about his life?"
Solus slowly opened his mouth wider and wider. "Let me just show you. His name is Ivan."
Before I could react, I felt myself yanked into a void - my body left behind, only my soul dragged forward.
Darkness.
Again.
But not for long.
I slipped into a new shell... warm, soft, curled in on itself. Still, it was dark... but comforting. I felt drowsy.
Let's just figure this out later, I thought, drifting off.
Time passed. Months, maybe. I couldn't move or speak, only sleep. But I could feel the body I inhabited begin to form. I grew curious. What was this? Where was I?
Then - light.
Sound.
A gasp. A scream. Warm hands holding me.
I was born.
Time flowed faster from then on. Days blurred. I realized it: I was living someone else's life. Watching, passively, from within.
I couldn't control anything. I couldn't even stay awake when I wanted. But I saw it all. His parents. His laughter. His tears.
Years passed... six of them.
Then, suddenly, I was ripped out. Pulled back.
I opened my eyes.
Solus loomed in the distance.
"How was your first trip? That should be enough for a while, right? Awhn..." he yawned, dragging the sound out. "Anyway, I've got to sleep now. Restore my energy. Better get to writing or els..."
He snored. Loudly.
I stared at him.
Six years. I had just lived six entire years... in a moment.
My head spun. I couldn't keep it all in. The emotions, the memories - they weren't mine, yet they weighed on me like lead.
Then I looked at the book again. The empty pages. The fountain pen.
They called to me.
Maybe I was born for this.
I cracked my fingers, picked up the pen, and whispered:
"Let's see... where do we start?
Ah. Right..."