The void was an expanse of nothingness, an infinite abyss devoid of light, sound, and substance. Time seemed irrelevant here, and existence was a fleeting memory. There was no up or down, no sense of direction or space, just an all-encompassing darkness that swallowed everything. It felt like floating in a dreamless sleep, a state where the soul drifted without purpose or destination.

In this emptiness floated a soul, the remnants of a once-living being. He felt neither weight nor freedom, only a peculiar awareness of his own existence amidst the void. Loneliness and confusion gnawed at him, a silent scream echoing in the cavernous emptiness of his mind.

Suddenly, a presence made itself known—a force neither seen nor heard but felt with an intensity that pierced through the darkness, an unwelcome intrusion into his solitary despair.

"You are dead."

The words reverberated through the void, shattering the silence. The soul, still clinging to remnants of human consciousness, stirred, trying to resist the inevitable pull of eternal sleep. Fear and denial surged within him.

"Let me sleep, ma," he murmured, his voice a mere whisper in the vast emptiness, filled with a child's yearning for comfort and familiarity.

"Wake up. You are dead."

Confusion washed over the soul, a tidal wave of dread and disbelief. He struggled to understand, to remember how he had ended up here. Panic gripped him as he sought answers in the fragmented memories of his past life.

"Why am I dead?" he asked, his thoughts sluggish, as if moving through molasses, each word a desperate plea for clarity.

"Because you are dead."

The soul bristled at the simplicity of the response, frustration bubbling up, a flicker of his former self. Anger began to rise, mingling with his confusion.

"But I was alive!" he protested, a futile attempt to assert his lost identity.

"People die when they are killed. Do you think an invisible being in the void, whom you have just met, gives a damn why you are dead?"

The soul struggled to process the words. He was dead, yet here he was, aware and questioning. The void offered no answers, only more questions. Desperation clawed at him, a primal instinct to fight against the darkness.

"Then if you don't give a damn, why am I conscious, and why am I here? Isn't death just infinite darkness where I disappear or disintegrate?" he demanded, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and defiance.

"Because I found you here, and you're going to work for me now. For that, your soul has to be fully functioning."

A spark of defiance flared within the soul, a glimmer of resistance against the overwhelming void.

"And why should I work for you?" he challenged, his anger giving him strength.

"Why wouldn't you? Don't you sentient species always ask for a second chance? Today, I'm giving you one."

The soul pondered this. A second chance? The idea was tempting, but doubt lingered. "Who or what is giving me a second chance matters. Peasants and illiterates were slaves 500 years ago, and most of them still are today—they just don't know it. I have finally found peace here, a chance to sleep peacefully. Why should I suffer again? I don't want to be a slave to the world or to my own desires."

"Does it matter?" the voice resonated, carrying an unnerving mix of indifference and authority. "I can be a god or a demon, an egg or a chicken, The God or The Devil. If a being of unknown power offers you a chance, why shouldn't you take it? Even as a slave, you can obtain everything you desire with my help."

The promise lingered in the void, tantalizing and terrifying, a glimmer of hope amidst the oppressive darkness. The soul hesitated. Every instinct screamed to refuse, to flee, but where could one run in the void? The isolation was suffocating, yet the promise of purpose was tantalizing.

"Because I know you should never say yes to something unknown," he argued, his voice trembling with a mixture of fear and reason. "Every folk tale and horror story starts because someone agrees to some deal of some sort with something they don't understand. You could be the devil who will squeeze me for who knows how many years." The anxiety in his words echoed through the void.

"But I am not unknown. Plus, everything precious you desire has a certain price to pay. Nothing is free. Why shouldn't you work for something you desire? Weren't you just a sad know-it-all who knew you were being exploited, yet you still sold your precious youth when your mind and body were at their peak?" the presence countered, its tone almost mocking.

"I don't remember any being like you in anything I have read or heard," the soul replied, a hint of uncertainty creeping into his voice.

"Can you remember your own name?" The question sliced through the emptiness, sharp and disquieting. It carried an undercurrent of challenge and disbelief, echoing with a cold, probing intensity that made the soul's awareness waver and flicker like a fragile flame in a storm.

"I... don't know," the soul admitted, a pang of loss and frustration hitting him. The words felt heavy, laden with the weight of forgotten identity and the anguish of being lost in an endless void.

"The place we find ourselves is the void—an expanse beyond time, devoid of past, present, or future. Here, existence is distilled into a single, eternal moment." The being's voice echoed softly, carrying a mysterious blend of awe and apprehension, as if grappling with the profound implications of their surroundings.

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"So, what am I supposed to do now?" he asked, a tinge of resignation coloring his words.

"You will embark on a journey to right some wrongs," came the enigmatic reply.

The soul's curiosity was piqued. "You must wield incredible power to reside in this place. Why not undertake this task yourself?"

The response was as cryptic as it was unsettling. "Imagine a being whose eyelashes could overshadow your entire omniverse. Would such a colossus concern itself with the minutiae of a single planet, within a solitary solar system, nestled in the quiet suburbs of a city? Even a fleeting glance might spell annihilation for your entire multiverse."

"But you are in the void. Why should it matter to you if something happens outside here? I don't think someone who can destroy an omniverse gives a damn about some sub-par intelligent beings," he retorted, frustration evident.

"You are asking quite a lot of questions for someone with sub-par intelligence," the being remarked with a touch of condescension.

The soul's voice wavered slightly as it responded, "Well, I've always wondered what would happen to me after I die. I've immersed myself in mythology, folk tales, and fiction, searching for answers. But I found no definitive answer. After all, you can't trust other humans for answers, and God never answers, does he?" There was a tinge of frustration and longing in the soul's words, a yearning for understanding in the face of existential uncertainty.

"The gods you know are mere echoes. Yes, they truly exist but not in your universe. Quite arrogant of you, isn't it? Asking questions to the creator because you think he made a mistake and isn't treating you fairly."

"I never said I blame some unknown being whom I heard stories of. I just wanted an answer. Does struggling so much even matter in the end?" he questioned, a note of vulnerability creeping into his voice. His words carried the weight of existential doubt, a longing for meaning in the face of the entire cosmos.

"If you take my deal, perhaps it will matter. If you don't, there have been 117 billion intelligent beings before you. Do they matter?"

"I am nobody special. There should be plenty of others out there who are more desperate and talented than me. Why don't you give them a try?" he suggested, his tone tinged with a hint of resignation. His words carried a sense of acceptance, acknowledging his own insignificance in the vast scheme of existence.

"You aren't that smart. This is the void. This is a single moment which will continue for eternity. You being here is already impossible. Plus, if it is possible then it means this was always meant to be. The assumption we are having this conversation for the first time might not be true."

"Are we characters in some weird story?" the soul questioned, its voice echoing through the void.

"Maybe or maybe not," replied the omnipotent being, its voice resonating like distant echoes of ancient truths. "Being a character isn't bad. At least you're not responsible for your own mistakes."

"But we have no free will," the soul protested, its voice tinged with frustration and uncertainty.

The omnipotent being regarded the soul with a serene yet knowing gaze. "Does anyone truly possess free will?" it countered, its voice resonating through the cosmic void. "Even those who seem to hold the reins of power are often bound by their own desires and limitations."

The soul pondered this, feeling a sense of both liberation and constraint in the being's words. It had always grappled with the concept of agency—wondering if its choices were predetermined or if there was genuine autonomy in its path.

"The two most important days in your life are the day you are born and the day you find out why," the omnipotent being continued, its voice carrying a profound weight of wisdom. "In this journey, you will uncover not just your purpose, but the intricate threads that weave the tapestry of existence."

The soul considered these words, sensing a shift in perspective. Perhaps, in this cosmic narrative, the true essence of freedom lay not in defiance of fate, but in the understanding and acceptance of one's role within the grander scheme.

"Now I know why that thunder god liked to mess things up whenever he got a chance. Perhaps he was looking for a way out or having as much fun as possible," mused the soul, reflecting on the complexities of divine behavior.

"Indeed," replied the omnipotent being, its voice carrying the weight of ages. "Gods, like characters in storybooks, often seek meaning and amusement in their actions. They too may be bound by narratives beyond their control."

The soul furrowed its brow, contemplating the implications of being a character in a cosmic tale. "Are we characters as well?" it wondered aloud. "And if so, who are the true authors—those who write the stories or those who read them?"

The omnipotent being chuckled softly. "A question that spans realms and realities. How many layers deep do the characters go, writing characters of their own?"

"I hope we're at least some mid-level characters," the soul remarked with a hint of wry humor, trying to grasp the scope of its existence.

"Who knows," the being replied cryptically, its form shimmering with an air of ancient wisdom. "In this vast expanse, the lines between creator and creation blur, leaving us to navigate the mysteries of our roles."

"Perhaps all those famous notorious people in history found out they were fictional subconsciously, just like Deadpool. Otherwise, I can't understand why some of them made not just one but a streak of stupid decisions," pondered the soul, reflecting on the erratic behaviors of historical figures.

"Indeed, Deadpool was quite idiotic naming himself after one of the easiest ways to kill himself," remarked the omnipotent being with a hint of dry humor. "But he can't be drowned in the universes; he was cursed by death's simp. Now, why don't you make a wise decision and agree to my deal?"

The soul hesitated, curiosity piqued. "But what is your deal?"

"Agree first, then I will tell you," replied the being, its tone carrying an air of certainty. "I don't think anything can be worse than finding out that you are a nameless fictional character."

The soul weighed the mysterious offer, torn between skepticism and the desire for clarity. In the cosmic void, where truth and fiction intertwined, a decision awaited—one that could redefine its understanding of existence itself.

"Nameless. At least tell me how I am going to right some wrongs?" the soul implored, its voice echoing into the vast emptiness of the void.

"You are going to be a Judge of the End," the omnipotent being declared with solemn authority.

The words hung heavy in the air, settling over the soul like a weighty mantle. In the timeless expanse of the void, where echoes of destinies intertwined, the soul stood in contemplative silence. The omnipotent being's presence cast a profound sense of purpose and responsibility upon it, the gravity of the role slowly sinking in.

The soul searched for words, grappling with the magnitude of what was being asked. "Judge of the End," it repeated softly, trying to fathom the implications.

The void remained silent, indifferent to the soul's turmoil. Shadows danced on the periphery of perception, hinting at mysteries and revelations yet to unfold. The omnipotent being stood as a silent sentinel, awaiting the soul's acceptance, its form shimmering with the essence of cosmic truths.

Uncertainty lingered in the soul's mind, but a spark of determination ignited within. Whatever awaited beyond the veil of uncertainty, it knew this role held the key to shaping destinies and confronting the echoes of past decisions.

And so, amidst the timeless expanse where existence and purpose converged, the soul embraced its fate as the Judge of the End. With resolve tempered by introspection, it stepped forward into the unknown, ready to confront the challenges and revelations that awaited on the path of cosmic judgment.