Unholy Player

"What the fuck?"

Adyr couldn’t stop the words from slipping out.

For a moment, he questioned whether this was all unfolding in his mind or if reality itself had truly fractured.

Then, from his right, came a sound.

It wasn’t a voice. It wasn’t even a scream in the ordinary sense. It was the collective shriek of agony from countless beings—millions, no, trillions—compressed into a single, soul-rending echo. Like the gates of hell had been thrown open and every cursed thing inside was clawing, screaming, writhing, pleading for release. A chorus of torment that bypassed the ears and crawled straight into the bones.

Even someone like Adyr, who had heard worse in both lives, felt his spine stiffen.

And then came the counterpoint.

From his left, another sound bloomed into existence.

Music.

Beautiful, soothing, and impossibly layered. Adyr couldn’t place a single instrument, yet the melody was clear and perfect, effortless. It was the laughter of children, warm and bright, woven seamlessly with the low, contented murmurs of adults speaking in hushed tones. Voices sang—men and women alike—reciting verses, exchanging songs and poetry in a harmony that was too flawless to be rehearsed. It wasn’t noise; it was unity. A symphony of joy, woven together with such precision that each voice completed the next without ever clashing.

A perfect contrast to the wailing void on his right.