In an unknown place within an unknown realm—far removed from time, space, and all things familiar—there existed a hall.
No, not a hall with walls and ceilings like those of palaces or cathedrals. This was something else. This hall had no beginning, no end, and no true shape. A corridor stretched through its center, impossibly long, with a red carpet laid down its length. The carpet shimmered, threaded with intricate golden patterns that pulsed faintly like veins of light. It didn't rest on stone or wood, but floated—anchored to nothing yet unshifting.
On either side of this central path stood towering pillars—countless, unnumbered, and infinite. They stretched so high into the void above that their peaks vanished into mist. The pillars bore no carvings, no age, no wear. They simply were, existing with the certainty of things that had never been built, only meant to be.
Beyond the corridor and the pillars, the realm opened to… nothingness. There were no walls, no ceiling, no ground—just a black void that hummed with quiet tension, like the air before a storm. And yet within that void, suspended in all directions, were portals. Hundreds. Thousands. Millions. An endless constellation of doorways hanging in the dark.
Some were no larger than a coin. Others were wide enough to swallow entire cities. Some were titanic, mountain-sized rings that slowly rotated, carved with unknown sigils that glowed with internal fire. And all of them were different.
Each portal shimmered with a unique hue. Some glowed dull bronze, others gleamed silver or iron. Many shone with pure gold, while a few burned red like molten metal. There were some, rare and unsettling, that were pitch black—so dark they seemed to drink in the light around them, leaving nothing behind.
Even the smallest portals varied. No two were quite alike. Some flickered violently, others stood silent and still. Some looked like liquid mirrors; others resembled torn fabric or frozen whirlpools of light.
What lay beyond each portal was unknowable. They could lead to other dimensions, forgotten timelines, shattered realities—or something else entirely. Nothing about this place suggested logic or order. Yet despite the chaos, there was a strange consistency. Every portal, regardless of size or shape, radiated a pull. A silent beckoning. They invited. They waited.
Surreal. That was the word for it. This place was drenched in surreality and unreality. As if it didn't truly exist—or existed in too many ways at once. The boundaries between dream and waking, fiction and truth, felt thin here. You could see the uncertainty in everything: the way the light bent strangely, the way sound didn't carry, the way the floor beneath your feet didn't quite exist but still held you.
And yet, despite the disorienting nature of it all, there was something else. Something unexpected. A strange, solemn finality. As though this place was not simply a crossroads of possibility, but the end of many long journeys. A place where answers might be found, or destinies resolved.
In the midst of all this stood something that broke the pattern—a floating platform, hovering high above the endless corridor. Unlike the mysterious pillars or ancient-looking portals, this platform was unmistakably crafted. Smooth. Structured. Modern.
Upon it sat a throne.
It was simple in shape but unmistakably a throne: tall-backed, curved, made of dark stone that shimmered like obsidian in moonlight. And before it, a long table.
That table, of all things, held paper documents.
Yes—real paper. Pages scattered and stacked. Some typed. Some handwritten. Some sealed with wax, others signed in ink. It was an almost comically mundane sight amid the fantastical expanse. As if someone had moved a government office into the heart of an impossible universe.
And seated on the throne was a man.
Not a beast, not a god. A man. But not an ordinary one.
He appeared to be in his early thirties, give or take. His face was sharp and striking—handsome, yes, but not in the way of statues or stories. His black hair flowed long, down past his shoulders, well-groomed and parted like an aristocrat of old. His eyes were unreadable, calm, and yet behind them stirred something ancient. Older than time. Older than death.
There was an aura about him. Not oppressive, not even present in the normal sense—but undeniable. Like a thought you couldn't shake or a feeling you didn't understand. He wasn't radiating power. He was power. Yet he looked more like a university professor or a tired civil servant than a dark lord or celestial king.
He wore long robes—elaborate, flowing, covered in intricate sigils that shimmered faintly. They looked like the garb of ancient sages, or perhaps long-dead wizards. But on his face rested a pair of simple, rectangular glasses. Modern. Earthly. The kind you could buy at any optician.
He didn't speak. He didn't move with theatrical grandeur. He merely sat, calmly, methodically, signing document after document. His signature glowed briefly on each page, and then the paper vanished into thin air—absorbed by the space or perhaps transported somewhere else entirely.
And beside him, resting on the table, was a paper coffee cup. The kind you'd find at a high-end café in any modern city. Faint steam curled from its mouth. Occasionally, he took a sip, nodded to himself, and continued working.
The juxtaposition was absurd. A cosmic hall of infinite portals, a floating throne platform, and a man in ancient robes sipping overpriced espresso while signing documents. But somehow, it fit.
Here, in the most unplace-like place imaginable, this image grounded everything. He made the impossible seem routine. As if the very act of managing multiversal pathways, of overseeing the fabric of existence, was just another Tuesday afternoon at the office.
He didn't look up. Not even once.
And still, without looking, he knew everything.
He knew who approached. He knew from where. He knew their questions before they were asked. He knew their fears, their hopes, their pasts.
The man on the throne was not a king, or a god, or a demon. He was… an administrator.
Of what, exactly, no one could say.
Of choices? Of endings? Of beginnings?
Perhaps he was the custodian of the unknown. The final signature on the paper before the portal took you to wherever it was you needed—not wanted, but needed—to go.
He looked ordinary. He was not.
And if you stood there long enough, in that unplace, looking into his unreadable eyes behind those plain glasses, you would understand one simple truth:
This was the last place you would ever visit before you truly began