The lie that sets me free. Cale Henituse X Intkot

1.

English is not my first language and everything was translated via google!

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The room was silent. Not an oppressive, solemn silence — just emptiness. No despair, no regret, no fear, as was often the case in this office. It was strange, but not uncomfortable.

Deon sat in front of a massive desk, feeling something invisible tighten around his chest. He was seated on a couch, facing a being that radiated an aura not of grim death, but of peace. Eternal peace.

“So,” a calm voice broke the stillness, “how does it feel to become the catastrophe of an entire world?”

Black eyes, dark as a starless sky, flickered toward the newly arrived soul — the one who had just departed from life.

Deon Hart. A white-haired young man with blood-red eyes, now dim as he gazed at the God before him. The God of Death, to be precise.

Yet the entity he faced didn’t look terrifying. If anything, he seemed... strangely ordinary. A knitted, light beige sweater, white—perhaps ashen — hair, and tanned skin. He didn’t glare at Deon with judgment or contempt, nor did he sneer. There was only a lazy curiosity in his expression.

“What does it matter?” Deon finally spoke, crossing his arms. “If it was the will of the world itself.”

“Perhaps. But you regretted it,” the God mused, shrugging as he leaned back against the couch, lounging comfortably within his own domain. “At least, at first.”

Deon remained silent.

“They used you. Betrayed you. Killed your brother.” The God of Death slowly lifted a hand, as if presenting something unseen in the air. “After that, you had nothing left. You were no more than a puppet, controlled by whoever pleased.”

Still, the white-haired young man said nothing. The only response was the heavy, painful silence between them.

“I won’t send you back,” the God continued. “You don’t want that, and I have no need for it.”

“Then why am I here?” Deon’s gaze sharpened, mild surprise flickering across his face.

He had hoped — no, feared — that he would be sent back. That he would be forced to relive those moments again and again, as penance for his sins.

“The world can still be saved. But not by you.” The God tilted his head slightly. “There is someone else who can rewrite history.”

“And you’d just hand that power over?” Deon scoffed, already pitying the poor soul who would take his place. Even imagining it made his face twist slightly, though he quickly masked it with his usual stoic, faintly furrowed expression.

“Of course not. I never do anything ‘just because.’” A hint of amusement crept into the God’s voice. “He will take your place. He will enter your body at the moment when things can still be changed. And you… you will become my assistant.”

Silence again.

Deon considered the proposition. He didn’t want to go back. But if this person took his place… If he could prevent what had happened before… If his loved ones could survive. Could live happily. Then—

“What’s his name?” he asked, resigned yet determined to know the name of the so-called ‘fortunate one’—the next Deon Hart.

“Cale,” the God of Death answered simply. “Don’t worry, he’s not like you. ...Almost.”

(Though, honestly, they might as well be copies. Confusion will be inevitable. Both weak, yet strong. And, of course, both of them coughing up blood. Heh.)