"I do not regret anything," he murmured to himself, his voice low but determined. "Not one fucking thing."
The Death's figure didn't move at first. Then came a low, hollow laugh—cold, mocking, as if echoing from the grave of time itself.
"Regret," the being said, "is for those who believed they had a choice."
He stepped forward, his robes flowing like smoke behind him.
"You speak of will as though it is your own. But what is man's will, Julian Easvil?"
He paused for a moment before continuing.
"A flicker of rebellion sparked by illusion. A puppet pulling its own strings and calling it freedom."
Julian, trembling to stay upright, locked eyes with the god. "You speak as if there is meaning to none. And yet here you are… arguing to make your point valid."
Death smiled.
"Because even the void has a voice. Even nothingness demands to be understood. What is your conviction behind your words?"
Julian exhaled slowly.
