> "A body is a mere fragment; a soul is the divine form of every being."
A soul is formless. It is boundless. It cannot be touched, yet it touches all.
Reflected in the dead eyes of a child is the silent horizon of this realm—
The Domain of the Soul God, Nyxiel.
The sky is a translucent dark blue, drifting endlessly like a sea that forgot how to move. It hums, softly at first, then louder, until the entire world sings hollow songs of release. They echo through the bones of the wind, through empty temples and forgotten graves.
Here, the dead are not quiet.
They dream.
And every dream is a plea to be freed.
Whispers follow the wind—some sound like laughter, some like prayers, others like madness breaking. The air itself is heavy with emotion, thick enough to make the living weep without knowing why.
What is will?
What is consciousness?
Those questions mean nothing here.
The beings that dwell in this place—if they can even be called beings—wander endlessly. Their bodies flicker between form and nothingness, as though reality cannot decide what they should be. I call them "people," yet I hesitate, for there is no spark of humanity left in them. Only echoes.
Overwashed by sunken depression, they shuffle in silence, their lips moving with words that no longer exist. Whispers crawl under the surface of thought, birthing a madness that consumes even the faintest idea of identity.
No records exist about this domain, for those who enter must first become souls. Flesh cannot cross this threshold without offering itself up. And even then—what remains is not life, nor death, but something unholy that lingers between.
There are the living here… or so they claim. But what is life when every breath is borrowed from the dead? When every thought is a fragment of someone else's will?
Nyxiel watches from above—or perhaps from within. None can tell.
His presence is not light, nor darkness. It is existence itself, stripped of meaning and form.
Those who claim to have seen him speak of a figure made of countless faces, all whispering at once, all begging for silence.
His will is death, not as punishment, but as mercy.
A return to the origin of all things—the soul.
In this realm, the truth is cruel and simple:
Life is the illusion.
Death, the reality.
And so the beings of the Domain of Souls sing their hollow songs beneath the dark blue sky, waiting for a god who has already devoured them all.