Level “???”: Respect

  Once again, Dante awakens from his unconsciousness, holding his head. He recognises the symptoms of Vazmentia: that state in which consciousness dissolves, disconnects from reality, and the soul is torn from the current plane to be thrown at random into another of Nullaria’s levels.

  Holding his head, he slowly stood up. Around him, a completely white space, without horizon or vertex. There was no up or down. Only mirrors without frames, of multiple sizes. Some floated. Others seemed nailed into what could be the ground. Some moved, others remained static.

  After taking a few steps, confused, he realised that none reflected what they should. One showed him as a child. Another, as a decrepit old man. Another simply ignored him, as if his existence were an anomaly.

  After a blink, an inscription was revealed on his retina, displaying the description of the current level:

  [Level “???”: Axis -Y. Class 5 — Survival Difficulty: Inferno]

  Records on this level are scarce or nearly non-existent. The documentation found so far is unreliable and contradictory.

  Access is restricted to certain souls, and it is rumoured that only those with special abilities can reach this place.

  So far, the only known method to access it is through Vazmentia.

  Death is virtually assured. It is unknown if an exit exists.

  Respect

  Dante took a deep breath. Controlling his fear was key in this level. He recognised the place immediately thanks to his regressions. This was a level without coordinates, without structure, without fixed meaning. There were no doors. No ceilings. No physical laws existed. Only the sensation of being inside a living space, one that observed him and mutated constantly.

  This was the realm of one of the Seven Terrors of Nullaria.

  He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. Speech had vanished. It wasn’t painful. It was as if his voice had never existed. He knew that this type of level had a reputation for being corrupted places, beyond all logic. The threat level was extreme, not only because of the Nightmares that inhabited it, but also because information was almost non-existent.

  Luckily — if that word still meant anything — nothing had changed since his last regression. He reconfirmed it when he tried to speak. And, more importantly: in this level he would find Bealuna. His great love. The only one who had managed to make an authentic hope bloom within him amidst the horror.

  Remembering this made sadness return to his face. Bealuna did not know him yet, and everything would have to begin again. Every gesture, conversation and action would be a “first meeting” for her.

  Soon, his sadness was replaced by a state of alertness. The whispers had begun.

  — “It’s not worth it…”

  — “Give up…”

  — “Yeah… give up… give up…”

  — “No one’s going to help you…”

  — “Stay and play with us…”

  — “Why fight…”

  — “Wouldn’t it be better if you just gave up…?”

  The voices did not come from the outside. They resonated inside his mind, intertwined like a constant echo. The Whisperers. Nightmares that fed on hopelessness. They did not seek flesh. They sought will. They broke the spirit until the body surrendered.

  Dante had seen them before, and now he could sense them again. His spiritual perception, slightly heightened, barely allowed him to distinguish them — irregular, translucent forms. They were half-formed human figures, without face, without name, without compassion, moving randomly through the air, always just beyond the field of vision.

  It would be he himself who, after surviving this battle, would name them the Whisperers in his reconnaissance report for Eden.

  He only had to ignore them. Not let their words affect him. Breathe. Walk calmly. Always in a straight line, even if the mind said otherwise. Even if he felt he was climbing a wall or walking on a ceiling. Gravity here was a cruel joke. The space folded, twisted. The level laughed at you in silence.

  After a long walk without crossing paths with another soul, he felt it.

  It wasn’t a sound.

  It wasn’t a creature.

  It was a void.

  An invisible hollow in the air that forced him to bow his head. His body reacted by instinct, as if it recognised it should kneel before something.

  A new void, silent and radiant, enveloped everything. And suddenly, as if the very fabric of reality were being torn apart, a network of dimensional folds unfolded: lines of light that slithered like multicoloured threads, spinning in infinite spirals, intertwining, separating and folding back upon themselves. There were no walls, no sky, no ground, only a field of unstable existence, as though each fragment of space were trying to escape from the next.

  Dante saw himself standing upon what he could barely recognise as a white tile suspended in the void, which constantly shifted around him. It was then that he noticed he was not alone. There were a hundred souls in total, scattered around, each one motionless upon a similar slab, distributed like pieces upon an impossible cosmic board.

  Some covered their ears, trying to silence the voices of the Whisperers. Others wept in silence. Several opened their mouths to scream, yet no voice rose, not the slightest sound emerged. Some looked at each other, desperate, not daring to move a millimetre from their tiles, seeking a connection that might anchor them to something real.

  But in this level, fear and despair were the worst enemies. They eroded perception, dissolved will, until even the soul itself was broken.

  Then, without warning, rays of violet light burst forth from every direction. They coiled with impossible slowness, twisting like serpents of energy that seemed to defy any known law. At the centre of that chaotic dance a humanoid figure formed: a hooded silhouette, draped in a long robe of the same deep violet. Its face could not be seen. It held no weapon. It did not move. It simply observed in silence. It remained there, at the exact point where the dimensional folds converged, as though the universe itself struggled not to touch it.

  The void soon turned purple, yet the light curved around it, refusing to make contact, as if even reality itself feared its presence.

  That being was known as Respect, the seventh in the hierarchy of the Seven Terrors of Nullaria.

  Though all seemed shrouded in absolute silence, the murmurs of the Whisperers began to spread, penetrating the minds of every survivor. Their torment intensified, and the phrases warped into cruel whispers, repeated like venomous mantras:

  — “You will never get out of here…”

  — “You are the mistake…”

  — “Look how you tremble…”

  — “Stop pretending you deserve to live…”

  There were so many voices that they intertwined until they became one: the voice of pure terror.

  Some fell to their knees. Others clung to their tiles like shipwreck survivors to a plank, their eyes tightly shut. Fear had broken the defences of many.

  Few understood that, in this level, when spiritual perception fell too low, the entities became even less perceptible to human eyes… but not for that reason any less real. Quite the opposite: those who could no longer see them were the most vulnerable. They could feel them. They suffered them. Shapeless shadows brushing against their skin, exhaling upon their necks, whispering inside their thoughts. Some perceived the weight of something sitting upon their backs; others felt the stroke of an invisible claw gliding along their necks, while a hollow laughter echoed through their own minds.

  And in the midst of that suffocating atmosphere… she appeared.

  Her figure swayed gently as she walked upon the void, as if the impossible did not affect her in the slightest. She wore a loose white dress that fluttered gracefully in a non-existent breeze, her blonde braid swaying in all directions, and a small golden bow gleaming between her fingers.

  Her steps made no sound. Her presence, however, did: it radiated a warmth that cut through the cold of despair.

  Some survivors looked at her in confusion, others turned away, believing she was another illusion meant to shatter their minds. But Bealuna did not stop. She continued walking with firm steps, murmuring an inaudible melody as she advanced directly towards where Respect stood.

  Dante did not move.

  Not out of fear.

  Not out of astonishment.

  But because he already knew.

  He had seen it before.

  He had learned from previous regressions that, while his spiritual perception remained so low, approaching her or trying to intervene would only condemn him.

  Bealuna’s perception, on the other hand, now shone far brighter than his own.

  He was not ready yet.

  Besides, he was not meant to interfere. Not until she found him.

  Because only Bealuna could recognise where Respect was hiding.

  With impossible serenity, Bealuna raised her bow and drew the string.

  But she did not aim at the hooded being before her.

  Her eyes fixed upon a distant point: a kneeling survivor, trembling, crying in silence.

  And without hesitation, she fired.

  The arrow, charged with a warm and precise energy, cut through the air and struck directly into the man’s chest.

  He stopped crying.

  He raised his head.

  And smiled.

  — “Well, well… look who has elevated her perception…” — growled Respect, his voice resounding like a reverberating laugh that came from no exact point — “How interesting.”

  His silhouette tilted its head, smiling with distortion, staring at Bealuna straight in the eyes.

  He vanished a few seconds later, leaving everyone in terrifying silence.

  At the centre, the body of Respect — that motionless reaper that had been watching — dissolved like an empty cloak, revealing it had been nothing but a decoy.

  From the space it had occupied, a violet cloud began to expand.

  Dense. Viscous. Malevolent.

  Within it, his true form began to emerge.

  A violet gem glowed in the air, slowly spinning upon itself, radiating a power that distorted the surrounding space.

  Dante gasped.

  He knew what it was.

  That was the Divine Stone he had to obtain.

  He remembered this moment: in his previous regressions, right after seeing it, Respect took on his second form.

  The violet clouds began to multiply, spreading like ethereal tentacles throughout the place, quickly enveloping the stone.

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  Bealuna remained still, watching everything calmly.

  The gem was covered by a pulsating substance that contracted until it formed a purple heart, beating within the thick smoke.

  Then the survivors — already on the verge of collapse — saw it.

  From different corners of the level, seven floating skulls emerged, rotating upon their axes, wrapped in violet flames.

  They passed through the dimensional folds as if they were curtains of smoke.

  They followed no physical laws, no distances, no directions.

  They obeyed neither time nor space.

  They were absolute presences.

  Each skull opened its mouth and began to absorb a violet smoke that emanated from the survivors’ bodies: the fear that consumed them. It was a feast for them.

  The seven skulls converged around the central heart, merging into a single lament that did not belong to this world.

  And thus, from that union, the entity was born: an amorphous mass of pulsating darkness, saturated with skulls that floated within it as if trapped in a luminous mire.

  The heart beat at the centre of that amalgam, hidden but omnipresent.

  Perception of the surroundings began to distort. The air bent.

  Structures trembled.

  The whole space broke with a silent roar.

  And then, the dimensional folds collapsed after a blinding flash.

  When the light subsided, the scene had changed completely.

  An infinite cemetery, without horizon, stretched out before them.

  The tiles beneath the survivors’ feet had disappeared.

  Before them, thousands of open tombs emerged from the ground, forming a mosaic of graves that faded into the distance.

  Everyone stood before an open grave, and on each headstone, carved in newly formed stone, a name appeared.

  Their own.

  Dante looked at his.

  He had seen it before.

  Hundreds of times.

  And yet…

  It never ceased to surprise him.

  It never ceased to feel real.

  The survivors contemplated the scene in silence.

  And when they finally felt firm ground beneath their feet, they believed they had reached something like stability.

  But that sensation vanished the instant they looked up.

  There was Respect, suspended in the air.

  His hooded figure no longer existed.

  In its place rose a living entity, composed of rotating skulls and a purple heart that beat within a viscous cloud.

  Each pulse distorted the air, producing a vibration that cut to the bone.

  The Terror fed on everyone’s fears: it grew with every sigh, with every tremor, with every thought of surrender.

  Horror returned to their faces.

  A hopelessness that even instinct could not hide.

  And yet, Bealuna remained serene.

  Motionless.

  Even in the face of the impossible.

  She raised her golden bow, the string drawn, aiming at the very centre of the amalgam.

  But before she released the arrow, Dante stopped her.

  His trembling hand rested on hers.

  He knew it was useless.

  Respect could not be injured that way.

  But that was not what had driven him.

  It was something deeper.

  A brutal need to make himself noticed.

  To tell her — even with a gesture, with a look — that he was by her side.

  So close.

  So alive.

  So real.

  Although in this regression… she did not yet know him.

  Everything had to be born again.

  From scratch.

  Bealuna looked at him, startled.

  She did not understand who this man interfering was.

  Her gaze was confused, but not hostile.

  — Who are you? — she asked, her voice steady but tinged with doubt.

  Dante tried to answer.

  He opened his mouth… but no sound came out.

  Nothing.

  Not a syllable.

  Only the broken air of his frustration.

  With gestures, he tried to make her understand that he needed a weapon.

  Something with which to fight.

  She frowned, looking at him with a mixture of bewilderment and curiosity.

  In the distance, the survivors charged the entity: blows, spells, shouts, flashes.

  All useless.

  Each attempt was devoured by the violet smoke.

  Bealuna looked at him a moment longer, until she seemed to understand his gestures.

  Her eyes softened.

  Calmly, she pointed to the ground in front of him.

  — There. — she said firmly. — Take that sword.

  Dante blinked, feigning confusion.

  He looked at the ground.

  He saw nothing.

  Bealuna’s aura began to envelop him.

  A colourless mist, with the consistency of vapour rising from something hot, covered him softly.

  — It’s there — she repeated. — Just… focus. Concentrate.

  Dante tried.

  He took a deep breath.

  Focused his eyes.

  But he still couldn’t see anything.

  Bealuna was the bearer of the rune of Good Fortune.

  Her mere presence distorted fatality, opening paths where there should have been none.

  And that luck… without her knowing, was extending towards him.

  Not deliberately.

  Not with intent.

  But by her mere closeness.

  By being there.

  And that was enough.

  Something inside Dante ignited.

  A warm spark, impossible to contain.

  A memory of what he once was.

  Of the reason he kept breathing, even within hell.

  Bealuna.

  The desire to protect her.

  The silent love.

  The brutal urge to hold her tightly in his arms.

  To remind her how important she was to him.

  The need — however small — to keep existing just to see her smile once more.

  And in that instant, his soul vibrated.

  Just a little.

  But enough.

  The Whisperers fell silent.

  The noise of the Terror faded.

  Before him, the space began to recompose itself.

  Millions of golden particles floated in the air, slowly revealing a sword that had always been there, hidden behind the veils of fear.

  Because it wasn’t about the sword itself.

  It was about her.

  About that shared moment.

  About that reflection of humanity that could only be reborn through Bealuna.

  That interaction — small, inevitable, almost identical each time — was the only way to reclaim what he had lost after his previous death.

  The only way to remember who he was.

  Because seeing is not the same as being ready to see.

  And until now, he wasn’t.

  The approach had to happen.

  To feel her close.

  To remember — even for just an instant — why he was still fighting.

  Only then did his perception rise.

  Only then could he see.

  Not completely.

  But a little more than before.

  Enough to grasp that sword.

  Enough to take the first step with renewed confidence.

  With the sword in his hand, they both watched the disaster.

  The other survivors were being slaughtered mercilessly.

  One after another, they fell before the influence of the Terror.

  At the centre of the amalgam of skulls and purple smoke, a throbbing core emitted dark, vibrant pulses of energy.

  A frequency that could not be heard, but could be felt.

  A vibration that fed on fear, trembling, and the desire to flee.

  — To be honest… I know. — murmured Bealuna. — You don’t fight with physical strength. That doesn’t work. And that’s what it wants.

  You must keep your mind clear. Your will firm. And… I suppose attack the core.

  Dante listened without taking his eyes off the centre of the creature.

  Each pulse of the core seemed to measure the rhythm of despair.

  — The closer you get to that thing — she continued — the stronger its influence will be.

  Respect. Fear. Surrender. You’ll see for yourself.

  The air began to fracture.

  The cemetery decomposed.

  The headstones blurred into a viscous whiteness.

  Black lines rose from the ground, crossing senselessly, creating impossible geometric figures that confused the sight, seeking to blunt the senses.

  Dante tightened his grip on the sword.

  He did not tremble.

  But something stirred within him.

  The memory of all his deaths.

  Of seeing his grave hundreds of times.

  Of seeing Bealuna die, again and again.

  And yet, as in every cycle, he did not intend to retreat.

  He moved forward.

  With a gesture, he signalled to Bealuna to stay back.

  She looked at him in surprise, but did not stop him.

  The other survivors continued to be devoured by panic.

  Some screamed, others begged for mercy.

  Their bodies crumbled to dust, and their fears were amplified by the harassment of the Whisperers.

  The purple aura of that terror rose like smoke… and was being absorbed by Respect.

  The entity turned towards Dante.

  It recognised his murderous intent.

  And it approached, colossal, full of skulls that screamed without sound, like a provocation.

  Respect would only attack if it was attacked.

  Dante ran at the Terror with his teeth clenched.

  Hatred drove him.

  Powerlessness consumed him.

  Violence was his old companion, his purest language.

  For years he had learned that to protect meant to destroy first.

  He stopped abruptly and stared at it, muscles tense, his soul alight.

  He felt that urge to kill.

  To justify everything with a cause: justice, defence, survival.

  He had done it before.

  Many times.

  In his criminal life on Earth, and in Nullaria.

  And now, seeing how Respect annihilated every living being around it without mercy, that hatred strengthened.

  That conviction grew stronger.

  "Attack first. Protect by destroying. It’s the only way."

  No matter how many times he had died and returned to this exact point: he could not prevent those feelings from surfacing.

  Almost instinctively he raised the sword with his trembling arm, as if his own body begged him not to.

  He was going to do it.

  But then… something pierced him.

  A voice. A scene. A memory.

  ***

  His drunken father.

  The kitchen in darkness.

  His mother’s dry scream as she received a rough slap on her face.

  The sound of a glass smashing against the wall.

  Melissa, his little sister, trembling under the table, hands over her ears.

  And him, barely nine years old, watching from the doorframe, clutching his old teddy. Paralysed.

  Not moving.

  Not intervening.

  Not daring to do so.

  ***

  Reality dragged him back to the impossible scene.

  Respect watched him. Awaited his next move.

  Dante remembered the promise he had made that night.

  That he would never allow that again.

  That he would never remain still in the face of abuse.

  That to protect meant to attack before being attacked.

  That violence was the shield, the language, the way.

  That promise had defined him.

  It had turned him into what he was.

  Into a thief.

  Into a fighter.

  Into someone who struck first so as never to feel powerless again.

  But now, standing before the very embodiment of fear, he understood something.

  That respect was not earned through control.

  Nor through punishment.

  Nor through fear.

  Respect was not subjugation.

  It was the recognition of life.

  The acceptance of pain without replicating it.

  The breaking of the cycle that had forged him.

  And then, the smiling image of Bealuna crossed his mind.

  Her calm gaze.

  Her way of existing without violence.

  Something within him fought to hold onto that image, as if it were the only real thing amid the chaos.

  In the midst of that anomalous field of death and broken souls, Dante understood.

  And in that instant, his will stopped resisting.

  Stopped fighting his own demons.

  Stopped feeding the entity with his insecurities and fears.

  The amalgam of skulls shuddered, confused.

  The Whisperers fell silent, noticing it at once.

  The spinning skulls of Respect came to a sudden halt, suspended in the air.

  Dante found himself standing right before them.

  He felt the weight of silence.

  His eyes filled with tears.

  He could not help it.

  The memories burned within him.

  The sword fell to the ground with a dry sound.

  And he… released the air held in his chest in a broken sigh.

  It was not a rational decision.

  It simply emerged.

  As if, at last, his soul remembered what his mind had forgotten.

  That spark he had felt before, in every life, in every attempt.

  It was not surrender. It was acceptance.

  Dante closed his eyes and took a step forward.

  Without defiance, without fleeing.

  He simply allowed himself to feel the weight of what he was — of what he had been — and he accepted it.

  It was then that everything changed.

  Some survivors were still tormented by the Whisperers; others tried to understand what was happening between Dante and Respect.

  Bealuna watched from a distance, confused, her eyes fixed on him.

  Slowly, the skulls began to fade, turning into golden ash that dispersed softly in the wind.

  A thick purple mist expanded like a shockwave across the place, throwing Bealuna and the few remaining survivors to the ground.

  The dimension, as if it no longer had reason to exist, began to collapse just like Respect, trembling as it fell apart.

  From within the shining ashes, something emerged:

  a tiny winged figure — a purple fairy.

  It floated towards him, approaching with a tenderness that disarmed him.

  It lifted his chin with a minuscule hand, observing him.

  His tear-filled eyes met hers.

  The fairy smiled — not with pity, but with recognition.

  Then it vanished in a flash.

  Where Respect had once stood, a violet stone remained suspended, slowly rotating on its axis.

  The Violet Divine Stone vibrated with a serene light, resting just before Dante.

  Dante breathed deeply once more and wiped his tears.

  He extended his hand and took the stone.

  The moment he held it, something awakened inside him.

  His throat vibrated.

  The emptiness he had felt since entering the dimension of Respect vanished.

  And he heard his own voice again.

  — I can speak again… — he whispered, scarcely believing it.

  Bealuna was running towards him through the floating remnants of the collapsed world.

  Dante quickly stored the stone in the Dimensional Storage space of his pocket before she could see it.

  Around them, the few survivors left — five, trembling and covered in dust — stared in horror at the collapsing landscape.

  Of the nearly one hundred who had entered, only seven remained alive.

  A sharp, dry sound accompanied the final collapse.

  And then, a white light enveloped them completely.

  There was no pain.

  Only a sense of weight, then firmness beneath their feet.

  — We’re… standing on the ground — murmured one of the survivors.

  — Is this the exit?

  — I don’t know…

  — Where are we now? — asked another, his voice still trembling.

  Bealuna turned slowly, observing the scene forming before them.

  The lights, the corridors, the familiar sound of stagnant air.

  Her expression changed as she recognised it.

  — This is… Level 1 — she said at last.

  Dante did not reply.

  He simply began walking towards the exit that would lead him to the Lapis Lazuli Forest, where Eden Camp was located.

  His steps were firm, silent.

  Bealuna hurried to catch up.

  — Hey, that was incredible! — she exclaimed, a mix of wonder and relief in her voice —. You eliminated one of the Seven Terrors of Nullaria! Did you use some kind of psychic power?

  Dante listened, but his mind wandered in the echo of what had happened.

  He remembered the purple fairy, her smile, and the peace she had left behind.

  Technically… I didn’t eliminate it, he thought.

  I defeated it. But its spiritual essence will remain here, judging souls.

  No one could ever obtain a Divine Stone again, for it was a unique object, already claimed by him.

  If others managed to overcome the trial, they would only receive an elevation of perception as their reward — a heightened sensitivity to Nullaria and its laws.

  Nothing insignificant… but not the same.

  Dante turned his head slightly towards her as they walked, the five remaining survivors trailing at a distance.

  — No, — he replied calmly, — I didn’t use any psychic power. I just… got lucky, I suppose. Very lucky.

  He said it without hesitation, as if he truly believed it.

  But deep down, it was only a way to reassure her — to give her something to believe in after all they had endured.

  Bealuna smiled, relaxing her shoulders.

  — Then… luck was on your side — she murmured with a soft, almost childlike laugh.

  Deep down, Bealuna believed that, being the bearer of the rune of Good Fortune, she had helped that stranger defeat one of the Seven Terrors of Nullaria.

  And that thought made her feel special.

  She asked no more questions.

  She simply kept walking beside him, in silence, holding onto that feeling.

  The air of Level 1 felt the same as always, but something in Dante had changed.

  In every regression, after defeating Respect, he always ended up there.

  Until now, everything remained the same…

  and yet, it didn’t.

  In this regression, there was a faint, almost imperceptible sensation…

  as if the cycle was no longer repeating itself in quite the same way.

  Dante looked at the grey horizon of the level and clenched his fists.

  He had faced one of the Seven Terrors of this twisted world.

  He had survived once again.

  But now he knew it clearly.

  This time… it would be the last.

  The last fall.

  The last regression.

  One way or another…

  he would make it home.

  End of Chapter Five.

  Respect, 2nd Transformation

  Nullaria, every shadow conceals a trial, every relic whispers of power or ruin. Even the Terrors are patient; they know that fear, in time, always finds a way in.

  Or will Nullaria reshape them beyond recognition?

  Every word leaves a trace that lingers in Nullaria.

  — Alberto Báez