Apollo: If Death Is Guaranteed, Why Are People So Afraid of It?

  “If death is guaranteed,” Apollo asked quietly, “why are people so afraid of it?”

  The question lingered in the air, unanswered.

  Not because it was difficult—but because no one was there to hear it.

  Apollo lay on his narrow dormitory bed, hands folded over his chest with deliberate symmetry. The mattress sagged beneath his weight, the springs long since worn thin by bodies that came and went, lived and moved on. The ceiling above him was meaningless, yet familiar. He knew its imperfections better than most people knew the faces of their parents.

  A faint crack near the corner.

  A subtle dip where moisture had once seeped through.

  The hum of fluorescent lights that never fully turned off.

  Sight was irrelevant.

  People assumed blindness was darkness.

  Apollo knew better.

  Darkness implied absence. Blindness was something else entirely—a constant awareness of what should be there, but wasn’t. An empty placeholder where information failed to arrive. A missing variable in the equation of reality.

  Fear, he had long ago decided, was a defect born from attachment.

  People feared death because they loved.

  They feared loss because they wanted permanence in an impermanent system.

  They feared endings because they lacked the capacity to accept inevitability.

  Death was not frightening.

  It was simply efficient.

  His parents had died young.

  An accident, they said. Tragic. Cruel.

  Apollo had listened to the adults cry, scream, curse the unfairness of it all. He had sat quietly, absorbing the data.

  Life ended without warning.

  Emotion did not alter outcome.

  Grief did not reverse entropy.

  Years later, when a bully’s rage robbed him of his sight, the same pattern repeated.

  The boy screamed.

  Teachers panicked.

  Doctors whispered condolences like prayers.

  Apollo did not scream.

  Pain was transient.

  Sight was a function, not a necessity.

  Emotion wasted energy.

  The streets taught him the rest.

  Hunger stripped people of morality.

  Kindness was rare.

  Animals were honest.

  Dogs never pretended to care.

  Apollo exhaled slowly.

  Outside his dorm room, laughter echoed. Friends. Couples. Noise.

  All temporary.

  He closed his eyes—not because it changed anything, but because humans had rituals, and sleep was one of them.

  And once again, Apollo drifted into unconsciousness.

  Alone.

  He woke to wrongness.

  Not confusion—Apollo never woke confused.

  This was displacement.

  The air was colder. Wider. Heavy with echoes that stretched too long to belong to a dormitory. The faint scent of stone, iron, and something ancient replaced detergent and stale fabric.

  Apollo sat up instantly.

  Sound flooded in.

  “What the hell—?!”

  “Where are we?!”

  “Is this some kind of prank?!”

  Dozens of heartbeats. Elevated. Irregular. Panic had a rhythm, and Apollo recognized it immediately.

  He cataloged.

  Footsteps—metallic, disciplined.

  Armor. Weapons.

  High ceilings judging by echo delay.

  Stone floor. Polished.

  A ceremonial hall, he concluded. Likely a throne room.

  He felt movement beside him.

  “Tch! You’ve gotta be kidding me!”

  Alice.

  Her voice was sharp, aggressive—intentionally so. A blade forged from fear and pride. Apollo could hear the tension in her shoulders, the tightness in her breathing. She was trying very hard not to panic.

  Apollo did not respond.

  No one did.

  As usual, no one noticed him.

  Students clustered together, shouting, crying, demanding explanations. Some prayed. Others cursed. Not a single voice addressed Apollo.

  Then—

  Click.

  Click.

  Click.

  Footsteps that demanded obedience without raising their volume.

  The room fell silent.

  Even Alice stopped moving.

  Apollo turned his head toward the sound, focusing.

  Each step was deliberate. Balanced. Heavy with authority. Not rushed. Not hesitant.

  A man who had never needed to repeat himself.

  “I am the king of this land,” the voice announced. “You have been summoned.”

  Summoned.

  The word carried weight.

  Ownership.

  “You will serve my will,” the king continued, “whether you desire to or not.”

  Steel shifted.

  Guards moved into position, weapons ready. The unspoken threat pressed down on the students like a physical force.

  Alice clenched her fists.

  “…Tch,” she muttered. “Like hell I’m listening to some old guy in a stupid crown…”

  But she didn’t move.

  Apollo noted it.

  Fear suppresses defiance.

  The king rose from his throne.

  “Guards,” he said calmly. “Take them away.”

  Chaos erupted.

  “Hey! Let us go!”

  “You can’t do this!”

  “What did we even do?!”

  The guards moved.

  Alice stepped back, eyes darting.

  “What the hell is going on?!”

  Apollo remained seated.

  A guard stopped in front of him.

  “Hey. You. Move.”

  Apollo turned his face toward the voice.

  “Sorry, sir,” he said evenly. “I’m blind.”

  The guard hesitated.

  “…Blind?” Confusion crept into his tone. “Wait—weren’t you just—?”

  He shook his head sharply, as if brushing away a thought he couldn’t place.

  “Doesn’t matter. Move.”

  Alice snapped immediately.

  “Oh sure, pick on the blind guy—real heroic! What, afraid he’ll beat you up?”

  She paused, then added quickly,

  “…Not that I care!”

  Apollo registered the anomaly.

  She intervened.

  That was… unexpected.

  They were thrown into darkness.

  A door slammed shut.

  For the others, the absence of light was suffocating.

  For Apollo, nothing changed.

  Panic erupted.

  “I can’t see anything!”

  “Open the door!”

  “Are they trying to kill us?!”

  Then—

  A woman’s voice slid through the dark like silk over skin.

  “Welcome, otherworlders.”

  The tone was warm.

  Too warm.

  Not comforting—inviting.

  Apollo tilted his head slightly.

  “You are here,” the voice continued, “to discover what kind of magic your souls desire.”

  A soft chuckle followed.

  “I wonder… which of you will break first?”

  Shivers rippled through the room.

  Alice swallowed hard.

  “Magic?” she muttered. “What kind of sick joke—”

  “You will remain here for one week,” the woman said smoothly. “No food. No water.”

  Gasps. Whispers. Fear.

  “Magic blooms when death is close,” the voice purred. “Fear sharpens it. Desperation feeds it.”

  Alice felt her chest tighten.

  A thrill ran through her fear.

  Hate. Rage. Survival.

  “…Tch,” she whispered. “Figures.”

  “There are four primary types of magic,” the woman continued slowly.

  “Light and Space.”

  “Darkness.”

  “Dream.”

  “Reality and Causality.”

  A pause—deliberate.

  “And then,” she whispered, “there is Soul.”

  The word lingered.

  Seductive.

  Dangerous.

  “One person,” the voice concluded. “One truth.”

  Another pause.

  “My name is Cycelia.”

  The darkness seemed to smile.

  Time did not pass normally in the dark.

  For most of the students, it stretched and warped, each second bloated by hunger, thirst, and fear. For Apollo, time remained obedient—flowing forward in perfect, measurable increments.

  Six hours. Thirty-two minutes.

  Bodies shifted. Groans echoed. Someone sobbed quietly in a corner.

  Apollo remained still.

  The darkness pressed down on the others like a living thing. Without sight, their thoughts spiraled inward, clawing at memories and regrets they had never intended to confront. The mind, deprived of stimulation, turned on itself.

  Alice paced.

  Back and forth. Back and forth.

  Her boots scraped faintly against the stone floor. Each step was sharp, angry, deliberate—an attempt to burn off energy she no longer had the fuel to sustain.

  “…Damn it,” she muttered. “Damn it damn it damn it…”

  Her throat already felt dry. Her tongue stuck slightly to the roof of her mouth. Hunger twisted in her gut, but thirst was worse—always worse.

  She hated that she was afraid.

  She hated that she could feel it.

  I won’t break, she told herself. I don’t care what that woman said. I won’t give them the satisfaction.

  Someone nearby whimpered.

  “I’m thirsty… I can’t…”

  “Shut up!” another voice snapped. “You’ll make it worse!”

  Apollo listened.

  Fear had layers. At first it was loud—panic, shouting, denial. Then it thinned into something quieter, heavier. Despair. Acceptance. Madness.

  He turned his head slightly toward Alice.

  Her breathing pattern was changing.

  Still controlled. Still aggressive.

  But the cracks were forming.

  By the twelfth hour, hallucinations began.

  A boy laughed suddenly.

  “Hey… hey, do you guys hear that?”

  No one answered.

  “…Mom?”

  A girl screamed.

  Someone else begged for water.

  Apollo cataloged symptoms.

  Auditory hallucinations.

  Early dehydration.

  Psychological stress exceeding baseline tolerance.

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  Cycelia had been truthful.

  Cruel—but truthful.

  Alice pressed her back against the wall and slid down until she was sitting. Her knees drew up to her chest without her realizing it. She wrapped her arms around them tightly, jaw clenched so hard it hurt.

  Her mind raced.

  Magic blooms when death is close.

  What kind of world needed people to suffer to gain power?

  What kind of sick system rewarded fear?

  Her thoughts slipped.

  Uncontrolled.

  What if I die here?

  What if no one comes?

  What if that king just wanted slaves?

  Her chest tightened.

  She squeezed her eyes shut.

  No. No. I’m not weak.

  Then—

  She heard a voice that wasn’t there.

  What if weakness is just honesty?

  Alice gasped, jerking her head up.

  “Who said that?!” she barked.

  Silence.

  Her heart pounded.

  “…Tch. I’m losing it.”

  She rubbed her face roughly.

  That was when Apollo spoke.

  “How did you hear my thoughts?”

  Alice froze.

  Her blood ran cold.

  “…What?” she said slowly.

  “You were thinking loudly,” Apollo continued, tone even, almost curious. “Your fear is inefficient.”

  “I didn’t say anything!” she snapped. “Don’t mess with me!”

  Apollo turned his head toward her voice.

  “I am not,” he replied. “This is data.”

  She stood abruptly.

  “What the hell are you talking about?!”

  “You thought you might die,” Apollo said calmly. “I heard it.”

  Her hands shook.

  “…That’s not funny.”

  “I am not joking.”

  The silence stretched.

  Alice’s breathing spiked.

  “…How?”

  Apollo considered.

  “I am unsure,” he admitted. “But your fear appears to have triggered something.”

  Her mind raced.

  Magic.

  Telepathy.

  That woman’s voice.

  “…You’re saying I did this?” Alice demanded.

  “Possibly,” Apollo replied. “Fear accelerates manifestation.”

  She swallowed.

  “…So what. You can just hear people now?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s creepy as hell!”

  Apollo tilted his head slightly.

  “I agree.”

  She stared at him—at least, in his direction.

  “…Then why can’t I hear you?”

  Apollo paused.

  “…That is a useful question.”

  He focused.

  Not outward—but inward.

  He had always done this instinctively. Cataloging sensations. Isolating thoughts. Separating signal from noise.

  If Alice can broadcast, he reasoned, perhaps I can receive selectively.

  “Alice,” he projected deliberately, “can you hear me?”

  She stiffened.

  Her breath caught in her throat.

  “…What the—?!”

  Her voice trembled despite her attempt to hide it.

  “…You’re in my head.”

  “Yes.”

  “…Do that again and I’ll punch you,” she snapped weakly.

  “Noted.”

  She exhaled sharply.

  “…So it’s real. Magic.”

  “Yes.”

  “…Damn it.”

  Her fear shifted.

  Transformed.

  Fear was no longer just terror.

  It was possibility.

  “Try speaking to someone else,” Apollo said. “Telepathically.”

  She scoffed.

  “And why the hell should I listen to you?”

  “Because data requires verification.”

  She hesitated.

  Her instincts screamed to refuse.

  But curiosity burned hotter.

  “…Fine.”

  She focused.

  Picked a random target.

  “Hey,” she thought awkwardly. You. Red-haired girl.

  Silence.

  Then—

  A scream.

  The girl shrieked, backing away wildly.

  “Get out of my head!”

  The room erupted.

  “What’s happening?!”

  “Did you hear that too?!”

  “Someone’s talking in my head!”

  Apollo listened carefully.

  Connections formed.

  One to another.

  Then another.

  A network.

  Within minutes, the entire class was linked.

  Thoughts brushed thoughts.

  Fear amplified fear.

  Voices layered on voices until the room became unbearable.

  “Stop thinking so loud!”

  “I can’t shut it off!”

  “Please—please stop!”

  Alice clutched her head.

  “Oh my god—make it stop!”

  Apollo remained calm.

  He focused again.

  Filtered.

  Isolated.

  The noise faded.

  Everyone’s thoughts were audible—

  Except his own.

  No one reached out to him.

  No one noticed the absence.

  “…Interesting,” Apollo murmured.

  Alice heard it.

  “…What?” she demanded.

  “It appears this connection is mutual,” he explained. “But I am not included.”

  “…What do you mean?”

  “They hear each other,” Apollo said. “But not me.”

  She frowned.

  “…Why?”

  Apollo paused.

  “…Possibly because I am not afraid.”

  The realization hit her harder than any insult.

  “…You’re telling me,” she said slowly, “that all of us are losing our minds… and you’re just sitting there?”

  “Yes.”

  “…You’re sick.”

  “Possibly.”

  She hugged herself tighter.

  “…Then what does that make you?”

  Apollo did not answer.

  Days passed.

  The hallucinations worsened.

  Some students stopped speaking entirely.

  Others screamed at things that weren’t there.

  Alice grew quieter.

  Her anger burned inward now, feeding something darker. Something heavier.

  She stopped pacing.

  Stopped yelling.

  Sat still.

  Listening.

  Her thoughts grew sharper.

  More focused.

  Less afraid.

  More hungry.

  Apollo noticed.

  Her fear has condensed, he observed. Into rage.

  By the seventh day, when the doors finally opened, several students collapsed instantly.

  Fresh air rushed in.

  Guards shouted orders.

  Light blinded the sighted.

  Apollo stood smoothly.

  Unfazed.

  Alice staggered—but stayed upright.

  She glanced at him.

  “…How are you standing?”

  “I am accustomed to hunger,” he replied.

  “…Figures.”

  Guards escorted them to food.

  “Five minutes,” one barked. “Anything you don’t eat gets thrown out.”

  Alice lunged for food like a starved animal—then stopped herself.

  Forced calm.

  Forced control.

  She ate quickly. Efficiently.

  Noticing, distantly, that Apollo ate the same way.

  No pleasure.

  Just function.

  “…You’re really messed up,” she muttered.

  “Yes.”

  They were taken to the crystal chamber.

  Cycelia waited.

  This time, Apollo could hear her smile.

  Her presence brushed against their minds like fingers trailing across exposed skin.

  “Look at you,” she purred. “You survived.”

  Her tone lingered on the word.

  “Shall we see what you’ve become?”

  The crystal pulsed softly.

  Alice’s heart pounded.

  Her hands trembled.

  Darkness, something inside her whispered.

  Take it.

  The crystal chamber felt wrong.

  That was the first impression shared—though none of the students could have articulated why. The room was circular, carved from smooth black stone that swallowed sound rather than reflecting it. The ceiling arched high above, lost in shadow, and at the center of the chamber stood the crystal ball upon a pedestal of silver metal etched with symbols that seemed to crawl when stared at too long.

  The crystal pulsed slowly.

  Like a heartbeat.

  Apollo listened.

  Not to the murmurs of his classmates.

  Not to the guards shifting at the perimeter.

  But to the absence beneath the sound.

  There was something missing here.

  Or perhaps something waiting.

  Cycelia stood beside the crystal, her silhouette elegant and deliberately framed by the low, flickering light. Her presence pressed gently against the minds of the students—soft, intimate, invasive.

  She smiled.

  “Come now,” she said, voice warm and velvety. “There’s no need to be afraid. You’ve already danced with death.”

  A pause.

  “And you survived.”

  The way she said survived made Alice’s skin crawl.

  One by one, the students were called forward.

  Each step toward the crystal felt heavier than the last.

  The silver-haired girl stepped forward when her name was called.

  She moved calmly—too calmly.

  Apollo noticed immediately.

  Her breathing was steady. Her heartbeat slow. Her posture relaxed, almost resigned.

  Acceptance, Apollo observed. Not courage.

  Cycelia tilted her head as the girl approached, interest flickering briefly across her features.

  “Ah,” she murmured. “You.”

  The girl placed her hand on the crystal.

  For a moment—

  Nothing happened.

  Then the crystal dimmed.

  Not darkened.

  Dimmed.

  As if light itself was being absorbed inward.

  A low hum filled the room, vibrating through bone rather than air. The crystal’s surface clouded, turning translucent, revealing fleeting images beneath—memories that did not belong to anyone watching.

  A childhood bedroom.

  A hospital corridor.

  A mirror reflecting a stranger’s face.

  The girl’s breath hitched.

  Her eyes widened—not in fear, but in recognition.

  “…So that’s what it is,” she whispered.

  The crystal flared.

  Not violently.

  Quietly.

  A pale, ghostly glow enveloped her hand, spreading up her arm like frost.

  Cycelia’s smile sharpened.

  “Soul,” she announced softly. “The rarest.”

  Whispers rippled through the chamber.

  “…Isn’t that the strongest one?”

  “I heard it lets you control life and death…”

  “She doesn’t even look happy…”

  The girl withdrew her hand slowly.

  Her face was pale.

  “…It’s heavy,” she said quietly. “That’s all.”

  Cycelia laughed softly.

  “Oh, my dear,” she purred. “All power is heavy. That’s how you know it’s real.”

  Apollo listened carefully.

  The girl’s heartbeat had changed.

  Not faster.

  Heavier.

  As if something had settled inside her that would never leave.

  The orange-haired boy strode forward next.

  He was grinning.

  Laughing, even.

  “Finally,” he said loudly. “About time something interesting happened!”

  Alice scowled.

  “…Idiot.”

  He slammed his hand onto the crystal.

  The reaction was immediate.

  The room twisted.

  For a split second, Apollo felt the world stutter—as if reality itself had skipped a beat. The crystal exploded with blinding light, symbols spiraling wildly across its surface, rewriting themselves faster than the eye could track.

  The boy laughed louder.

  “Yes! That’s it—give it to me!”

  The crystal’s glow fractured into jagged lines of gold and crimson, snapping outward like broken glass frozen in time. The air warped, bending slightly around his arm.

  Cycelia’s eyes gleamed.

  “…Reality and Causality,” she declared. “How predictable.”

  The boy yanked his hand back, exhilarated.

  “I can feel it!” he shouted. “Everything—rules, outcomes—I can change them!”

  He threw his head back, laughing.

  “I’ll wreck this world!”

  Some students stepped back instinctively.

  Alice’s jaw tightened.

  “…He’s dangerous,” she muttered.

  Apollo nodded faintly.

  God complex, he assessed. Early onset.

  Cycelia clapped slowly.

  “Be careful,” she warned playfully. “The world doesn’t like being told it’s wrong.”

  The boy scoffed.

  “Then I’ll make it listen.”

  Apollo stored that information carefully.

  When Alice’s name was called, the room seemed to grow quieter.

  Not because she was special.

  Because she was volatile.

  She approached the crystal slowly, fists clenched at her sides. Her body ached. Her mouth was dry. Her stomach twisted—but beneath it all burned something far stronger than fear.

  Anger.

  Hatred.

  Defiance.

  She stopped before the crystal.

  For a moment, she hesitated.

  Her mind flashed with memories she hated.

  Being powerless.

  Being ignored.

  Being afraid.

  She slammed her hand onto the crystal.

  The lights went out.

  Not just dimmed.

  Gone.

  Absolute darkness swallowed the chamber, thicker than night, heavier than shadow.

  Several students screamed.

  Alice gasped as the darkness wrapped around her hand—then her arm, her chest, her throat. It felt alive. Warm. Familiar.

  Her heartbeat thundered.

  Her breath came fast.

  Yes, something whispered inside her. This is yours.

  Images flashed in her mind.

  Fists striking flesh.

  Screams swallowed by silence.

  Standing alone while the world burned.

  The darkness answered her.

  The crystal erupted—not with light, but with absence. Shadows bled from its surface like ink in water, coiling around Alice’s arm before snapping back violently.

  She tore her hand away, stumbling backward.

  Cycelia’s voice cut through the darkness like a caress.

  “…Darkness,” she said approvingly. “Pure. Honest. Born of refusal.”

  The lights returned slowly.

  Alice stood rigid, breathing hard, eyes wide.

  “…So that’s it,” she whispered. “…That thing inside me.”

  Cycelia stepped closer, lowering her voice.

  “Darkness does not destroy,” she murmured. “It consumes. Remember that.”

  Alice swallowed.

  She glanced instinctively toward Apollo.

  “…You knew,” she said quietly. “Didn’t you?”

  Apollo met her gaze—or rather, turned toward her voice.

  “Yes.”

  “…Tch,” she scoffed weakly. “Figures.”

  But she didn’t look away.

  Finally—

  Apollo stepped forward.

  The murmurs rose again.

  “That’s the blind guy.”

  “Does he even count?”

  “Can he use magic?”

  Cycelia watched him closely now.

  Not smiling.

  Not amused.

  Interested.

  Apollo approached the crystal calmly.

  His steps were measured. Controlled. Unhurried.

  He placed his hand on the surface.

  The crystal went silent.

  No glow.

  No hum.

  No reaction.

  The heartbeat stopped.

  The chamber felt as though it were holding its breath.

  Cycelia’s expression shifted.

  For the first time, something like uncertainty flickered across her face.

  “…How strange,” she whispered.

  Apollo frowned slightly.

  Not in fear.

  In curiosity.

  No response, he noted. No rejection either.

  The crystal did not flare.

  It did not dim.

  It simply—

  Waited.

  Apollo listened.

  And for the first time since arriving in this world…

  Something listened back.