There Is No 'Me'

"Tell me what you see." the voice of Maros called out to Jett.

"A vast, empty plane. Only the ground is made of mud, and a foggy mist surrounds me." Jett replied, engrossed in his Soul Realm.

"What do you see in the sky?"

"It's entirely white, all I see are black specks. They blink like little stars."

Maros paused, sinking into his thoughts. "Those there, Jett, are the Soul you've taken from others. A blank canvas which you paint with life. That is where power comes from."

'An empty canvas for me to paint…'

"What does your sky look like, sir?" Jett asked, still in a daze, exploring his inner world.

"Not nearly as bright as yours," Maros depraved chuckled before stopping as quickly as he started. "Tell me, is there a pond or mirror around you?"

Jett looked around, searching for a mirror. Then something appeared. It hadn't been there before, but it was there, as if it had always been there. He quickly walked up to it.

"It isn't exactly a mirror. It's a thick sheet of metal standing up, the same metal as the Storm Warden's armor."

"Look at it, tell me what you see." Maros asked.

"I see nothing but the mud and mist behind me." Jett replied.

"What do you want in this life, Jett?" Maros sternly delivered

Jett stood perfectly still in his Soul Realm, staring at the reflective metal. The same metal which forced him into the life of an animal, and kept him there as he spent every waking hour surviving.

The same mirror that bore no reflection, unseen by the metal.

"I want … to live as a man. To never experience that primal carnage, the desperation, the fear. I've had my fill." Jett solemnly admitted through gritted teeth.

There was one thing Jett wanted, one thing he found wise not to share with Maros.

Jett felt a gripping, fiery pull of revenge, retribution, and justice.

When someone wronged you as a human, it felt natural to desire revenge. But this basic desire had been stripped from him since birth.

The entirety of Strata had wronged Shacktown, yet they were powerless to right those wrongs.

If Jett wanted to live a life of man, the natural course dictated he go against all of Strata, uprooting the entire Kingdom.

That included Maros and many of Strata's innocent.

When Jett deliberated this, the moral compass he had left knew that his thinking was flawed. He needed more time to understand, to learn the systems that kept Shacktown shackled.

"To live as a man is to earn your keep," Maros continued to think in silence before continuing. "From birth, you have learned that nothing will be given to you unless you earn it. This will not change. Everything I give you will be earned."

His statements would appear heavy-handed to most, but to Jett, this was anything but. Jett would continue to compare his new life with his old, always the pragmatic. Maros knew that very well. Jett could tell Maros was using this against him, but it made little difference. His life would still improve. That's all he truly cared about.

It was what might happen in the distant future that truly scared Jett. Currently, Maros owned his entire life, regardless of right or wrong.

Giving him the illusion of choice and freedom was mercy compared to the alternative.

"Show me you can enter and exit your Soul Realm consistently." Maros said.

'Where's the exit…'

As Jett thought, his eyes glazed, then they refocused. He was still staring at the reflection of the metal sheet.

In the metal sheet, he could see the circular door of the Shacks.

Turning around, Jett walked over to the familiar circular door, opened it, and stepped through.

As he stepped through, he was instantly swept away by a powerful wind.

Opening his eyes, he was back in the foyer, the middle-aged Maros standing above with a keen eye.

"Now enter again."

Jett had realized quickly that visualization was a key component of the Soul Realm. He followed the same method he used earlier to enter.

With closed eyes, he imagined a still image. A pitch-black alley, shrouding a gory amalgam of a broken man, his own small frame jittering in terror.

Opening his eyes, he had reentered the same foggy white world. He quickly exited the same way, being swept off his feet by the wind.

"Good," Maros outstretched his hand, pulling Jett up to his feet. "Today, you have earned the right to sleep under my roof and eat my food. Tomorrow you will have to earn it again."

***

Joanne, the housekeeper, escorted Jett to his room on the second floor.

Joanne was a woman of older age, her black hair tied neatly behind her head. Despite her neutral demeanor and slow tempo, she radiated a happy warmth. She was of few words, which melded well with Jett. His social skills were honestly quite terrible, but he compensated for his weaknesses through careful observation and great effort.

'Now I've truly hit the afterlife.'

Jett dipped himself into the embrace of a warm bath, an undescribable pleasure flooding his brain. A lifetime of filth, washed away by the great wooden tub.

'Maybe Maros is a proper liar. This is way more than just a roof to sleep under and food to eat.'

He changed into proper clothes, and his once greasy hair shaggy hair began to show hidden curls, yet still maintained a long length down his neck.

With a shaving knife and the washroom's mirror, Jett poorly removed over half of his total hair. In his reflection, he saw a sight to behold. He looked like a real man, distanced from the beast he had been.

This… was everything Jett wanted and more. A massive bed, fit for a king, sat upon by a lowly being. He had it all. He had made it out of Shacktown.

And there he lay, on a bed worth severalfold more than he had ever acquired. A blissful tranquillity filled his pleased mind as he closed his eyes, drifting along a river of happiness, soaking its waters in through his pores.

But something was lurking beneath the river.

Complacency, doubt, failure, the old life he left behind.

The spirit of Shacktown wrapped its clutches around his feet, a heavy weight sinking him to the bottom, drowning him in the river's bottom layer, that which had been corrupted by its influence.

Jett desperately reached above him, flailing his arms to grab anything he could.

Then a sharp pain stuck through his palm, and he was rapidly brought to the river's surface.

A metal hook of a massive fisherman stuck straight into Jett's hand, bleeding profusely.

The fisherman grabbed Jett by his other hand, offering to bring him aboard the pier.

Yet he never pulled. Jett hung above the river.