Like the late Gods of Infinion that once had lived in their chambers above, a divine space for Gurutrov had also been constructed. He was neither god nor mortal, but his creation of an entire sector of Dark Earth had granted him a spot in seclusion, one where he could gaze at this universe forever. It was a room devoid of color or sound and existed only for him. What would be considered a hell to others was heaven for Guru. He stood and peered far beyond, keeping his spine straight and face in a firm line. He was younger here, maybe in his twenties, and both his looks and brains were restored. Guru could breathe deeply in this atmosphere-less space, and his mind was far clearer and sharper than it had been when he was confined to the ground. His infinite powers were no more, yet he did not seem to care—they were in fact the very reason for his demise. He watched this odd world evolve into exactly what he envisioned, and he now regretted existing at all.
Seeing the unnecessary suffering and idiocy before him made him realize how truly tortured he had become in his later years. He was hardly aware of his surroundings during the time he made his wish—his curse he had no idea that would actually become true—and was as wise as any other dying mortal.
Guru kept his jaw locked and hands interlocked behind his back as he saw it slowly unfold. He had tried to take back his wish many times, ever since he was trapped in the void, but his powers, his abilities to mold the world into what he wanted, were now lost. He was just a man stuck in a box.
He only wanted to be more. Back home, in the First Dimension, the real earth, he strove to be the brightest, to be ahead of his time. How would he have known that this yearning for progress would end up scaring his world? What could he have done better?
You’re pathetic. Pathetic.
The words tapped about in his brain, bouncing from side to side, filling his every other thought. Every time he said it, the curse heard it. Every time she said, he heard it. Their emotions were now synced, and for the past sixteen years he finally had another voice in his head that sounded like his but wasn’t. It was his curse, the being that was just like him.
Always wanting to be more.
Ismus was never satisfied with her circumstances, just as Guru had been in his life.
(Pathetic, pathetic, he heard. It was coming from the curse.)
If there were any way to undo this accident, Guru would have done it by now. All he could do was watch. He had to trust that either the curse or that deadly spirit within her would be able to turn this entire ordeal around. When—if? —Dark Earth came to its close, this space he was confined to would no longer exist. It would all be over once he was over. All he could do was watch. Eyes straight and mind whirring.