THE LAST LAUGH
Mori's POV
Day: xxxx
Year: xxxx
Research: The Truth
Name: Mori—the Mad Genius Mori
At long last—at long, long last—
I made it.
To the White Room:
A realm apart.
A dimension beyond comprehension.
A separate plane of existence where "they" dwell—
The Divine Overseer.
And then—I felt it.
An immense, suffocating pressure.
An overwhelming tide of presence.
An aura of unyielding, godlike authority.
It was as if millions of eyes had turned toward me.
And beneath their gaze—
My soul, my heart, my mind…
My past, my present, my future…
My fate, my destiny…
Everything I was or could be—was laid bare.
A complete and total unraveling.
And then…
As if "they" finally permitted me to acknowledge them,
I saw—something.
No—
Not something I could describe.
Not something my existence could comprehend.
It wasn't just beyond understanding.
It was as if the very concept of "them" could not be housed within me.
My mind, my being—insufficient.
And then—they spoke.
"Oh."
A chorus of fractal voices shattered reality—
A mirage of tones, each layered atop the next in infinite dissonance.
"I expected this. Still—impressive. The capacity for humans to nurture the primordial will is, frankly, absurd."
Then—
A gesture.
Or the suggestion of one.
And something shifted.
I felt myself become... defined.
Made distinct.
Separated.
Elevated.
My existence was raised to a higher plane—
Painfully, impossibly absolute.
And yet all I could do was remain kneeling,
Forehead pressed to the ground,
Clinging to the last fragments of sanity.
"Go on, Mori," the voices echoed.
"Speak your mind."
My lips trembled.
Every thought a struggle.
A war just to shape words from will.
But at last, I spoke:
"Divine Overseer... I've come to seek the truth.
The truth of this world. Of my life. Of all our lives. Of existence itself."
And then, with every ounce of desire I had ever felt, I declared:
"I seek to know the truth of fate—
How to wield it, to make a better world...
So that we may finally be free from the clutches of—"
I stopped.
No—
I was stopped.
The next words refused to form.
Not forgotten.
Not censored.
Erased.
The concept itself had been denied.
The possibility of saying it—removed from reality.
But thought still flickered inside me:
So this is the absolute authority of Solipsism...
And the Observer Effect: existence permitted only when acknowledged.
How utterly absurd…
The voices answered—disinterested now.
"I didn't come here to hear pleas disguised as sermons."
"Even though I knew this would happen... experiencing it firsthand is always exhausting."
"Still—this is how I was made. Thanks to our author. ■□■□."
My breath caught.
"What?!"
"Let's be direct."
"Fate is nothing special."
"Our existence? Ordinary. Our lives? Meaningless."
"We are—every one of us, even me—nothing more and nothing less than: words on a page, drawings on paper, images on a screen, pixels in motion."
"And fate? It's simply the absolute script—
The text that defines our lives, our purpose, our very being."
"And who wrote this script?"
"Our author. ■□■□."
And with that—
My mind shattered.
Narrator – AUTHOR'S POV
The Divine Overseer sighed, weary.
"I always know this will happen…"
"But living through it still catches me off guard—no matter how often I rehearse the script."
"All thanks to you, Arthur ■□■□... for making me this way."
Mori knelt.
Broken.
The truth he had so desperately longed for—
To free the world.
To save it.
To save himself—
Was the same truth that would destroy him.
The ultimate irony.
Bitter. Cruel. Laughable.
Perfect.
The Divine Overseer looked down with something close to pity.
A single sheet of paper appeared in his hand.
He extended it to Mori.
"I hold no grudge. I'm just following my script."
"But I must give this to you."
Trembling, Mori raised his head.
He took the paper.
His eyes widened.
MORI – THE JESTER'S SCRIPT
(bold, italicized, final.)
Something cracked.
Then—
Laughter.
Uncontrolled.
Ragged.
Maniacal.
From the depths of despair and rage.
"So you're MOCKING me, Arthur?!
Fine then! I'll play your STUPID LITTLE GAME—
WITHOUT your DAMNED SCRIPT!"
"AND AT THE END—
I. WILL. HAVE. THE. LAST. LAUGH!!!"
Hmph.
And that he did.
Just.
As.
I.
Planned.
—CURRENTLY—
Akami stood at the edge of a vast chasm—
The plague-mark he had carved into the world's foundation.
Purgatory: the Jester's personal execution site.
Seven suns burned overhead,
Each shining with pure white radiance,
Hung in concentric rings carved deep into the earth.
From each sun, molten-gold chains lashed outward,
Impaling the Jester—suspending him mid-air.
Purifying flames consumed not just his body—
But his very essence.
His existence.
The chasm bloomed with crimson light
As retributive fire flared to life—
Gnawing at his mind,
Dragging him deeper into endless, escalating agony.
Akami waited.
He expected screams.
But none came.
Instead, the Jester—
Half-erased, body crumbling—
Forced his torment into laughter.
Wild.
Unstoppable.
Deranged.
Akami scowled and turned away.
"This is where you end, Jester."
"I hated you... to the very last."
"This is justice."
As the flames devoured him,
The Jester remembered.
That day.
The White Room.
The moment it all ended.
The moment he chose this path of madness.
A path fueled by spite,
And aimed at one goal—
To enrage the true Observers.
The ones beyond the screen.
You.
The reader.
The watcher.
And he succeeded.
Exactly as I planned.
His final thought:
"I won't give you the satisfaction.
I won't scream.
The last laugh... is mine—"
Then—
Floating down before his eyes,
The same piece of paper he had once abandoned
Drifted gently into view.
As if to mock him.
It described everything.
His despair.
His rebellion.
His final madness.
And so it stated this..
" WITH ALL THE DESPAIR AND SPITE HE HARBORED,
THE JESTER LAUGHED—LOUDER AND MADDER, WITH HIS VERY SOUL.
TRULY, TRULY, I SAY TO YOU:
THE JESTER PLAYED HIS ROLE THE BEST—
AND SO, HAD THE LAST LAUGH."