A World Without Justice

A World Without Justice

On a cold, moonless night, a figure moved silently along the banks of a great river. His name was Abelardo, though no one ever asked. He was a foreigner, fleeing the wreckage of his life, possessed not just by desperation but by something darker—a malevolent force that whispered sinister encouragements in his ear.

The icy waters of the river bit into his skin as he swam across under the cover of night. By morning, he was on the other side, drenched but alive. The voices urged him forward. Following the empty roads, Abelardo flagged down a truck, his story rehearsed and his eyes heavy with deception. The driver, unaware of what he had invited into his cab, gave him a ride deep into the country.

Abelardo wandered until he found a villa. It stood at the end of a quiet lane, nestled behind high hedges. The place looked abandoned—no cars, no lights. The voices told him it was perfect. With a stone in hand, he shattered a side window. The sound of breaking glass cut through the still air, but no one came. The house was empty, as he had hoped.

It was a summer retreat, unused during the winter months, belonging to a man named Jonathan Ward. Abelardo made himself at home. He rummaged through drawers and closets, finding what he needed to survive. The kitchen had canned goods, the bedrooms soft linens. Soon, he began to sell and buy street drugs, turning the villa into his base of operations. The neighborhood’s silence became his shield, and the once-idyllic villa became a hub of shadowy deals.

Months passed. Abelardo thrived in his parasitic existence. The villa's true owner, Jonathan, finally returned with his family in the spring, expecting to find his sanctuary untouched. Instead, he found Abelardo lounging in his living room, cigarette smoke curling into the air.

“This is my house,” Jonathan said, anger and disbelief thick in his voice.

Abelardo didn’t flinch. “Not anymore.”

Jonathan, desperate to reclaim his home, called the police. What should have been a straightforward case spiraled into a nightmare. Abelardo, coached by the voices, claimed he had been living there legally, pointing to the laws meant to protect tenants and squatters. The courts, entangled in bureaucracy and political correctness, ruled against Jonathan.

“You forcibly evicted him without the proper paperwork,” the judge said sternly. “This is a criminal offense.”

Jonathan was handcuffed in his own living room. As the police led him away, Abelardo smiled, his eyes glinting with something inhuman. The villa remained his.

The Gathering Storm

The neighborhood changed. Shadows seemed longer, the air heavier. More squatters arrived, emboldened by Abelardo’s victory. The once-quiet town became a haven for crime, its streets littered with despair. The voices that had guided Abelardo now echoed in the hearts of others, spreading like a plague.

Jonathan sat in his cell, despair creeping into his soul. “This world isn’t right,” he muttered. The other inmates nodded, their own stories of injustice bubbling to the surface. It wasn’t just the courts or the laws. It was the world itself—darker, crueler, more chaotic.

The news spoke of wars, famines, earthquakes in divers places. Morality decayed, and lawlessness abounded. Abelardo, now a powerful drug lord, celebrated his victory with a lavish feast in the villa. But even he could sense the shift in the air. The voices that had promised him everything now spoke of fire and wrath.

The Great Tribulation

One day, as Abelardo stared out the villa’s window, the sky darkened unnaturally. The earth trembled. Trumpet-like sounds echoed across the heavens, and the world descended into chaos. Yet, the voices that had guided him now exulted, a chorus of triumphant malice.

Across the land, people cried out in agony as judgment fell. For Jonathan, still in his cell, there was a strange peace. He knelt in prayer, clutching a worn Bible. The verses of the King James Version filled his heart, promising redemption for the faithful even in the darkest hour.

But Abelardo felt no remorse. He watched the chaos outside his stolen home with a smirk. His drug empire thrived in the disorder, and the suffering of others only bolstered his resolve. The villa became a fortress, a haven for those who reveled in lawlessness. He was no longer just a man but a symbol of the corruption overtaking the world.

The voices whispered to him with promises of greater power, urging him to spread their influence further. Abelardo obeyed, reveling in the dark authority he wielded. The villa, once a home of peace, transformed into a den of depravity. Yet, even as he prospered, he felt an unshakable void, a sense of impending doom.

The Great Tribulation was Satan’s time, and Abelardo was a pawn in the devil’s game. Though he avoided punishment on earth, his soul was shackled to an eternal torment far worse than any earthly judgment. As the world spiraled toward its prophesied end, Abelardo realized too late that his seeming triumph was hollow, a fleeting moment of power in a story written by forces far greater than himself.