Bloody Odyssey

How long have I been here?

The hoarse voice of a bony figure echoed through a mind that had forgotten the shape of its own thoughts. He lay on a cold floor that pulsed with an unnatural rhythm, his body pressed against yellow walls that whispered endlessly.

Soft murmurs. Endless. They crawled along the edges of his consciousness like insects searching for a way in.

Then the pain came.

Gut-wrenching. Deep. It coiled in his stomach like a serpent made of glass — twisting, cutting, burrowing. His mouth opened to scream.

But nothing came out.

No sound. No air. His body refused to obey. Muscles locked. Jaw frozen. Even his eyes could not close.

That was when he heard it.

A chewing sound.

His eyes — the only thing that could move — followed the noise. Slowly. Terrified. They found the shadow of what caused his pain.

It had the shape of a bottle, but it wasn't. It was more similar to a pinhead — elongated, narrow, its form wrong in ways that defied description. It bit into his scalp, then rolled away, pulling out a chunk of flesh with insane force.

Terror washed over the man's face.

Tears welled in his eyes.

He remembered what this thing was.

The pinhead raised its being, looking down at him with cold, empty eyes.

"Useless."

It said the word like a verdict. Like a sentence. Then it continued its meal.

This thing is a demon.

The thought surfaced through the haze of pain.

On my first year in this place, I encountered it. I thought I was suffering… till I fell into its hands.

He remembered the visions. The outside world. Green fields. Blue skies. Laughter. Food. Warmth. The demon had shown him everything he had lost, everything he could never return to.

Ahhh.

It showed me the outside world. Draining all from me.

I experienced death a lot here. But since falling into its hands, it's everywhere.

I want to die.

Please.

I don't want to be shown a reality I'll never return to.

He begged. But no words escaped his lips. His voice was trapped in a throat that would not move, in a body that would not obey.

Instead, the pinhead smiled.

It looked more evil than before.

It devoured with speed.

If only…

If only I never crossed your path.

He remembered the image of the man who had sent him to this hell. White hair. Red eyes. A smile that promised nothing and everything.

He hated him so much.

But he had seen the terrors of that man.

Many of the things in this place are prisoners.

The thought surfaced unbidden.

Prisoners of the man with red eyes.

Prisoners of the Fall.

The yellow walls pulsed again. The whispers grew louder. The pinhead chewed.

And somewhere in the depths of his shattered mind, the bony figure realized the truth.

He would never escape. He would never die. He would simply… remain.

Then he felt his consciousness fade.

Ah… I'm dying.

The thought surfaced through the haze of pain — distant, almost peaceful.

This time… I have to escape it.

He had learned something in this hell. Every time he came back to life, his mana pool was restored. A cruel gift from the yellow walls, from the whispers, from whatever force had trapped him here.

Every time… I'm whole again.

That was his last thought before he died.

In his death, the pinhead rolled forward, its elongated form twisting with hunger. It reached for his skull, attempting to pull his brain away from his head — a last attempt at cruelty.

But the floor was faster.

It swallowed the suffering figure whole.

The yellow walls pulsed. The whispers grew louder. And the body was gone — dragged down into the depths of whatever nightmare ruled this place.

Unknown to the suffering man, there was someone taking records of his torment.

It wasn't Dax.

It was Little Zero.

The child-like figure sat in the shadows of Level 0, his abnormally large belly rising and falling with quiet amusement. His form flickered like a candle in the wind, his dark eyes following the man's descent into the floor.

He smiled.

Though the angel is a better specimen than this human… he will do.

A small notebook appeared in his hands. He scribbled something — a line, a number, a measurement. The words glowed faintly before disappearing into the pages.

Fascinating.

The cycle of tests continues.

In the beautiful bright skies, Dax approached the image of a large expanse of civilization.

He rode on Cain — who was by far larger than he had been in the past. The black wyvern's wingspan stretched across the sky like a shadow made of darkness and ancient magic. Its cold draconic pupils scanned the horizon.

No creature dared approach.

It was like a king in the sky — and all who saw it knew.

Behind Dax, Nadia and Madeka stood.

Madeka's hand rested on Dax's shoulder, her dark hair whipping in the wind. Nadia stood slightly apart, her golden eyes fixed on the city below.

The expanse of civilization stretched before them — walls of white stone, towers that pierced the clouds, a river that glittered like liquid silver.

Dax's eyes narrowed.

Finally.

He had seen many things. Killed many things. But this — this was new. He absorbed every bit of it.

In a well-decorated hall littered with beautiful plants and greenery, a young man sat on a throne.

It was the only seat in the beautiful hall — carved as if by nature itself. On the armrest were runes that projected soft jade flowers.

The air was fresh, carrying a soft fragrance that seemed to settle into the lungs and soothe the soul. The mana in this place was of the highest grade, thick and sweet as honey.

The young man was dressed in elegant robes and a mantle that suggested his power. His aura burst forth — vast and dominating, pressing against the walls like a living thing. His eyes were closed. They had never opened.

Behind him, guards clad in adamantite stood motionless, their robes carrying the insignia of a unicorn. Before the young man seated on the throne, elders of the royal palace knelt, forming a path of reverence that stretched from the throne to the entrance.

They were having a serious discussion. Voices rose and fell. Arguments were made. The royal hall was filled with rumble.

Then — the sound of yelling echoed into their ears through the entrance.

Many elders turned. Their faces twisted in anger. Who dared disturb the royal meeting?

At the entrance of the royal hall, an old man with a striking appearance pulled at one of the guards.

"Lord Maguire." The guard's voice was respectful but firm. "A meeting is going on in the royal hall. I advise you return later."

The old man's face was flushed. Sweat beaded on his brow. His hands trembled as he clutched the guard's armor.

"Let me through! This instant — it's important! I — I am sure the Emperor will overlook this."

The guards did not move.

"You don't understand what you're doing," Lord Maguire pressed, his voice cracking. "Stopping me like this — you don't understand!"

His hand went to his back. He manifested a coated weapon — a staff, wrapped in cloth, glowing faintly through the fabric.

The guards tensed. Hands moved to hilts.

Then the Emperor spoke.

"Let him in."

His voice was calm. Soft. But it cut through the noise like a blade through silk.

The guards stepped aside.

Lord Maguire's shoulders sagged with relief. He rushed forward, his feet carrying him past the kneeling elders, past the beautiful plants, past the guards who watched him with cold, calculating eyes.

He stopped before the throne.

And knelt.

"I greet the Emperor." He placed his right arm on his chest.