Ren's thumb twitched against the grip of his sword, brushing over the dried blood still stuck to the leather wrap. Nocstella—no longer a whisper in the dark but a woman carved from nightmare and divinity—stood before him.
The moment she raised her hand to him—elegant, pale, divine in its stillness—he charged. Ren dashed across the glade, his blade dragging low across the grass.
This is what he has been waiting for. To kill the Mother of Sorrow. To kill Nocstella.
"This is it..." Ren thought to himself, running as fast as he could. "She's the reason. The only reason. If she dies...everything ends."
Nocstella didn't flinch, her expression remaining distant as Ren approached.
Ten paces
Then five
Ren gritted his teeth.
"I'll end this...right here!"
Then—
A tendril of shadow exploded upward without warning, writhing like a serpent flung from the abyss. It snapped around his right leg mid-charge, twisting it violently. There was a sickening pop, then a crunch as the bone cracked inward. His balance broke immediately, and the momentum sent him spiraling forward across the ground.
When Ren flipped over on his back, he looked up—and saw her staring down, perfectly calm. Her bare feet hovered inches above his stomach. Her black dress whispered like smoke. That same look of sorrow lingered in her crimson gaze, and she knelt slowly, almost with reverence. Her hand reached for his face.
He tried to pull back, to lift his arm—but another tendril emerged, wrapping around his stomach and crushing his ribcage with a wet crack.
Her pale palm rested on his cheek, an odd warmth emitting from it. Her thumb gently brushed under his eye, slow, reverent.
Then—
Squelch
A thick tendril of shadow speared down from above Nocstella, tearing through his chest with a horrific crunch, exploding out through his back in a spray of blood and shattered bone.
Ren's eyes widened, his mouth opening in a choking gasp.
His heart had ruptured, the tendril stabbing directly through it.
Pain—blinding, searing, primal—ripped through his body like fire. His spine arched, limbs convulsing. Blood gushed out from his lips as the tendril twisted once inside him—slowly—as if savoring the feel of his insides.
Then it retracted.
His body slumped—but not for long.
"I can't...quit." Ren thought to himself, using the last of his energy to lift his shaky hand to Nosctella. "I-I have to keep fighting."
The same tendril then struck again.
Crack
It drove through the roof of his mouth, piercing through bone and brain, and out through the top of his skull. His jaw flung open wider than it should have, blood and cerebrospinal fluid gushing out from the wound. Ren's body shook violently and then stopped.
His pupils dilated.
His muscles locked up.
He died staring into her eyes.
And she didn't look away.
Her hand remained cupped against his cheek, seemingly with love and care. As if mourning him. As if he'd simply fallen asleep in her lap.
She whispered, soft enough to barely hear.
"Let go and rest now, Hollow...You were not meant to endure."
Ren awoke with a strangled gasp, soaking in a pool of his own blood where he had just died. It clung to his back, soaked his hood, filled the cracks between his fingers as they twitched against the blades of grass. His chest heaved. Breath came in desperate, shallow gasps—like someone who'd been buried and just clawed their way back up through the soil.
His eyes snapped open, and he sat up slowly, dragging himself from the blood-soaked grass with trembling arms. He pressed one hand to his chest. He was whole again.
He exhaled, long and slow, trying to center himself.
"She's going to do that again," He thought, closing his eyes. "Again. And again. And again."
He dragged his bloodied fingers through his hair, wiping back the sweaty hair covering his vision. His other hand reached out to the side, and there was the sword.
He gripped it, tight enough for the knuckles in his hand to go white. Ren stared at the blade for a long time, breathing deeply through clenched teeth.
"...If I can just endure this..." His voice cracked under the whisper, coughing up dried blood. "If I can just take it, over and over again… there'll be an opening. There has to be."
He looked up toward the far end of the glade. She was there, as always.
Still
Waiting
Watching
There was no blood on her. No sign that she'd just torn him apart. No anger. No fear. Just that same sorrowful look.
"She doesn't expect me to win," Ren muttered, dragging himself to his feet. "She thinks I'll break before I figure it out."
He wiped his mouth, spitting the rest of the blood into the grass.
"She's wrong...She's so wrong!" Ren began to ramble in an unusual, stern voice. "I don't care how long it takes..."
He stepped forward, the sword dragging low in the grass once more, just like before.
His eyes never left hers.
"I'm going to kill you," Ren said sternly, loud enough for Nocstella to hear him across the glade. "And if it takes ten thousand more deaths…"
He held his sword with both hands, the tip of the blade pointed toward her.
"…I'll carve my way through every one of them."
She tilted her head ever so slightly at his remark.
Then he broke into a sprint once again, his feet digging into the soaked earth, spraying back bits of blood and dirt as he launched himself forward.
Her arms were still at her sides, not raised yet. Her expression was unchanged.
He adjusted mid-sprint, keeping the blade higher this time, no longer dragging it through the grass anymore.
Ten paces
Then five
She was still watching.
Still unmoved.
But this time, he didn't aim center mass.
He fainted to the left.
Twisted his hips.
And leaped, bringing the sword up in a two-handed arc, aimed for her exposed throat.
He saw the faintest flicker in her eyes, a subtle change in her demeanor.
And then she sighed.
Soft and almost sad, like someone tired of watching a child hurt themselves.
That was all it took.
A shadow tendril burst from the space between them, not from the ground this time, but from behind her. It curled over her shoulder and impaled directly into Ren's abdomen midair. The tendril lifted up, dragging him above her, suspended like a flag on a hill. Blood poured from the hole in his gut, raining softly onto the grass below.
The sight was surreal: his limbs slack, his eyes half-lidded, his head rolled back, throat exposed to the sky. The wind tugged faintly at his cloak, as if nature itself had recognized him as something to be displayed—defeated.
Nocstella stood beneath him, gazing up with that same mournful calm. Her hands remained loosely at her sides. The crimson in her eyes shimmered like wine.
Ren tried to move.
He clenched his teeth, a gargling breath aching in his chest as he forced his chin downward.
Their gazes met.
He was suspended directly above her, like some grotesque halo of failure.