Suddenly, a sharp gust of wind slammed into Damien's face, cold and biting. Grains of frozen sand rode its back, stinging his skin and forcing him to raise his bloodied arm to shield his eyes.
His black hair whipped wildly in the wind, thrashing like a flag in a storm. But Damien paid it no mind. He didn't care about the chill or the stinging grit scraping his face. His gaze remained locked on the fiery-orange figure standing partially concealed in the distant dunes.
He couldn't make out the creature's origin from this distance. All he could see was its glow and its silhouette, a humanoid shape upright on two legs, wreathed in flickering orange light. And he could hear it. The laughter. Shrill, manic, and echoing across the darkened sands like a broken siren.
'A Hellbound? Or a monster?'
Damien wasn't sure which answer would be worse. So far, every monster he'd encountered in the First Circle had been mindless and murderous, easy to predict. But humans? They were a different kind of dangerous.
'Unpredictable. Desperate. Capable of anything to survive. And with a virtue, they're even more of a threat.'
The glowing figure stepped forward, illuminating more of the desert with each stride. Its laughter grew louder, more twisted, like something had snapped inside it. Damien narrowed his eyes. There was something eerily familiar about that laugh, something that crawled beneath his skin.
He lowered his arm, ignoring the ice-laced wind that continued to whip around him. A flash of light bloomed in his hand, and a silver dagger with a black hilt took shape. Its edge gleamed in the dark.
He turned his head, glancing back toward the tent. Jenna's snoring cut through the night, loud and unbothered. It grated on him, almost enough to say something. His lips parted but then closed again in silence.
'Should I wake them? If this thing's a monster, I could kill it myself and claim the XP. But if they get involved, I'll gain nothing.'
The thought lingered for a moment before he shook his head.
'No. I'm thinking like someone who can afford to rely only on themselves. Not someone without virtue.'
He stepped closer to the tent and slapped the side hard enough to jolt the fabric.
"Stick. Monk. There's trouble," he called, voice low but urgent.
The snoring stopped.
A faint rustle sounded from inside the tent, followed by the soft jingle of metal stakes shifting. A moment later, the flap opened and Jenna stepped out, yawning and shivering, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. The Grey Monk followed behind her, silent and composed.
"What's going on?" Jenna asked, her voice unsteady, clouded breath spilling from her lips.
She was dressed all wrong for the cold, still wearing the cropped black shirt and white pants she'd entered the First Circle in. The inside of the tent had been cold enough, but out here in the freezing desert night, it was almost unbearable.
The Monk, by contrast, looked untouched by the chill. He stood still, arms folded beneath his robe, a stone figure unmoved by the elements.
Before Damien could speak, that laughter returned, wild and jagged, splitting the wind like a blade.
"That's the problem," Damien muttered, eyes locked on the glowing figure still advancing through the dunes.
With each step, the silhouette sharpened. Orange flames licked across a frame that looked undeniably human. He had Damien's height, Damien's gait, even the same messy hair, neatly parted and swept back. His eyes were hauntingly familiar. And despite the wind, his orange shirt and pants remained unwrinkled and pristine.
Then it laughed again, high and broken and grating. The sound gnawed at Damien like teeth scraping bone.
"I know that laugh," he said quietly. "And those eyes…"
A voice cut through his focus, sharp and nasal.
"Hey douche, why is an orange, douchier version of you walking toward us right now?"
Jenna.
He didn't look at her. His eyes stayed fixed on the flaming figure. Recognition settled like iron in his gut.
That wasn't just some twisted resemblance.
Those were his clothes.His movements.His goddamn face.
But how?
It didn't matter. This was Hell, a place of monsters and magic where damned souls were put through trials and reality twisted itself for entertainment. A fire-cloaked version of himself marching out of the darkness? Honestly, it wasn't even that strange.
'What matters more is, why me?''Why not one of the others?'
He shook his head and tightened his grip around the black hilt of his dagger, knuckles whitening.
And then, he laughed.
Not a chuckle. Not a smirk. A full, guttural laugh, raw and manic, the sound of true madness that rose above the howling wind and drowned out the laughter of his blazing double.
"It doesn't matter. I've always wanted to kill myself," Damien said, eyes gleaming. "Now I can without dying."
He raised the dagger.
"Perfect. Truly, thank you, Hell. This could never have happened anywhere else."
"What did you just say?"
Damien turned, the grin vanishing from his face like it had never been there. Jenna's voice cut through the moment, high, confused, and grating. It repulsed him.
She stood shivering in the cold, one eyebrow raised, arms hugged around her chest, a puzzled look on her face. Beside her, the Grey Monk wore a similarly perplexed expression, silent but clearly unsettled.
'Did I say that out loud?'
Damien didn't answer. He turned back to the dunes, to the burning figure that bore his face, ignoring their stares.
His orange doppelgänger had stopped laughing. It now stood still, head lowered, one hand thoughtfully resting against its chin. The fire surrounding it flickered wildly, casting warped shadows in the sand.
Just ahead of it lay the traps, bloody runes etched in the sand forming the wide perimeter Jenna had marked around their tent and the oasis.
They were about a hundred feet away.
The creature studied them, calm and quiet. Then, it smirked.
Without hesitation, it leapt clean over the entire trap line, landing with supernatural grace, and broke into a full sprint, charging straight toward them.
Its right hand lifted.
A burst of golden light flared in its palm.
Damien braced himself, expecting to see a dagger like his own. But what he saw surprised him.
A long, elegant orange katana snapped into existence, glowing with fiery energy. Strange runes shimmered along the blade, pulsing like veins filled with molten heat.
Damien's eyes narrowed.
He didn't wait.
With a sharp breath and a low, growing laugh, he launched forward, charging straight at the mimic.
No words or a plan, just instinct and excitement.
Jenna's voice rang out behind him. "Wait, dumbass!"
She cursed under her breath, summoned her dagger, and sprinted after him.
The Monk followed, calm as ever, silver spear forming in his hands as he moved.