The trio pressed eastward through the desert, the sky smeared into shades of purple and orange as the sun neared its final descent. Each step they took was accompanied by a growing, suffocating silence, one that burrowed beneath their skin and whispered of what lay in wait after nightfall.
Jenna's breathing grew louder. Sweat clung to her skin and streaked through the sand on her arms, even though the heat had long faded from the dunes.
The temperature dropped, but the tension only rose.
Damien, though uneasy himself, found a cruel satisfaction in watching her unravel. Her nerves were essential to the plan. The more terrified she became, the better.
The Grey Monk, as usual, showed no visible concern. He walked as if nothing had changed, his expression unreadable. But Damien wasn't fooled. No one remained calm in the face of true death, not unless they were too broken or too far gone to care.
'Fear's not weakness,' Damien thought, his eyes scanning the horizon. 'If you're not afraid, you're an idiot. And idiots die first.'
He stopped in the sand without warning, a dry chuckle slipping past his lips.
"Man, I'm starting to sound like that old coot…"
The words barely escaped before the memories flooded in, each one sharp and unwanted.
Sparring beneath flickering lights, cold water thrown on open wounds, lessons screamed through clenched teeth, the pain, the discipline, the madness disguised as mentorship.
His teacher was a withered old bastard—gray-bearded, dirt-smeared, always draped in rags that stank of rot and dust. On the street, anyone would've mistaken him for a harmless vagrant, but that illusion was the first trap. His age, his weakness, the stooped walk, all bait. Weapons as lethal as any blade.
Damien never knew his name. The man never offered it, and Damien never asked for it. In his mind, he filed him away with whatever insult came easiest— "that old coot" usually did the trick.
He hadn't thought of the man in ages, and here he was, echoing his words in the middle of Hell.
Now accustomed to Damien's sudden outbursts and cryptic mutterings, neither the Grey Monk nor Jenna paused when he stopped walking. They simply kept moving, their silhouettes pushing forward through the fading light.
Damien was left to jog after them, sand kicking up behind his boots.
The sun had dipped dangerously low, and the sky above had deepened into a bruised blend of violet and ink. Night was almost here.
Which meant his monstrous, fire-wreathed Mimic would soon return.
...
An hour had passed since nightfall.
The desert, once a furnace, had turned mercilessly cold. The air bit at their skin with every gust, and the temperature had plummeted below freezing. The three of them sat huddled outside the tent, weapons drawn, breath fogging in the moonlight as they waited.
Next to them sat three of the oasis fruit, plucked by the grey Monk. Since he had not picked any before, the trap was not activated. However, Damien felt it was a shame they could only choose three; any more, they deemed too risky.
Teeth chattered in the silence, as no one dared to speak.
This could be their last night alive.
Jenna trembled more than the others. Her eyes darted toward the horizon, her jaw clenched tight. Damien watched her with quiet satisfaction. Fear suited her. Still, while anxiety was necessary, too much of it could shatter the plan.
So, with a sigh, he broke the silence.
A puff of pale mist curled from his mouth. "So, Stick. You ready?"
The question hit her like a hammer. Jenna let out a stifled whimper—then, suddenly, a loud, desperate cry burst free, like something she'd been choking back all day.
"No!" she snapped. "Why does it have to be me?!"
The sheer panic in her voice made Damien chuckle, an honest, cruel laugh.
"Well," he said, amused, "frankly, it's your ability we're using, and you're a shitty fighter, so you're the one who has to play bait... It's the only way."
Damien gritted his teeth.
Jenna rolled her eyes and muttered, "Whatever. I'm not a shitty fighter."
She waited a beat, then turned toward the Monk, seeking backup. "Right?"
The Grey Monk looked at her for a long moment, his face blank. Then, ever so slightly, a nervous smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he glanced away.
Jenna's scowl deepened.
"Thanks, dickhead," she mumbled.
Hours dragged by beneath the frozen shroud of night.
Damien had done what he could to keep Jenna's nerves taut but not snapping, small talk, quiet jabs, a few forced reassurances. He loathed every second of it. Talking to her was like scraping a knife across bone, grating, but it had been necessary.
Even so, he wasn't sure it had worked.
Then, without warning, something split through the howl of the wind.
Laughter.
Wild and unhinged, it echoed across the dunes like a declaration of war.
It wasn't Damien's voice. But it was.
The trio sprang to their feet, weapons drawn in a flash. Their eyes swept the shifting dunes, tense and vast.
And there, just far enough to not pose an immediate threat, yet close enough to see clearly, stood a burning figure wreathed in orange flame, a man-shaped inferno.
The Mimic.
His head was thrown back in laughter, his body crackling with heat. A crown of thorns scorched into his skull glowed like molten iron, and twisted runes blazed across his face, slithering down his neck like brands from Hell itself.
Damien's eyes narrowed.
'Shit. I was hoping he'd start in his weaker form. Doesn't matter… We'll kill it. Or…uh kill me.'
He forced a smile onto his face, nerves hiding beneath the curve of his lips.
"You guys ready?"
The Monk and Jenna didn't answer right away, too stunned, too stiff, but Damien didn't wait for confirmation.
With a laugh of his own, he shot forward into the dunes, charging straight toward the flaming mockery of himself. The others followed in his wake, their hesitation burning away in the fire of momentum.
Across the sand, the Mimic cocked his head.
He hadn't expected them to be the ones to start the fight.
Scratching the side of his face with his flaming katana, the creature gave a grin of recognition, then lunged forward with inhuman speed, eager to meet death or deal it.