Beneath the resplendent crimson light, the vegetation, seized by a strange calm, was a portrait of the horror that gnawed at Leonard's bones. The specter before him seemed increasingly detached from the world. The strike that should have at least pierced its bony form only left a superficial cut on its robes, as if the blade had slid over the memory of a body that no longer existed.
The skeleton's lack of shadow was an affront to Leonard's very sense of reality, a riddle ringing in his mind like a cracked bell.
"Something's wrong… It doesn't cast a shadow… But does that even make sense in this hell?"
The ghostly threads danced around him, sinuous and treacherous like whispering serpents. Each one was a fragment of fate, an echo of vanished possibilities. And all pointed to an inevitable end.
"These damn threads are everywhere. My head's flooded with visions I don't understand. Can this ever stop? How the hell am I supposed to focus?"
A chill crawled down his spine — premonition or simple despair? — but he had no time to ponder. The scythe came again, humming like the whisper of death. His blood, thick and hot, hardened over the tattered rags he still dared to call clothing, turning them into a rough, useless shell.
Gripping the sword's hilt with both hands, Leonard tried to parry the blow, but his right shoulder gave out. His balance broke. The move meant to save him became an invitation for the specter's blade.
The scythe spun and plunged deep into the already wounded shoulder, slicing muscle and tendon with cruel precision. Blood spurted in crimson waves. Leonard wanted to scream but found no breath. His breathing was a fire within, each step a fresh warning that he might simply collapse and die right there.
"Shit, shit, shit. Think, Leonard, think."
The sky cracked with lightning, illuminating everything in a brutal flash. Rain came crawling from the same side where the ancient old tree stood — his only chance. If only he had time to reach it.
He coughed, a horrid mixture of blood and black sludge spilling from his mouth in sticky gurgles. Something inside him spread like a plague. And that could mean nothing good.
Before he could react, another specter emerged from the shadows. Cold and silent like an executioner, it drove a sword into his back. The pain stole his air, and Leonard fell. By mere whim of fate, he wasn't decapitated by the scythe that followed— it passed close, cutting only a strand of his hair.
That flame inside him, burning against the cold and darkness, flickered now. There was fear in it. As if something was wrong. As if something that shouldn't be happening was unfolding before his eyes.
"There's the sword, damn it!"
The specter withdrew the blade from his back, and Leonard seized the tiniest window of opportunity to roll aside, evading the next blow that would have cleaved him in two. The crimson moon shone with growing intensity, whispering a warning in its restless light.
Then he noticed. It wasn't just two specters. There were three. And one, farther away, was drawing a recurve bow, ready to fire.
He acted too late.
The arrow flew and pierced deep into his right eye. Pain exploded in his head, a white flash shattering into a thousand dark shards. He wanted to scream. His body demanded a howl of anguish. But no sound came out.
Staggering, he saw the sword advancing toward his neck in a cold, sure, final move. His only reflex was to twist his body to avoid the strike. Blind in one eye, Leonard finally found the breath to scream. But he didn't.
He swallowed the pain, silently. Blood flowed from every limb.
Thunder rolled in the distance, echoes of a storm that made no sense anymore. There were three enemies, but he remembered only one. His mind faltered. Shadows multiplied.
"Nothing that's bad can't get worse… Think, Leonard! Think, damn it!"
Black sludge dripped from the eye wound, thick as tar, tracing dark grooves down Leonard's pale face. The metallic taste of blood mingled with the bitterness of the viscous substance, clinging to his tongue like a death omen.
He didn't understand why he was still alive. Fate, perhaps, had decided to prolong his agony — or to cruelly toy with his hopes before snuffing them out completely.
There was no time to react. The scythe specter moved with death's inevitable precision. The blow sliced the world in two, and for a brief instant, everything was reduced to a single dull thud. When Leonard came to, he was on the ground.
Half of his body lay a meter away, muscles still contracted from the shock. But the pain… The pain was absolute. It was everything. A black, bottomless ocean in which he drowned without even being able to scream.
Consciousness flickered like a candle flame in a cruel wind. Each awakening was a new torture, a rebirth only to die again. But death did not come.
The specters gathered around him, a circle of translucent forms and empty eyes reflecting absolute nothingness. Others joined them, emerging from shadows, coming from everywhere and nowhere. But none dealt the final blow.
They only waited.
Black sludge mingled with blood, spreading across the soaked ground, staining the azalea petals with death. The fragile flowers shriveled and crumbled under the corrupting touch of that impure substance.
And then, the moon.
It was no ordinary light. It stared at him like a silent judge, cold and relentless. A shiver ran down his spine as he understood.
They were there because he had called them.
Each of those specters, each of those tortured souls… were echoes of his past, shadows of something Leonard had done — or something done through him.
The rain that had fallen before, the lament he heard without understanding… was the cry of those souls.
He was the executioner.
But not alone.
The flame that stubbornly kept him alive, that burned inside his chest despite all the pain, was the true reason.
Then thunder roared, tearing the sky like a cry from the gods themselves. The flowers shattered in the wind, ripped away like forgotten memories.
The cacophonous sound filled his ears, a choir of voices and laments, a call that grew until unbearable.
And then Leonard saw the blade.
The sword descended, sharp and inevitable, seeking his left eye, his brain, his soul.
There was no time to resist.
The blade touched his skin.
And then… everything went dark.