If it weren't for his rare ability to see the thin silver threads of fate, Leonard would never have noticed the cruel hypnosis surrounding him. It was a silent trap, woven into the very air around him—subtle and inexorable. The crimson moon hung high, spilling a pale light that flickered across the shadows cast by the motionless specter before him.
"This damn place would never let me leave that easily…" Leonard muttered, his eyes locked on the dark silhouette. "But hey... shouldn't you be wielding a sword?"
A forgotten whisper, an echo of a fleeting dream, invaded his mind—images of a golden field that slipped away whenever he tried to grasp them. He knew it meant something... and now, more than ever, he was certain.
In his hand, a chipped piece of steel, as worn and broken as he was. It was all he had left to defend himself from the approaching blade of death. On impulse, he stepped back a few paces, muscles tense, gaze fixed on the specter.
"I remember well that blade piercing my left eye, you bastard." Leonard's voice was laced with fury and barely contained despair.
The specter didn't move. Only the spectral light of the moon outlined its cadaverous form. Then, a sibilant noise cut through the silence—a heavy, hoarse, irregular breathing. From where its mouth should have been, a putrid, dense air escaped, like smoke from a hellish furnace.
"If he hits me, it's over…"
The thought crushed his mind. His body, marked by cuts and bruises from previous battles, screamed for rest. He was no warrior—much less one to fight with a broken sword. Reality was a cruel joke.
The first blow came like a gale. Leonard only dove to the side, feeling the cold wind of the scythe slice the air where he had stood seconds before. The ground trembled with the impact, nearly split in two by the ghostly blade.
In the specter's hesitation, Leonard surged forward. His attack was a wild impulse, driven by the instinct of a cornered animal. His blade grazed the creature's chest—but it did not flinch, make a sound, or bleed.
Then came the response.
The black scythe carved a deep cut along his side. Burning pain exploded in his stomach. Leonard staggered, clutching the wound. The liquid dripping was not crimson blood, but a thick, viscous black.
"He rots whatever he touches..."
The horror of the idea pierced his soul. His right eye could not capture the threads of fate, leaving him vulnerable—lost between uncertainty and the desperate need to survive. The fractured vision made every decision a leap into darkness.
The specter attacked again. Leonard tried to dodge, but his wounded thigh gave way. The cold steel grazed his neck, cutting the skin. A thin, hot slash—barely missing decapitating him.
"Think, Leonard, damn it!"
He fell onto a bed of white petals, soon stained by the black blood. Even there, on the brink of death, he could not help but notice the cruel beauty of the scene: the crimson moon, the flowers, the death—a sinister poetry.
No time to think. He rolled aside, escaping a vertical strike that would have cleaved him in two. Struggling, he rose and circled the specter, eyes alert to every calculated move of the creature. Unlike previous foes, this one was methodical and cold, exploiting every weakness.
"What am I missing?"
The thread of logic that remained reminded him of the vision: the sword that pierced his eye—was it the same one he now wielded? The horror of the thought rooted itself deep in his mind. Losing that broken blade would mean doom.
The sword was his only defense.
But how to win with a broken weapon? His shoulder throbbed with every move, muscles screaming for relief. If he tried to block a direct blow, the sword would snap—and then, it would be game over.
The specter took a deep breath, hoarse and irregular, like an ancient monster awakening from a long sleep.
"Why does he breathe? He's just bones…"
The answer hung in the air, but Leonard had no time to ponder. The specter lunged. Leonard dove aside and, in a desperate move, counterattacked.
The chipped blade cut through the skeleton's black robe—but nothing happened. No sound, no pain, just silence. Seizing the opening, the death's emissary slashed a crescent cut across Leonard's chest. The wound opened wider than he imagined, releasing a torrent of scarlet blood that stained the field of white flowers, dyeing everything red.
Despair tightened his throat. The vision was coming true. He couldn't die here. Not after everything.
The ground spun beneath his feet. The specter moved like a lethal shadow. His body begged for rest, but his mind refused. Thoughts stormed through his head, buzzing relentlessly.
Survive.
"God, this pain… It reminds me of that vision. I can't die... Was the vision a warning?"
He couldn't take it anymore. He dropped to his knees, blood flowing freely, petals drinking his essence. He raised his eyes to the starry sky. The moon seemed to mock his struggle.
But Leonard was no quitter.
This cursed land would not decide his fate.
He would.