Chapter 3: Entombed in Madness
The vortex of shimmering runes and golden light from the entity's gacha panel lingered in Night's mind, a fleeting promise of isekai glory that shattered as a black hole tore open beneath him.
It wasn't the heroic portal he'd imagined from countless anime, it was a ravenous maw, swallowing him in a merciless gulp.
His body unraveled before his eyes—skin flayed into translucent ribbons that fluttered like dying moths, muscles dissolving into crimson mist, bones splintering into a glittering cascade of dust that shimmered briefly in the void's infinite darkness.
The agony was beyond comprehension, a symphony of torment where every nerve screamed as if pierced by a thousand molten blades.
Each fragment of his being carried a piece of his consciousness, and each piece wailed in unison, trapped in the unbearable sensation of being unmade.
His hands, once steady enough to wield a rifle or tap a gacha pull, dissolved into nothingness.
His heart, once racing with the thrill of a gold SSR card, evaporated into a fleeting spark. The pain wasn't just physical—it was a violation of his existence, carving a wound into his soul that would never heal.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!"
Night's scream tore through the emptiness, a primal wail that drowned out the faint echo of the FGO summoning theme he'd hummed with a grin moments ago.
The sound reverberated, mocking him with its futility, as if the void itself laughed at his suffering.
His body was gone, reduced to a scattering of dust, yet his consciousness lingered, adrift in a limbo of fractured memories.
The image of his flesh dissolving, the searing agony of his bones crumbling—it burned into his psyche like a curse.
The entity's sly grin flashed in his mind, its words about a "60% chance of surviving" now a cruel jest.
Was this your idea of 'fun,' you bastard? Night thought, the question a fleeting anchor in the chaos.
The Night Frederik who'd laughed over anime marathons, was a ghost now, replaced by a broken husk haunted by its own annihilation.
Another black hole yawned open, its pull relentless and cold, as if the vortex from the entity's domain had twisted into something darker.
It sucked in the remnants of Night's consciousness, dragging him through a maelstrom of blinding light and suffocating shadow.
The transition was a kaleidoscope of pain, his thoughts screaming as the void tore at what little remained of him.
Then, silence. Darkness. Oblivion.
__________________________
Night's eyelids twitched, a futile gesture in an impenetrable void.
One blink, two blinks—only darkness greeted him, so thick it seemed to crush his lungs, a suffocating weight that smothered hope like a wet shroud.
The air was stagnant, heavy with the stench of rust, decay, and something fouler—perhaps the residue of despair itself.
He tried to move, but rusted chains bit into his wrists and ankles, their jagged edges tearing at raw flesh, drawing pinpricks of blood that stung with every movement.
The metal was cold, unyielding, like the claws of a beast refusing to let go.
He yanked against them, muscles quivering, but his body was a stranger's—weak, brittle, a mockery of the soldier he'd once been. Each tug sent a jolt of pain, a cruel echo of the void that had torn him apart.
"Where… am I?"
His voice was a rasping croak, barely audible, as if the words had to claw their way out of a throat that had forgotten speech.
His mind churned, replaying the horror of his disintegration, his hands dissolving into dust, his bones shattering, his screams swallowed by the void.
The trauma had fractured his psyche, carving a jagged scar that bled with every thought.
The Night who'd grinned at a gold SSR card, who'd hummed Blue Bird while grinding, was dead.
In his place was a man whose eyes reflected only darkness, a man who'd seen his own end and carried its weight like a chain around his soul.
The entity's mocking laughter echoed in his mind, its promise of "fun" now a bitter lie.
Did you trap me here to break me?
Yet, panic didn't seize him—not at first.
Gamer Mind, one of his gacha rewards from that fateful panel, forced a cold, mechanical clarity over the chaos, anchoring his thoughts like a lifeline.
It was unnatural, a sterile calm that felt like a prison. His heart should've raced, his breath should've hitched, but his mind was a fortress of logic, suppressing the terror clawing at his consciousness.
The dissonance was maddening.
He wasn't calm, he was trapped in calm, a prisoner in his own head, haunted by the echo of his body's destruction.
When he tried to rest, to close his eyes and escape the darkness, a memories from his mission when he's still active , crept in—a child, no older than ten, sobbing over a parent's corpse, their eyes burning with accusation.
You did this.
Back on Earth, he'd buried the guilt in anime marathons, in the rush of gacha pulls, in the escapism of fantasy world
Here, in this tomb, there was no escape.
The truth whispered, you were always a killer.
Desperate for an anchor, he plunged into his subconscious, seeking strength to survive.
In the darkness of his mind, he saw Eight-Handled Sword Divergent Sila Divine General Mahoraga, the shikigami he'd cheered for when its name flashed on the gacha panel.
It loomed, a towering white beast with four wings folded over its face, a spinning wheel behind its head.
Its presence was both awe-inspiring and terrifying, a reminder of the power he wielded—and the monster he was becoming.
Night reached out, his trembling hand brushing its essence.
It dissolved into light, merging with his body in a rush of heat and power that burned through his veins like fire.
As Mahoraga's essence fused with him, he felt the cursed energy in the room for the first time—a pulsing, malevolent force that slithered over his skin like a thousand cold fingers, seeping into his pores, whispering hatred and despair.
It was alive, a dark tide that surged through his body, amplifying his senses, sharpening his instincts, but also stirring the hunger within.
His muscles surged with unnatural strength, his senses sharpened to a razor's edge.
The cursed energy flowed into him, a dark river that fed his veins and filled his lungs with its bitter weight.
He could feel it now—every pulse of negativity, every echo of suffering embedded in the walls, as if the room itself were screaming.
The chains binding him were brittle now, mere relics of a world that no longer held him.
With a savage yank, he shattered them, the metal screaming as it broke into jagged shards that clattered to the floor.
Their echoes mocked the silence, a fleeting cacophony in the oppressive stillness.
Night stood, his body thrumming with vitality, but the sensation was alien.
He wasn't human anymore.
The realization was a knife in his gut, twisting deeper with every breath.
I thought this gacha would make me a hero, he thought, the memory of the golden panel now a bitter mockery.
The child's accusing eyes flashed in his mind, a cruel mirror to the monster he now was.
He explored the room, his hands tracing the slick, icy walls.
The scratches were deeper than he'd thought, some gouged so violently they seemed to pulse with despair, as if the stone wept for its victims.
The air was heavy, each breath tasting of rust and rot, a reminder of the room's purpose.
The cursed energy clung to him, a constant hum that vibrated in his bones, amplifying the whispers in his mind, you're nothing, you're a monster.
He searched for an exit—a door, a crack, anything—but the walls were unyielding, a seamless cage of stone that mocked his efforts.
Hours bled into days, then weeks, perhaps months.
Time was a quagmire, a cruel illusion that stretched and contracted until it lost all meaning.
His only company was the sound of his ragged breathing, the faint drip of something liquid in the distance, and the relentless echo of his trauma, his body dissolving, his screams unanswered, the child's accusing eyes.
He sat, cross-legged, and reviewed his gacha rewards, clinging to them like a drowning man to driftwood.
The holographic panel from the entity's domain flashed in his memory, its glowing runes a bitter reminder of the hope he'd felt when he'd shouted "Mahoraga?!"
Template Mahoraga granted him the power of Jujutsu Kaisen's strongest shikigami, making him the same as Grade 3 sorcerer right now, perhaps he can achieve Special Grade with training and mastering curse techniques.
Gamer Mind kept his thoughts sharp, though it couldn't erase the shadow of his death or the guilt of his past.
Spider Sense, Protection from Projectile, Feather Fall, Idol Voice, Weapon Mastery, and Rage Core were passive skills, tools for survival in a world determined to break him.
Rokushiki from One Piece offered 6 martial techniques—Shigan were viable in this cramped, suffocating space.
Night aimed his index finger at the wall and struck with Shigan. His finger pierced the stone like a bullet, sending a jolt of pain through his hand as bones cracked.
The agony echoed his disintegration, mingling with the memory of the child's sobs.
But the wound healed in seconds, flesh knitting together with unnatural speed.
"This… Mahoraga and Ghoul," he muttered, his voice a hollow whisper.
Race: Ghoul—another prize from the gacha
had rewritten his body, turning him into a predator craving human flesh.
The thought made his stomach lurch—not with hunger, but with dread.
"I'm not a monster," he said, but the words were a lie, crumbling under the weight of his fractured mind.
The child's accusing eyes returned, a reminder that he'd been a killer long before the gacha made him one.
I was a monster back then, too.
A pulse stirred in his lower back, sharp and unnatural.
Two red tentacles erupted—kagune, Rinkaku-type, writhing like living blades.
Night swung them at the wall, driven by instinct.
BOOM!
The impact shook the room, debris raining down like shattered bones.
The wall cracked, jagged fissures spreading like veins.
Each strike dredged up memories of his death—his flesh dissolving, his screams swallowed by the void—and of the child's tears.
The cursed energy pulsed stronger, a malevolent hum that fed his despair, whispering "you're a monster."
Weeks dragged on, or perhaps months.
The isolation was a slow poison, corroding his sanity.
Gamer Mind held him together at first, forcing rationality through the fog of trauma and hunger.
He meditated, drawing in the cursed energy—its cold, writhing presence now a constant companion—to fortify his body.
He channeled it into his kakuhou, spawning two new ones mid-back and lower, producing eight writhing Rinkaku tentacles and a Koukaku kagune shaped like a great sword.
The power was intoxicating, but the hunger was a beast, clawing at his insides, demanding flesh.
Gamer Mind faltered, its logic crumbling under isolation and starvation.
The hunger screamed louder than his thoughts, and his mind slipped, fragments of his old life—anime marathons, gacha pulls, His missions—twisting into madness.
He laughed, a jagged sound like a banshee's wail. "Habata itara…" he hummed, the words a ghost of the person who'd hummed Blue Bird while reading manga.
The song grew louder, unhinged, as he attacked the walls. His kagune lashed out, tearing through stone with savage precision.
"Aoi aoi… Ano sora…" he sang, his voice a haunting wail mingling with the crash of debris, a twisted hymn to his lost humanity. He struck again, Rinkaku slicing the air, shattering stone.
"Unravel… I'm breaking apart…"
he crooned, Unravel from Tokyo Ghoul mirroring his fractured mind.
The songs were a cacophony, echoing through the ruin like a requiem for his soul.
The small place became a sprawling ruin, walls crumbling like flesh under claws.
Dust and debris filled the air, the stench of blood and stone overwhelming.
Night moved like a feral creature, his kagune tearing through stone, driven by hunger and madness.
Rage Core fueled his frenzy, his body a machine of destruction, his mind a haze of pain and rage.
His voice echoed, a broken chant of anime songs:
"Nando demo. . .. Nando demo sakebu"
He didn't know how long he raged—days, weeks, eternity.
His kagune tore through stone, his voice a relentless wail.
The walls bore the scars of his fury, a testament to a man unraveling. He was no longer Night Frederik, the man who'd dreamed of isekai glory.
He was a beast, a monster born of pain and despair.
Then, through a crack in the stone, a pale light pierced the darkness—cold, wrong, like the glint of a predatory eye. Night froze, his kagune quivering, his voice trailing off mid-verse.
His eyes, more beast than man, locked onto the light.
Was it salvation? He didn't know.
All he knew was the hunger, the trauma, and the madness that had claimed him.