Samael descends the final steps and stops at the threshold of the last chamber. The darkness here is alive, palpable, but he cuts through it with the cold glow of his red eyes.
In the center of the final chamber—a vast circular room with walls covered in faded runes—there is only one figure. It is not a hooded Lich with a staff. It is not a roaring demon. It is a man... or what is left of one.
A human adventurer, perhaps in his early twenties, sitting cross-legged on the stone floor. His eyes are absolute black pits. Around him, dozens of adventurers' bodies lie serene, as if they had simply fallen asleep forever.
A black mist pulses in a circle around him, like a slow heart. Samael stops ten paces away, hands in his robe pockets. His chains do not manifest—for now.
Samael: (voice calm, almost friendly) So you're the rebel they sent me to collect. Not a Lich. Not a necromancer. (He tilts his head) Just a boy who found something he shouldn't have.
The young man slowly lifts his face. When he speaks, his voice is a choir—his own mixed with dozens of whispers from the dead.
Young Man: You came alone. Like all the others. But you... You smell different... you aren't afraid, and you don't look tired. Why?
Samael: (smiling with disdain, taking a step forward) Fear? Tiredness? Lovely concepts for those still bound to the mortal clock. Tell me your name, child. Before I decide what to do with you.
Young Man: Names don't matter anymore. I am the Gate. I give what they ask for. Rest. Peace. An end to pain, struggle, and disappointment. They enter weary of life... and they stay. They all stay.
Samael stops, his smile vanishing. His eyes narrow, and for the first time, his voice carries a cutting tone, heavy with authority and genuine irritation.
Samael: (with icy contempt) Rest? Peace? You think you're being merciful, boy? You are stealing.
Young Man: (tilting his head, confused) Stealing?
Samael: (advancing another step, voice now like cold steel) Each one of these souls had a lifespan. A marked time, a destiny. Years, decades, or even centuries of experiences, mistakes, joys, and sufferings they still needed to live. You ripped them away before their time.
He points to the bodies around them with a slow, almost accusatory gesture.
Samael: Look at them. They aren't at peace. They are interrupted. You messed up the balance of the cycle of life; the souls that should have gone to rest or to be tortured didn't go to any of their respective places because you stole them for yourself.
Samael: (advancing with an intimidating presence) Did you think you were saving them? You've only created chaos on both sides of the veil.
The young man hesitates. The mist around him flickers, uncertain.
Young Man: (voice lower, almost just his own now) But... they wanted to stop. They all wanted to.
Samael: (laughing humorlessly, a dry and sharp sound) They wanted to... Mortals always want shortcuts. And you, you useful idiot, gave them the wrong one. It isn't mercy to offer the end before the path is complete. It is theft. And I was sent to collect the debt.
Samael's words still hang in the freezing air when the metallic clinking of his chains begins—a low, constant sound, like chains dragging across eternal stone.
His chains emerge slowly from his back, each black, thorny link pulsing with an infernal red glow that bathes the chamber in tones of dried blood. The youth—the Gate—feels the shift and raises his black eyes.
Young Man: You... you refer to them as mortals, but... do you not consider yourself one? W-who are you, anyway?
Samael: Me? I am the Hunter, and from now on... I will be your worst nightmare.
Then Samael brings his hand to his own face. His human skin begins to run like hot wax, dissolving into threads of shadow that fall to the floor and evaporate into dark smoke. With a slow, deliberate gesture, he tears away what remains of the "mask," like someone removing a thin glove.
What is revealed is no longer a face... but a living tangle of chains. Intertwined in dense layers, they completely cover where flesh should be, forming an organic mask of black metal that moves subtly, as if breathing.
The links cross and tighten, loosening in a constant rhythm. Between the spaces in the links, patches of pale, lacerated flesh appear: the mouth—a torn slit, without lips, revealing sharp teeth and a black tongue—and the eyes—two deep sockets where intense red glows burn like live coals, lidless, unblinking.
The sight is both grotesque and hypnotic: metal and flesh fused in a tortured union, as if the chains had grown from the skin itself, or devoured it from the inside out.
The young man takes a stumbling step back. His entire body convulses. His black eyes widen in absolute terror; his mouth opens in a silent scream that never escapes. The instinctive recognition of the abyss... the dread of something that does not belong to this world. His legs give way, and he falls backward, hands trembling violently, unable to look away from the Demon in front of him.
Young Man: (voice hoarse, broken by panic) N-no... please... this... this can't be...
Even the surrounding mist retreats, as if scorched by the mere sight. Spectral silhouettes writhe and pull away, moaning in unison. Samael does not move. The chains forming his face adjust slightly, creaking softly. The voice that emerges now resonates from within the metal—deep, layered, as if every link vibrates together.
Samael: Last chance, boy. Close the Gate, and maybe I'll ask them to go easy on you while they're torturing your soul for eternity in hell.
The chains behind him rise higher, thorns opening like fangs. The red glow in his exposed eyes intensifies; his mouth opens, revealing his teeth, and his tongue licks "his lips" as he approaches.
The youth tries to speak, but only a terrified sob comes out. The entity inside him seems to want to flee, but there is nowhere to go. Seeing this, Samael takes a single step forward.
The young man tries to stand, but terror paralyzes him. The entity within reacts out of pure survival instinct. The black mist explodes in a violent wave, enveloping his body like living armor.
The sleeping bodies around them twitch, bones snapping as they rise in a horde of spectral puppets: eyeless warriors, mages with blackened hands, all advancing in deadly silence.
The youth, now shrouded by the mist which forms dark tentacles around him, extends his trembling hands. His voice returns to a choir, but one loaded with despair.
Samael: (looking at the tentacles and then at his own chains, laughing with disdain) Looks like we have competition...
Young Man: You don't understand... I can't stop. They need me. I need them!
The first wave of specters attacks, necrotic claws tearing at the air. The Kyton chains respond instantly; two of them shoot out like living harpoons, piercing the chests of two lead specters. With a brutal, synchronized jerk, Samael drags them through the air toward him, spinning his body in a lethal arc. The chains slice the ghosts in half on impact, dissipating them into black smoke that screams as it vanishes.
The entire horde advances. Samael lets out a low laugh, echoing from the chains that form his face. He dives into the midst of them, his four chains spinning in an infernal vortex around him, thorns glowing like red-hot blades.
Specters are split in two by downward strikes, wrapped by the neck and shredded, or hurled against their companions in explosions of ethereal fragments.
The youth, seeing his guard fall so quickly, screams and launches the mist tentacles like black spears. Samael doesn't flinch; just as the tentacles are about to reach him, Samael uses a Gust of Wind and disperses them.
Samael leaps high, the chains stretching behind him like steel wings. At the apex of the jump, one chain wraps around the largest tentacle and pulls with titanic force. The youth is dragged forward, losing his balance.
Samael lands in front of him, another chain already spinning for the final blow. But the youth raises his hands in panic, and the mist forms a solid barrier around him—a black dome pulsing with the stolen souls.
Samael stops a pace from the barrier. The chains hammer against it, red sparks exploding with every impact, but the dome holds... for now.
Samael: (the red glows narrowing, voice low and deadly) You think you can hide behind them? Behind the souls you stole?
He drives one of his chains into the stone floor, the thorns flaring out to anchor it. With the other, he begins to spin his entire body at high speed—a living tornado of Kyton chains, the red glow leaving trails in the air like comets.
Samael: This ends here, child.