John watched the creature's maw close around Zedrik's head, the massive jaws working, teeth crunching through bone like it was nothing.
Blood dripped from the creature's lips, pooling on the marble floor. Zedrik's body convulsed, his remaining limbs twitching, his muffled screams vibrating through the creature's throat. The sound was wet and horrible and John almost let it continue.
Almost.
"Bad boy," John said, his voice sharp. "Spit him out."
The creature froze. Its eight arms went still. Its maw opened, slowly, reluctantly, and Zedrik's head emerged in a cascade of blood and saliva.
The creature's tongue, black and impossibly long, pushed the head back out, letting it flop against Zedrik's shoulder. Zedrik was still alive. Still conscious. Still screaming.
John sighed. "System. Heal him again."
You're going through revivals like candy. You know that, right?
"Just do it."
Blue light washed over Zedrik's broken body. Bones knit. Flesh reformed. Limbs reattached. Within seconds, he was whole again, lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood, his chest heaving, his eyes wide with terror. He didn't beg this time. He didn't scream. He just lay there, shaking, waiting for the next round to begin.
The next twenty minutes were a blur of pain and healing. The creature would tear Zedrik apart, and John would have the system put him back together. Arms ripped off. Legs broken. Ribs crushed. Skin flayed. Each time, Zedrik came back screaming, and each time, the creature found a new way to hurt him. John watched it all with mild interest, leaning back on his throne, occasionally checking the time on his system screen.
After the fifth or sixth revival, Zedrik stopped screaming. He just cried. Silent tears streaming down his face, his body limp, his eyes empty.
He had retreated somewhere deep inside himself, somewhere the pain couldn't reach. The creature kept going, indifferent to his mental state, and John let it.
Finally, John yawned. He stretched his arms over his head, cracked his neck, and stood up from the throne.
"Alright," he said. "Stop."
The creature froze mid-swing, one of its arms raised to strike. It lowered the arm slowly and stepped back, its maw dripping, its painted smile gleaming in the torchlight.
John walked down the stairs and crossed the throne room, stepping over the puddles of blood and the scattered chunks of meat that the creature had torn loose. He stopped in front of Zedrik, who was lying on his side, curled into a fetal position, his body shaking with silent sobs.
"Congratulations," John said, crouching down to Zedrik's level. "You survived the second layer."
Zedrik didn't respond. He just lay there, trembling, his eyes fixed on something far away.
John reached out and placed a hand on Zedrik's head. Blue light washed over him, healing his wounds, restoring his body. When it faded, Zedrik was whole again. Unmarked. Perfect.
And still crying.
"Now," John said, standing up, "it's time for the third layer."
He snapped his fingers.
The teleportation was instant. One moment Zedrik was on the floor of the throne room, the next he was lying in the mud of the goblin village, surrounded by crude wooden huts and the sounds of goblins going about their evening routines. John's voice echoed from somewhere above, from everywhere at once, from the sky itself.
"Attention, goblins! This is your leader speaking. The red-haired piece of shit on the ground? That's a gift to all the males in the village. Do whatever you want with him. Have fun."
Zedrik looked up. Dozens of yellow eyes stared back at him. Male goblins. Some slender, some thick, all with sharp teeth and hungry expressions. They stepped forward, and Zedrik's screams echoed across the village.
John teleported back to the throne room.
Alrick was still kneeling by his pillar, his scarred face pale, his massive breasts heaving with every rapid breath. He had watched everything.
Every second of Zedrik's torture. Every scream. Every tear.
Every moment of agony. And now he knew that his turn was coming.
"Please," Alrick whispered, his voice cracked and broken. "Please, I'll do anything. I'll tell you everything. I'll confess to every crime. Just please—"
John waved his hand dismissively. "Your turn is long coming. Don't worry about it. You've got plenty of time to think about what you've done."
He turned away from Alrick and walked toward the creature, which was still standing in the center of the throne room, its eight arms hanging at its sides, its maw dripping. Up close, the creature was even more impressive.
The deep blue skin, the bulging veins, the painted smile that never changed. It stood perfectly still, waiting, patient, empty.
John reached up and patted the creature on the arm. The skin was cold, smooth, like polished stone.
"You did a good job," John said. "Really. You beat the absolute fuck out of that guy. I couldn't have asked for better."
The creature didn't respond. It just stood there, its painted smile gleaming.
"Every good monster deserves a name," John continued. "From now on, you're Malice. That's your name. Malice."
The creature didn't react. Didn't nod. Didn't acknowledge. Just stood there, eight arms hanging, maw dripping.
John sighed. "Yeah, I figured. No emotions. No personality. Just rage and sorrow and pain." He patted the creature again. "That's fine. You don't need to talk. You just need to do your job."
He turned and walked toward the door, then paused, looking back over his shoulder.
"Malice. Make sure the white-haired one doesn't escape. If he tries anything, you have my permission to hurt him. Just don't kill him. Not yet."
The creature's head turned slightly. The painted smile faced Alrick. Alrick whimpered and pressed himself against the pillar, his hands raised in surrender.
John left the throne room, closing the door behind him.
---
Half a world away, in a small village, the men began to appear.
They materialized out of thin air, one by one, blinking in the sunlight, touching their own faces, their own chests, as if confirming that they were real. Some fell to their knees, weeping.
Others stood frozen, staring at the homes they had never thought they would see again.
The first to arrive was a man named Emil. He had been dead for three years, killed by Zedrik's sword during a tax collection that had gone wrong. He remembered the pain. The fear. The way his wife had screamed when he fell. And now he was standing in front of his own front door, his hand raised to knock, his heart pounding in his chest.
The door opened before he could knock.
His son stood there. A boy of twelve, thin and pale, with his mother's eyes. He stared at Emil for a long moment, his face blank, uncomprehending.
"Papa?" The boy's voice cracked. "Papa, is that you?"
Emil couldn't speak. He just opened his arms, and his son ran into them, sobbing, clinging, refusing to let go.
"I thought you were dead," the boy said, his voice muffled against Emil's chest. "I thought you were never coming back."
"I'm here," Emil whispered, tears streaming down his face. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
The celebration spread through the village like wildfire. Men reuniting with sons who had grown up without fathers. Brothers embracing brothers who had died in their arms. Fathers holding children who had been nothing but babies when they left.
And then the women began to appear.
Wives who had been raped and murdered. Daughters who had been taken too young. Mothers who had died protecting their children. They materialized in the village square, in the fields, in the doorways of their own homes. Some were confused. Some were scared. But when they saw their families, when they saw their husbands and sons and fathers running toward them with tears in their eyes, they understood.
Emil's wife was the last to appear.
She was standing in the middle of the village square, her brown hair blowing in the wind, her hands clasped in front of her. She looked around, confused, until she heard her son's voice.
"Mama! Mama, look! Papa came back! And you came back! Everyone came back!"
She turned. Emil was running toward her, his son on his hip, his face wet with tears. She didn't move. She couldn't. She just stood there, frozen, until his arms wrapped around her and lifted her off the ground.
"I'm sorry," Emil sobbed. "I'm sorry I couldn't protect you. I'm sorry I wasn't there."
She buried her face in his neck and held on. "You're here now. That's all that matters."
The village square was full of crying, laughing, hugging people. Families that had been torn apart by violence and greed were whole again. Sons had fathers. Wives had husbands. Mothers had daughters.
And somewhere, far away, in a throne room made of black marble, John sat on his throne and watched it all on his system screen. He didn't smile. He didn't cry. He just watched, his yellow eyes reflecting the blue light of the monitor.
You did a good thing, the system said.
"Don't tell anyone," John replied. "I have a reputation to maintain."