Morder paced through a long corridor illuminated by yellow candles that flickered, lighting the path ahead. The place felt like yet another prison; every stone slab breathed isolation, a void where no thread of salvation could reach.
Morder stopped walking and braced himself against the wall, clutching his heart. He struggled to breathe, as if begging the air to enter his lungs.
'What is this strange feeling inside me… I killed a group of innocents in cold blood. Is this why I came here?!'
He leaned against the wall and lowered his body slowly until he sat on the ground, raking his face with his fingers. The sensation of killing those innocents felt suffocating.
'I could have killed a group of knights instead of them… my head is going to explode from these thoughts.'
In his wretched state, he gazed at the shimmering blade of his sword. He stared at it intently until a dark thought crossed his mind.
He gripped the hilt tightly and pressed the blade against his neck, a cold smile dancing on his lips.
'Suicide is the eternal salvation… Am I just insane? A single knight brought me to the brink of death, so what hope do I have against others?'
'I've made so many mistakes here. But what if those people were just as mad as the knights? Haha, how laughable. I'm trying to find excuses for myself. Pathetic.'
Just as he was about to move the blade and end it all, a female voice screamed out, shouting a single plea:
"Help! Is there anyone who can help me? He—"
The voice cut off abruptly, unable to finish the sentence. Morder pulled the sword away from his throat and turned his head toward the sound.
"Am I hallucinating, or did I just hear a girl?"
He slapped his cheeks, trying to process what was happening. He drove the blade into the ground and stood up, pulling his hair back.
"I heard a girl calling for help. Let's put the idea of suicide aside and do at least one thing right."
As he continued down the hallway, Morder noticed something unsettling: the corridor was growing longer, stretching infinitely without end. It was as if he were walking in a loop, or through a path that played tricks on the eyes.
Morder placed his hand on the bars of one of the cells, clutching his heart tightly as if to squeeze it. He raised his head to look forward, but his vision was blurring.
"What is happening to me? Why is there no end to this path?"
He coughed violently, feeling as though his chest was about to burst through his skin. In his miserable state, a distorted whisper hissed near his ear.
"They were innocent."
His eyes widened. He swung his sword backward in a flash, but there was no one there. He pressed his palm against his face; a dark glint flickered in his eyes for a few seconds before returning to normal.
"Something is wrong… I don't think I've entered an ordinary area."
Suddenly, a purple glow erupted from the end of the alley. Morder sensed the attack and managed to dodge it, but the strikes began to multiply. He couldn't evade them all.
Looking toward a cell, an idea struck him. He sliced the iron bars in half and ducked inside.
"Damn it, I'm likely being watched…"
He leaned against the wall, taking a deep breath. As he wiped his face, he noticed his palm was covered in blood. He stood up, startled.
Drops of blood began to fall to the floor—they were streaming from his eyes.
'Why am I bleeding from my eyes?! Was the blood I drank impure?'
The air shimmered, and a magical parchment appeared, bearing words that dripped in crimson.
{Your blood is impure; the presence of heretical blood has been detected.}
{Do you wish for healing at the cost of years of your life, or will you endure for a few hours in this poison-shattered body?}
"Are you joking?!" Morder screamed at the top of his lungs, collapsing to the ground and vomiting blood. He wiped his mouth and tried to rise, stumbling before falling once more.
"You force me to kill innocents, but don't you dare tell me their blood is impure!"
The parchment responded:
{You were not forced; you simply refuse to admit that you were bloodthirsty.}
The paper vanished, leaving him with a harsh truth he had tried to ignore. He hadn't been forced; the intent to kill had been clear.
"It wasn't my fault… I don't need to admit to something I didn't do on purpose."
He looked around frantically.
"Where did you go? Answer me, you son of a—"
He didn't finish his sentence. Ten fingers were placed firmly over his mouth, and a soft voice whispered near his ear:
"Welcome to the asylum, Slave."
———
Morder was pulled into the wall as if he had been sucked into a watery vortex. He suddenly reappeared in mid-air, staring up at a gargantuan ceiling adorned with vases and blurred, surreal paintings.
"Am I falling?!"
He jerked his head back. He was plummeting toward the depths of a dark abyss, a void so vast he couldn't see the bottom.
'What should I do?'
He spotted a massive spiral staircase looming nearby. He drew his sword and, just before impact, drove the blade into one of the steps to anchor himself. He climbed up frantically, panting from both the exertion and the terrifying sight awaiting him below.
His heart hammered against his ribs, but he fought to keep his composure. He looked down again, but there was nothing—only a pitch-black chasm, as if he were staring into the bowels of the afterlife.
"There are so many questions, but I doubt I'll ever get the answers."
He wiped his face with his fingers, then gazed up at the ceiling, muttering to himself:
'Did I come through that ceiling? Is this entire place upside down? One thing is certain, though—I am being watched.'
He stood up, pulled his sword from the stone step, and sheathed it. Just as he prepared to ascend, he noticed the steps of the staircase beginning to vanish, one by one.
"What?"
The very step he stood on flickered out of existence. He managed to leap backward just in time.
"It seems this place is hell-bent on making me fall."
He began to sprint, desperate to outrun the collapsing path. He nearly plummeted into the void but managed to leap across a gap where a step had already vanished.
"…"
As he ran, he hit a dead end. The path simply stopped. He stood there, trapped between the infinite abyss ahead and the vanishing floor chasing him from behind.
Before the staircase disappeared completely, a pale white hand reached out, grabbed him from behind, and pulled him into the air. He vanished like dust scattered in the wind.
A moment later, he woke up lying on a floor. He snapped his eyes open, looking around like a madman. He pressed his palm to his forehead, trying to process the chaos he had just endured.
"Someone is playing games with me."
He bit his lip, his voice dripping with loathing:
"Bullshit."
Morder found himself in a room with three pristine walls. A single candle cast a dim, flickering light, illuminating a lone wooden door.
He took a step forward, intent on leaving the room, but a sudden, violent spasm racked his body. He vomited blood involuntarily, coughing until the wooden door was splattered crimson.
"The blood I gained… I'm starting to lose it."
He tilted his head back, drowning in his thoughts, until a realization struck him like a physical blow.
'The word Envy that the parchment showed me… does it mean my body has taken in more blood than it can handle?'
He clutched his head as a piercing pain began to tear through his mind. He covered his mouth as another coughing fit hit him; when he pulled his hand away, his pale skin was stained a deep scarlet.
'What if their blood was laced with poison or some foul ritual?!'
He wiped the blood onto the wall, gripped the door handle, and forced it open, barely able to stand. Leaning against the doorframe, he scanned the area.
The sight was gruesome. Torn walls, shattered doors weeping blood, and a pool—not filled with water, but with stagnant, filthy gore. A broken staircase led upward, leading nowhere.
Most horrifying of all were the figures wandering the space. They wore white patient gowns soaked in layers of old blood, their heads encased in oversized, bloated white bags.
"Am I hallucinating, or is this actually happening?" he muttered with a cynical edge.
Morder coughed again. The sheer force of the sound made the monsters freeze. They turned toward him, veins erupting from their hands and hardening into sharp, metallic blades.
"My God… can't I just have one hour of rest?"
They swarmed him, their heads twitching violently as they hissed incoherent phrases.
"Slasssh…"
"Chhhoke you…"
"Dllisease… deeeath…"
Morder drew his sword, his hand trembling. He cleared the blood from his throat and said coldly:
"I won't ask for healing, and I won't beg for mercy. I have no problem turning this place into a mountain of corpses to get out."
He lunged forward with explosive speed, driving his blade through the neck of the nearest monster. As its head hit the floor, Morder's eyes turned pitch black.
"Even if they were innocent, I no longer care."