The ground was painted in carnage. Blood pooled like rainwater, soaking into the earth beneath a sky cloaked in a dying hue. Limbs were scattered—some still twitching, others mangled beyond recognition. A severed hand lay limp beside a crushed ribcage. A leg hung from a tree branch like a grotesque decoration. Genitals, torn and discarded, lay among the entrails.
In the center of this grotesque massacre stood a man. His chest heaved with sharp, panicked breaths. His eyes darted across the sea of bodies, trembling with horror. Blood stained his clothes, though none of it seemed to be his yet.
And then, a second figure emerged. Not a man but something far more vile.
He stepped out from behind a heap of corpses, his pale, grayish skin stretched tightly over his sharp bones. His eyes burned a sickly yellow, glowing with lunacy. His grin was smeared with blood, and from the corner of his mouth dangled strands of intestine, freshly devoured. His entire presence reeked of madness and hunger.
"1"
The demon whispered, voice guttural, inhuman. The countdown had begun. But what type of countdown is it?
The man jolted at the sound. He tried to run, to flee but his hands... his hands wouldn't move.
Everything else responded. His legs, his torso, his neck but his hands remained perfectly still, rigid, as if cast in stone. It was as if some invisible force held them, mocking him.
"2... 3... 4…"
The man's heart pounded. His breathing grew erratic. He began screaming out of sheer panic, desperation thick in his voice. He twisted his body, yanked his arms, slammed his wrists against his thighs to break the invisible grip. But his hands remained statues.
"10… 11… 12…"
He smashed his forearm against a nearby log, hoping to jolt something loose. Instead, he was met with a horrifying crack. His own bone fracturing under the strain. His scream echoed through the hollow battlefield.
"20… 21… 22…"
Tears streamed down his face as he clutched the injured arm, but even in pain, the paralysis persisted. It wasn't magic, it wasn't metal chains but something else.
"30… 31… 32…"
Panic gave way to despair. Then to recklessness. The man snarled through gritted teeth and launched his full weight into the motion. He twisted, pulled, yanked with everything he had. His muscles tensed and then—
Crack.
A wet, tearing sound followed. His elbow dislocated with brutal force, the muscles ripping apart like paper. His arm now dangled uselessly, swinging from torn sinew. Blood poured down like rain. But he did it. One hand was free.
"One down. One to go."
"45… 46… 47…"
The man collapsed to one knee, gasping, his world spinning. Blood loss had begun to rob him of clarity. He couldn't feel his fingers. His vision was swimming in and out, colors smearing across his eyes.
But he wasn't done.
"57… 58… 59…"
"AHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!"
His scream this time was primal, broken, ragged—less a sound and more a raw, animal cry of survival. His throat felt like it was being torn open from the inside out. He threw himself into motion again. His tendons screamed. His ligaments ripped like threads. His bones cracked like dry twigs. He could feel his skin splitting under the strain, could taste the metallic tang of blood in his mouth as his body broke itself in desperation.
"Sixty."
Snap!
"Time is over."