The steps to the final floor felt… wrong.
Each one pulled at Chris's bones like they were being unraveled thread by thread. His legs still moved—he wasn't paralyzed—but something heavy, immeasurable, pressed against his body. As he stepped onto the fifth floor, it was like walking into the eye of some ancient, hateful intelligence.
Then it hit.
A crushing force slammed down on him, flattening him to the cold ground with such violence that it stole his breath. He gasped, struggling against the invisible weight, his forehead grinding against black stone slick with something not-quite-blood.
He looked up.
And saw hell.
It was massive, like a stadium carved from bone and obsidian. All around him were humanoids, bound in chains—some human, others clearly not. Demi-humans with horns, claws, wings. Every kind of being you'd expect to see in a fantasy novel. But this was no fantasy.
It was a slaughterhouse.
The prisoners were arranged in three groups, each one penned in by barbed fences made from twisted limbs and screaming faces. Even from a distance, Chris could see what awaited them: torment, consumption, or something worse.
But his eyes were drawn to the center platform.
There stood a figure that shouldn't exist.
At first glance, it looked human—tall, muscular, robed in fabrics that shimmered like dying stars. But his presence screamed otherwise. His skin was gray and veined with shadows, and beneath his hood were no eyes—just a yawning void that swallowed light. From his back extended withered wings—feathers made of black flame and bones.
The floor trembled beneath his words.
"You are the last to arrive, little lambs."
Chris wasn't the only one to hear it. Before him, a party of four teenagers stood—just as out of place and terrified as he was. Two boys and two girls, all around his age. Their clothes were shredded, blood stained their arms, and they huddled together like prey that had realized the hunt was over.
One of the boys—short, scrappy, face hollowed by fatigue—spoke up, trembling.
"We… We made it through four floors of madness. We lost sixteen others. It's just us now. And this… This is what waits for us?"
The taller girl tugged his sleeve, trying to hush him. But he shrugged her off.
"Why lie? We're all going to die anyway. I'd rather speak my truth before we're fed to whatever the hell that is."
The gray being descended from his platform. He didn't step—he floated, his robes dragging through the air like smoke underwater. Behind him followed a legion—over a thousand minions in twisted armor, some humanoid, some insectoid, some things that had never been meant to wear flesh.
The godlike being raised one hand.
"Show me what you were given. Your reward for your pain."
One of his minions stepped forward—eyes glowing, palm outstretched. A scan washed over the boy who had spoken. The result made the minion pause.
"Innate ability: Sword God's Will. Can assume the form of an unbreakable sword capable of slaying nearly anything. Drawback: irreversible transformation."
A pause. Then:
"Useful. Take the rest."
The other three panicked. One girl screamed. A boy tried to run. The minions caught them with ease, dragging them toward different groups.
"She's weak," the minion said, gesturing to one girl. "Harvest."
Chris didn't know what that meant. But when she was pulled screaming toward the group with the least noise—where no one ever returned—he understood.
The god turned back to the boy.
"Prove yourself. Kill your friends. Become the sword."
The boy choked. "W-what? No—no, please, I—"
The god's voice boomed:
"NOW."
His companions begged. Screamed. One was ripped apart alive by a waiting minion. Flesh was peeled like fruit.
Finally, sobbing, the last boy transformed—his body liquefied and forged into a long, obsidian sword that hovered before the god's hand.
The god took it.
"A fine addition."
Then he threw the weapon into a pit where other cursed swords were jammed into the ground like trophies.
Chris couldn't move. His limbs still trembled from the pressure. His brain felt scrambled by fear.
What is this place… what did I ask for?
He had begged someone—anyone—for a different life.
And something answered.
A god not of hope, but of devouring.
The god's attention turned to Chris now.
"Let us see what you offer."
A minion approached, scanning him. Then it stopped. Blinked. Then slowly turned to the god.
"…He possesses Soul Consumption. Upon killing a being, he absorbs a portion of its vitality—strength, speed, intelligence. There's a 15% probability he gains a skill or memory."
The god actually paused.
Then laughed.
Low, ancient, foul.
"Fascinating. That… was not part of the design."
He drifted forward, towering above Chris, who was finally able to stagger to his knees. His breath returned—just barely.
"You consume the soul, hmm? As do I. A perfect mirror. How curious."
The god tilted his head. "I'll allow you to live—for now. Perhaps I will gain something from consuming you later."
A whisper echoed in Chris's head—a warning from his Death Echo.
The minion behind him was about to strike.
Chris twisted and thrust his Bone Spike upward, impaling the creature through the jaw. It shrieked, clawed wildly, then fell backward, twitching until it lay still.
Another wave of power rushed through Chris. His body hardened against heat, his thirst evaporated. His lungs felt cooled from within.
New passive abilities gained:
Flame Resistance (Major)
Thirstless Body
The god smiled wider, showing teeth that shouldn't exist in a human mouth.
"Clever, clever little rat. You may prove amusing after all."
He raised his hand again, and black tendrils of power erupted from the floor, binding Chris to a crucifix of bone. The pole jutted from the stone like a tree that had grown from agony.
"I will watch you break."
Then he gestured toward his army.
"You three groups—one shall serve me as slaves. One shall serve my army's lust. The rest… are meat."
Chris watched as hundreds of beings—humans, demi-humans, creatures from other realms—were dragged away. Some fought. Most screamed. The sounds of laughter, agony, and moaning filled the air like a twisted opera.
His echolocation caught everything. The sound of flesh being torn, of screams choking into silence, of pleasure turned violent.
And he wept.
Silently.
This is what I wished for…
The god hovered back toward his throne, robes dragging like smoke. But before disappearing into the black arch behind it, he looked back.
"The sun rises in this realm in eight hours. Let us see how your new immunity tastes… when I come to collect what remains of you."
Then he vanished.
And Chris sat bound.
Surrounded by screams.
By the crackle of fire.
By the slow erosion of his sanity.