The father's vision wavered, then went black. Silence pressed in—only, it wasn't silence. From every side came whispers, layered and endless, like the hiss of unseen mouths brushing against his ears. He could not understand them—too many, too close. The voices melted into each other until—
"Papa… save us…"
That one cut through, clear, desperate. His son's voice.
The father's eyes snapped open. At first, there was nothing—only darkness, absolute and suffocating. He could not see his hands, his body, not even the ground beneath him. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if he even existed at all.
Through the black, a single sliver of moonlight cut down from a jagged crack in the ruined roof. It carved the void apart, pale and cold. And within that beam stood a figure.
It seemed angelic at first. Tall, almost regal, its features softened by the glow. For a heartbeat, it resembled the celestial beings of old tales—like the Devas who shone with the brilliance of dawn, or the Gandharvas whose very presence carried the fragrance of heaven. The radiance clung to it like sacred fire, its outline blurred, as though carved from starlight itself. For a heartbeat, the father almost believed he had been rescued.
But then his eyes fell lower—and froze.
In its hands dangled the severed head of the demon.
The father's chest tightened. Breath tore ragged from his lungs. His mind spun— Who is he? What happened to me? Is this truly an angel… or another demon come to finish me?
Instinct screamed at him to move, to flee—but his body refused. His arms, his legs—they would not answer. It was as though they had been swallowed by stone itself, pinned within something far heavier than flesh. Then he realized: his skin clung, sticky, as if bound by something slick and wet.
Before panic could settle, the figure tilted its head, its eyes narrowing. That small shift alone sent a crushing weight through the father's chest. A pressure—raw, suffocating, as though death itself had settled on his shoulders.
The figure's eyes gleamed unnaturally. Without warning, it sank its teeth into the severed demon's head, biting deep. The sound was sickening—bone cracking, flesh tearing. Then, with an almost casual cruelty, it flung the head toward the father, as if discarding a useless toy. Blood streaked across its lips. Slowly, deliberately, it wiped its mouth clean, its stare never leaving him.
Before the father could think, before he could even blink, the figure was already there—close, too close. Its voice brushed against his ear like a whisper wrapped in knives:
"So this is it—the last trace of the Blood of Hidden. Hm. Yet… nothing seems special about you."
The father's breath stuttered, his throat tight. He wanted to speak, but terror held his voice captive.
Then the figure's attention shifted. Its gaze fell upon the broken lamp lying to the side. It bent down, lifting the shattered relic with a hand far too steady. A thin smile tugged at its lips.
"Is this… yours?" it asked.
The instant its fingers closed around the lamp, the impossible happened—light flared to life. But not golden, not pure. The flame bled red, growing darker, heavier with each flicker, until it pulsed like a wound torn open. The father froze, stunned into silence, his face drained of all color.
And then—crack. The lamp shattered, bursting apart in a violent flash.
For a moment, only silence remained. But the father knew what it meant. He had been taught since childhood:
The lamp reveals the soul. In the hands of the pure, it glows bright as the sun—warm, radiant, untouchable. But in the grasp of the corrupted, it burns red. The deeper the red, the more monstrous the truth within. And when the flame turns so dark it consumes itself… the lamp dies.
Now, staring at the shards, the father understood. The figure before him wasn't angelic at all. It was something far worse.
Hope guttered out. His chest grew hollow, his thoughts frantic. There was no escape, no salvation. Not for him. Not for anyone.
The shards of the lamp still glowed faintly, their crimson light crawling across the floor like veins of fire. The figure crouched lower, turning one of the broken pieces over in his hand as though studying it.
Then, he smiled. A slow, deliberate smile that never reached his eyes.
"Strange… that you would carry such a relic. Tell me—was it given to you? Or stolen?"
The father's throat tightened. His lips parted, but no sound came. His mind screamed to lie, to say nothing, yet silence itself felt like a confession.
The figure tilted his head, watching him squirm. He didn't need answers—he could taste the truth in the man's fear.
He leaned closer, his voice soft, almost gentle:
"Don't waste my time. You know what I want."
The father's heart hammered. Images flashed in his head—the hidden vault, the sword wrapped in cloth, the one secret he had sworn never to reveal.
"No…" he rasped, voice trembling. "I—I don't know what you mean."
For a moment, silence. Then, without warning, the figure pressed the shard against the father's cheek. Not enough to cut, but enough that the skin burned from the heat.
"The sword," the figure said simply. "Where is it?"
The father's breath hitched. His knees threatened to buckle.
"I… I can't… it's not mine to—"
The shard pressed harder. A faint trickle of blood slid down. The figure's expression never changed.
"You think loyalty will save you? You think silence will protect them?" He leaned closer, his whisper colder than the blood dripping down. "I already know where your family is… and wherever they are—they are not alone. At least… not for now."
The father's body shuddered. The words struck deeper than any blade. His son's face flashed in his mind, his wife's voice, his promise to keep them safe.
His resolve cracked.
"Please…" he whispered. "Don't hurt them…"
The figure smiled again, satisfied. He drew back the shard, letting the blood bead on its tip. Then he licked it away, savoring the taste.
"Then speak," he said. "Tell me… and perhaps they'll be spared."
The father's lips trembled. His voice cracked.
"If I knew… I would have told you already."
The figure went still. For a moment, silence pressed thicker than the dark itself. Then his voice returned, colder, final:
"Then whatever becomes of your family… is on your head alone."
The father staggered, straining against invisible binds.
"No—no! Do whatever you want with me, but let them go!"
The figure leaned in, his tone sharpening, each word heavy as iron.
"I do not waste time playing with refuse."
His eyes narrowed, a faint light burning inside them like coals.
"For you… this is more than enough."
With that, he stretched out his hand. The broken lamp—its shards scattered—rose as if pulled by unseen threads, gathering into his palm. The crimson flame within surged, swelling, writhing like a living thing.
The glow turned violent. No longer a flame, but a furnace. Its heat licked the air, its brilliance seared the father's eyes until he could no longer bear to look. He turned his head, tears burning as much as the light itself.
And then—he froze.
The pressure that bound him tightened, dragging his gaze downward.
What held him… was not rope. Nor chain. Nor stone. But something far worse.
He saw them.
The figures he had glimpsed before—the eyeless ones who had dragged him here. Only now, he saw clearly: each mouth stretched wide, clamped onto the next body's flesh. Their jaws locked together, body to body, until they formed a grotesque living chain. Rows upon rows of them, stretching into the dark without end.
Their faces twitched, their hollow sockets staring into nothing. Each mouth gnawed at the other, devouring and feeding, never breaking the chain. They were not animals. They were once people. And that made it worse.
The father's breath caught in his throat. His heart slammed against his ribs. It felt as though even the air had abandoned him.
Above him, the figure lifted the lamp high. The flame shrieked as it rose, twisting into a spiral of blood-red fire. Then, with a single flick of his wrist—
He cast the flames forward.
They roared, devouring the dark, rushing straight toward the endless chain.
And in that flood of crimson light, the father saw the truth—
The chain was not small. It was endless. Thousands—tens of thousands—bound together, writhing, swallowing one another in an eternal loop.
The sight struck deeper than the fire itself. His chest seized, his vision blurred. Hope shattered like glass.
And the figure's voice followed, cutting through the roar of flame:
"Now you see. This is what awaits… all of you."
The red flames shrieked into the abyss, and the chain writhed like a single monstrous body. Then—just as suddenly—the figure lowered his hand.
The light dimmed. The lamp flickered one last time… and went out.
He stepped back into the dark, his outline dissolving like smoke. Only his voice remained, a whisper carried on the echo of the chamber:
"Your end will be theirs to watch."
And then—silence.
For a heartbeat, the father thought it was over. But the quiet was worse. It pressed down on him, heavy, absolute—until it shattered.
Screams. Hundreds of them. No, not screams—howls, tearing wails that clawed at his skull. They came from all sides, reverberating through the black stone, through the bodies chained around him.
His chest heaved. His throat burned. He tried to speak, to call after the figure—"Wait! Please—!"—but the words broke apart in the roar.
Then came the pain.
A sharp, white-hot agony shot through his wrists and ankles. He gasped, eyes wide, trying to wrench free—but the chain only pulled tighter. And then he saw it.
The eyeless things. Their heads jerked downward, their jaws snapping not at each other now—but at him. Their teeth sank into his wrists, his ankles, tearing flesh from bone.
The father screamed. His voice cracked, splintered—half pain, half terror.
"No—stop! Please—!"
But they did not stop. The pain ripped higher, sharper, until it was unbearable. His arms shook, his legs convulsed, every nerve aflame.
With a sickening crunch, he felt it—his left hand torn away. Blood sprayed across the dark. His vision blurred. He choked on his own breath, still thrashing, still fighting—though he knew there was no fight to win.
The other hand went next. His legs followed, torn apart piece by piece in a frenzy of gnashing mouths. The creatures lunged and clawed, each desperate to devour a piece of him. Their hunger drowned everything.
Through it all, his scream broke into sobs. He coughed blood, his body trembling, barely whole. His head slumped forward, but his lips still moved.
"I'm… sorry…"
His last words bled from his lips, broken and faint:
Sorry… I was not good enough to save… or protect you all…
The words trembled into silence. His body slackened, his chest no longer rising. For a heartbeat, it seemed almost peaceful—until the sound returned. The tearing. The gnashing. The endless hunger.
What remained of him was dragged down, piece by piece, into the writhing chain of faceless figures. Their mouths worked ceaselessly, devouring not only his flesh, but the man he had been.
Yet, as they fed, something stirred. The shattered lamp at his side pulsed once—its jagged red flame quivering like a heart still refusing to surrender. It beat in the darkness, wild and frantic, until the glow spilled beyond the chamber's broken walls.
And in that trembling light, for the briefest instant, a shape appeared. A boy's face—young, human, unknowing. His eyes wide, unclouded, unaware of what was bound to him… yet destined all the same.
The vision flickered, then dissolved. The flame hissed out.
And the chamber returned to silence—leaving only darkness, and the echo of screams that no longer had a source.