Step after step on the cracked streets felt like dragging a tombstone. After a few meters that felt like miles, Oldred's body finally surrendered to its own gravity. The machine within him had run out of fuel. His knees hit the asphalt with a dry, painful "thud!" forcing him to kneel as if prostrating himself at an altar of exhaustion, starvation, and weakness that had swallowed him whole. The world spun for a moment, the sounds around him muffled into a faint drone.
A Luszha soldier, perhaps fed up with this slow parade of humiliation, kicked him in the ribs with the hard toe of his boot.
Luszha Soldier: "Get up, you trash! Don't make me force you! Where's that superhuman strength you were so proud of, huh?! Where is it all now?! Hey!"
Blood from the wound on his head continued to drip relentlessly, forming a small, dark, sticky pool between his knees. He bowed his head, his steel mask reflecting the gray sky, unmoving.
Luszha Soldier: "Hey, are you deaf or—"
"Grip!"
The movement was so fast, so unexpected, as if lightning had struck from the ground. Before the soldier could finish his threat, Oldred's bionic hand shot out and seized his throat. The grip was not human. It was cold, merciless, and possessed the tireless strength of a machine. In an instant, a forest of rifle barrels was aimed at him. The other soldiers immediately swarmed in, their fingers tightening on the triggers, surrounding Oldred like hunting dogs startled by their prey's sudden rampage.
The choked soldier made a hoarse, strangled sound, his feet kicking at the air. His eyes widened in terror as his face began to turn blue. Then, just as quickly as it had begun, the steel grip released. The soldier crumpled to the ground, coughing violently while clutching his neck, which was now adorned with a gruesome bruise in the shape of metal fingers.
With a steady and unwavering motion, Oldred stood up straight.
Oldred: "Don't tell me what to do. I… can walk on my own."
His voice was hoarse, like gravel being dragged over a tombstone, yet firm and piercing. He resumed his walk, leaving the soldiers momentarily frozen, heading toward his looming fate: a hanging gallows made of rough wood. A death altar built so the entire city could celebrate his demise as if it were a victory trophy.
He climbed the creaking wooden steps. On the platform, two large Luszha executioners with black hoods were already waiting, ready to perform their duty. A thick, coarse noose was placed around his neck. As the knot was tightened, someone approached him from behind. He was a high-ranking Luszha officer, his aura cold and his gaze filled with cruel victory.
Luszha Personnel: "Do you have any last words, Blind Dog?"
Oldred didn't answer. He remained silent, staring at the sea of hateful faces below. Empty, as cold and hard as the steel mask that covered his entire face. After a moment that felt like an eternity, he simply sighed, a thin white vapor escaping from his mask's respirator.
Luszha Personnel: "Very well. See you in hell."
He gave a brief signal with his chin. Instantly, the crowd packing the square erupted in a cheer, a savage wave of sound crashing against the platform. They jumped, raised their fists, overjoyed to welcome the final moments of the Blind Dog of Rans Augumm. They stared intently, trying to find a shred of fear, a speck of regret, or a flicker of anger behind that mask. But all they found was absolute emptiness. And behind that emptiness, there was a profound disgust. Disgust for what his eyes saw before him, and perhaps... disgust for himself.
A loud voice echoed.
"DROP HIM!"
The wooden floor beneath Oldred's feet collapsed. His body fell free for a split second before the rope went taut with a violent jerk. There was a sickening "Crack!" from his neck bones. He was lifted, hanging in the air, his feet swinging slightly like a pendulum of death. This was his final swing. The world in his eyes began to spin, turning into black fireflies. His lungs burned, searching for air that would never come. Then dark... dark... and total darkness.
His consciousness sank. He felt himself drifting down into a bottomless ocean of blood, drowning in trillions of sins he had never regretted. There was only one, a single regret that he clung to in the remnants of his soul. He swallowed it whole, feeling a strange, final warmth before everything truly vanished.
Oldred: (I'm sinking... I'm sinking...)
Oldred: (I never sought revenge. Not for blood... The days that passed in this hell were just fleeting moments. This world... is just filled with the walking dead. Only she... when the last human truly dies in this world, she... will just become one of millions of nameless victims. Just thinking about it... makes me sick. I only wanted one thing... I wanted her to be real, to have an absolute presence in this world.)
He finally touched the bottom of that warm, bloody ocean. He looked up, toward a pale sliver of light that pierced the thick darkness, shining faintly on the surface of the sea that had swallowed him.
Oldred: (All this blood... all these lives... were spilled in her name. Because she is the only true human. I would have written her name in blood in this hell, but I failed... hahaha... So, all this bloodshed was for nothing, huh?... hahaha... HaHaHaHaHaHa!!)
Bubbles of silent, insane laughter escaped his mouth, mingling with the thick blood that consumed him. Darkness finally devoured everything.
…
…
…
???: "Uzha..."
A voice. Soft, like a thin thread in a storm.
Oldred opened his eyes in the darkness. He gazed at a silhouette standing in the light above, a silhouette so familiar, as if it were pulling him back to the world of the living.
Oldred: "What?... P-Polgha?"
???: "Uzha... Uzha, wake up..."
Oldred: "Polgha... no, wait. Wait!"
He began to swim upwards. Thrashing, fighting against the viscosity of the sea of sin that pulled him down. Every movement felt heavy, as if he were fighting the gravity of hell itself. He swam with all his might toward the figure bathed in sunlight.
???: "Uzha... please... Uzha—"
"SPLASH!"
Blood splattered in every direction. Oldred was thrown out of the vast ocean, coughing violently, only to find himself in a pitch-black room.
He gasped, emerging from a pool of thick red fluid on the floor. His eyes shot open, staring at the dirty wooden ceiling. The room was dark, lit only by flashes of lightning striking outside the window. The sound of heavy rain roared like a lament, and thunder screamed, as if the sky itself was mourning his resurrection. He slowly sat up, his breath coming in ragged gasps as if he had just run a marathon. He could feel the dried, caked blood on his neck, on his hands, all over his clothes. He was alive. Somehow, he was alive (of course, he is the Protagonist). Hmm, what kind of plot armor is this?