WARNING: Gore content ahead.
He was just a miserable and suicidal man, but fate sealed him with more than tragic and savage ends in his life.
His heart clenched violently, his ribs felt crushed from the inside.
Something writhed beneath his breastbone.
Maran collapsed to his knees, his body convulsed.
He gagged, retching, choking…
Blueeghhh…. Huekkk…
"arrgghh!... Sto-…" Maran screamed,
blood splashed from his mouth.
And with it, a black chain slid out.
It dragged itself from deep inside him, tearing its way through muscle, spirit, and soul.
The agony was indescribable, the kind no human was meant to feel.
The chain pierced the center of his being, the anchor of his soul,
and began pulling, tearing, extracting.
"A-Arrrghhh…. haaa… Argh… W-why… do I deser- Ughhhh—!"
More blood poured out.
Maran's soul tore free from his flesh.
He died instantly.
His spirit still felt everything, every shred of torment.
Half-conscious, he looked around, seeking the source of the chain.
And saw none of the people were human.
Not one.
The feast was not food, not for humans.
From the darkness, a void so deep no mortal eye could pierce it—a voice emerged.
A terrible, echoing voice.
"Welcome… to my new collection of slaves."
...
Maran had always been a corporate slave, an overworked cog in a rusted machine, grinding himself away for scraps of pay that barely kept his family alive.
The job was brutal, stressful. A crushing weight that sat on his shoulders day after day like a chained boulder.
But to support the people he loved, he endured it without complaint, sacrificing his own life piece by piece.
Maran was never the type to share his burdens, he avoided romance, he had no friends.
He simply didn't have the time, working a double job had drained every spare moment and every drop of warmth from his life.
Until one day, the pressure finally reached an unbearable limit.
"This fucking routine is eating me alive… I wish in another life I was a free being—not chained to anything that makes me want to die early…"
"…I can't hope for anything in this world no more"
He always dreamed of taking a trip to Mount Mozerow—a beautiful, famous peak in his country. He hoped that being alone in the open wilderness would reset his strangled, collapsing mind.
When the day grew closer, he pushed through all his stress and exhaustion, stacking every bit of frustration inside him.
He worked faster than usual, desperate to clear the days for his long-awaited escape.
He didn't know what kind of fate awaits.
A month before his vacation… things started to go wrong.
Very wrong.
Strange occurrences haunted both his workplace and his small rented room.
Footsteps when no one was there.
The rumble of something heavy moving at night.
The sensation of being watched constantly; being followed, accompanied, even while he worked… even while he slept.
"If you want to follow me so badly, then show yourself!" Maran shouted in frustration, sick of the unseen thing disturbing both his work and rest.
Sometimes, while smoking outside, he wondered if he was simply hallucinating—
if exhaustion had finally cracked him open.
"Or am I schizoid now? Haa… All these burdens are driving me insane,"
he said with a dark chuckle.
…
Two days before his trip, while shopping at the supermarket, an old woman approached him—stern, trembling, eyes sharp with warning.
She told him not to travel far. Especially not to dangerous places filled with spiritual disturbances.
Maran froze.
He had told no one about his trip.
Especially not strangers.
Inside the supermarket parking lot, he forced himself to think rationally.
Old people often liked giving random advice, he reasoned.
Maybe she was lonely, maybe she missed of giving guidance to grandchildren she never had.
…
Mount Mozerow was famous across the nation, its beauty legendary even beyond the country's borders.
But it wasn't only the scenery, the locals believed the mountain possessed immense spiritual power.
Many whispered that desperate people came here to perform satanic rituals— sacrifices offered to dark forces in exchange for instant gratification, shortcuts in a cruel world where grinding had failed them.
…
Maran packed very little, just to accomondate the essential, but strangely, his backpack felt unbearably heavy—as if he were carrying an iron anvil instead of clothes and food.
He took the train.
The landscape outside showed ordinary rice fields sliding by at high speed…yet every time he glanced out the window, he saw a distant figure standing still—always staring at him.
"I'm not seeing things, right?..."
"…Maybe… maybe it's just a power pole?" Maran muttered, confused and slightly frightened.
…
Four out of ten hours passed.
Bored and irritated, Maran headed to the train toilet for a bowel break. He was a heavy smoker, and the craving was eating him alive.
"One cigarette won't kill anyone," he whispered, lighting up as he sat down.
Smoking while taking a dump felt divine.
He peeked through the tiny toilet window to enjoy the view, the figure was gone.
"Turns out it was just dirt on my window… huft." He inhaled deeply.
Suddenly, his heart nearly burst.
"What the fuck is even that!?" Maran shocked to death.
A face—or something wearing the shredded remains of one—pressed itself against the glass.
The train was moving at 80 km/h.
Yet it stared at him.
The shock made him drop his cigarette; it nearly burned a hole through his shoe.
Eyes shut tight, he hammered the window repeatedly, desperate to knock the thing away.
When he opened his eyes again…
It was still there… still staring to his soul.
Maran flushed, tossed his cigarette, and fled the toilet without daring to look at any window as he walked.
"Maybe it was a hallucination. And if it wasn't… then it's just some damn jinx for breaking the rules," he muttered, trying to calm himself.
He forced himself to glance outside again—nothing. No figure, no dirt, no pole.
BRUKK….!
A violent jolt shook the train, it screeched to a halt.
"Attention, ladies and gentlemen, we are experiencing a disturbance. Do not panic. Our mechanics are investigating the issue." The conductor announced.
Maran scared to hell, he prayed for safety, despite being a semi-agnostic who'd long since lost faith in divine justice.
Two hours later, the train resumed its journey, though no explanation was given for the sudden stop.
After a grueling twelve-hour trip, Maran finally reached the mountain base camp.
He had planned to join a group departing at 19:00.
But he arrived at the station at 20:00, then needed an hour to reach the camp.
By the time he arrived—21:00—the sun had been gone for hours.
Given the mountain's eerie reputation, the guard advised him to wait for others and hike as a group.
…
Mount Mozerow stood 3,500 meters tall, its trails steep and merciless.
Reaching the summit took six to seven hours.
Night hiking was common to let climbers rest at the peak for sunrise—but always in groups.
…
"Fine by me. I'll wait until 22:00, if no one else shows up, I'll go alone. I'm not missing a first-sunrise view." Maran said firmly.
…
Tonight felt different.
Even at 22:00, not a single group arrived.
"I'll do it myself." Maran clenched his jaw, worried he would miss the sunrise, but scared by the possibilities.
"Are you out of your mind?" the guard exclaimed.
"Always have been," Maran muttered, thinking of the job that had crushed his brain day after day.
…
The steep trail drained his water supply quickly, but he stayed calm; he'd heard there was a river near post 4.
When he reached the post, it was empty.
"Did everyone set up tents at the summit? Or is this the wrong post…?"
"…Why is it so quiet… and so dark…?" Maran murmured.
With only a little water left, he searched for the river. He could faintly hear running water, but the source was nowhere nearby.
He spent twenty minutes walking west, chasing the sound.
Then he saw a glow, campfire? lanterns? He wasn't sure.
He shined his flashlight and discovered a cluster of tents, a fire, a river, and… a celebration.
Villagers and hikers seen mingling joyfully.
"Oh… there's a local settlement up here," Maran sighed in relief.
About a dozen tents stood around the gathering. he approached the lively campfire.
"Come, sit! How was the route?" a fellow hiker greeted him.
They chatted warmly.
"Why do you keep looking toward the party? Curious? Want to check it out?" another hiker teased.
"Is it safe?" Maran asked, tempted by the delicious smells drifting over.
"Of course! We were just there before coming here," they all assured him, enthusiastically.
Maran joined the locals—chatting, laughing, easing his way into the group in hopes of eating without appearing too desperate.
A massive table overflowed with delicious dishes: roasted meats, rich stews, sweet pastries.
Beside it, a table of drinks glimmered under lantern light.
Just as he reached for a plate, someone grabbed his wrist.
"Dance with me," a young woman said.
She was gorgeous, no! beyond gorgeous!!. She was the most beautiful woman Maran had ever seen in his 27 years.
He nodded, stunned.
Almost too close, their bodies pressed together, their lips hovered mere centimeters apart.
"Don't be nervous, it's just a celebration. My name is Sally," she whispered.
Flustered, Maran nodded.
After dancing, they sat together and talked.
"Did you just learn there's a village here? Our ancestors have lived here for generations." Sally said with a gentle smile.
"Wait here,i'll bring you food and drinks. You look starving."
While waiting, Maran noticed something odd, everyone at the feast was staring at him with soft, joyful eyes.
Almost… adoring.
The gaze was flattering at first, but soon, he grew uneasy.
Did they know he'd only joined the feast to eat for free?
"Eat all of this, afterward, we'll share wine together…"
"…and let the wind decide where our night will take us," Sally said, winking.
The food, though extravagant, tasted strangely familiar—like his mother's cooking.
He devoured everything.
When he reached for the wine—deep, crimson, fragrant—a stabbing pain tore through his chest.
…
That's it, that's where the devil's bell rang for the choosen one.
The party was for him all along.