He clawed his way back to consciousness in the heart of a nightmare. The copper tang of blood coated his tongue, the stench of putrefaction choked his lungs, and his body throbbed with a rhythmic, agonizing pulse—each wound a visceral testament to a cataclysmic struggle. How could a mere mortal have endured such slaughter? Stranded amidst a sea of thousands of mangled corpses, his mind fractured, spiraling into a void of confusion as he fought to piece together the shattered fragments of the events that had delivered him to this purgatory.
The darkness here was thick, almost tactile, and flickering shadows danced at the edge of his vision, mocking his helplessness. He attempted to haul himself up, but his legs were like lead, trembling before buckling under his own weight. A searing ache in his skull and that persistent, metallic bitterness suggested a heavy blow to the head, yet his memories remained stubbornly out of reach. His vision was a blurred haze, obscured by the gruesome sight of the fallen—silent sentinels to a disaster of world-ending proportions.
"What happened here?" he croaked, his voice a ragged whisper that disappeared into the gloom. He coughed, spitting thick, dark blood onto the debris, searching for any shred of logic in the abyss of the unknown.
He strained his eyes, focusing on a single point in the wreckage when, without warning, a pair of crimson eyes ignited in the dark. They stared back with a predatory intensity, as if peeling back his very soul. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird, and his breath hitched in his throat. It was like peering into the core of an inferno—an overwhelming wave of primordial dread. Before he could even gasp, the eyes vanished into the murk, leaving a jagged scar upon his mind. A cold terror took root in his chest; he knew, with a certainty that transcended thought, that to remain here was to invite certain death.
Grasping for any shred of resolve, he felt a desperate, frantic urge to flee. His eyes swept over the surrounding devastation—mute relics of a majestic past now ground into dust. Toppled spires, the scorched husks of vehicles, the twisted skeletons of fallen starships, and a carpet of lifeless forms painted a harrowing portrait of the ruin.
"Without a doubt, this was once a thriving jewel of a city, turned into a slaughterhouse," he breathed, the words heavy with an all-consuming anguish. "Were those eyes the cause of this? And why... why does it feel like everyone here fought for the same side? What is happening? Why is my mind a blank?"
Only ruins and the dead remained as the final chroniclers of the civilization that had once reigned there. What the survivor did not yet grasp was that this catastrophe, once brought to light, would fracture the foundations of the world. It would be whispered of as the Fall of the Great City of Jezebel—the ruin of a sovereign that would ignite the fires of conflict across every corner of the globe.
Groping blindly at his tattered jacket, his fingers brushed against something hard and cold: a small, metallic crucifix. The moment his skin touched the object, a wave of preternatural calm washed over him, followed by a surge of strength, as if the cross were a conduit for some dormant, mysterious power. As he gripped it, a fleeting, ethereal vision seized his senses.
In the mind's eye, a woman appeared, radiating like a lone star in a sea of obsidian. Her skin was porcelain-pale, framed by a cascade of raven hair that fell in dark waves over her shoulders. She possessed a beauty that defied simple description, but it was her gaze that anchored him; her eyes brimmed with a kindness and compassion so profound that, for a heartbeat, he felt truly safe.
It was a face he knew—a vital piece of the puzzle his subconscious was still too terrified to assemble. He saw her lips move, shaping urgent, silent words, but the sound died before it reached him, leaving only the shadow of a secret he was destined to uncover. This flickering memory, coupled with the strange energy of the crucifix, forged a new determination within him. He felt a rekindled inner fire, as if being steered by an unseen hand.
With the crucifix clutched tightly in his fist, he stumbled away from the direction of the haunting red eyes, trekking through the wasteland for an eternity of minutes. His battered frame was pushed to its absolute limit, yet with every agonizing step, he tightened his grip on the metal cross, drawing from it the will to endure.
After what felt like a journey through the afterlife, a solitary spark of light flickered on the distant horizon—a beacon of hope amidst the suffocating gloom. However, as he pressed on, his mind began to fray. Hallucinations and jagged illusions clawed at his sanity. He heard the rhythmic thud of phantom footsteps trailing him, the sound of cruel laughter carried on the wind, and voices that hissed accusations of forgotten sins. Each whisper forced him to spin around in a panic, but the shadows were always empty.
He fought these waking nightmares with everything he had, but they were relentless. Indistinct shapes twisted at the corners of his eyes, morphing and shifting. His memories remained a deck of cards shuffled by a madman. Still, he dragged his broken body toward the light, desperate for sanctuary from the chaos of his own mind and the unshakable feeling that something was hunting him through the dark.
As he neared the source, the light resolved into a lonely cottage. It stood like a remnant of a fairy tale—an island of warmth and security in a sea of desolation. Thin curls of smoke drifted from the chimney, a silent promise of life. With the very last of his strength, he reached out and hammered against the wood of the door. Then, the world tilted and vanished. He collapsed, surrendering at last to the darkness that rose to meet him.