Leo had not seen this coming but expecting to be killed by a third party in the Hellscape was not paranoia, it was a requirement for survival. Out here, death rarely announced itself politely. Given the fact that he had attacked first, the young man had every right to kill him. That truth sat heavy in Leo's chest. Still, accepting death did not mean he would simply lie down and welcome it.
The young man's eyes held nothing but deep, festering resentment as he raised the curved bone dagger.
"Now die, demon."
There was nothing Leo could do against the restraints binding him. The ropes cut into his skin as he struggled uselessly causing his wrist to bleed-- until a voice spoke.
It shocked both of them.
The voice did not come from the forest. It did not echo from the trees or crawl from the shadows.
It came from Leo.
It was dark. Ancient. Filled with contempt so cold it felt surgical.
A mouth split open along the side of Leo's neck, flesh parting without blood, bearing a row of long, sharp white fangs curled into a dreadful, knowing smile.
"Pathetic," the voice murmured. "Truly pathetic. Had I been in control, that human would have been torn apart limb from limb."
Leo's body trembled violently, his breath escaping mid-inhale. He could feel something moving within him not flesh, not bone, but presence. It was incorporeal, yet invasive, burrowing into his mind like black tendrils of a vine creeping through fertile soil.
'What the hell was that?' he wanted to scream.
But his voice was gone.
He felt himself being overpowered from the inside, crushed beneath a strange, merciless cold. It wrapped around him like a noose, tightening with deliberate patience. His lungs stopped drawing air. His heartbeat slowed. His body grew colder and colder, as though death itself had placed a hand on his chest and was pressing down.
Just before consciousness slipped away, another string of floating text burned into his vision.
[Warning]
You have failed the daily objective: "Resist Xavax."
The young man shook himself from his frozen disbelief and lunged forward, driving the curved bone dagger toward Leo's chest. He expected to hear the sound of blade digging into flesh and hear the screams of his enemy.
Instead-- his dagger slammed into dry wood.
His eyes widened.
The ropes that had bound Leo lay shredded on the ground, torn apart as though something far stronger than human hands had passed through them. Leo was gone.
That realization barely had time to settle before pain exploded inside the young man's skull.
He screamed at the top of his voice
The agony originated from his left side-- no, from where his left arm should have been. His body convulsed as his eyes snapped downward, widening in pure disbelief.
His left arm was gone.
Where it had been moments ago was now nothing but empty space and a violent fountain of blood erupting from torn flesh.
For several seconds, he stared at it, breath hitching, mind refusing to accept what his eyes were seeing. He could see a shaft of his bone from where it had been broken apart, red blood flowing down it's side. The pain was so overwhelming it drowned out thought itself.
Then reality caught up to him.
"My arm!" he screamed.
Leo stood several feet behind him.
No— not Leo.
The figure's posture was relaxed, confident, exuding an aura that pressed down on the air itself. He leaned back slightly, examining the severed arm in his hand with visible displeasure, as though it were a flawed object.
"Pathetic mortal," the voice said calmly. "Once you unsheath a blade against your enemy, you should be prepared to stake everything."
The young man ripped his dagger free from the tree in desperation and spun around, forcing his trembling body into a stance. His legs shook violently, his breath ragged, his instincts screaming at him to flee.
But what he saw rooted him in place.
The person he had tied earlier was gone.
That boy had been sarcastic, sharp-tongued, with eyes that—despite everything—still held warmth.
This being was something else entirely.
His eyes were dark red, almost the color of drying blood. Black tattoos spiraled across his face, trailing down his neck and arms like living sigils, slowly shifting as though breathing. His expression was devoid of emotion-- there was no rage, no pleasure, no interest.
Only certainty.
He opened his mouth, revealing rows of sharp, pointed white teeth, and casually tossed the severed arm back toward the young man. It landed at his feet with a wet thud.
"I do not fight weaklings," the entity said. "But you threatened my vessel."
He spread his arms wide, exposing his chest without fear.
"So come," he continued calmly. "I will grant you the virtue of three strikes."
"What are you—?" the young man whispered, voice cracking. "Are you… insane?"
His legs trembled violently, every instinct urging him to run but something far worse than fear kept him rooted in place.
He knew.
If he turned his back, he would die.