The passage between floors was short—a few steps, a narrow passage, and the hero emerged into open space.
The wind hit him in the face immediately, cold, penetrating to the bone. The hero closed his eyes, shielding his face with his hand. When his eyes adjusted, he saw something that made him freeze.
A field.
An endless field, stretching to the horizon in all directions. The ground was gray, dead, without a single blade of grass. And across the field, as far as the eye could see, stood crosses.
Thousands of crosses. Tens of thousands. Perhaps millions.
Crude, composed of twigs and bones bound with ropes. Some were as tall as a man, others towered three or four meters. They stood chaotically, in no apparent order—sometimes close to each other, sometimes at a distance, creating a tangled labyrinth. The sky above was gray, a solid canopy of clouds from which neither rain nor snow fell. Just a gray void, oppressive, lifeless.
The wind howled between the crosses, creating a drawn-out, almost human moan. As if the field itself were mourning something long lost.
The hero took a step forward, his bare feet touching the cold earth. No warmth, no life—only dead stone under a thin layer of dust.
He looked around, trying to find some kind of landmark. Where was the exit? Where to go?
And then he saw them.
Figures in the sky.
Angels soared above the field, slowly circling on broad white wings. From a distance, they looked beautiful—light silhouettes against the gray clouds, their movements graceful, almost hypnotic.
But when one of them flew closer, the hero made out details. A white mask covered their entire face—smooth, featureless, just two narrow slits for the eyes. Empty black holes peered out from the slits—not eyes, just darkness.
Their clothing was equally white—long robes fluttering in the wind, like shrouds. The wings on their backs were enormous, each spanning five meters, their feathers snow-white, but they exuded cold, not warmth.
And in their hands, each angel held a scythe.
Enormous, curved, with a blade nearly two meters long. The metal was black, absorbing light, and engraved with symbols—runes of death, harvest, the end.
Reapers.
Reaper angels.
The hero held his breath, slowly retreating behind the nearest cross. Hiding, watching.
The Reapers hovered above the field, patrolling. Their movements were slow, measured, impersonal. They didn't speak, didn't make a sound—only the wind whistled through their wings.
One of them descended, approaching the surface. Its masked head turned from side to side, as if searching for something.
Then it froze. The empty slits of its eyes stared at a point somewhere ahead.
The reaper swung his scythe.
The blade cut through the air with a soft hiss, too fast to follow. Something invisible was severed—maybe a ghost, maybe a soul; the hero didn't see it. But the reaper had clearly found its target, carried out its sentence, and soared upward again, continuing its patrol.
The hero swallowed. He had to get through this field. Unnoticed. Silently.
He moved forward, crouched, using the crosses for cover. Step by step, from one cross to the next. The ground beneath his feet was solid, not rustling, but every movement seemed too loud in this deathly silence.
The Reaper flew overhead, only ten meters away. Its wings created thrust, the wind ruffled the hero's hair. He pressed himself against the cross, holding his breath.
The Reaper flew past.
The hero exhaled and continued moving. Between the crosses, under the cover of their chaotic arrangement. A meter. Two. Ten.
How far had he walked? It was hard to say. Time stretched out here, as on the other floors. Maybe minutes, maybe hours. The crosses seemed endless, the horizon didn't draw near.
Ahead, a particularly dense section loomed—the crosses stood close together, almost touching. He would have to squeeze between them.
The hero approached the first one and began to make his way. The bars scraped his skin, his bones creaked under the weight as he brushed against them. Slowly, carefully—
Crunch.
One of the bars broke under his hand. The crack echoed loudly across the field.
The hero froze.
Silence. Only the wind.
Then—the whistle of wings.
He raised his head. The Reaper was descending directly toward him, its white mask turned toward him, its empty eyes staring into his soul. The scythe rose, ready to strike.
The hero dove to the side, rolling behind the nearest cross. The blade descended and sliced through the air where he had been a second ago. The black metal sank into the ground, cutting through it like butter.
The Reaper yanked the scythe free and swung again. The hero ran, weaving between the crosses. The blade pursued him, slicing through bars and bones as he dodged at the last moment.
Whistle. The hero dove. The scythe passed overhead, cutting off the top of the cross.
But his dodges didn't last long. The blade caught him on the next step. It entered his back, slicing through and out of his chest. The pain was instant and all-encompassing. The hero wheezed, blood gushing from his mouth.
The Reaper raised his scythe, and the hero hung on the blade, impaled like an insect on a pin. The world swayed, his vision blurred. Below, far away, he could see the earth and crosses.
The Reaper soared.
Up, ever higher, into the gray sky. The wind howled in his ears, blood dripped down, staining the crosses below with red droplets. The hero hung, impaled, feeling his life drain away, the chill of death gripping his body.
The Reaper stopped. High above, two hundred meters above the ground. Empty eyes looked at the hero. Impersonal. Indifferent.
The sentence was carried out.
The scythe twitched.
The hero fell. The fall was long. The wind tore at his clothes, whistling in his ears. The ground approached swiftly, the crosses growing larger, more distinct.
He hit his back directly against one of the crosses.
Bars and bones pierced his body, tearing through the flesh. The sharp ends penetrated his back, chest, and sides. The hero hung there, impaled on the cross.
The pain was unbearable. Every breath was like a fire in his chest, where the bars pierced his lungs. Blood flowed down, staining the gray earth.
Consciousness faded. Slowly, painfully.
Darkness.
Inhale.
The hero came to on the ground, next to the cross. Whole. Unwounded. But the pain remained—a phantom, throbbing in his back, in his chest, where the blade and bars pierced his body.
He lay there for several minutes, whining through clenched teeth, until the pain subsided to a tolerable level. Another scar for the collection. Another death.
The hero stood up, looking around. The Reapers continued patrolling, oblivious to him.
He knew now—running was futile. They were faster. Stronger. Inescapable.
He needed a different approach.
The hero looked at the field of crosses. If he walked between them, the Reapers would notice. But what if...
He dropped to his stomach. Pressed himself to the ground and began to crawl.
Slowly, inch by inch. The ground was cold, hard beneath his body. His hands and knees scraped against the small stones, but he continued. Between the crosses, under their cover, as low as possible.
A Reaper flew overhead. The hero froze, face down. Its wings created a gust of wind, raising dust. But the Reaper didn't lower itself, continuing its patrol.
The hero exhaled and crawled on.
Hours dragged on in excruciating slowness. Crawling across an endless field, not knowing when it would end. His arms ached, his knees bled, but he didn't stop.
He died twice more.
Once, the reaper finally noticed movement and lowered his scythe. His head flew off, rolling between the crosses. Darkness. Resurrection. The pain of decapitation added to the collection.
The second time, he didn't have time to hide when the reaper flew too low. The scythe cut him in half, from shoulder to hip. The two halves of his body fell in opposite directions. Consciousness faded almost instantly, but the second he still felt was hell. Resurrection. The pain of the dissection remained.
But he kept crawling.
And finally, he saw it.
The edge of the field.
In the distance, through the forest of crosses, a stone wall was visible. The exit. The passage to the next floor. The hero sped up, crawling faster, forgetting caution. Just a little more. Just a little more.
The Reaper lowered himself, noticing movement. The scythe rose.
The hero rushed forward, covering the last meters on his stomach, practically sliding along the ground. The blade descended and sliced through the air behind him, but he had already crossed the boundary—his hands touched the stone wall, his body pulled into a narrow passage.
The scythe struck the stone, the clang echoing. But the hero was already on the other side.
He lay in the passage, breathing heavily, his whole body shaking with fatigue and pain. His hands and knees were bleeding, his clothes were torn to shreds, his skin covered in abrasions.
But he had passed.
999,994th floor.
Another one behind him.
The hero closed his eyes, allowing himself a moment of rest. The phantom pain of three deaths pulsed—a pierced back, a severed head, a body bisected. Everything layered on top of previous agonies, creating a symphony of suffering.
But he had gotten used to it. The pain had become a background, a constant companion. He had learned to live with it, to move through it.
The hero opened his eyes and forced himself to rise. Steps were visible ahead.
Always upward.
He walked, leaving behind a field of crosses and faceless reapers in white masks.
The dungeon continued. And he continued with it.