Fear and confusion.
The last things you want in your head when your life's on the line.
Pain makes people do stupid shit. Messes with judgment, scrambles instincts. Even the smartest bastard will make the worst call when everything's burning.
And Desan? If there had been any other way out, he would've bolted without a second thought. He wasn't some pain junkie. He didn't get off on suffering.
But there wasn't another way. Not this time.
He had to do this.
His mind was still in shock, running on fumes. The way he was reacting now—it wasn't normal. Not his normal, anyway. If he were, he'd be panicking, maybe sobbing, maybe breaking apart.
But all he did was keep his hand clenched tight around the crossbow at his side—a dead giveaway that he was barely keeping it together.
Maybe he was just losing it.
Desan pulled the crossbow from his side, wedged it between his legs, and used the tension to yank the string back. It shook in his grip like his hands couldn't decide if they still belonged to him.
"You can go through my memories, right?" Desan muttered through shaky breath.
"Yup. Okay. Let's feed into your fantasies," Velcrith said, flat as ever.
A headache cracked across Desan's skull—and then it was gone.
"Everything's fine. You're just losing it," Velcrith added, all smug and casual like this was normal.
But the phantom pain lingered, twitching somewhere behind his eyes. Desan wasn't sure what the hell that meant. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. Either way, it'd be clear once he stepped inside.
Using his rusted sword, Desan wedged the blade between the doors and forced them open, just as before.
Then he saw the room.
It looked the same. Exactly the same.
The rotten curtains. The knight statues. The stench of sulfur and dust thick enough to chew.
It happened. It all happened.
This wasn't in his head.
He stepped inside, slow, careful, keeping his distance, just in case this was round two.
Then came the creak.
He looked up. The fleshy cocoon above him was already pulsating, twitching, splitting down the middle like wet bark peeling off a rotten tree.
He didn't wait this time.
The moment the creature started pushing through, Desan raised his crossbow and fired.
The bolt missed the head, but slammed straight into the joint where its wing and shoulder met.
A screech echoed across the chamber.
Desan didn't flinch.
He dropped to one knee, reloading. His hands shook, but not like before. The pain was still there, but the panic wasn't.Not like before.
He braced the weapon between his legs, pulled the string back with raw force, teeth clenched.
It wasn't clean.
It wasn't easy.
But it worked.
Better than before.
This time… he was ready.
At least, he hoped so.
It screamed in pain and dropped from the ceiling like dead weight, slamming into the floor with a crunch. Another bolt flew past its head—missed.
Desan didn't wait. As the creature surged forward, claws dragging through the dust and blood, he jumped back and threw his crossbow at it. Useless, yeah, but it made the thing flinch for half a second.
That was all he needed.
He used that second to put more distance between them, drawing his sword again. The grip still felt off. His hands were still shaking.
"Velcrith! You see any weak spot?" Desan barked out.
"I can't tell. How about you take a swing and find out?" Velcrith snapped back, dry as ever.
"That's not gonna work," Desan hissed through his teeth.
He looked over his shoulder just in time to see the damn thing charging him—faster than before. It was trying to flap its wings, but one of them hung limp, busted from the earlier shot. It limped, but it was still coming hard.
He ran and slid under the huge table in the middle of the room, the creature still following—blind with fury.
It slammed both fists down, cracking the table like dry bone.
Desan rolled out the other side, using the chaos to his advantage.
Slashing hadn't worked. So maybe a solid thrust would. Aimed right, the tip might dig deeper.
He charged.
But the creature saw it coming—twisted its body at the last second. The blade hit the side and slid off, the vibration rattling up his arms. His grip almost broke.
He held on. Barely.
It was a dumb move. Could've shattered every bone in his hands.
But in the moment, it felt right.
"Fuck," Desan muttered.
His back was wide open now. He knew it. The thing was already winding up for a swipe that'd tear his spine out.
"Place your foot—two steps to the right," Velcrith barked.
Desan obeyed without thinking.
His foot landed on a chunk of splintered table—he slipped.
But somehow, that saved him.
He crashed hard, skidding on his side, and ended up between the thing's legs.
That could've gone really bad.
"Badly? Even if you could, you wouldn't know how to use it," Velcrith chimed, dry as ever.
Desan grit his teeth. This wasn't over yet.
The creature looked down at him, muscles twitching across its face in unnatural patterns. For a second, it almost looked like it was smiling.
The stench hit next—sulfur thick in the air, burning his throat, making his vision swim. Drool poured from its mouth in heavy, bubbling globs that hissed when they hit the floor.
Desan's breath caught.
Looking at it brought it all rushing back—every moment of pain, every brutal death, every time he clawed his way back from the dark.
No. Not again. Not this again.
The creature opened its jaws, wide and wet and steaming.
But Desan moved first—kicked up, slammed its mouth shut with both feet, using the force to launch himself backward, scrambling across the floor to get some goddamn distance.
Desan stood up, eyes locked on the creature.
Its mouth was smoking—acid bubbling out from the corners, sizzling where it dripped. Burned flesh peeled back from its own fangs.
So… it wasn't immune to its own acid. Not for long, anyway.
Desan made a mental note. "Good. That's something."
It could bleed. It could burn. He just had to make it do more of both.
Desan let out a breath, steadying himself. His mind clawed its way back to focus, inch by inch. He didn't take his eyes off the thing.
The creature slammed its head into the ground once, twice, again. Then it snapped its gaze back to him.
Now they circled each other, slow and wide. Both waiting. Both daring the other to make the first move.
The creature let out a guttural screech and launched itself at him, claws stretched wide, body a blur of muscle and momentum.
Desan didn't meet it head-on.
He waited—half a breath—then sidestepped the charge, letting the beast's weight carry it past him. In that moment, he twisted his hips, planted his foot, and drove his sword forward, using its own momentum to deepen the thrust.
Rusted steel sank into its side.
The creature bellowed, staggered, leaking thick, black ichor.
Desan pressed the advantage.
He circled fast, trying to angle behind it, already mapping weaknesses—wing joints, underarms, neck seam—but every move felt too fast, too wild.
He feinted left, went right, swung low.
The creature caught the rhythm, moved with it, turned and slammed a clawed hand into his chest.
He flew back, crashed into wall.
The sword clattered from his grip.
"Should've gone for the throat," Velcrith muttered, dry in his skull.
Desan wheezed. The air tasted like rust.
Desan didn't even see the full lunge—just the blur of limbs, the sound of cracked stone, and a sudden weight slamming into his gut. The impact crushed the wind from his lungs. He stumbled back, but the creature followed, relentless, rabid.
Claws raked his chest, tearing leather and skin alike. He screamed—not in fear, but fury—driving his shoulder into it, forcing space between them. Blood streamed down his torso. He didn't care.
Desan swung his sword wildly, the blade catching the creature's shoulder with a loud crack—bone, not steel—but it barely reacted. It snarled and sank its teeth into his arm, crunching through muscle. He shrieked, dropped to one knee, yanked himself free, leaving meat in its jaws.
Desan used that moment—forced himself up, staggered into a full sprint, sword in hand, and rammed the tip straight into the creature's gut.
It went through.
But not deep enough.
The creature laughed—a rattling, choked sound—and grabbed him by the throat. Lifted him. Slammed him to the ground so hard his spine bent wrong. Before he could react—
Shunk.
It shoved a jagged, bone-like limb through his stomach, pinning him to the floor.
Desan choked on blood. His arms flailed. He tried to scream, but blood clogged his throat. He could feel everything—the blade grinding through guts, muscle twitching uncontrollably, the hot wetness pooling beneath him.
The creature leaned close, breathing sulfur and rot into his face.
And then, with a sickening, slow gesture, it ripped him in half.
Tore him from hip to shoulder like peeling apart wet paper. The snap of spine echoed like a gunshot.
Desan's world split in two.
Darkness took him again.
Pain.