Hope staggered to his feet, drenched in his own blood. His arm—gone, a gaping wound where his shoulder had been. The pain was indescribable, a fiery agony that seemed to consume him from the inside out.
But he had to move.
The Centaur roared behind him, its deep, guttural voice filled with rage and triumph.
Hope didn't think. He ran.
His body lurched forward, his feet barely holding him up as he sprinted blindly, his vision a blur of ruined structures, cracked stone, and bloodstained earth.
Behind him, the Centaur pursued, its hoofbeats thunderous, each step shaking the ground like a small earthquake.
It was too fast.
Hope's breath came in ragged gasps, his lungs burning, his legs trembling. The world spun around him, the blood loss making everything feel distant, as if he were watching himself from far away.
He tripped.
His foot caught on a piece of jagged debris, and he collapsed, hitting the ground hard. A wave of dizziness crashed over him, and for a moment, he thought—
This is it.
But some part of him—some deep, feral instinct—screamed at him to keep moving.
He pushed himself up, his one remaining arm trembling, and forced his legs to carry him forward once more.
Then—he saw it.
A structure, looming in the distance.
It was unlike the other ruins scattered across this accursed place. Tall. Ancient. Foreboding. A palace—or what remained of one.
Hope didn't hesitate.
He threw himself toward it, his vision swimming, his steps uneven, blood trailing behind him in a gruesome path.
The Centaur's roar followed him, growing closer, louder.
As he reached the entrance, Hope stumbled inside, his breath ragged, his body on the verge of collapse.
Inside—emptiness.
Darkness clung to the walls, the air thick with dust and the scent of something ancient.
But Hope barely noticed.
At the center of the massive hall stood a throne.
A colossal, monolithic seat of black stone, cracked and worn by time—but still standing, defiant.
Hope didn't know why, but something about it called to him.
Maybe it was desperation.
Maybe it was fate.
Or maybe it was just a place to die.
He staggered toward it, his legs giving out as he collapsed onto the throne.
His chest heaved, his vision blurring, his body spent.
His one remaining hand fell limp at his side.
His mind drifted.
> This… is where it ends.
Then—
BOOM.
The entrance shattered, dust and stone exploding outward as the Centaur burst inside, its massive form ducking beneath the ruined archway.
It stood there for a moment, its helmeted gaze locked onto him, its red eyes burning like twin infernos.
Then, slowly, it raised its spear.
Hope watched, unable to move, unable to fight back.
There was no escape.
No miracle.
No last-minute rescue.
The Centaur steadied its aim, its massive hands tightening around the spear's shaft.
Then—
With a movement too fast for Hope's failing eyes to track—
It threw.
The spear tore through the air, the force behind it sending ripples through the very atmosphere.
Hope barely even registered it.
A brief moment of impact—
A sudden, sharp pressure in his chest—
Then—
Pain.
Unimaginable, indescribable pain.
The spear slammed into him, piercing through his torso, pegging him against the throne. The sheer force of the impact sent a shockwave through the chamber, cracks splintering across the ancient throne's surface.
A deep, sickening crunch echoed as stone and bone fractured together.
Hope's mouth opened, but no sound came out.
His body convulsed, blood spilling from his lips, dripping down his chin, pooling onto the throne beneath him.
The world around him dimmed.
His heart—slowing.
His breath—fading.
The last thing he saw—
The Centaur.
Standing before him, staring.
Then—
Darkness.