The field stretched out before him, its crimson blades of grass swaying under the full moon's cold light. The night felt heavy, shrouded in a thick, unnatural silence, broken only by the soft rustling of the blood-red grass. The air was thick with a sense of dread, as if the land itself was holding its breath, waiting.
He didn't know how he had arrived in this cursed place, and the question didn't matter now. What mattered was the girl in his arms. She was light, too light, her body limp and pale, a fragile weight he couldn't afford to drop. Her clothes were nothing more than tattered remnants, and her face, though ghostly, was still the one thing that anchored him in this nightmare. He couldn't let her die here. He couldn't let them both die here.
His body was battered, and exhaustion clung to him like a second skin. His muscles screamed with every step, but there was no time for weakness. The soldiers were closing in. Their footsteps grew louder, the sound of their voices rising above the wind. Sixteen of them, a mix of men and women, armed and ready, chasing him without knowing what they were truly facing.
One of them, a man with urgency in his voice, called out, "Stop right there! You don't know what you're walking into!"
But the boy couldn't stop. He couldn't. He was already too close. The ground behind him seemed to shift, the crimson grass turning into writhing, bloodthirsty tendrils that reached toward him with hunger. He couldn't afford to hesitate.
A woman soldier grabbed the arm of the man beside her, her voice trembling but urgent. "You don't understand. This place... It's the Grave of Roses. We can't just walk into it. The grass here... it's alive. It thirsts for blood. You can't survive it."
Before she could finish, two soldiers, driven by desperation or arrogance, leaped into the field. The moment their feet touched the crimson grass, the ground beneath them seemed to come alive. The grass coiled around their ankles, sharp and fast, dragging them to the ground. Their screams were cut short as the grass fed on them, draining their life force. Their bodies crumpled in moments, discarded as though they had never existed.
The woman soldier's eyes widened in horror. "We need to get the captain. This is beyond us." She quickly reached for her communicator, calling for help.
Meanwhile, the boy kept moving, his breath ragged, his energy nearly spent. Every step forward was a battle against the living field, the blood-red grass curling around him like snakes. He felt the sharp sting of it against his skin, but he couldn't stop. He wouldn't stop.
His hands tightened around the girl, pressing her closer, as if that could somehow shield her from the world around them. The world was a blur of crimson as his body fought against the encroaching tendrils of the grass. Every few moments, he felt a surge of strength, enough to push back the tendrils for a short time. But it wasn't enough. The grass kept coming, always searching for blood.
Every five seconds felt like an eternity. Each pulse of energy, though powerful, was fleeting. It wasn't enough to keep the grass at bay for long. He was barely holding on, his body growing weaker by the second, but he kept going. The girl was all that mattered now.
The seconds stretched, one after the other. His muscles were trembling, sweat dripping down his face, but he didn't stop. He couldn't. He had to protect her. The only thing keeping him going was the promise he'd made, the promise to get her out of this hell.
And then, without warning, everything changed. The world around him shifted in a rush, a flash of light, and suddenly the field was gone. The sound of the grass and the soldiers' voices faded as he stumbled into a new world.
The air was thick with moisture. The jungle was dense, the trees towering above him like ancient sentinels, their limbs twisting in strange, almost unnatural ways. The ground beneath his feet was wet, the damp soil sinking slightly with every step. The Forbidden Forest. A place no one dared to enter.
This jungle wasn't just dangerous—it was deadly. Even the bravest soldiers knew that. No one could survive in the heart of the forest for long. The creatures that lived here were beyond imagination. Only those who had spent years studying the forest's dark magic knew how to survive.
But the boy had no choice. He had made it this far, and he wasn't about to stop now.
He staggered against the trunk of a tree, gasping for breath, his legs threatening to give way beneath him. The girl in his arms was still unconscious, her body heavy in his arms. Her breathing was shallow, weak.
She still didn't stir. He knew she couldn't hear him, but he couldn't stay silent. "We're safe for now," he murmured softly, as though trying to reassure himself as much as her. "Just a little longer, and we'll be far away from here. I promise you."
His heart was pounding in his chest as the shadows of the jungle pressed in around them. The darkness here was oppressive, thick, and suffocating. But the boy refused to give up. Not now. Not when they were so close.
"I'll get you out of here," he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath. "I'll find a way. Just hold on."
The jungle loomed ahead, its silent threat all around them, but the boy had made a vow, and he would keep it—no matter what the forest threw at them.
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The cold of the underground bunker gnawed at the boy's bones. The air stank of rust, mold, and blood. He was no longer in the crimson horrors of the Forbidden Forest or the Grave of Rose—something worse awaited him here.
The boy sat slumped on a metal chair, arms bound by heavy iron clasps. The chill of the restraints had long since fused with the ache in his bones. His clothes—what little remained of a school uniform—hung in shredded strips off his thin, battered frame. They were the same garments he'd worn a year ago—filthy, tattered, and soiled with blood and sweat. The last fabric tethering him to a life before the nightmare.
His eyelids fluttered open slowly. A dim light flickered above him, casting wavering shadows across the concrete walls—ghostly figures dancing in silence. In that half-conscious haze, a memory pierced the darkness.
A promise.
Before the pain. Before the darkness. Before everything fell apart.
Outside the chamber, two soldiers stood guard, their eyes fixed silently on the boy. One noticed the flicker in his eyes and stepped away, returning minutes later with a tall man clad in black and silver armor. He looked to be in his early thirties, exuding a smug sense of pride. His uniform bore extra distinction—a coat with a captain's cap, two stars on his shoulders. His name was etched onto a metal plate on his chest: Serik.
Serik's eyes were cold and sharp, his jaw clenched with restrained malice. He paced slowly into the bunker, every step an echo of impending agony. A twisted grin curled on his face—like a hunter admiring the prize he'd chased through hell.
He stopped in front of the boy.
"So, you've finally decided to wake up," he said, voice laced with disdain. "You gave us quite the chase, brat. But you were never ordinary, were you?"
He circled the boy like a predator.
"You belong to a special family. The same one that opened a portal outside the city gates and let those creatures of darkness devour thousands of our citizens. And to think, after an entire year... I finally caught you. My promotion is all but guaranteed now." He grinned wickedly.
The boy's lips were cracked. Blood crusted the corner of his mouth. He didn't respond.
Serik's tone darkened.
"Where is your sister?" he demanded.
Before the boy could reply, the captain slammed his fist into his face like a hammer. Blood burst from his mouth, splattering the cold concrete. He gasped, but didn't cry out. He couldn't. His body was locked to the chair, shackled tight.
But then, rage flared in his chest.
"You killed her," the boy croaked. "Why the hell do you even ask?"
Yes, they had killed her. He knew that. Serik knew it too. He just wanted to twist the knife deeper.
Captain Serik snarled. "You people don't deserve to live."
He leaned in, breath heavy with hatred.
"You should know, we kept her somewhere... public. Somewhere she could be seen—but never saved. Guarded. Four elites. Day and night. And if she's still alive…" he sneered, "she wishes she wasn't. She could've lingered longer in suffering. But you played hero. You tried to save her."
He stepped back, smirking.
"What did you gain in the end?"
The words cut deeper than any blade.
"You killed her." Serik's voice turned venomous. "What were you thinking? The whole city wants your kind erased. You really thought you could escape?"
The boy's eyes flared with fury. He lunged forward, trying to bite the captain like a mad dog—but the metal chair held him still.
Serik's smile widened cruelly. "I know she's dead by now. But you... you're still breathing. Let's fix that."
From thin air, a blade of crackling blue lightning erupted in Serik's hand. A weapon forged of energy and pain.
He brought the blade close to the boy's face. So close that tiny arcs of electricity danced across his skin—small shocks, sharp enough to sting, not enough to destroy.
The boy's breathing quickened.
"Let's start with something small."
The blade hissed. A flash of light. A scream tore through the bunker.
His right pinky finger dropped to the floor, sizzling from the heat. Serik grinned with twisted delight.
The boy? He convulsed in shock.
Agony. Not just pain—this was torment. The electricity raced up his arm, igniting every nerve in white-hot fire. His vision blurred.
He didn't scream again. He couldn't.
He nearly passed out—but didn't.
That would've been mercy.
Serik stepped back, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes.
"I think that's enough for today. I'm satisfied."
And then he left the room.
For three days, they didn't feed him. Not a crumb. Not a drop of water. Only darkness... and the metallic taste of his own blood.
The first two days, he didn't even think of hunger. The pain swallowed everything else. But by the third day, his throat burned. His cracked lips bled. Every inch of his body screamed for water. He clung to reality by a thread.
On the fourth day, a soldier tossed a scrap of bread and a half-cup of murky water onto the floor.
The boy lunged like a starving animal. He tried using his trembling left hand—his right still throbbing from the loss of its finger. The pain made even simple movement a torment.
He used his teeth.
Still tied to the chair, he threw all his weight forward, tipping it. He fell hard but reached the food. With his mouth, he drank the water—most of it spilled in the attempt.
He licked it off the floor.
Even foul water brought relief.
Then he devoured the bread like a mad dog.
But this... this was only the beginning.
Every week, Serik returned. Not to interrogate. Not to question.
To torture.
For fun.
He beat him. He mocked him. Then, he cut off another finger. One at a time. Always with the lightning blade—searing through bone and nerve, cauterizing the wound instantly. No blood. Just agony.
Three more days of starvation followed each time. Then the same routine—a scrap of food. A sip of water. Nothing more.
Another slice.
Another scream.
The boy counted each one in silence, his mind fraying with every passing week. Every cut felt like a death. But death never came.
By the fifth week, Serik didn't come for a finger—he came for the whole hand.
The lightning blade tore through his wrist. Flesh. Bone. Gone.
The boy didn't scream. He couldn't.
He passed out.
His body shrank—ribs protruding, muscle wasting, the chair now holding little more than skin and bones.
Then, for five months, Serik vanished. Promoted. Celebrated for capturing and "killing" the cursed siblings. The blade did not return.
But the beatings did.
The starvation. The electricity. The cruelty.
He survived.
Barely.
Then Serik came back.
Demoted. Shamed. Rage burning behind his eyes.
"You ruined everything," he hissed. "I should be a commander. I should be wearing gold."
He summoned the blade.
"I took your hand last time. Now…" he looked down at the boy's legs, "let's take your walk."
The words struck the boy harder than any blow.
He stared at Serik, eyes pleading. Begging.
But mercy had no place here.
The blade hissed.
Toes sliced from his foot. One week later—his entire left foot was gone.
Pain unlike anything he'd ever imagined.
And it continued. Five more weeks of torment.
The boy's body gave out. He collapsed in his own filth, unable to scream, unable to move.
They didn't bind him anymore. They didn't need to.
His right hand—gone.
His left foot—gone.
The stumps crudely cauterized.
His ribs jutted through his bruised, infected skin. He was no longer a child. He was a corpse that hadn't yet stopped breathing.
He lay there.
Eyes vacant. Mind slipping.
He thought of home.
His mother's voice, humming while she cooked rice.
His father's deep tone, firm but kind.
His older sister brushing his hair, even when he complained.
His little sister, giggling behind the couch.
Now... he wasn't sure if any of it was real.
What had they done to deserve this?
What was their crime?
Tears no longer came.
Only a silent wish.
Let it end.
Let death find me.
Someone… please...
Kill me.
Because whatever this is—
It isn't life.
And with that, his eyes closed once more, as the final light in his broken body began to fade.
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He was still unconscious.
In the dark room beneath the bunker, a boy lay on the floor, with body parts scattered all around him. His body had no strength whatsoever. The air was filled with the smell of rotting flesh, rusting metal, and cement. He was unconscious—or asleep—nobody could tell.
Maybe he was dreaming.
Dreaming of something.Some unknown memories, one last time. The dream of his past.
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The sky was black. Not with clouds or stars—but with darkness like in space.
A strange space suspended in silence, lit by an unnatural green hue that seeped from the floating structures dotting the infinite expanse like fragments of a shattered world.
Buildings—entire skyscrapers—floated as if caught in time, drifting across the scene like forgotten memories.
On one of the lower platforms, two figures stood—out of place in this twisted realm of power and war. A man in his mid-40s, his makeshift armor dented and worn, held a trembling rifle. Beside him, a woman in civilian clothes, eyes burning with resolve, gripped a broken metal rod like a sword.
They were outmatched. The approaching elite soldiers, clad in shimmering armor and armed with relic-tech, moved like ghosts—precise, silent, lethal.
Yet the man fired. Again. Again. Again. Screaming—not words, but fury. Love. Desperation.
"We can't win this!" he shouted over his shoulder. "Why are they even here?! How did they find this place?"
The woman didn't look back. "We can't ask questions now. All that matters is keeping them safe."
Above them, at the highest floating structure in the sky, the boy watched—his frail body curled protectively around the small girl in his arms. Her face was buried in his chest. His arms trembled. But his eyes... they were wide open. He saw everything.
He wouldn't let the little girl see this kind of thing.
A whisper, low and almost inaudible, stirred through the void like a ripple:"Remember…"
But the boy couldn't place it. It felt both distant and inside his skull.
And then—
A fractured mirror appeared.
Hovering in the space, reflecting distorted shards of reality. One of the cracks showed his own face—older, changed, fierce. But it was gone before he could understand it.
Suddenly, the scene changed.
Now he was standing in a huge crowd, all gathered below a platform. He stood beside his mother—she wore the armor once worn by his father. In her arms, she held a little girl, both of them wrapped in a large cloth that also shielded the boy. Tension hummed in the air like a scream being held.
In the middle of the square stood a platform. Upon it, three imposing figures in red-armored suits watched the people like gods passing judgment.
Between them, a girl.
Bloodied.
Her uniform clung to her body, soaked and torn. A once-proud captain now bound and silent. No defiance left in her eyes—only the ghost of one.
The man in the center raised his hand.
A blade formed from light—burning hot, shaped like a curved fang pulled from the sun itself.
Without hesitation, he sliced.
The boy—somewhere in the crowd, barely breathing—saw the moment her head fell. Saw the killer catch it with surgical calm. Saw him raise it for all to see.
"This," the man declared, voice cruelly calm, "is the cost of defiance. They thought they were hidden from us, but we will find each one of you and kill each one of you. You are not allowed in this world after what you've done."
As soon as he said that, the crowd erupted in deafening noise—cheering like they were celebrating.
The scream never escaped the boy's mouth.
Back in the dark room, the boy's face twitched, contorted by pain. His body trembled. The nightmare gripped him like chains.
The scene shifted once more.
Now he stood in the back alley of a broken city. The sun was about to rise, but it brought no warmth—only shadows stretched thin by grief.
There was no darkness of night here. This one was still. Heavy. The kind that settled on your chest like a final breath.
In a narrow alley barely touched by dying light, a woman knelt—her body broken, her left arm gone, her torso soaked in crimson.
She cradled two children to her chest.
Her lips trembled. Her eyes burned. She looked at the boy with too many wishes in her gaze. She wanted to see her children grow, like his elder sister once had—but there was no hope left for them now.
"I'm sorry... I couldn't protect you..." she whispered, brushing a trembling hand against the boy's cheek. "I couldn't save your sister... or your father..."
A tear slipped from her eye.
"But you— you must live."
He stared up at her, mute, shaking—too young to carry what she was about to give him.
"You have to live for me... for your father... for your sister. To show this world... that no matter what they took, they couldn't break you."
Her voice cracked as her strength faded.
"I wish I could tell you to dream... to study... to laugh... But all I can give you now is a reason to breathe."
She leaned in. One final kiss on his forehead.
"And that reason... is her."
She nodded toward the unconscious girl clutched in his arms.
The alley fell silent.
Then, something moved in the corner of the boy's eye—a flash of that same fractured mirror.
Within it, he saw a shadow reaching for him—a version of himself, older, standing tall, power coursing around him like smoke made of stars. But the mirror shattered before it could reach him.
The world shuddered—cracked like glass—as the dream collapsed.
The boy opened his eyes.
His whole body was suffering from the torture. Just breathing felt like lifting a truck.
But the last words of his mother struck him like adrenaline.
He wanted to live.
He wanted to live for his mother.He wanted to live for his sister.He wanted to live for his father.He wanted to live for his sister.
But he couldn't do that unless he escaped this underground bunker. Only the gods could help him now—but he had long since lost his faith in them after all he'd endured.
End of the prologue