Third Floor [part 3]

This chapter is only for readers 18+ and contains disturbing scenes. Please read it at your own risk.

The sound of my footsteps echoed in the dark and damp corridor, accompanied only by my labored breathing.

Each step seemed to resonate endlessly, amplified by the stone walls and the mold-covered walls.

The oppressive silence of the prison was broken only by the occasional distant moans of the still-living prisoners, a constant reminder of the despair permeating that place.

Every fiber of my being was tense, aware that danger lurked around every corner.

I turned yet another corner and found myself facing a massive door, on which the phrase "Death makes free" was inscribed in small letters.

I cautiously pushed the door, its creaking sound like a cry of pain echoing through the depths of the prison.

Inside, a dimly lit room by flickering torches revealed a group of hooded figures, silently observing me.

Their eyes were like empty abysses, like those of a shark, and the silence was dense with tension.

One of them stepped forward, lowering his hood to reveal a face scarred deeply, telling stories of countless battles.

His scars, however, were not only physical but seemed to be etched into his very soul:

"You've come this far," he said in a voice that was a mix of admiration and disdain, his gaze fixed on me, "but your journey ends here."

I did not respond, letting the silence speak for me.

The tension in the room was palpable, every muscle in my body was taut, ready for action.

My eyes scanned the environment, looking for a weak spot among the enemies.

Then, suddenly, they attacked.

The first assailant was swift, his two daggers glinting in the torchlight.

He moved with the speed of a snake, aiming for my heart with lethal precision.

I dodged by a hair's breadth, feeling the air slice beside me.

With a fluid motion, I grabbed his wrist, twisting it until I heard the bone snap with a sharp crack.

His scream of pain filled the room as I repeatedly struck his side with my weapon, making deep thrusts that caused him to collapse, dying on the ground.

Immediately after, his blood spurted like a raging river.

Another enemy, wielding a spiked mace, tried to hit me from behind.

I felt the air shift and spun around, blocking the blow with my blade.

Sparks flew as metal clashed against metal, with a sound like a mechanical scream.

With a quick move, I grabbed the mace and ripped it from his hands, using it to strike his skull violently.

The sound of the skull shattering under the impact was nauseating, as blood splattered everywhere, staining the floor and surrounding walls.

The battle intensified, a succession of rapid and lethal movements.

Another assailant attacked me with a longsword, his strikes were swift and precise.

Every time I blocked an attack, I felt the bones in my arm vibrate from the impact, as if each blow were a hammer on the anvil.

With a sudden move, I managed to disarm him, grabbing his sword and plunging it into his chest.

The blood spurted hot, soaking my hands and face.

Then, an enemy armed with a dagger tried to catch me by surprise, leaping at me like a wild animal.

Unfortunately for him, he failed.

In fact, I managed to grab his wrist, twisting his arm until I heard a sharp crack, followed by a scream of pain.

But that wasn't enough, with a decisive blow to the throat, I finished him, letting his lifeless body fall to the ground.

Blood began to flow in rivulets, covering much of the floor, making it slippery and sticky.

With each blow and wound, every movement was an act of sheer will.

My regeneration continued to work, repairing the damage before it could debilitate me, and besides the pain and physical fatigue that began to set in, there was the psychological part: I was tired of feeling repeated blows on my body, and having it debilitated.

Despite this, however, I continued to fight with fierce determination, knowing that stopping meant dying.

Finally, the last of the enemies fell to the ground, and I advanced towards what seemed to be an altar situated in the center of the room.

On it, several human bodies were torn to shreds, a macabre spectacle of horror and suffering.

Each body had been mutilated in different ways, as if they had been used for cruel experiments.

Some had been dismembered, with limbs scattered around the altar, while others had been eviscerated, with internal organs scattered randomly.

The sight was nauseating and the acrid smell of decomposition permeated the air, making it hard to breathe.

I approached cautiously, keeping an eye on every corner of the room.

My mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, trying to understand the meaning of that horrible scene.

I had to find answers, something that would justify all that horror, as I couldn't believe it was done solely for someone's pleasure.

But again, the world was different from Earth and so was its morality, so it could be entirely possible, and perhaps, even though I had now accepted killing other people, enough to do it actively in this prison, I was not yet willing to accept this.

Perhaps because it reminded me of my death: a death that I considered and still consider pathetic.

While I was lost in these thoughts, after observing that horror, I heard a voice, almost imperceptible, saying:

"Finally, you are here. So far you have fought well, but now you must face me."

The room began to tremble, and out of nowhere appeared an imposing figure, wrapped in black flames.

Its eyes, two abysses of pure evil, stared at me with inhuman intensity.

Its presence was oppressive, every fiber of my being screamed in terror.

"Prepare yourself," said the voice, "for your final challenge has just begun."

The creature advanced towards me, and with a scream of pure determination, I prepared to face it.

Its flames licked the air with a menacing hiss, and the heat was suffocating.

My blade met its fiery flesh, and the final battle for my survival began.