Another trick?

Coughs!

Ryan found himself in a grim tableau, the air heavy with the acrid scent of iron and despair.

He clung to the hand of the armored man, their fingers entwined like a grotesque dance of life and death. The man's serrated sword was a cruel intruder, buried deep in Ryan's gut.

Pain contorted Ryan's face into a mask of agony, every breath a struggle as blood oozed from his mouth and wound, staining the earth beneath him a malevolent crimson. The world seemed to spin as his body surrendered, unable to stand under the relentless assault.

The armored figure, shrouded in darkness, spoke with chilling indifference, each word cutting through the air like a blade of its own.

"Regardless of how many bugs try to oppose me… bugs remain bugs." With a calculated pull, he withdrew the sword from Ryan's ravaged body, a macabre performance that sent a fresh wave of torment coursing through him.