Endless Night

"Y, you still haven't finished your illusion." The old man looked at Y with a neutral expression, casually chewing the air with his mouth. "Forgive me, Father," Y responded with a slight bow, her voice barely above a whisper. In an instant, nothing seemed to change, but in the next, the five flayed, burned men began to scream in agony. Their teeth were still visible, and some bones could be seen beneath their flesh. Their cries echoed, their eyes shedding blue blood, except for Elliot, whose blood was red.

They trembled uncontrollably, their bodies writhing as they began to run, only to collapse onto the ground. They screamed in torment, their eyes flickering with the flickering of their souls, until the first two passed out from the unbearable pain. Seconds stretched into eternity as their bodies contorted, the pain racking their limbs, each tendon taut with anguish. They could not escape the searing torture; every movement was met with pain. Soon, the third man closed his eyes, his body succumbing to the agony. Only two remained, their eyes still open, locking onto each other in shared suffering.

Elliot's gaze shifted, turning from the burning blue of the others' eyes to something more unsettling: a desolate green. The pain was no longer physical; it was something far deeper. His vision blurred, his mind swirling in a vortex of confusion. Ren, I must get to Ren... just a few more days... I must get my blood back into my body!

The blood, once pooling around Elliot in a grotesque display of crimson defiance, began to retreat with agonizing slowness. It ebbed as if summoned by some unseen force, seeping back into the jagged wounds from which it had emerged. The process was neither clean nor seamless. Threads of coagulated fluid clung stubbornly to the edges of his torn skin, stretching and snapping like cursed sinew as the liquid inched its way home.

His thoughts echoed in his skull like a distant, fading whisper. His eyes shimmered, growing unfocused. Only two figures remained, their shapes indistinct, like reflections in a rain-drenched puddle, flickering and dissolving.

Elliot clenched his teeth weakly, the effort insignificant in the face of the insurmountable pressure. Ren, I am coming. I can do this. His hand reached out, but it was an empty gesture—no strength behind it. He fell back, exhausted, unable to keep his eyes open. Ren…

The old man chuckled softly; his voice laced with amusement. "Ah, someone has a great deal of endurance, don't they?" His grin was sharp, almost predatory. "Y, go ahead and hunt. I'll amuse myself here for a while." The elegant woman nodded silently, her blue hair flowing gently as she bowed. "Of course, Father."

Elliot, struggling to hold onto his fleeting consciousness, could feel his hearing fading. His vision was narrowing, and all he could do was stare ahead, fixating on the blue shoes of the old man as they moved away. But there was no hope. His eyelids closed on their own, despite his desperate attempts to keep them open.

Ren...

…

On the continent of the Violet Seas, amidst the imperial battlefield between the yellow and violet forces, at the base 2468.

Fynn stood before an immense door, towering several meters in height and width. The two guards at the entrance, with their long spears and containers filled with a yellow, almost golden liquid, moved in sync. They struck the ground twice, the liquid swirling through the spears as it cascaded, only to return to the containers in a seamless cycle. Like magic, the great gates opened. Fynn and Algar walked past the heavily armored guards. Their gear shimmered with a translucent yellow liquid flowing through it—Asphanium, the essence of life for the yellow, the resource of power and modernization.

The palace-like building that lay before them was magnificent, and Fynn was left in awe. His shoulders sagged, and his jaw hung loosely in disbelief. His usual blonde hair was neatly styled, his red right eye gleaming like a ruby, while his left was replaced by a vibrant yellow one. His yellow leg, encased in a matching suit, limped slightly behind, though with time, he managed to walk more steadily.

"Are you ready, little one?" Algar's voice was firm but reassuring, his posture as imposing as ever. "Don't be afraid. Breathe deeply and show your chest proudly." He gave Fynn a light slap on the back, a gesture of encouragement. They proceeded, their eyes locked in an intense stare, one red, the other yellow, as they entered the grand hall.

Inside, a dozen strangers sat around an enormous dining table, laden with lavish yellow meats and vegetables. The menu was sparse—only yellow foods, with no fruits in sight. The air was thick with the scent of rich, pungent food. An elderly woman with blonde hair, her yellow earrings jingling as she shifted in her seat, spoke in a rough voice, her eyes scanning Fynn. "And who is this, Algar?"

"The man of my daughter," Algar answered, his voice clipped and formal. The words seemed to hang in the air for a moment before they were met with a sharp retort.

"What?! No!" A young woman, furious, slammed her fist onto the table. Her silverware clattered across the surface as she stood, her face flushed with anger. "Father, you can't do this! I want Ergon, and only Ergon! Father, I hate you!"

A young girl, her eyes glowing with yellow flames, similar to those in Algar's gaze, wore a beautiful light yellow-and-white dress. Yet, it was ruined by the yellow sauce of meat splashed across it as she abruptly slammed her fist onto the table, rising to her feet. "Diana!" her father's voice echoed through the room. "Ergon is no good influence. He is neither sincere nor loyal. Ergon is just a boy with the privilege of wealth, and all he does with it is waste it on revelry!" Diana turned her back to him, her skin, like everyone else's, faintly glowing yellow.

"Diana Asphania Astor! Get back here right now!" A tense silence enveloped the room. Algar stiffened, and Fynn could only watch in confusion, wondering how this was going to play out. Well, this certainly ended on a good note, Fynn thought. Seems like she doesn't want to marry me after all. He glanced at Algar, whose expression remained calm as he smiled faintly.

"Don't worry. She's just... how shall I put it? Stubborn," Algar remarked nonchalantly.

...

Beneath the earth, in a dimly lit, sealed-off room, Elliot lay on a hard, uncomfortable surface. His skin, covered in a crust of dried blood, was bound by thick ropes. His eyes, which were open even in his unconscious state, reflected the faint light with an eerie shimmer. But everything around him was blurry, as if his vision had been stolen from him. He could barely focus, his mind in a haze, and the relentless itching beneath the crust of his skin made him feel like thousands of feathers were gently stroking his body. He rubbed at the spots where the ropes bound him, tearing through the hardened surface, and fresh red blood trickled down his limbs.

Damn it... Damn it... Damn it! What's going on here? Elliot gritted his teeth, frustration consuming him. His body trembled with what felt like an endless array of phantom pains. His pupils and irises flickered in and out of focus, as though his entire being was being pulled apart. He tried to turn his head to the left, but that was when the old man with blue hair entered the room.

"So, you're finally awake?" the old man croaked, his voice sharp but somehow filled with satisfaction. "I've waited two full days for you to come around, despite all the measures I took to keep you alive. But, as they say, new week, new opportunities. Your sacrifice will honor the Azure Goddess, and I shall remember it for eternity. Let's begin now, on the Day of Azure Breeze, and see how long you can endure."

Elliot gasped weakly, unable to make a sound, his vocal cords seemingly locked by the sheer force of his agony.

"But don't worry," the old man continued, his voice softening, almost as though trying to reassure him, "the Paradise awaits you. A place of peace. And with luck, you'll find a spot at the Goddess's side. Perhaps even she will grant you a place among the Seraphims."

The old man cleared his throat, lost in thought, then spoke again, more to himself than to Elliot. "But enough talk. Let us begin, shall we?"

The elderly figure hobbled toward Elliot, his posture bent in a way that suggested a lifelong burden had been carried. His once-thick blue hair had become thin and brittle, much like his frail body. He produced a syringe from his pocket and without hesitation, drove the needle into Elliot's chest. A sharp intake of breath followed, and as soon as the substance entered his veins, Elliot's body spasmed uncontrollably. His pupils dilated wildly, expanding and contracting as if the drug was igniting his very soul. His limbs jerked against the restraints, and his body trembled violently, as though it were being torn apart from the inside.

"This," the old man muttered, "is a sample of a substance known as Crystalium. A wondrous compound. It solidifies your blood, then reverts it to liquid every few minutes. For each minute, your blood will become as hard as steel, stretching and forming spikes. But don't worry, there won't be any internal bleeding, as the substance will dissolve and become thinner once again. It's agonizing, perfect for sinners."

The man clasped his hands together in front of his head, forming a triangle, his back hunched, as he muttered words of prayer. "My child, learn to accept the pain," he said with fervor.

Meanwhile, Elliot's body continued to convulse. His jaw clenched tightly, gritting his teeth in futile attempts to resist the pain. The torturous spikes, which were forming just beneath the skin, felt like a thousand needles piercing his flesh. His body writhed in agony, helpless as his flesh bubbled and peeled. His skin was covered in blisters, resembling the craters of a pizza, with blood dripping from each burst. Minutes dragged on, though Elliot could no longer tell how much time had passed. Was it hours? Days?

The pain was endless. Even in the moments of respite, where his body seemed to calm, it was only a cruel illusion. A moment of silence, before the next wave of pain would come crashing down on him. The dark room closed in on him, suffocating his thoughts, drowning his mind in a sea of agony.

In his fragmented moments of clarity, Elliot could hear the footsteps of the old man leaving the room, his figure retreating as he would return hours later, the syringe in hand to inject him with more Crystalium. The dosage increased with each visit, and the pain became worse. Every time Elliot seemed to lose himself, to drift away into the oblivion of death, the old man would return, injecting him once more to pull him back, making sure his torment never ended.

Elliot's body, battered and broken, was now a shell of the person he once was. His mind was on the verge of collapse, his body nearing the edge of exhaustion, yet he was kept alive through sheer force. The endless cycle of pain, the increasing doses, and the injection of unknown substances kept him tethered to the world, but there was no freedom, no escape. The thoughts of Ren, of his brother, faded. The pain had consumed all.

Time itself became irrelevant. What had felt like hours stretched into what could have been weeks or months. Elliot no longer knew. He could only stare into the darkness, his mind a blank void, as if the night itself had swallowed him whole.

He closed his eyes, or perhaps they had already been closed. Was he blind now, or was it simply the eternal darkness of his surroundings? He didn't care anymore. His body, broken and exhausted, had long since surrendered. His soul, too, seemed to have abandoned him, adrift in an endless sea of torment, forever waiting for something that might never come.