Memories Recollection

In the end, it was his father who won, his presence swallowing what was left of the boy, yet even in that crushing victory, a faint, twisted fragment of Rubeus clung to the shadows—silent, fading, but never fully gone.

His new body, now brimming with hatred, love, and rage, rose unsteadily to its feet. Without sparing a glance at the lifeless form behind him, he opened the door and stepped out.

The road lay empty beneath the weight of the night, the darkness thick and suffocating. How much time had passed, he did not know, and he did not care. For now, that question mattered little.

His eyes were fixed on a single purpose: revenge. It consumed him, blazing like a fire that could not be extinguished. For that, he was willing to do anything—whatever it took, no matter the cost.

He turned to his right and began walking, his pace steady and deliberate. After nearly an hour of trudging through the silent night, he came upon an empty building. It stood in eerie stillness, its silhouette looming in the faint moonlight. No light shone within, not a single flicker to break the darkness.

Surrounding the structure was a dense forest of dead trees, their skeletal branches clawing at the sky. Crows cried out from the shadows, their harsh calls echoing through the still air.

The moon hung low, casting a pale, ghostly glow over the scene, while the wind howled through the shattered windows of the stone house, its jagged edges catching faint glimmers of moonlight.

The place reeked of desolation, yet something about it beckoned him forward.

A subtle sound broke through the stillness—a creak, faint yet unmistakable, like the groan of an old door being pushed open. He had entered.

The air inside was heavy, stale, carrying the scent of dust and decay. Shadows danced across the crumbling walls, twisted and restless, as if the building itself resented his presence. Yet, he moved forward without hesitation, his purpose unwavering.

As he walked, he placed each foot on the ground with meticulous care, ensuring not a single sound betrayed his presence.

Passing by a broken window, he paused, drawn to the sight beyond. His gaze lifted to the sky, where the moonlight pierced through shifting dark clouds, its silvery glow painting the night in a serene beauty.

For a fleeting moment, his face softened, bathed in the gentle hues of the moon's light. The turmoil within him seemed to quiet, his expression almost peaceful, as if the night itself sought to soothe his restless soul.

But that moment of inattention proved to be a mistake. In the brief calm, Rubeus stirred deep within, seizing the opportunity to wrest control of his unfamiliar body. Desperation fueled his efforts, clawing at the edges of his mind to reclaim what was his.

Unfortunately for him, his father was no fool. With cold efficiency, he crushed the attempt, his dominance reasserting itself with ease. The struggle left no trace as he resumed his path, unshaken, his steps as deliberate as before.

He now stood before what had once been a door—its frame weathered and broken, leaving only an empty entrance to a shadowy room beyond.

The air here felt heavier, as if the space itself bristled with some unseen tension, and the faint scent of rot lingered, clinging to the crumbling walls.

Without hesitation, he stepped through, his presence disturbing the stillness that had claimed the room for so long.

Inside, two men, likely middle-aged, lay sprawled in uneasy slumber, their breathing slow and steady. They slept without a care, as if the crumbling world around them posed no threat—masters of their own fragile domain.

The figure looming above them soon spotted two blades resting nearby, undoubtedly belonging to the men. He reached down and claimed one, tossing the second aside without a thought.

For a moment, he studied the weapon in his hand, his gaze tracing its edge as if it were an unfamiliar tool.

But the hesitation was brief. With a sudden, precise motion, he held the blade with the ease and confidence of someone who had wielded one many times before.

There was no doubt—this was not the first time the blade would taste blood in his hands.

The decisive moment was upon him. What would he do? Would he strike them down as they slept, or simply take their sword and leave? Perhaps both?

But in truth, the choice had already been made—a decision forged long ago in the fires of anger and resolve. This moment was not about deciding; it was about fulfilling what had already been set in motion.

In less than a second, the sharp, resonant symphony of a sword slicing through the air echoed in the still room.

But they did not die. His swift strike landed not where death would claim them, but instead, it struck the sole of the right foot of the first man and the left of the second. The precision was deliberate, a warning rather than a fatal blow.

Both men jolted awake, their bodies frozen in agony as the searing pain surged through their feet. They yelled out in curses and fear, their voices trembling as they scrambled to comprehend what was happening, confusion and terror clouding their minds.

But the room remained still, the only sound their frantic cries echoing in the darkness.

After what seemed like an eternity, a voice echoed through the darkness, cold and unyielding:

"May your soul reach a hell where pain is a benediction. I, the doctor of pestilence, will now write your fate."

The words hung heavy in the air, laced with an eerie finality, as if the very essence of death had woven itself into the syllables. The men, writhing in pain, could do nothing but listen, powerless against the weight of the promise.

Why couldn't they move? Why were they glued to the ground, their bodies betraying them in their moments of helplessness? A flood of emotions and questions surged within both men, crashing over them like a tidal wave. Pain, confusion, and fear twisted together, leaving them breathless and paralyzed.

And then, the final question came, whispered through the chaos in their minds: Why us?

It didn't take long for the truth to break through the haze of their terror. Their sins, buried in the past, now rose like specters to claim them. Three days ago, they had committed horrors—unspeakable acts against a woman they had murdered, leaving behind only the echoes of their cruelty. They had taken her life and defiled her in ways that were beyond redemption.

Now, in the cold grip of their realization, they understood. This was the price of their sins. The past had caught up to them in the form of an unrelenting judgment, and the price they would pay for their wickedness had only just begun. The stranger had written their fate long ago, and now, there was no escape.

Even though they still couldn't comprehend why they were unable to move, one truth became painfully clear, death was upon them. And before it claimed them, they would endure the same suffering they had inflicted upon the woman, feeling every bit of pain a thousand times over.

The tall stranger loomed above them, clad in the eerie garb of a plague doctor, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on the two men. He raised his sword to the sky, the blade gleaming ominously in the dim light, before preparing to bring it down upon them.

However, before any of that could unfold, both men vanished in a sudden burst of light, their forms dissolving into the air. The only trace of their existence was the scattered remains of their clothing, now lying in still silence on the cold ground.

A wave of surprise and anger swept through the room, palpable in the heavy silence that followed. The stranger's eyes darkened, his grip tightening around the sword as the reality of their disappearance settled in.

But as the moments passed, the anger slowly gave way to a deeper understanding, though the fury still lingered beneath. The stranger's gaze softened, yet remained unwavering. There was no victory here, no satisfaction—only the grim acknowledgment that their fate had already been sealed, even if he hadn't been the one to deliver it.

He knew what had happened. He understood that far worse pain than anything he could ever inflict was awaiting them, a torment that would stretch far beyond their fleeting lives. Yet, despite this knowledge, he still felt an emptiness gnawing at him.

The vengeance he had sought, the justice he had longed for, had slipped from his grasp. His loved one was gone, and no matter what happened to these men, it would never bring her back.

After a while, he finally accepted it, understanding that this was simply how life unfolded—tragic, relentless, and beyond his control. With a heavy sigh, he loosened his grip on the body of his son, Rubeus, and let go.

As he did, a wave of emptiness washed over him, his heart now hollow. He faded into the recesses of his mind, leaving behind only the echo of his presence, swallowed by the vast silence of his thoughts.

And in that quiet, Rubeus was here again—his mind awake, his will restored. The struggle for control was over, and he was free once more. But even in his newfound freedom, he too felt empty.

The void left by his father's absence mirrored the hollowness that had consumed him for so long. The vengeance, the pain, and even the fleeting moments of peace had all faded, leaving nothing but a profound emptiness that seemed impossible to fill.

There was now nothing but Rubeus's broken body, a reflection of his shattered state. His limbs were limp, his form lifeless, mirroring the state of his mind—fractured and crumbling.

His thoughts, like his spirit, were scattered, disconnected, and beyond repair. The weight of everything that had happened left him hollow, a mere shell of the person he once was, with the pieces of his soul scattered in pieces.