It was cold.The kind of cold that sank deep. Past the skin. Past the bone. Down into the soul, if you stayed too long.
Thick darkness pressed against the room, heavy enough to choke whatever life might've been left.
The walls...Carved.
No.Scratched.
Scratched by mad hands. Circles within circles. Lines that led nowhere. Symbols that spiraled into nothing.
And in the middle of the room — a bed. But calling it a bed felt wrong.
It was a stone slab. Rough. Cruel. Unforgiving.
The floor beneath it was stained black, marked with a ritual circle drawn in blood, ash, and whatever else this cursed place could offer.
The symbols didn't glow with light.They pulsed with sin.
The ritual was over.
...or maybe it never ended.
Crumpled sheets of paper littered the floor. Torn. Filthy. Covered in half-faded writing and splattered in old, dried blood.
And there — he slept.
A man. Or something close to one.
Skin pale like spoiled milk. Hair grey as ash. His body was wrapped in old bandages, yellowed and stiff with blood. The parts not covered? Stitched. Thick, crude, black thread — like a butcher sewing rotten meat.
Pieces of him were missing.Hollow pits carved straight from the body.
Some healed ugly. Some raw and leaking.
But his eyes stayed shut.
Empty.
Waiting.
Drip.
Right between his eyes.
Drip.
Cold, like dead fingers trailing down his cheek.
Drip.
His eyes rolled beneath his lids. He wanted to move.
Failed.
He could think. He could feel. He could hurt.
But his body refused to obey.
Move.
Drip.
He wouldn't stop.
Over and over, he fought against whatever cursed shell trapped him here.
Maybe it wasn't his body.Maybe it was stolen.Maybe it was built.
He didn't know.
Who was he?
Did he have a name?
Was he even human?
Questions tore through his mind like knives.
But one thing was clear.
He had to know.
He needed to know.
With all the will left in his broken soul — he forced it.
Drip.
His eyes snapped open like a newborn's first gasp of air.
How long had it taken?
No idea.
His breath came slow. Rough. Dry.
He looked around the dead room.
Symbols coiled across the walls, glowing faintly — not with light, but with darkness.
The same markings covered his own body.
Circles. Lines. Chains.
He sat up.
Shuffle... Drag... Stumble...
His bare feet scraped against the frozen stone.
THUD.
He slammed into the wall. Joints grinding like they hadn't moved in centuries.
Slowly... painfully... his movements began to smooth out.
There. A door.
Even in the dark, his ruined eyes could just barely make it out.
He staggered toward it.
Gggrrruuuuunnnnnnnnnnnnn...
The door groaned open.
A faint light flickered from torches. The air grew heavier.
Rows of crude, rusted beds stretched down the hall.
Each one... occupied.
Twisted, rotting bodies frozen mid-agony. Some missing limbs. Some missing faces.
Their suffering carved into what was left of them.
He had to leave.
But—
Something on the ground caught his eye.
A dead man. Blade stabbed through his heart. A letter at his side, soaked in dried blood.
He hesitated.
Curiosity won.
He picked it up.
===============================================================
[Cult Letter - Othren Vell]
Date: 04/09/M21
We can make flesh move. Bones speak.All who come here — willingly or not — we give them salvation. Death is a gift. To become part of something greater than themselves. They should be grateful.
We fixed his body.We made him new.Still... empty.
No matter what we tried — we could not make his soul.
What makes a soul?I think it is sin. Sin makes a man whole.
Oh God of Death — hear our prayers. Hear our sins. Make him whole. Make him Yours.
With this letter, I offer my life. My sins.Take them.
Signed,Othren Vell
===============================================================
He stared at the paper.
Then dropped it to the floor.
His eyes fell on the sword still buried in the dead man's chest.
He reached out.
Wrapped his hands around the hilt.
And pulled.
The blade came free with a sharp, wet sound.
He had a weapon now.
Better than nothing.
He moved forward.
kkrrrrruuuunnnn...
He froze.
Metal scraping stone.
He wasn't alone.
Down the hallway... something moved.
Limping. Wrong.
Its flesh hung in strips — grey and wet like old paper. Bone jutted from open wounds. Ribs exposed beneath torn skin.
In its hand — a rusted sword, far too heavy.
The blade screamed as it dragged across the floor.
skkrrrnnnnkk... skrrreeeehh...
The thing lifted its hollow head.
Its dead eyes locked onto him.
And it charged.
Wild. Reckless.
The man sidestepped — the rusted blade screamed past his face, close enough he could taste the iron in the air.
CLANG.
He slammed his sword down onto its rotting arm. Bone cracked. But it didn't stop.
The corpse swung again.
He ducked low. Drove his shoulder into its gut. Knocked it back.
SKRRRNNK.
Its blade screeched across the floor as it fell.
Without hesitation — he stepped in.
Drove his sword through its skull.
Silence.
The body twitched... then slumped.
Only his ragged breathing filled the air.
He couldn't rest.
Not here.
Not yet.
He moved forward — until something caught his eye.
A mirror.
Cracked. Stained.
He stepped closer.
And stared.
A figure looked back.
Covered in bandages. Stitches. Scars.
Him.
His hand touched the glass.
A whisper left his throat.
"Who are you?"
A pause.
"Who... am I?"