The night air was thick with terror, punctuated by the cacophony of screams that seemed to echo from every corner of the motel. The chaos was palpable, a living entity that fed on the fear of the trapped souls within.
"Fuck!" the owner spat, his voice laced with a venom born of desperation. He clutched the shotgun with a white-knuckled grip, the barrel wavering as he took aim at the monstrous Swooping Evil that had descended upon them.
But fate, it seemed, had a cruel sense of humor. Before he could discharge the weapon, a spine, sharp as the night was dark, shot from the beast's body, impaling his hand with surgical precision. A cold numbness spread rapidly, a harbinger of the paralysis that would soon follow. The shotgun clattered to the ground, a metallic dirge for the hope that died with its fall.
The Swooping Evil, sensing the man's vulnerability, unfurled its wings with a menacing flourish, casting an ominous shadow over him. The owner, his eyes wide with the primal instinct of survival, did the unthinkable. With a shove born of cowardice, he sacrificed one of his own, pushing the unfortunate soul into the path of the beast. The man's screams were short-lived as the creature enveloped his head, feasting on the essence of his brain.
"Run, you fools! To the outside!" the owner bellowed, his voice cracking under the strain of his terror. He led the stampede, the masked men at his heels, as they burst through the door, ensuring it slammed shut behind them, a feeble barrier against the horror they left within.
The motel, a solitary beacon in the wilderness, seemed to mock them with its isolation. The owner, driven by instinct, herded his men towards the jungle's deceptive embrace. But the forest was no ally. A black mist coalesced before them, materializing into a figure as ancient as sin itself.
An old witch, her eyes gleaming with malevolence, stood before them, a twisted parody of the fairy tales of old. In her hand, a magic wand of deadwood; in the other, a red apple, its surface glistening unnaturally in the moonlight.
"By all that is holy... Is that stepmother of Snow White!" one of the masked men whispered, his voice a cocktail of awe and dread.
"Hssssh!... where do you think you're going?" The witch's voice slithered through the air, a serpentine caress that left a trail of ice in its wake. The branches around her stirred, animated by her dark will, and lashed out with deadly intent. Two men fell, skewered by the living wood, their cries silenced abruptly.
The owner, his bladder betraying him, turned on his heel and fled, the stench of his fear a tangible thing. The remaining men followed, a ragtag procession of terror.
Clack-click!
They sought refuge in another direction, but the jungle was not done with them yet. A new figure emerged, the sound of its approach a macabre symphony of clicks and clacks. The six-armed swordsman, a grotesque marionette of flesh and steel, stood in their path. His movements were jerky, unnatural, the sound of grinding joints accompanying each step.
"What in the name of all that's unholy is that?!" the owner cried out, his voice barely carrying over the pounding of his heart.
The swordsman's movements were a blur, a dance of death choreographed with the precision of a master. The owner's eyes widened in horror as the figure passed through the crowd, a specter of vengeance. The air was sliced with the sound of steel, and before the masked men could even register pain, their limbs were severed, their bodies crumpling to the ground in a silent testament to the swordsman's lethality.
"Damn it all!" the owner screamed, his voice hoarse with terror. He urged the remnants of his group onward, their feet pounding against the earth as they sought a new direction, a new hope for escape within the treacherous embrace of the jungle.
But the jungle was a cruel mistress, and their flight led them to a sight that drained the blood from their faces. A fire dragon, its scales a tapestry of smoldering embers, loomed before them. With a majestic beat of its wings, it unleashed a torrent of flames, a river of fire that consumed the last of the masked men in a conflagration that lit the night sky.
The owner, now alone, collapsed to the ground, his body shaking with sobs of despair. He was a broken man, a puppet whose strings had been cut. The fire dragon, its eyes reflecting the inferno it had birthed, seemed to regard him with a disinterest that was more terrifying than any attack.
Gathering the remnants of his shattered courage, the owner stood, his legs trembling. He took a step towards the dragon, a plea for an end to his torment in his eyes. But the dragon's roar, a sound that shook the very earth beneath his feet, sent him sprawling backward, a clear warning that his life hung by a thread.
In that moment, a chilling realization washed over him. The horrors he had faced, the relentless pursuit, the inescapable terror—it was a mirror to his own misdeeds. He had been the architect of fear for others, and now he was reaping the twisted fruits of his labor.
"That bastard... he's making me taste my own medicine!" the owner hissed, the bitter irony of his situation a poison in his veins.
He was the prey now, ensnared in a nightmare of his own making, while his hunters had been dispatched with ruthless efficiency. The only reason he still drew breath was not out of mercy, but for a punishment far more exquisite and prolonged.
Defeated, the owner's gaze fell to the ground, his spirit eviscerated. It was then that the mocking voice slithered into his ears, a sound more cutting than any blade.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk... How pathetic~!"
Jon emerged from the shadows, the video camera in his hands an unblinking eye, capturing the owner's downfall. The red recording light was a malevolent eye, a witness to his humiliation.
"What do you want from me?!" the owner spat, his face a mask of darkness, his eyes hollow.
"You know exactly what I want," Jon replied, his smile a crescent moon in the darkness. "You've had a taste of being the caged bird, haven't you? Now, it's time to bring this show to its grand finale, to give this show the ending it deserves~!"
Haagh!
Haagh!
The owner's breaths came in ragged gasps, each one a shuddering testament to the terror that gripped him. The realization that his own actions had summoned this nightmare was a bitter pill, one that lodged itself in his throat, a constant reminder of his grim fate.
He had never fathomed that his mundane existence, running a motel in the wilderness and peddling his videos, would draw the ire of such nightmarish beings. It was a cruel twist of fate that he could scarcely comprehend.
With a casual flick of his wrist, Jon summoned the ensemble of horrors once more. The Swooping Evil with its sinister wings, the old witch with her malevolent cackle, the mechanical precision of Yoriichi Type Zero, and the fiery might of the dragon Igris—all materialized from the shadows, a grotesque audience for the owner's final act.
"Let's see some real fear," Jon coaxed, his voice dripping with a sadistic glee as he adjusted the camera. "Hold on, just getting the focus right... There we go. Now, give me everything you've got~!"
The command was Jon's cue to the monsters, who began their slow, deliberate advance. The owner, his mind frayed by fear, could do nothing but curl into himself, a feeble attempt to disappear from the world that had turned against him.
His screams, a symphony of agony, filled the air as the monsters descended upon him. The owner's life ended not with a bang, but with a whimper, drowned out by the cacophony of his tormentors.
[Ding! Soul Sacrifice function used successfully, soul exchange completed, 20 penalty points obtained]
Jon's tongue clicked in mild annoyance at the paltry sum of penalty points awarded. The system's stinginess was a minor inconvenience, but he shrugged it off. After all, even the smallest prey contributed to the greater goal.
With a wave of his hand, Jon stowed away Yoriichi Type Zero and the dragon Igris, leaving only the old witch, who was soon revealed to be Nancy under the guise of an enchantment.
"I'll never understand your methods. Wouldn't a simple killing suffice?" Nancy's confusion was evident in her furrowed brow.
Jon sighed, the weight of his contractual obligations heavy upon him. "It's not about what I want. It's about fulfilling the contract's terms," he said, his explanation trailing off into the night.
As a spirit of vengeance, Zatanos had lost sight of his original purpose, becoming consumed by the pursuit of retribution. It was a path that led to darkness, one that Nancy could not follow.
"What now?" she asked, her voice a mix of resignation and curiosity.
Jon's response was nonchalant, his demeanor untroubled by the night's grim events. "We hit the road. Honestly, the comfort of the car beats this place any day. We only stopped to take care of business."
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