Eric had felt immense power surging through his body moments before he lost consciousness again. He didn't understand it, nor did he know why it only manifested when Alaric was involved. Yet every time he felt that power, it was exhilarating, as if it was his birthright.
However, he couldn't control it, especially when he needed it the most. His mind had drifted, and only when he remembered the situation he was in did he realize he had felt weightless, like a drifting ghost, floating just beyond his own reach.
His body had become a distant thought—numb and unimportant. His senses stretched, but everything felt warped, as though he was seeing the world through a fogged lens, hovering just outside of it. He had tried to move, but it was as if he was tethered to nothing—silent and intangible.
In front of him, a scene had unfolded, unlike anything he had ever experienced. A palace loomed around him, its towering stone walls adorned with remnants of opulence. But the luxury was tainted, drenched in something darker, something that stained the very atmosphere. At that moment, he had thought it was a dream.
However, compared to his past dreams, this one seemed far more vivid. He could sense the dangerous atmosphere immediately, like a low hum vibrating through the air, warning him to tread carefully.
At the center of the room stood a man—a warrior, the kind who seemed pulled from the pages of ancient legends. His lean, muscular frame was honed like a weapon, every inch of him forged by battle. His skin, though smooth in places, bore the weathered marks of countless conflicts: scars that crisscrossed his arms, neck, and chest, telling silent stories of survival.
Blood splattered his body in dark streaks, fresh and old, blending with the muted light that flickered from torches along the crumbling walls. His piercing green eyes glowed faintly in the dim light, fierce and savage, holding a feral intensity that was both mesmerizing and terrifying. They seemed to pierce straight through Eric, weighing him, judging him.
The man's long blond hair flowed freely, untamed, like the mane of a lion, carrying the essence of chaos and the storm of war within its golden strands. A tattered cape hung from his shoulders, once a deep crimson but now faded to a dark rust, frayed and torn at the edges. It billowed faintly as though moved by an unseen wind, adding to his ghostly, otherworldly presence.
In his hand, he gripped a jagged blade, the metal darkened and chipped, yet still radiating a deadly aura. The weapon was caked in gore, dripping onto the cracked stone floor, creating small pools of crimson that spread like shadows. The warrior shifted slightly, and even that movement carried a palpable menace—a predator sizing up his prey.
Eric's breath hitched as he tried to comprehend what stood before him. This wasn't just a dream anymore; it felt like stepping into a world where death reigned supreme, and this man was its sovereign.
Eric's eyes fixed on the man's other hand, and his eyes widened at the sight.
Gripped tightly in his fist was a severed head—lifeless and grotesque, its features frozen in an expression of pure terror. Blood still dripped from the jagged neck, tracing dark, glistening trails down the man's arm. The headless corpse lay sprawled on the stone floor below, its twisted limbs drenched in a spreading pool of blood, thick and viscous, staining the cracks like spilled ink.
At first, the warrior's face was eerily calm, unreadable, his towering frame motionless amidst the carnage. But then, slowly, unnervingly, a smile began to curl his lips. It was a smile that stretched too wide, teetering on the edge of sanity, a smile that promised pain and chaos.
With an almost reverent motion, the man lifted the severed head higher, tilting it toward the faint torchlight. His fingers traced the contours of its bloodied face in a way that was disturbingly tender, as though he were savoring the life he had just taken. The intimacy of the act made Eric's skin crawl, even in his ethereal form.
Then, with a savage twist, the man ripped a crown from the skull, its gilded edges slick with blood. The crown shimmered faintly in the dim light, but to him, its weight was nothing. Without hesitation, he flung the head across the room, and it landed with a sickening thud atop a growing pile of bodies. The heap, now revealed, was composed of knights—once noble defenders now reduced to a grotesque mountain of shattered armor, torn flesh, and lifeless eyes staring into the void.
The warrior's grin widened, his eyes blazing with satisfaction as he admired his work. The air around him seemed to thicken with the stench of blood and death, suffocating and inescapable. He inhaled deeply, as if savoring the metallic tang of the slaughter, his chest rising and falling like a predator basking in its kill.
His gaze shifted, sharp and deliberate, as if he could see Eric even in his spectral state. That grin deepened, an expression of raw, unhinged ecstasy born from violence. The flicker of madness in his glowing green eyes was almost hypnotic, a vortex of destruction that drew Eric's soul closer despite the terror clawing at him.
This wasn't just a scene of death—it was a ritual. No, more than that. It was a celebration. And Eric was nothing more than a helpless observer, caught in the wake of a force that reveled in the beauty of carnage.
Eric tried to speak, but no words came. His lips moved soundlessly, his throat tightening as if bound by invisible chains. The man's piercing green eyes passed over him without even a flicker of recognition, as if Eric were nothing more than a phantom, a silent witness to the horrors unraveling before him.
The warrior's laughter cut through the suffocating stillness, a deep, guttural sound that resonated within the cold stone walls. It echoed like a macabre symphony, each note dripping with malice and triumph. Blood dripped rhythmically from the pile of bodies in the corner, forming a sickening beat that accompanied the warrior's laughter. The air was heavy, saturated with the metallic tang of fresh death and the rot of old carnage.
Eric's gaze drifted unwillingly to the nearest corpse—a young knight whose lifeless eyes stared blankly into the void. His once-bright armor was caked in gore, the intricate engravings now obscured by the viscera of his comrades. The knight's face was frozen in anguish, mouth slightly open as if he had died mid-scream. Eric found himself drawn to those eyes, unable to look away.
And then it happened.
A slow, creeping sensation spread through him, one that made the hairs on the back of his neck rise. His lips, unbidden, began to curl upward. At first, it was barely noticeable—a ghost of an expression—but it grew, stretching wider, deeper. He was smiling.
The realization struck him like a hammer to the chest, but it didn't stop him. The smile wasn't his—it couldn't be his. Yet the sick satisfaction blooming in his chest felt all too real. It was as if the thrill of the kill had been his doing, like the warrior's bloodlust was a disease that infected the very fabric of his being. For a moment, he felt it. The power. The exhilaration of dominance. The euphoria of taking a life.
The warrior, still unaware of Eric's presence, raised his jagged blade, the blood glinting darkly in the dim light. He let out a triumphant roar, his voice raw and primal, shaking the very foundation of the chamber. The pile of bodies seemed to groan under its own weight.
Eric's attention snapped back to the warrior just as he turned, the madness in his eyes blazing brighter than ever. His every movement was deliberate, radiating a terrifying elegance born from violence. He stalked toward the fallen knight Eric had been staring at moments ago.
Kneeling down, the warrior grabbed the knight's lifeless head and yanked it up, tilting it toward him. His lips curled into a grin as he studied the broken features, the knight's blood dripping onto his own hands. Slowly, he turned the corpse's face toward Eric, as if offering it for inspection.
Eric's breath hitched. He couldn't move. He couldn't look away. The knight's dead eyes stared directly into his own, and for a fleeting moment, Eric felt like the two of them were connected—as if the knight could see him, as if he could feel Eric's horrifying smile.
The warrior chuckled, his voice low and guttural, the sound vibrating through Eric's chest. "Do you see?" the man whispered, his voice dripping with venom. He dropped the head with a wet thud, turning his gaze to the pile of bodies. "All of them... mine."
Eric's heart pounded in his chest, but his smile didn't falter. He could feel something dark within himself stirring, something ancient and violent. For the first time, he wondered: was he really just a phantom in this nightmare? Or did some part of him want this?
The warrior straightened, his bloodied cape dragging behind him as he turned back to his throne—an ornate seat of stone draped in bloodied banners and adorned with the weapons of the fallen. He sat heavily, leaning forward, his green eyes blazing as they fixed on the shadows.
And then, for the briefest moment, those eyes locked directly onto Eric.
"You're not so different, are you?" the warrior murmured, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. Eric's stomach twisted, but the smile on his face only grew wider.