"How will your soul withstand the unrelenting hell of your own forgotten torment?"
As she heard those words, the liquid had completely submerged her. She couldn't breathe, the air was suffocating. Her consciousness began to slip away, fading into the darkness.
The world as she knew it vanished, slipping out of her grasp... only for a new one to appear right in front of her eyes—a world purely made of white, like a painting that had yet to be painted.
"Where am I?" the young girl murmured, her voice filled with confusion as she began to walk through the strange new world.
She walked. And walked. And walked again. She couldn't tell how long she had been moving—whether it was just a few minutes or several hours. The perception of time felt warped in this strange, unearthly world.
Then, a voice echoed through the endless expanse:
"Kinda boring, isn't it? I like to think that someone's mind is just a blank canvas, waiting to be painted with memories."
"What have you done to me?! Where am I?"
Viora shouted, her voice trembling with a mix of anger and confusion. She spun around, her eyes darting frantically as she tried to locate the source of the voice. But in this strange, pure white dimension, the voice seemed to echo from all directions at once, surrounding her completely.
"Still talking as if you have any control over your fate? Foolish bug."
The voice rang out with biting disdain, and suddenly, the spirit was standing right in front of Viora. She didn't appear as though she had walked or teleported—no, it was as if she had always been there, an undeniable presence that defied logic.
"What?" Viora stammered, taking a fearful step back.
The woman let out a soft, chilling giggle. "Oh, don't look so lost, foolish girl," she sneered. "But, to answer your question, I suppose I can indulge you… just a little." Her grin widened unnaturally, her tone laced with condescension.
"This is one of my many abilities. I don't have to explain my entire arsenal, but since you're so curious—this place is what I call the Canvas World. A dreamscape of pure white where I can create... or recreate any memory I desire."
She gestured broadly at the empty expanse. "Think of it as a blank canvas before I paint your memories onto it. A perfect stage for your truths to unravel."
Her eyes glinted with malice. "But I won't bother painting them right now. There's still that foolish shaman boy and that pathetic spirit to capture. You're just one piece of the puzzle, after all."
The spirit placed a hand on her chin, a mockingly thoughtful expression crossing her face. "Oh, and one more thing..." she mused, her tone dripping with smug amusement. "I can activate my abilities with just a single sentence. Shall I remind you what it was?"
Her eyes locked onto Viora's, a sinister grin spreading across her lips.
"How will your soul withstand the unrelenting hell of your own forgotten torment?"
As the words echoed through the blank expanse, the air grew heavy. Suddenly, hundreds upon hundreds of knives materialized above them, their sharp edges glinting in the endless white void. The sheer number filled the space, overwhelming Viora's senses as the spirit's laughter rang out.
Viora took a single step forward, her eyes burning with resolve despite the oppressive air around her.
"You're not going to get away with this... I will take you down," she declared, her voice steady yet defiant.
The spirit's expression twisted into something grotesque—her lips turned downward so unnaturally that her face became a horrifying sight.
"You? Take me down?" the spirit sneered, her voice dripping with disdain. "Please… you really have no idea what kind of malice the spirit world is made of, do you? Foolish bug."
Before Viora could respond, a searing, unbearable pain shot through her shoulder. She gasped in agony, her eyes darting to the source. Her breath hitched when she saw it—a knife, sharp and glinting, embedded deep in her flesh.
Her mind reeled. One of the countless knives that floated ominously above them had fallen, piercing her as if to silence her resolve.
"Ahhh!" Viora screamed, the sharp pain tearing through her as she gritted her teeth. With trembling hands, she yanked the knife from her shoulder, blood seeping from the wound. She pressed her palm tightly against it, trying to stanch the flow, her furious gaze fixed on the spirit.
The spirit's mocking voice echoed, dripping with cruel amusement. "You talk about fighting the 'forces of evil that crawl in this city,'" she sneered. "Then let me teach you what kind of evil the malevolent spirits of this place are truly made of!" She followed her words with a twisted, disgusted laugh.
The spirit's laughter rang out, chilling and malicious, reverberating through the pure white void. Her dark, twisted smile widened as she gestured to the blank expanse around them.
"Ah, a wonderful proposition! Consider this a mutual favor," the spirit said, her voice thick with malice.
"I'll help you realize just how foolish you've been, and in return…" She let out a low, sinister chuckle, raising her arms to the void. "You'll help me fill this dreary, blank canvas with the beauty of your suffering—a masterpiece of dark, bloody strokes."
Then, a sound echoed through the dimension once again—a voice that Viora could hear, deep and chilling:
"How will your soul withstand the unrelenting hell of your own forgotten torment?"
Suddenly, hundreds upon hundreds of knives fell down around Viora, filling the air with a sharp, menacing sound. The knives were so numerous that they exceeded her vision, raining down like a storm of steel, each one gleaming with malice.
Something sharp pierced through her eyeball, another drove into her throat, and a third sank into her abdomen. The knives moved on their own, as if guided by a twisted will to make her suffer, slicing through her flesh with deliberate cruelty.
Viora let out an inhuman scream, her body writhing in agony, but the torment only intensified. The knives twisted and turned, carving through her, as if they took pleasure in her pain. Then, with a final sickening thrust, one of the blades pierced her head.
The girl was dead.
Viora watched from a distance, her own body sprawled on the ground, three knives embedded in it. She saw herself from a third-person view, detached, as if watching someone else's fate unfold. The last fragments of a phrase echoed in her mind, the words barely forming:
"…withstand the unrelenting hell of your own forgotten torment?"
The spirit, her twisted smile widening, clapped her hands in amusement as she looked at the lifeless girl's body.
"How beautiful! The blood, the scream!" she exclaimed. "I give it a 7!"
Viora, still in shock, placed her hand over her mouth, unable to comprehend what had just happened. Slowly, she whispered, her voice barely audible:
"Did I…?"
Without missing a beat, the spirit answered, her voice dripping with mockery:
"Yes, you just died. At least, that first body of yours did. As you died, I recreated another body for you!"
She stared at Viora, watching her struggle to process the words. The spirit cocked her head, confusion flickering in her expression before she added:
"What? Did I not say earlier that I wouldn't make you experience physical pain? You're really making me more upset, foolish girl. I'm a woman of my word, after all… Technically, this is just mental pain… because you're unconscious right now."
Viora staggered to her feet, her breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps, as if her mind was on the verge of breaking. She whispered, her voice trembling:
"I will…"
But before she could finish her sentence, the spirit's voice echoed through the void once more:
"How will your soul withstand the unrelenting hell of your own forgotten torment?"
With a speed faster than the eye could track, a knife sliced through Viora's throat. Dark red blood poured out, spilling over the white canvas and staining it further. The pain was excruciating, but before she could even grasp what had happened, she felt herself restored again—this time, without a mouth.
The woman's rage was palpable, her words dripping with venom:
"How arrogant! How naive! Can you be!? Do you think this is a game? That I'm some wandering spirit who can't move on? That I lived a tragic life and now you're here to stop me, to make me realize some childish principle?"
She paced back and forth, her words like venom laced with madness.
"You think you can stop me just because you can barely understand what I am!? You think you're special just because you can see beyond the physical plane!? Bug like you, there are millions! You're just a bug with better eyesight than most trash bugs! Your pathetic, foolish mind has no idea what kind of malice the spirit world is made of."
The spirit's expression twisted with a cruel smile, her tone growing darker still.
"People like me have no trace of virtue left in their souls. People don't commit sins out of fear of hell. But what is there to fear when hell is the limit of what God can punish us with? You have no idea what kind of world you've stepped into by trying to stop people like me…"
She stopped and glared at Viora with disdain, her eyes burning with malice.
"You will stop me? What have you done to the others? You're just a bug with better eyesight than the other lesser bugs. I will rid you of that foolishness by completely filling this canvas with your blood, foolish girl."
As Viora stood there, struggling to stay conscious, something clicked in her mind. She remembered Cyrus' warnings, the way he had been so adamant about her staying away from spirits like this.
She realized now why he had tried to protect her. These weren't tragic souls who had lived tragic lives and died tragic deaths. These were twisted minds, long since severed from any notion of humanity or virtue. The only thing that kept people like them from committing sins was the fear of hell. But what happened when a human soul had long forgotten how to be human, when they crawled out of hell with no fear of the punishment left to them?
What was there to fear when hell was the limit of what even God could punish them with?
The response was clear: they become demons in flesh.