Stab. Red. Death.
Stab. Red. Death.
Stab. Red. Death.
It was an endless rhythm, a macabre symphony that played on repeat. Each time, the knives tore through flesh, spilling crimson that painted the once-blank canvas world. Each cycle ended the same: her body crumbling, her consciousness flickering, only for it all to start anew.
Stab. Red. Death.
Stab. Red. Death.
No rest. No reprieve. Only agony.
The spirit's laughter echoed through the void, cruel and mocking, as if conducting the grotesque performance. Viora's screams faded into the fabric of this twisted reality, swallowed by the oppressive whiteness, leaving behind only the haunting melody of her torment.
Five times.
Fifty times.
Five hundred times.
The cycle persisted, unbroken, a grinding wheel of despair designed to erode her will. The knives moved with a sinister will of their own, seeking new paths through her flesh, carving pain and suffering into her very soul.
In this hellish loop, the concept of time disintegrated. Seconds bled into minutes, minutes into hours—or perhaps it was days. There was no way to tell. Only the cycle remained.
Stab. Red. Death.
And yet, even as her body was endlessly recreated, even as her mind teetered on the edge of breaking, something inside her resisted. A tiny flicker of defiance, buried deep beneath the layers of pain, refused to be extinguished.
Viora didn't know how long she had endured this torment, but she understood one thing: as long as that flicker burned, the spirit would not break her.
Not yet.
Then, as her body was recreated atop the five hundred lifeless copies beneath her, the spirit did something unexpected. She did not strike immediately, at least not yet.
The spirit tilted her head, her expression unreadable, and sneered, "Why are you looking at me with those eyes? This is the world you chose to step into."
Her words cut through the air like a blade, sharp and inescapable. And Viora knew, deep down, the spirit was right. It was her choice—her foolish, naive choice—to step into the spiritual world without truly understanding what it entailed.
The spiritual plane was a place where the essence of humanity, if it could even be called that anymore, descended to its darkest depths. Here, there was no death to fear, no hell to dread. For those who had crawled out of the abyss of hell itself, what was there left to fear? Hell was not their end—it was their beginning. To escape such torment was to shed humanity entirely, to be reborn into something far worse.
To become a demon.
If the spirit's goal was to shatter her naïve perception of the spiritual plane, then she had succeeded. This woman was no tragic, lost soul yearning for peace or redemption. She was once human, perhaps—but that humanity had been seared away in hell's fires. By clawing her way out and returning to the physical world, she had gained a new body. A new form.
A demon's flesh.
And yet, even as this realization crashed over Viora, drowning her in its weight, something deep within her stirred. A fire still burned within her soul—faint, fragile, but alive. It flickered, uncertain of its fate. Would it grow, an unstoppable blaze fueled by her resolve? Or would it be snuffed out, extinguished forever by the cruel winds of despair?
She didn't know. But for now, the fire remained.
"Ahh, thank you so much, foolish bug! This once boring white canvas is now drenched in dark red strokes. Red, red, everywhere—so much that it's overwhelming!"
The spirit's sickening laughter echoed through the void as she clutched her shoulders, her body trembling with grotesque delight. She leaned back, laying on top of one of Viora's lifeless corpses, her grin widening in unnatural glee.
Viora, stripped of her mouth and unable to voice her pain, stood silently. Her hollow eyes remained fixed on the spirit, forced to watch the woman revel in her suffering.
If she could still speak, what would she say?
Would she defiantly declare, "I will stop you!" letting this malicious creature know her resolve was unbroken despite everything? Or would she surrender to despair, pleading, "Please stop. I'm begging you," admitting she had given up entirely?
Both scenarios seemed possible, her fragile inner fire teetering on the edge. It burned faintly, caught between defiance and despair, ready to blaze brightly or extinguish entirely at any moment.
As the spirit raised her hand to the sky—if the void of the canvas world could even be called that—a twisted grin spread across her face. Malicious words escaped her lips, dripping with mockery and false pity:
"Ah, forgive me, little bug, but the painting session must come to an end. How unfortunate! It seems the shaman and that pathetic spirit are ready to be caught as well. But don't fret—your precious memories still need to be painted onto the canvas… just in a different corner of this world. So, please, wait patiently, won't you?"
Her laughter echoed, grating and hollow, before the words Viora had come to dread reverberated through the endless white expanse:
"How will your soul withstand the unrelenting hell of your own forgotten torment?"
The air thickened, the oppressive weight pressing down on Viora like an unseen force. It was as though the world itself closed its eyes, sealing her in suffocating darkness.
When the world's eyelids opened once more, Viora found herself standing in a place she recognized all too well.
No—this wasn't just any place. This was the place she had once called her home, the sanctuary where she had believed she would always belong.
***
Cyrus and Umeboshi sat at the park table where the class was scheduled to regroup at 11:00 for lunch. The math teacher, responsible for keeping track of the students, was busy ensuring that everyone had returned and that no one had wandered off outside the park boundaries.
"We haven't found anything, and we've searched the entire park! Where could that creep be hiding?"
Umeboshi said nervously, tightening his grip on his wooden staff.
Cyrus took one glance at him and said:
"Spirits are known for their ability to hide their presence when they don't want to be seen. If it's still here, it's staying hidden intentionally."
The math teacher's voice rose, snapping Cyrus out of his thoughts. Though he didn't pay much attention to her words, the tone caught his ear as she called out names.
"Alexia! Is Alexia here?" the teacher shouted, scanning the list in her hands.
The students started whispering amongst themselves, the usual chatter filling the air. Suddenly, hurried footsteps echoed from a distance.
"I'm here!" a girl's voice called out breathlessly.
It was Alexia, one of Cyrus' classmates. Her golden hair shimmered in the sunlight, and her striking blue eyes were wide with embarrassment as she jogged toward the group. However, just as she neared, she tripped, tumbling forward with a small gasp.
She had caught her foot on something—a decomposing root, barely visible, sticking out of the ground.
A male classmate rushed to her side, bending down to help her up. "Are you alright? How'd you manage to trip on nothing?" he asked, offering her his hand.
Alexia, still flustered, accepted his help and stood, brushing dirt off her skirt. "No, I'm sure I tripped on something…" she muttered, turning to inspect the spot where she had fallen.
But the ground was bare.
"See? There's nothing there," the boy said dismissively, waving it off. "Anyway, you're the last one to show up. Come on, let's eat already."
Alexia blushed deeply, her cheeks a rosy pink, and quickly hurried to join the rest of the class at the lunch table.
Meanwhile, Umeboshi narrowed his eyes and started walking toward the spot where Alexia had fallen. Cyrus noticed and followed without hesitation.
No one paid him any attention as he slipped away. Cyrus' status as a loner—rarely attending school and keeping to himself when he did—meant that his absence went unnoticed.
As they stood above the spot where Alexia had tripped, Umeboshi crouched down, his sharp eyes locking onto a dark, gnarled root that had seemingly emerged from nowhere. With a smirk, he reached out and gripped it, lifting it slightly for Cyrus to see.
"What are the chances," Umeboshi said, his tone laced with disbelief, "that neither of them saw this massive root? They were both staring right at it."
Cyrus stared at the root with an unreadable expression"This isn't an ordinary root," Cyrus said, his voice low and steady. "It's not physical... It's spiritual."
Indeed, many corrupted spirits had the same dark, corrupted root that extended beyond their bodies to catch their prey, much like the corrupted spirit of the metro station he had faced not so long ago.
"We have proof the guy is still here, but we still don't know where it might be..." Umeboshi said with a lazy sigh.
Then, Cyrus took his wooden sword out of his backpack and placed it on his right shoulder. "Those roots are part of a corrupted spirit's body. The fact that we found one sticking out of the ground like that can mean only one thing…"
Umeboshi's eyes widened with realization and clarity. "The spirit is underground…"
chapter sixteen end