Celm's legs felt like they were made of stone. Each step was a struggle, as if the very air around him was pulling him down.
The ground beneath him shifted unnaturally, covered in thick, viscous liquid that clung to his boots, making every movement feel like wading through mud.
The scent of iron filled his nostrils, sharp and metallic. It wasn't just the air, it was everywhere, suffocating him. His fingers twitched, an unfamiliar weight in his hand.
He hadn't been holding anything, nothing but the emptiness of the space. But now, somehow, a rusted sword was gripped tightly in his palm, cold and heavy.
The sword didn't make sense. He hadn't asked for it. He hadn't even thought about it. It just appeared, its rusted edges jagged, the hilt wrapped in what felt like centuries of decay. Yet, despite its age, its presence felt... fitting, like it belonged in his hand as much as anything could in this place of confusion.
It should have felt wrong, and in a way, it did. But there was no time to dwell on that.
The silence around him pressed in, thick and suffocating. It wasn't the peace of a quiet space; it was a silence pregnant with unseen threats.
Something was watching, lurking in the edges of his vision. The air felt alive, waiting for something, waiting for him.
A ripple disturbed the liquid ahead of him. He froze, every muscle tensing. The shadows twisted unnaturally, gathering and forming into something monstrous. Slowly, a figure rose from the depths, its form humanoid but distorted, shadowed in thick crimson mist.
It was tall, towering over him, its features shrouded in a thick, obscuring fog. For a brief moment, Celm thought he could make out the outline of a face. A face that was familiar yet entirely foreign. His breath caught.
"You're here,"
the voice came, soft but filled with malice, as though it came from all around him.
Celm's heart began to race. The sword in his hand felt heavier now, the rusted metal biting into his palm as if demanding something of him. He tried to steady his breath.
"Who are you?"
The figure tilted its head slightly, as though it was examining him. It spoke again, its voice low and mocking.
"I am what you've forgotten.
I am everything you refuse to remember."
Celm's mind scrambled. He felt a sudden weight on his chest, as if the very words the figure spoke were pulling something out of him, something buried deep. Something important.
He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts.
"I don't remember anything about you."
The creature's laugh was almost... sad, as though it pitied him.
"You remember more than you think.
You always do," it said.
"You run from it, don't you?
You hide from what you fear."
"I'm not afraid of you,"
Celm spat, though his voice wavered, betraying him.
His hands tightened on the sword, but even as he did, it felt so wrong in his grip. He didn't want it.
He didn't want this fight. He didn't want to be here.
The creature smirked, its glowing eyes piercing through the shadow.
"Liar.
Fear is the only thing that makes you real.
Without it, you would disappear, like a wisp of smoke.
You can pretend all you want, but I know you. I know the truth that you're running from."
Celm's pulse quickened. He couldn't shake the feeling that the creature was right. There was something, no, someone, he was running from. Something so deeply buried in his mind that it felt like it belonged to someone else. A shadow in the corner of his thoughts.
He swallowed hard, trying to keep his composure.
"I'm not running from anything."
The creature leaned in, its voice dropping to a near whisper.
"Oh, but you are.
You've been running your whole life, hiding from the things you've lost, the things that have been taken from you. You've buried them so deep that you can't even recognize them anymore.
But I see them, Celm.
I see what you've forgotten."
Celm shook his head, trying to block the voice out.
"I don't know what you're talking about. I don't know who you are,
and I don't care."
His grip on the sword tightened. He couldn't show weakness. He had to fight. He had to survive.
The creature's eyes glowed brighter, almost searing with their intensity.
"You care more than you think.
You care so much that it drives you mad. Your mind is a labyrinth, and every time you think you've found a way out,
you stumble into another wall.
The more you fight it, the more you lose yourself."
Celm's breathing became shallow. His hands shook as he tried to steady himself, but there was no denying the truth behind the creature's words.
His memories, his feelings, they were all a mess. His entire existence felt like a collection of fractured moments that never truly fit together.
Who was he really? And who was this thing standing before him?
"You're just a reflection of my fear,"
Celm said, though his voice was tinged with uncertainty.
"Nothing more.
You're nothing."
The creature's laugh was cold and venomous.
"Is that what you think? A reflection? No, Celm.
I'm not just a reflection.
I am the truth you're too afraid to face.
I'm the one thing you can't outrun.
The fear that has been eating you alive, since the moment you first felt it."
The sword in Celm's hand felt heavier now, as if the weight of the creature's words was pulling him under. The memories, his memories, flashed in his mind.
They weren't his. They belonged to someone else, someone he didn't know.
Or maybe they didn't belong to anyone at all. Maybe they were just fragments, scattered pieces of something that never fully made sense.
"Stop,"
Celm whispered, his voice breaking.
"I don't want to hear this. I don't want to know."
"You already know,"
the creature said softly.
"You've always known."
Without warning, the creature lunged. Celm barely had time to react, but the rusted sword in his hand seemed to come to life, its jagged edge slicing through the air.
The creature's tendrils whipped toward him, faster than he could track. The sound of their movement was like the rustling of paper, but far more dangerous.
Celm swung the sword in a desperate arc, his body moving on instinct more than thought.
The blade met one of the tendrils with a sickening crunch, the rusted metal barely making a dent. The creature hissed, its form shifting, more fluid than solid.
It was as if the shadows themselves were bending around him, taunting him, mocking his every move.
"You can't defeat me, Celm,"
the creature said, its voice thick with amusement.
"This fight is pointless.
You know you can't win."
Celm's heart pounded in his chest, each beat a reminder of how badly he wanted to survive.
He gritted his teeth and swung the sword again, the effort draining him.
"I don't care.
I won't let you win.
Not this time."
"Not this time?"
The creature's eyes narrowed.
"You think it matters?
All this fighting, all this struggling?
It won't change anything.
You're running in circles, Celm.
You can't escape from yourself.
You can't escape from your own mind."
Celm felt the weight of its words, sinking into him like a stone.
It was true, wasn't it? No matter how hard he fought, no matter how many times he swung that rusted blade, the creature would always be there.
It would always be a part of him. His memories. His fear. His past. He couldn't outrun it. Not in this place. Not in this moment.
With a deep breath, he held the sword up, more out of habit than hope.
"I won't give up.
I won't let you control me."
The creature leaned in closer, its form stretching and distorting.
"You still don't understand, do you?
I am you.
I am everything you're afraid of, everything you've tried to bury.
I am what you've become."
Celm closed his eyes, his breath shaky. The creature was right. It was him. It had always been him.
He couldn't fight it anymore. The truth, his truth, was slipping through his fingers, like sand. The sword fell from his hand, clattering to the ground with a hollow sound.
"I'm nothing,"
Celm whispered, his voice a bare thread.
"I've been running...
running from myself."
The creature's form seemed to grow larger, more oppressive.
"Exactly,"
it murmured, its voice filled with dark satisfaction.
"And now you've stopped running.
Now,
you see the truth."
Celm fell to his knees, the weight of his own thoughts crushing him. He couldn't escape. He couldn't fight. He didn't even know who he was anymore.
The sword, his sword, was gone. The memories, those memories, belonged to someone else.
And yet, he carried them. He carried them, and they were consuming him.
Celm's head throbbed, each pulse like a hammer against his skull. The creature's words, their venomous weight, echoed through him, rattling his thoughts, his very sense of self.
You're running from yourself. You've always been running.
The realization settled over him like a thick fog, choking any remnants of resistance. His hands trembled at his sides, the rusted sword still lying uselessly on the ground. It might as well have been a relic, its very existence mocked by his inability to wield it.
The creature circled him like a predator, its form flickering and shifting, more nightmare than substance.
"Do you feel it now, Celm?"
It was almost whispering, though the words felt louder than ever.
"Do you understand?
You can fight, you can swing that broken blade all you want, but it doesn't change the truth.
You are nothing but a shadow of what you could have been.
A broken, fragmented memory of a person who never existed."
Celm's heart raced in his chest. The sword, his sword, felt like an extension of his own failure.
It was just as rusted, just as broken, as he felt in this moment. He could hear the creature's voice grow louder, its laughter ringing in his ears.
"You think you're something, don't you? Some hero, some champion fighting against the odds.
But you've never been anything more than a reflection of your own fear.
You've fought this battle a thousand times in your mind, only to lose every single time.
And here you are, in this place, facing me. Facing yourself."
The words hit harder than the creature's attacks. Celm could feel them sinking deep into his chest, each syllable unraveling him further.
He wanted to fight, to lash out. He wanted to scream at it, demand it stop.
But every word the creature spoke stripped him bare, layer by layer, until nothing was left but the aching truth.
"I'm not a hero,"
Celm whispered hoarsely. His throat burned with the words, and even as he spoke, they felt like a betrayal.
"I never was."
The creature paused, its form flickering again, the darkness around it shifting.
"Exactly,"
it crooned, its voice almost tender now, as if it pitied him.
"You've been pretending.
Pretending to be something you're not. Pretending that you can change.
But you can't. You're just a shadow."
The shadow loomed larger, towering over him, its presence suffocating. Celm clenched his fists, trying to steady his breathing.
No, he thought.
I won't let it end like this. I can't.
There was something deep inside him, something small, fragile, that refused to break. Even if it was a lie. Even if it was a false hope. He wasn't ready to give up.
"You're wrong,"
Celm said, forcing the words out through gritted teeth.
"I am something.
I will fight.
Even if it's meaningless.
Even if it's futile.
I won't let you win."
The creature's laugh returned, bitter and cold. It wasn't mocking now; it was something darker.
"You don't even know what you're fighting for, do you?
What will you gain from all this?
What will you accomplish by swinging that useless sword and shouting empty words into the darkness?"
Celm's chest tightened. His breath came in ragged gasps, and his limbs felt like they were made of lead.
The weight of the creature's questions pressed against him, suffocating him, pushing him closer to the edge of despair.
What am I fighting for?
The question gnawed at him, deep and gnashing, like a hunger he couldn't satiate. What was the point of all this? Was he fighting for something that wasn't his? For memories that didn't belong to him?
"Why don't you give up?"
the creature asked, its voice coaxing, almost gentle.
"You can rest.
I'll take care of everything for you.
No more running.
No more fighting.
You don't have to carry this weight anymore."
Celm could feel his resolve faltering, just a little. It wasn't the creature's words that shook him. It was the truth they carried. The weight of his own emptiness.
There was nothing left of him but fear. And the fear whispered that he might be right. Maybe he was just a broken shell, clinging to a past that wasn't even his. Maybe he didn't belong in this world at all.
But something, something, in the depths of his being pushed back against that thought.
He couldn't explain it, couldn't understand it, but it was there. A stubborn, stubborn spark that refused to be smothered, no matter how much he tried to bury it.
He had to keep fighting. Even if he was broken. Even if he was lost. He couldn't let himself give up.
"I will never give up,"
Celm said, his voice shaking but resolute.
"I won't let you control me.
Not now.
Not ever."
The creature's form flickered again, as if it were momentarily taken aback by his defiance.
"You think you can fight me?
You think you can fight your own soul?"
The creature's tone turned dark, almost mocking.
"There is no escape, Celm.
You belong to me now.
You've always belonged to me."
The air around him seemed to vibrate, the shadows gathering thick and fast, swirling like a storm.
The creature's shape blurred and shifted, becoming a swirling mass of darkness that loomed over him. Celm stood his ground, despite his body's shaking and the exhaustion gnawing at him.
The weight of his mind, the fatigue of his body, he could feel it pulling him down, closer to defeat.
But he wouldn't give in. He couldn't. Even if the creature was right, even if this was all some twisted game of fate, some cruel cosmic joke, he had to keep going.
For what?
For the possibility of something more, even if that something wasn't clear. He had to keep going.
Because if he stopped now, if he gave in to the creature's words, then there would be nothing left. He would fade into nothingness, just like the creature said.
"I'm not yours,"
Celm whispered, his voice barely a breath, but it was enough.
"I'm mine."
With that declaration, Celm gathered every last shred of his strength, even as his vision blurred and his knees threatened to buckle beneath him. He raised his hand, trembling, towards the creature.
The rusted sword that had appeared from nowhere, heavy and ancient, now felt like an anchor, something real in the midst of this madness. It was broken, useless, but it was all he had. And maybe that was enough.
The creature surged forward, its tendrils reaching for him like a flood of darkness. Celm swung the sword, his body moving on sheer willpower alone, the metal of the blade scraping against the creature's form.
For a moment, everything stopped.
The creature froze, its eyes narrowing, its form flickering like a broken reflection. There was a brief, strange silence.
Then, it spoke, its voice now almost a growl, filled with something akin to anger.
"You really think you can defeat me?"
"I don't have to defeat you,"
Celm replied, his voice steady despite the fear clawing at his chest.
"I just have to survive."
The creature's laughter was gone now. It was replaced by a low hiss, its form wavering as if it were struggling to hold itself together.
"Survive? You cannot survive me."
Celm didn't know how much longer he could stand. His legs were shaking, his body screaming at him to collapse.
But he refused. Even as his strength drained, he kept his eyes fixed on the creature, refusing to let it win. His thoughts, his memories, they were fragments, torn and broken, but they were his. And as long as he had those, he had a reason to keep fighting.
The creature hissed one final time, its form trembling as it began to dissipate into the shadows from which it had emerged.
But as it faded, Celm could still feel its presence, lingering like a stain on his mind. The battle was over.
Celm fell to his knees, the rusted sword slipping from his grasp, clattering to the ground with a hollow sound.
His chest heaved with ragged breaths, his head spinning. The adrenaline that had kept him going was now fading, leaving only exhaustion in its wake.
He couldn't keep his eyes open any longer.
And as the darkness closed in around him, Celm fainted, his mind finally succumbing to the weight of his own fear.