Ezra stepped through the gate, his heart hammering in his chest. A soft breeze greeted him as he crossed the threshold, and for a fleeting moment, the air was still, almost serene. But then, like the sudden gasp of a corpse taking one last breath, the atmosphere shifted.
The colors drained from the world around him, leaching out like blood from a wound. The twisted, garish cartoon landscape from before faded, leaving behind a wasteland of pale grays and blacks, as if the entire realm had been reduced to ash. The air was cold—bitterly cold—and Ezra could feel it sinking into his bones.
His breath came in shallow gasps, each one hanging in the air like a cloud of smoke. The sky was an empty void, darker than anything he had ever seen, and from that void came an eerie silence. No wind, no whispers of madness—just stillness. And in that stillness, something terrible stirred.
Ezra swallowed hard, his body tense. He took a step forward, and the ground beneath his foot cracked like old stone. The sound echoed unnaturally, a sharp snap that seemed to tear at the fabric of reality. He could feel it, deep inside him, something pulling at the edges of his sanity. Each step he took, the world seemed to press in on him, the weight of it bearing down on his mind.
Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement. A shadow flickered at the edge of his vision, then another, and another. He turned, his pulse quickening, but there was nothing there. Just the endless, empty wasteland stretching out before him. Yet he could feel it—he wasn't alone.
His instincts screamed at him to run, but there was nowhere to go. The silence stretched on, suffocating, and with it came an overwhelming sense of dread. He didn't belong here. This place—it wasn't just a nightmare. It was a void where time and reality had no meaning. And he was trapped.
Then, without warning, the ground beneath him gave way.
He fell. Hard.
The impact jolted his senses, his body slamming into cold stone as darkness consumed him. A jagged pain shot through his leg, and he tried to rise, but the world around him began to twist, the air growing thick with a rancid stench. He looked down, and his breath caught in his throat.
The ground was moving.
Not just moving—writhing. Pale, disfigured hands were clawing their way out of the earth, each one broken and mangled, their fingers dragging the rest of their twisted forms up from the depths. Faces, contorted with agony, began to rise from the soil, their eyes empty, their mouths open in silent screams. They crawled toward him, their movements jerky and unnatural, their bones cracking with each lurch forward.
Ezra scrambled back, panic surging through him. His mind raced for a solution, but before he could act, one of the figures grabbed his ankle, its cold fingers digging into his skin with a deathly grip.
"Let go!" he shouted, kicking desperately, but more of them emerged, their skeletal hands reaching for him, pulling him down into the cold, unyielding earth. His strength was nothing here; the sheer weight of their grasp pinned him to the ground as they began to drag him under.
He screamed as the earth closed over him, his lungs burning for air. The suffocating darkness wrapped around him like a shroud. The pressure built, crushing him, every part of his body screaming in agony. Then, with one final, desperate gasp, his vision went black.
And he died.
***
Ezra woke with a jolt, his heart pounding in his chest, sweat drenching his skin. He blinked rapidly, disoriented. He was lying on the cold ground again, the same eerie landscape surrounding him as if he had never left.
"No," he muttered, shaking his head. "That didn't—"
But the pain in his leg told him it had. He could still feel the crushing weight of the hands, the suffocating darkness, the gnawing fear of death. But somehow, impossibly, he was back where he had started.
He rose to his feet, his muscles aching, his mind reeling. Something was wrong. The way the grimoire had described the challenge, this was more than just a test of strength or skill. This was torment—a loop designed to break him.
The shadows moved again, flickering at the edge of his vision, and he turned to face them. This time, they were closer. He could hear them now, a soft whisper on the wind, like a thousand voices speaking in unison, their words garbled and indistinct.
He took a step back, but his foot caught on something—a wire. It snapped. Before he could react, an explosion of searing light engulfed him, followed by the sickening sensation of being torn apart. His skin burned, his bones shattered, and in an instant, he was gone.
***
Ezra woke again. The cold ground beneath him, the same void above. His body was whole, but the memories remained vivid. Every death—every agonizing moment of pain—etched into his mind. He could feel the madness creeping in, gnawing at the edges of his sanity.
"Damn it!" he cursed, slamming his fist into the ground. "What is this? What do you want from me?!"
But the void offered no answers. It only waited, patient, as the horrors began anew.
He died again.
This time, a creature—faceless, with limbs that twisted and stretched in ways that defied nature—descended from the sky. Its long, bony fingers wrapped around his neck, squeezing with inhuman strength. Ezra fought, kicking and struggling, but it was useless. His vision dimmed, and once again, death claimed him.
***
And again.
A pit of teeth opened beneath his feet, and he fell into the churning maw. His screams were swallowed by the grinding sound of bone and flesh being devoured.
***
Again.
A horde of eyeless figures chased him across the barren landscape. He ran, his legs burning, but they were faster. They overwhelmed him, their hands tearing at his flesh until there was nothing left but a bloody, screaming husk.
***
Again.
And again.
Each death was more brutal than the last. Each return more unbearable. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and months into years—centuries, even. Or so it felt. Time had no meaning here, and the loop continued endlessly, his body breaking and reforming, the pain a constant companion.
Ezra could feel himself slipping. His mind frayed, unraveling like loose threads on a worn tapestry. His thoughts blurred together, tangled in the haze of death and rebirth. He was losing himself, piece by piece.
But in the deepest recesses of his mind, a single thought remained, anchored to the core of who he was.
Survive.
He had to survive.
Ezra gritted his teeth, forcing himself to focus. His breaths were shallow, his body trembling, but he couldn't let the madness win. He had to find a way out. There was always a way.
In the brief moments between his deaths, Ezra began to observe the world around him more closely. The shadows, the creatures, the traps—they all followed a pattern. It was subtle, hidden beneath the chaos, but it was there. The void itself had rules, even if they were twisted beyond recognition.
He studied every detail, memorized every movement, every shift in the landscape. Slowly, painfully, he pieced together a plan.
The next time he woke, Ezra moved with purpose. He sprinted toward the edge of the wasteland, where the horizon seemed to blur into nothingness. The shadows followed, their whispers growing louder, but he didn't stop. He knew what was coming—the wire trap, the explosion—but this time, he was ready.
Just before he reached the wire, he threw himself to the ground, rolling beneath it. The explosion went off behind him, the shockwave nearly knocking him off balance, but he kept moving. The faceless creature descended from above, its fingers reaching for him, but Ezra had anticipated this too. He veered to the left, dodging its grasp, and pressed on.
His heart pounded in his chest, but there was a glimmer of hope now—a crack in the seemingly endless loop. He could feel it, just beyond the edge of his senses.
Ahead, in the distance, a structure began to take shape. A door.
It was ancient, carved from dark, twisted wood, with iron hinges that creaked under the weight of eternity. It stood alone in the desolate wasteland, a beacon of escape amidst the nightmare.
Ezra sprinted toward it, his breath ragged, his body screaming in protest. The shadows surged after him, the ground quaking as the faceless creature and the eyeless horde closed in. But he didn't slow down.
With a final burst of strength, he reached the door and grasped the iron handle. It was cold, colder than anything he had ever felt, but he held on tight, refusing to let go.
Behind him, the creatures howled, their voices a cacophony of rage and despair.
Ezra wrenched the door open.
The sound that followed was deafening, like the crack of thunder in a storm, but beneath it was something more. A whisper, soft and distant, like the promise of an end to the torment.
Without hesitation, Ezra stepped through the door, and the world behind him collapsed into darkness.
The nightmare wasn't over.
But this part was.