Dearest observer, let me tell you a tale—one that begins with a fateful night. A night when the shadows of the massacred and the tortured souls of the mystical world writhed and twisted to create a disastrous change—an anomaly in this already illogical realm of fantasy.
*Slash* *Slice* *Scrape* *Shred* *Smash*—these were the painful sounds that echoed for hours in that nightmarish room. The room was dark, cold, and, most of all, a special kind of hell for a certain person. It was hollow, so much so that even the faintest breath or tiniest sound lingered in the oppressive silence. Shadows crept ever so slowly, encompassing the figure of a single hanging man.
From that creeping darkness emerged another figure—a man, a nightmare. "Did you know that human skin sheds and regrows its outer layer every two to three weeks?" asked a man in a hooded robe, addressing the bloodied figure hanging by his wrists.
The tortured man, dressed in a shredded Oxford shirt and mangled black trousers, was held aloft by rusty chains bolted to the ceiling. Blood trickled down from the gashes on his head to the unrecognisable remains of his feet, now swaying lifelessly.
The hooded man stepped into the dim light—a towering figure of dread. His tattered robe, as dark as a starless night, seemed to drink in the faint light around him, rendering his form almost invisible yet undeniably present. Cracked oxblood leather gloves encased his hands, their weathered surface a testament to years of sinister deeds.
Beneath the robe, glimpses of a black silk vest embroidered with intricate crimson patterns pulsed faintly—alive with a mysterious energy. The red accents shimmered like embers, casting an eerie glow that danced across the shadows.
The hooded man paused, his tools of torment clattering onto a nearby table. He stood still, admiring his handiwork—the broken ribs, slashed and shredded flesh, the swollen and bruised face, and, most gruesome of all, the crushed, pulsating remnants of the man's legs.
"Fascinating, don't you think? My masterpiece, and yet...there's just not enough excitement," he remarked, picking up a slim steel stake. His voice was deep yet smooth, with a refined air that belied his barbarity. The polished tones of his British accent gave him the demeanour of an aristocrat, rather than the sadistic fiend he clearly was.
With a forceful jab, the stake pierced the mangled man's nerve-damaged legs. The torturer cocked his head as he spoke, "This should hurt like hell—yet, not a single scream. A few groans here and there, yes, but no screams." He continued his cruel prodding, seeking a reaction that never came.
"Why is that?" he mused, pressing the steel rod against the man's ribs. The victim fidgeted under the pressure but remained silent, save for laboured breaths. Finally, the bloody man raised his head slightly, his voice hoarse and defiant.
"I guess I'm just built...different, haha. Mmm!" He gasped, his breath rasping through bloodied lips. "Why are you doing this to me? Do I—" He gasped again, fighting for air. "Do I know you or something?"The tortured man's voice, though fractured and strained, carried a sombre menace—a chilling rasp, softened by an Irish accent. Each sentence was accompanied by agonising gasps, his punctured lungs barely sustaining him.
The hooded man halted, tilting his head in mock contemplation. "Why?" he repeated, his tone feigning innocence. "Why am I doing this to you? Well...let's just say you're someone who has a lot of sins to atone for. And I'm simply here to execute your punishment."
"Punishment? Sins?"
"Oh yes...a great many of them," the hooded man replied, a sly smile audible in his tone. Then, with a cruel laugh, he confessed, "Hahaha, oh my... This isn't about justice. No, I'm here for one thing, and one thing alone. Revenge."
"Revenge?"
"Indeed." The torturer dropped the rod onto the table and retrieved a rusted saw, caressing its jagged blade as he whispered, "Yes... Now let's have some fun—"
"Stop!" the hanging man interrupted, his voice desperate. "Let's make a deal!"
"A deal?" The hooded man tilted his head, intrigued. For a moment, an almost imperceptible chuckle escaped his lips.
"Yes, a deal." *Gasp*"If you let me go," *Gasp* "I'll pay you whatever you want—a hundred thousand manos, two hundred thousand, half a million. It's yours."
The hooded man scratched his chin with the saw's blunt edge. "Hmm... Are you serious? You'd give me whatever amount I ask for?"
"Of course," the victim wheezed. "You just...have to let me go. Money solves everything nowadays. Just let—"
"Nah." With cold precision, the hooded man began sawing through his victim's leg just below the knee. Three grisly strokes later, all that remained was a bloody stump.
"Did you really think I'd let you go for a bit of money?" he taunted, stepping back to admire the growing pool of blood.
The hanging man groaned but lifted his head, his bloodied purple eyes locking onto his captor. Through laboured breaths, he smirked. "Is that the best you can do?"
The torturer's smile faltered. He commented, "You know… I've always hated those damn eyes of yours. They haunted me for many years. Now," Leaning in, he whispered, "I'll be doing the haunting. You won't break so easily... Good...! I wouldn't want to end our fun too soon. You see... I'm just getting started." Then, as a beam of moonlight momentarily illuminated his ring-pierced lips, he vanished into the shadows.
"Then go ahead, you hear me—kill me if you can!" The bloodied man shouted, summoning the last of his strength. His voice was strained, yet there was a defiant edge to it. He then continued, his tone shifting to one of eerie calm. "You can break my bones, tear my flesh, even end my life...but you won't kill my spirit. You won't break my will."
From behind the veil of absolute darkness, the torturer responded in a voice that was both menacing and laced with confusion. "Kill you?" The hooded man's words were tranquil on the surface, but beneath that serenity, a storm of malice swirled, waiting to break free.
"Why would I kill you?" He asked, the question almost too casual. "Tell me—why would I ever want to release you from my grasp?" His voice came as a low whisper, now from behind the hanging man, still cloaked in shadow and menace.
"Do you realise how long it took me to find you, old friend?" he continued, his tone darkening further. "You will know pain," he whispered, his voice steady, "but not just any pain. No... it will be a pain that seeps into your marrow—a pain that will make you question the very fabric of your existence."
Finally, the hooded man stepped into the light, his voice cold and emotionless. "And I will be the one to deliver it to you...with the utmost care."
The bloodied man paused, a deep silence falling between them. His thoughts raced, confusion and fear clouding his mind. "I..." he gasped, struggling to breathe as he tried to make sense of what was happening. 'Jayzus! What is this psycho planning? Who the hell is he? Where have we met before?' were his rambling thoughts.
A heavy stillness hung in the air, suffocating the room. Then, as though the darkness itself obeyed his command, the hooded man began to shift. The shadows around him twisted, forming into a singular shape—a presence that was both everywhere and nowhere at once.
The bloodied man, immobilised by fear, could do nothing but watch as the dark figure merged with the very night itself.
"What are you...?" he managed, his voice trembling. The light in the room shifted as small, translucent orbs began to appear, floating like fireflies in the dead of night. Their eerie glow illuminated the room with an unsettling grace, casting an unnatural pallor across the iron dungeon.
The hooded man, his form now one with the darkness, shielded his face from view. The shadows acted as a veil, cloaking him in a chilling mystery.
"I am..." he began, his voice carrying across the room with unnerving calm. Slowly, the mysterious figure advanced, the orbs of light surrounding him, flickering in the blood-stained air.
"…your nightmare."
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