The power had felt intoxicating, a rush of strength flooding through his veins, filling the empty spaces where fear had once held dominion. When the ritual had ended, when the air had hummed with dark energy, he had thought he could finally control his fate. The dagger—its steel slick and sharp—was a symbol of that newfound power.
For a brief, shining moment, he thought the nightmare might end. He was no longer powerless. He could feel it in the depth of his bones—the power, the surge of dark energy that pulsed through him. It was a promise of victory, of control over the torment that had chased him through this hellish place.
But then he tried to move.
He reached for the dagger, only to find his right hand frozen, heavy as stone. He looked down in disbelief, his heart racing as the numbness slowly spread across his fingers, rendering them immobile. He couldn't feel them. Couldn't move them.
The dagger.
His hand jerked in panic, trying to force movement, but it wouldn't budge. His fingers were like cold metal, stiff and useless. The weight of the dagger, the one thing that had given him any semblance of power, was slipping from his grasp.
With a strangled gasp, he gripped it with his left hand and managed to catch the hilt, but it was awkward. Unnatural. The blade felt wrong in his left hand, and his right arm hung uselessly by his side, a dead weight.
He couldn't fight like this. He couldn't even hold the dagger properly. The power surged within him, but it was like a cruel joke. He had the strength to fight, but his body was betraying him. His right hand—his dominant hand—was completely useless.
A cold laughter echoed through the air, light and mocking.
"Did you think you would pay nothing for your power?" the voice whispered, sending a chill down his spine. "You sacrificed more than you realized. More than you cared to ask."
He stumbled backward, panic flooding his chest as he looked around, trying to spot any danger. The world seemed to warp and shift around him, distorting in ways that made it hard to breathe. His chest tightened, but it wasn't just fear that clawed at him now—it was helplessness. He had the power, but the hand that could wield it was gone.
And there was no one else to help him.
"Don't worry," the voice cooed, sweet as poison. "I'm sure you'll learn how to use your power. If you live long enough, that is."
His legs wobbled as he took a step back. The shadows in the distance loomed like a wall, closing in on him. He couldn't fight. He couldn't defend himself with one hand. But he had to run. His feet were already moving before he even realized it, the rush of panic forcing him forward.
With every step, the ground seemed to shift beneath him, making him feel unbalanced, as though the very earth itself was conspiring against him. His left hand tightened around the dagger, but he couldn't wield it with the skill he knew he once had.
"No chance," the voice whispered again, closer this time, wrapping around him like tendrils of smoke. "You think you can fight? You think you can win?"
The pressure built, the darkness pressing in from every side, and he realized with a sinking heart that it was true: he had no choice. His power was useless without his dominant hand.
He could only run.
But where could he go? The shadows that surrounded him felt endless. The air was thick with oppressive heat and something else—something suffocating, like the promise of something far worse.
A sudden shift in the air made his breath catch in his throat. He felt it before he saw it: the presence of something... other.
Then he saw it.
A gate. At first, it seemed like an illusion, a fleeting opening in the swirling darkness, but as he drew closer, its structure became clearer. A looming archway of dark, twisted metal, its edges jagged as though the gate had been ripped from another reality. It stood at the edge of the shifting landscape, as if it had been waiting for him all along.
The air around the gate thrummed with strange energy. He felt an irresistible pull drawing him toward it, and yet a deep sense of wrongness clawed at the back of his mind.
As he neared, the ground beneath him shifted again, groaning, as if urging him forward. The oppressive weight of the air seemed to thicken. And then, in the darkened sky above the gate, faint symbols flickered—a series of ancient markings that seemed to pulse with a strange, seductive glow. Though he couldn't make sense of them, the shapes felt familiar, like the whispers of a forgotten language, one that tugged at the edges of his thoughts.
He could feel the dread creeping in, but his legs moved of their own accord, carrying him closer to the gate. It was almost as though the very air around him was guiding him, pushing him toward it, urging him deeper into the unknown.
A whisper, faint and cruel, brushed his ear.
"Step through, if you dare. All roads lead downward from here."
Without thinking, his hand reached for the gate—his left hand still clinging to the dagger. The moment his fingers brushed the cold, jagged metal, the world seemed to lurch beneath him, and the ground fell away.
Everything was darkness, and then… nothing.
End of Chapter.