I'm not floating anymore; I'm standing, looking through the bright room with puzzled eyes. My brow twitches, and my feet touch thick and sticky liquid, all crimson red. Blood.
I walk slowly, trembling. The world doesn't spin this time like a carousel—it folds, as if my skull is spinning, dragging the world with it. One heartbeat becomes a full day.
Then I hear it again. "Golden Reaper."
The voice slams through my head. Twisted, crooked. Too real.
"He has long been dead. As I am." It bores into my skull, shattering any sense of balance I have left. "Your vengeance has driven you mad. You've fallen so far from morality that there's no difference between you and the 'other bloods' you despise."
My temples ache. I press both hands to my head, stumble forward, skin sliding through the thick red water. I catch a glimpse of my reflection—bare knees, naked feet, ribs jutting out like broken blades. The vision distorts again. Fog. Crimson fog and darkness.
Then that smile. That cruel, fucking smile. "Golden Reaper, Elliot ––– Farewell."
My heart collapses, my entire world crumbles at once. Falling with my face first, I hit the ground, blood splashing all over my body. Or maybe just my soul does, and still, I remain here. Trapped in this prison, not black anymore but red.
My body lies motionless, face down. Minutes? Hours? I don't know. I make no sound. It makes no sense to me anymore. Nothing makes sense, ever did. Not this place. Not the voice. Not the visions.
I slam my fist into the ground and freeze. I feel it.
My arm. My right arm. It's back! My lost arm. I slam it into the blood-red ground, and it hurts. More than metal would. But I hit again, and again. And again, with no break in between. Then my forehead.
"This voice! This voice! This goddamn voice!"
I scream it three times, louder each time. My voice shatters the silence, and I punch until I should be bleeding. But there's nothing; no wounds, no blood, no bruises. Only this cursed red ground splattering into my face. It looks like blood, but it's dry. Dead.
Standing up, I feel no shaking from within. No trembling. My body feels… solid. But heavy, like I'm carrying mountains.
"Whoever's here—come!" I roar. My voice burns in my lungs. "You goddamn fucker! Come the hell out, or I'll fuck the shit out of you!" I scream louder than what a human throat should manage, my words not being thought twice about before spreading them into nothingness.
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The only sound that follows is the echo of my steps, hollow and repetitive against the emptiness I walk through. One, two, three steps—then I stop. What else did I expect? God showing up and saying sorry? The devil, maybe? Or some other being who accidentally burdened me with these banal visions? That this was all a cruel prank and I'd wake up in that shitty room years ago, beside Ren? How incredibly stupid. How naïve. How utterly pointless these thoughts are.
And then, as if to mock me further, a sudden burst of wind—no, a full shockwave—hits me from behind, forcing my body into four shaky, unwilling steps forward. My torso jerks. My limbs drag, and as I spin toward the direction the blast came from, my eyes meet nothing but a thick storm of red dust, swirling like a Martian sandstorm.
I raise my arms too late. Two seconds late. Dust floods into my eyes and mouth, and I double over, coughing violently. My hair whips back, my ears pop with a hiss, and my knees bend beneath me. Six seconds. That's all it takes to recover. I've been shoved at least two feet forward, planted into a new position like some useless pawn.
As the dust settles—vision still distorted—something unnatural becomes visible through the haze. My eyes squint, then widen. I'm kneeling. More crawling, then walking, and my breath hitches when I see it.
A long table. Chairs. Everything rising from the void of redness, existing without logic or reason; eleven seats, five on each side, one at the head; thrones more than chairs. The largest of them all commands the space, its design far more elaborate, two massive wings, lighter in red than the void around us, curling from back to front to serve as armrests.
It draws me in. I don't think, I just speak. "Eos."