Chapter 17: The Tormentor
[Time Remaining: 11 hours.]
[None of your skills work here.]
Elian groaned, standing on both feet as he faced the Tormentor’s gaze.
His stomach was still torn open, back slashed by the scythe, his fingertips burned despite the terrifying coldness of this... tomb. Bleeding from all the cuts and wounds afflicted by the scythe. All refusing to heal.
His eyes burned, pupil dilating, straining and adapting to the pitch darkness.
He felt the wild swing of the scythe again, the wind slashing against his hair. He staggered back, almost tripping off the cold stony stairs.
How many stairs have I climbed now?
How can I even reach the end of a limitless staircase if it’s limitless?!
This isn’t fair. I can’t use any skills. He scoffed, wiping off the blood dripping off his forehead. Not like i have any useful skill.
I can’t even see the start nor the end.
All these while fighting the tormentor?!!
So, Elian turned back. He took a stance. An horrible stance of an amateur boxer, his legs were shaking like jelly, limbs trembling and his hands raised up into a punch, defensely.
"Hey! He shouted. The Tormentor lowered his scythe, a black coloured douli— straw-hat covered the darkness of the Tormentor’s face.
["Do you wish to give up? If so, I shall ready a place for your soul, and a replacement for your body."]
Replacement?! He shook his head with sheer force.
"No! I— I am not giving up, damnit! This just isn’t a fair fight! Screw you and your grim reaper’s vibe, I can’t see shit! Turn the fucking lights on!"
The Tormentor tilted his head, he raised his scythe up at Elian, then brought it down with full force.
["That is a silly question. Fine. I will give you a proposition."]
He rested the scythe on his other palm, tightening his grip on the long crafted rod. ["If you manage to touch, a single touch on my scythe. I will not only light up this place, to your taste. I will also..."]
["However, if you fail, your soul becomes mine forever to torment."]
Elian grunted, "fine! That’s an even better offer!" So, he lunged forward, desperate to touch the scythe.
His fingers stretched, trembling, but the Tormentor didn’t even move in a conventional sense—he was already there.
The scythe came down with a wild swing.
Elian ducked, almost tripping down the stairs, his arms flailing right behind him as he held back a frightening scream.
He took his stance, running up a few stairs when he caught the faint flicker of the Tormentor’s movement.
He whipped his head back, now adapting to the darkness. If he can’t see, he only has his ears to rely on.
[Time Remaining: 10 hours.]
I still have 10 more hours to go? He caught his breath, but tried his very best attempt to swallow the loud beating of his heart.
Ever faintly, Elian turned sharply, sensing the swift movement of the cold wind passing through his neck.
He ducked, avoiding the wrath of the scythe.
Hearing the Tormentor’s silent chuckle, Elian held his breath.
His hands violently reached out, maybe he could land a touch on the scythe, and end this torment once and for all.
["Such a gravely mistake. Next time, rejected, pay more attention to your surrounding."]
Pain exploded in Elian’s arm. His muscles shredded under the blade, his fingers flailing uselessly as his right arm was severed at the shoulder. Hot blood sprayed across his chest and the stone steps.
[Your arm has been severed]
[You cannot heal.]
He screamed, a raw, tearing sound that clawed through the tomb.
The Tormentor’s laughter rolled over him, low and cruel, like a cold wind through a grave.
Goosebumps rippled across Elian’s skin despite the searing heat of blood, his chest heaving as the cold tomb pressed down.
Before he could even catch his breath, the scythe swung again. One leg went first. His thigh split open, bone snapping under the force, muscle ripped like silk.
[Your leg has been severed.]
[You cannot heal.]
He collapsed onto the stairs, sliding against the cold stone, his torso twisting unnaturally.
And then the other leg followed. Both limbs gone, his body slumped, trembling.
Blood pooled beneath him, and he could feel every heartbeat, every pulse of pain, like it was drilling into his skull.
[Both your legs have been severed.]
[You cannot heal.]
[Your punishment continues.]
[Time Remaining: 9 hours, 52 minutes.]
The Tormentor’s voice came again, now mocking his pathetic attempt at a wager.
["Foolish pawn. You are neither the first, nor the last, to think you will touch my scythe. Now I shall harvest your soul. Your punishment ends here."]
Elian gasped, choking on blood and air. His chest burned, his arms useless stumps, legs gone. But his remaining senses screamed at him to survive.
The scythe rose, glinting in the faint light of the void, and swung in a wide arc toward him.
He tensed, muscles screaming, every nerve alive, struggling to react.
His eyes, bloodshot and wide, caught the flash of the blade as it sliced toward him.
Every jagged breath was agony, but he forced himself up on what remained of his arms, bracing against the cold stone. The Tormentor’s presence pressed in from all sides.
And then, he paused, mid-swing, leaving Elian teetering on the edge of slaughter, gasping for air, trembling, broken, and bleeding, suspended in the moment before the final death.