The moment Allen's head entered the attic and saw the book, he said:

  "And what the hell is that!?!"

  He stepped fully inside and stood still, staring at it. Five minutes passed without a single movement.Finally, he took a deep breath and muttered, looking up:

  "Not again … did I just analyze the place with only my eyes without my brain … DAMN IT!"

  "I will just go and see that book regardless of the whole strange-looking attic…"

  Right before he touched it , he studied it closely :

  "Spherical crystal in the middle… Crystals and gemstones all over the cover… A book with two sections like two books merged into one, each facing the opposite direction… Lightning-shaped corners… Engravings and inscriptions along the edges and around the crystals… An eye symbol… and other unexplainable things…"

  "What a normal-looking book… I’ll just grab it. I mean… what could even happen?"

  Then he reached out. The moment his fingers brushed the cover, something happened. Every lock in the house clicked shut simultaneously—windows, doors, chests, drawers… everything.Allen froze, his finger still touching the book, realization hitting him.

  "I messed up…"

  He grabbed the book , trying to open anything around him, but nothing worked. Even the attic itself had locked him in.

  "I wish I didn’t rush like this…" he muttered.

  His gaze fell on the book.

  "You gotta be the cause of this, or that wouldn’t happen… if so… you gotta be my ticket out of here…"

  A spark flashed in the spherical crystal and vanished.

  "I’ll consider that a yes," Allen said, though nothing else worked.

  Hours passed. He tried every method a book could possibly provide—open it, place it near locks, speak to it. Sometimes, the crystal sparked. Sometimes, silence.Boredom crept in. He exclaimed:

  "Come on! Why doesn’t anything hap—!?"

  A sound cut him off: every lock opening again.Then… footsteps at the front and back doors.

  The sound of someone breaking in. A voice whispered:

  "Come on, little kitty… I know you’re somewhere here… just show up… I won’t hurt you…"

  No answer.

  "Hmm… we’re gonna play hide and seek then, hah? Get back, boys… I like playing it alone… let the game begin…"

  An evil giggle echoed through the attic.Allen froze. He whispered to himself:

  "I should not have said that…"

  And then… the voice spoke again, this time closer. Whispers that twisted his thoughts:

  "Alright… Here I come…"

  Allen’s heart sank. He realized, with chilling clarity, that the game had officially begun.

  The strange voice spoke again, amused. “Where should I begin…?”Allen’s breath hitched. His body tensed, every instinct screaming.The voice hummed thoughtfully.

  “Hm… how about… the attic?”In that instant, Allen felt his soul tear away from his body.His thoughts scattered.

  His sanity strained — barely holding together by a thread.And then…Shadows erupted everywhere.The attic was swallowed whole.

  Light vanished.

  Walls dissolved into darkness.The trapdoor—

  gone.Allen’s eyes searched desperately—BOOM.The trapdoor exploded.The sound shattered the silence like a gunshot to the mind.Allen froze.No fear.

  No emotion.

  No soul.Only a hollow stare into the unknown.Then—A door, formed entirely of shadow, emerged before him.It detonated instantly.The blast hurled it straight toward Allen.His body moved before his mind could react—

  he twisted, barely dodging it as it tore past him.But where the door once stood…there was still darkness.

  And from that darkness—something began to emerge.Slowly.Deliberately.The source of the voice stepped forward from the shadows.Allen’s blood ran cold.Shock rooted him in place.

  That thing…

  the presence that emerged from the shadows…stood before Allen.A very tall man, towering well over two meters.He wore a gray suit, immaculate, untouched by dust.

  A crimson tie, dark as dried blood.

  A matching gray hat, tilted ever so slightly.But his face—

  his hands—

  his hair—His entire body was made of living shadow.No skin.

  No features.

  No eyes.No face.Allen stared at him.Seconds passed.Then, in pure disbelief, Allen muttered:“…wait. That’s it?”The man stiffened.“…Huh?”Allen gestured vaguely at him, still stunned.“All that fear… all that buildup… I almost lost my soul for this?”

  He squinted.

  “I expected something straight out of a horror movie or something.”The shadowed figure snapped.“DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW MUCH EFFORT IT TOOK TO TAKE THIS FORM?!”

  His voice boomed, echoing unnaturally.

  “I DESIGNED THIS TO SCARE MY VICTIMS TO DEATH!”Allen blinked.“…Victims?”

  He tilted his head.

  “Did they actually die… because of this?”Silence.The man let out a long, tired sigh.“Anyway…” the man said casually.“This isn’t actually how I usually do things.”

  He tilted his head.

  “So… why don’t you figure it out yourself?”He clapped.The sound didn’t echo.It detonated inside Allen’s mind.A massive psychological shock tore through him—

  a kind of fear he had never felt before.It lasted one second.But to Allen…

  it felt like a year of pure terror.Then—A smile formed on the man’s face.Too wide.

  Too deliberate.White teeth, clean as snow…

  and infinitely more horrifying than the shadows themselves.The moment he smiled—One empty second passed.Then came absolute fear.Far worse than the clap.Allen’s entire life began flashing before his eyes—

  memories colliding, overlapping, breaking apart—

  too fast to process, too heavy to understand.These seconds became hell.He couldn’t scream.

  Couldn’t cry.

  Couldn’t even think.His sanity hung by a thread…

  and that thread was fraying.Then the man spoke.“What’s wrong, little kitty?”

  His smile widened.

  “Is life vanishing before your eyes?”His voice twisted—

  warped into something diabolical,

  something that didn’t belong to a human throat.And Allen’s situation only grew worse.A massive aura of fear flooded the space, crushing Allen’s mind deeper and deeper.

  Particles of white and black drifted everywhere—

  the white fading,

  the black emerging,

  slowly swallowing the world.Allen couldn’t look away from the man’s smile.Why…?

  Why all this fear?

  This smile doesn’t even look scary…

  Yet its very presence is absolute terror.The man spoke calmly, almost amused.

  “You’re wondering… why all this fear, right?”Allen didn’t answer. He couldn’t.“Well,” the man continued,

  “it’s because whenever someone looks at this smile…

  they instinctively realize something.”Allen waited.The smile stretched wider—

  and with it, something inside Allen collapsed.The man whispered:

  “…Destined… Death…”Allen froze.In an instant, the atmosphere emptied.

  No aura.

  No pressure.

  No fear.Just Allen…

  and the man.Allen stood motionless—

  soulless.

  No clear line between alive or dead.With what little strength remained, Allen asked:

  “You’re not a serial killer… as you look…

  you are…”The man answered plainly:

  “Destined Death.”Fear reached its absolute peak.The man bowed slightly, almost politely.

  “Allow me to introduce myself…”A pause.“I’m Nimare…”

  “…your destined… death.”The man spoke joyfully, almost cheerfully.“Since I’m a nice guy…”

  he said with a grin,

  “I’ll let you live a little longer before your demise.”Allen didn’t move.

  Didn’t breathe.“I’ll put you through an experience.”

  the man continued casually,

  “one I like to call…”He tilted his head to the left.“The Survival Game.”“Before you say anything…” Nimare said,

  “This cottage is actually much bigger than you think.

  You must have noticed that the moment you entered.”Allen froze.

  Suddenly, it hit him.

  The cottage looked normal from the outside…

  but inside, it sprawled endlessly.

  He’d been so focused on finding the book, he hadn’t realized… until now.Nimare’s grin widened.

  “This will make the game far more… entertaining.

  The bigger the space I start in, the more fun it gets.”He paused, letting the words sink in.

  “And before you ask about the rules… it’s your job to figure them out.”Before Allen could react, Nimare clapped.

  Directly beneath Allen, a door emerged from the floor.“See you on the other side,” Nimare said.

  He slid on his gloves and clapped again.The door yawned open.

  And Allen fell… into the unknown. Nimare scratched his head lightly.“Well…” he sighed.

  “Looks like he’s going to be another stubborn victim.”He glanced into the darkness.

  “Most of them don’t even survive the psychological attack.

  Some lose their sanity before the game even begins.”A pause.“But still…”

  he exhaled, almost tired.

  “every single one who survived and entered my game…”Another sigh.“…didn’t survive.”He hesitated for a brief moment.

  “Well… almost.”Nimare straightened himself.

  “I’ll just…”

  sigh

  “…focus on the current one.

  I’ve got preparations to make.”He turned, walked into the darkness—and vanished.Allen was falling through the void—

  into the unknown.His mind had already given up.

  Unconscious from sheer psychological exhaustion,

  his body simply followed gravity…

  or whatever passed for it here.Slowly, the darkness began to fade.A crimson, blood-soaked sky revealed itself as he fell, endless and unmoving.

  No stars.

  No clouds.

  Only red.Then—

  impact.But there was no sound.

  No crash.

  No bounce.His body met the ground like a feather falling at impossible speed.The surface beneath him was entirely covered in blood, stretching toward an infinite horizon.

  Yet his fall created only small, quiet ripples.Still—

  he wasn’t wet.

  He didn’t sink.

  He didn’t drown.As if the blood wasn’t liquid at all—

  just something poured over the world.Allen stirred.Slowly, painfully, consciousness returned.

  He pushed himself up, eyes half-open, unfocused—

  trying to understand where he was…

  if he was anywhere at all.Then—his eyes widened.“Huuuh?!”Allen stood there for a moment and thought.“Hmmm…”

  “I have absolutely no idea what I’m supposed to do…”He sighed.“I’ll just… move around randomly and hope something happens.”And he did.For ten hours straight.

  To Allen, it felt like ten minutes.From above, Nimare stared.“….”“…Looks like I’m the one who’s going to lose my sanity watching this.”

  “WHY DON’T YOU DO ANYTHING?!”“I prepared every single stage in advance!”

  “This is the first time I finish preparations before a victim clears the stage!”

  “PLEASE—DO—SOMETHING!”Allen kept walking.Fourteen more hours passed.Twenty-four hours total.Nimare, now drinking coffee:

  “Why didn’t I consider this…”

  “I mean… everyone else panicked, screamed, cried, tried to escape…”“…but just walking around with no purpose…?”Five more hours passed.“Maybe time works differently here,” Nimare muttered.

  “Maybe he lost his sense of time…”“…but isn’t that supposed to make him lose his mind?”He stared.“Let’s just see how this ends…”Seven more hours.Nimare, expression hollow:

  “I hate my life…”Three more hours.Nimare snapped.

  “AAAAAA—WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS?!”

  “YOU HAVE NO LIFE!”One hour passed.Nimare stared.“…Bruh.”

  “That’s it. I’m doing something.”He prepared a new outcome—specifically for this situation.“It took me two hours…”

  “…and now I have to wait one more hour for activation.”Fifty-nine minutes passed.Nimare leaned forward, excited.

  “Hehehe… my suffering will finally end…”

  “The game will begin…”Ten seconds remained.Nimare’s smile stretched wider.Four seconds before activation—Allen stopped.He scratched his head.“…This is pointless.”

  “I’ll try something else.”Nimare froze.“Eh…?”“….”“SCREEEWW YOUUUU!!!”“This is it!” Nimare snapped his fingers.Time froze.

  Everything—the crimson sky, the blood-soaked ground, the void itself—stopped.

  Grey shadows swallowed it all…

  Except Nimare.He tilted his head, voice low and deliberate.

  “…And I took it personally.”Then he paused, confused.

  “…Wait… why do I sense my nose? Where is the mirror?”He searched quickly, found one, and stared.

  His face was… appearing.

  Nose. Eyes. Features forming where there had been none.“…Of course.”

  A bitter chuckle escaped him.

  “This should happen. That guy frustrated me so much… my face shows up.

  Whenever I get frustrated… or lose my lust for blood and killing… my face… appears.”He spun toward one of his minions.

  “When did my face show up?”The minion replied evenly,

  “Since the first five hours he stepped into this world…”Nimare exhaled, running a hand over his now-visible face.

  A fleeting hint of irritation, of exhaustion.“Where did we stop?”

  A sly smirk formed.

  “Oh yes… I was extremely mad.

  I WILL MAKE YOU LIVE HELL!!!”Nimare seethed, his voice sharp as a blade.“I’ve given you… so many ways to clear this stage.

  The crimson blood moon above you? You didn’t even look up.

  Strange figures on the horizon? Ignored.

  Reflections beneath you? You didn’t even glance down.

  The crimson blood covering everything? You didn’t examine a thing.

  And countless other chances…”He leaned closer, eyes blazing.

  “Now… I will remove most of them.

  Leave only some visual cues to keep the horror atmosphere…

  but everything that could have unlocked the stage—gone.”“This stage… it wasn’t originally designed to kill.

  Some victims died, yes… but that was not the purpose.

  It was meant to give you a sample of the terror to come.”His grin twisted, sinister and personal.

  “Now… I will change the rules.

  I will redesign this stage for your demise.

  I am the owner of this game.

  I do as I please.

  Fairness was never part of the plan.

  And now… you’ve made me take it personally.”He straightened, arms wide.

  “You shall face the consequences.

  This one will be special…

  an Only For You gift.You will face your demise…

  unless… you surpass my expectations.”Nimare’s voice was sharp, tinged with irritation.“How could you call me a serial killer…?”

  He shook his head.

  “A lot of my victims… are serial killers.

  Sigh… just imagine being called the same as your victims.”He paused, thinking.

  “What shall I add… hmmm… got it.”He snapped his fingers.Time returned.

  The grey haze vanished.

  The crimson sky, the blood-soaked ground—all resumed their unnatural rhythm.Nimare’s gaze fixed on Allen.

  “You have one hour to recall all your memories… before I ruin your life.

  And I will start… right away.”He turned slowly, almost theatrically.

  “Let’s get started , shall we ? …”The hour passed.Allen had achieved… nothing.

  Almost everything useful had been removed by Nimare.Meanwhile, Nimare finished preparing the stage, waiting for the hour to tick down.Now it had.Allen glanced around.

  In the distance, a figure stood, looking down.“Hm…” he muttered, squinting.

  He focused, trying to make it out.“Is that…?”The figure slowly raised its head.“AN UNDEAD!!??!!” Allen screamed.The undead started rushing toward him.

  Allen sprinted in the opposite direction.Glancing back, his eyes widened.

  It moved incredibly fast.“I thought these creatures were supposed to be slow… slower than an average person… but that thing—”The undead groaned.“RUNS LIKE USAIN BOLT!!!” “Even though I’m not a normal human…”

  Allen glanced back at the undead.

  “I still don’t match Usain Bolt’s speed!”From above, Nimare’s voice cut through, calm but amused:

  “Actually… you are both running faster than any horse could manage.”The undead closed in, leaping onto Allen.

  They hit the ground, rolling violently.

  The creature tried to bite him; Allen struggled desperately, pushing and shoving.Finally, they stopped.

  The undead pinned him down, jaws snapping, teeth sharp and long, tongue writhing like a snake.Allen stared at the thing’s mouth.

  “You… smell worse than me the moment I didn’t bathe for six months straight…”Using his legs, he kicked it away.

  The undead tumbled back, giving him just enough space.Allen seized the moment.

  He pushed himself upright, muscles tense, eyes locked on the creature.Ready for the inevitable fight.

  Allen stood in front of the undead, steadying his breathing.

  He watched it carefully, trying to predict what it might do next.

  Suddenly, the creature lowered its head.

  Its body started shaking. Trembling hard.

  Then it snapped its head up—

  And released a horrifying scream.

  The sound hit Allen like a shockwave. His ears rang instantly. Pain shot through his head.

  He covered his ears, but it barely helped. A strong headache spread through him.

  He forced himself to stay focused.

  The scream stopped.

  The undead stared at him for a second, then crouched slightly—

  And lunged.

  Allen moved just in time, stepping aside as it crashed into the ground.

  Before he could relax—

  Its tongue shot forward.

  Fast.

  Straight at his face.

  Allen barely turned his head in time. The tongue missed by inches.

  “WHAT THE—?!”

  Right then and there, Allen locked in.

  He tried to predict the next move.

  One possibility stood out — the undead could pull its tongue back like a whip and strike again from behind.

  And that’s exactly what happened.

  The tongue snapped backward, then curved toward his neck.

  Allen crouched just in time.

  It sliced through the air above him.

  The undead pulled its tongue back in.

  Now they were facing each other again.

  Allen kept his eyes on it, thinking fast.

  He focused on the tongue.

  “That thing… it doesn’t have sharp edges. So it’s not meant for slicing.”

  He narrowed his eyes.

  “But it can be used like a whip… fast, flexible…”

  He hesitated.

  “That’s not enough. I still don’t know what else it can do.”

  He swallowed.

  “I need a closer look… but that’s risky.”

  His thoughts raced.

  “Either the saliva has some kind of effect… or the surface is rough enough to tear skin…”

  He gave a silly smile.

  “Daggonit… I’m in plight…”

  Allen thought to himself: First time in my life… witnessing such things… Absolute fear… extraordinary entities… Like my wish is coming true… peak changes in my life… and different dimensions… I don’t want to experience the first one again, honestly… (The absolute fear)… And a normal-looking book… wait… where is the book…?

  His heart skipped. His stomach dropped. Every joyful pulse twisted into dread.

  “WHERE IS THE BOOK?!??!!?” he screamed, panic overtaking every ounce of excitement.

  Nimare heard him, but decided to wait… to tell him when the time was right.

  While Allen panicked over the most important thing of the day, the undead seized the moment.

  Its tongue shot forward again.

  Allen barely remembered himself.

  Oh yes… I almost forgot… I’m in the middle of a figh—

  The attack cut him off, but he managed to escape just in time.

  This time, the undead didn’t pull its tongue back.

  Instead, it slithered around him, forming a sphere, keeping him cornered from every direction.

  Allen’s mind raced.

  The creature lunged.

  He was left with only two options:

  Dodge the attack — but then he wouldn’t have enough time to dodge the tongue.

  Or ...

  Stand his ground — and face the undead head-on.

  Allen’s expression went neutral.

  Bruh… either I’m about to witness the most painful thing in my life… these nails are unpleasant… or the second most disgusting thing in my life… either way, both are worse than each other… I’ll do something stupid then…

  He chose to face the undead head-on.

  He focused, ready to execute the plan he had just made.

  Allen dodged the attack again.

  The undead slammed onto the ground and tried to pounce out of its tongue cage—but it couldn’t.

  Allen acted fast.

  He grabbed the creature’s tongue.

  “Even though I’m the one trapped here,” he said, smirking, “it’s not a good idea to trap yourself with me.

  ’Cause you still have your tongue with you… it’s like entering a prisoner’s cell with the key—and the prisoner inside.”

  Turns out, Allen had been thinking ahead:

  I wonder how he stores all that tongue in his body… there has to be a way to get me out of here…

  Watching the undead rush at him, he figured it out.

  If I dodge this attack… he’ll pounce out of the cage to leave me trapped… but there’s one thing he doesn’t realize… he can’t leave his tongue behind.

  Allen’s plan: dodge in the direction the tongue is coming out, then grab it right after the undead slams onto the ground, before it even notices his hands on its tongue.

  Allen paused for the smallest fraction of a second.

  It was risky… If I missed the tongue, he could’ve escaped and left me trapped inside the shrinking cage with no time to react…

  His grip tightened.

  And I didn’t even know if grabbing it was a good idea. I don’t know its structure… nerves? Spikes? Acid?

  He glanced at it.

  For some reason… it’s not that bad—

  Suddenly—

  The tongue secreted a slick, viscous substance.

  It became slippery in an instant.

  Allen’s eyes widened.

  “Oh you’ve gotta be kidding me—”

  The tongue began sliding through his hands.

  But Allen didn’t hesitate.

  Instead of resisting the slip, he moved with it.

  He quickly wrapped the tongue around both of his arms, increasing friction and locking it against himself.

  The substance made it harder to grip—

  —but easier to tighten.

  Before it could become worse…

  Allen yanked.

  Hard.

  The undead was violently pulled toward him, its balance completely destroyed.

  And in that split second—

  Allen drove his fist straight into the undead’s face.

  His first real blow.

  Impact echoed inside the tongue sphere.

  Allen muttered through clenched teeth,

  “I really hope this doesn’t get worse…”

  The undead froze.

  Not from pain.

  From calculation.

  Slowly… it turned its head and gave Allen a side look.

  No rage.

  No scream.

  Just… awareness.

  Its fingers straightened.

  Not like a fist.

  Like blades.

  And it thrust its hand toward Allen’s face.

  Allen reacted instantly, catching the wrist inches before impact.

  The force behind it shocked him.

  “—!”

  Before he could recover—

  The undead’s other hand shot forward.

  Allen caught that one too.

  Now they were locked.

  Face to face.

  Allen holding both wrists.

  The tongue still coiled around his arms.

  The shrinking cage tightening.

  For a second… it felt stable.

  Then—

  The undead began pushing.

  Slowly.

  Relentlessly.

  Allen’s boots scraped against the ground.

  His muscles trembled.

  Veins surfaced along his arms.

  He’s… stronger than he looks.

  The undead didn’t strain.

  It didn’t roar.

  It just kept pushing forward with mechanical certainty.

  Allen gritted his teeth.

  “And I thought the tongue was the real threat…”

  The hands crept closer to his face.

  Millimeter by millimeter.

  The fingers weren’t blunt.

  They were rigid.

  Piercing.

  If they reached him—

  It wouldn’t be a punch.

  It would be penetration.

  And behind him…

  The sphere of tongue was still shrinking.

  Now he’s in a true dilemma:

  If he lets go, he gets stabbed.

  If he keeps holding, his muscles will fail.

  If he focuses on strength, the cage closes.

  Allen’s arms trembled.

  The cage tightened.

  The undead’s fingers inched closer.

  Then—

  Allen’s eyes shifted.

  Why is the cage shrinking?

  Not random.

  Not instinct.

  Intentional.

  He’s not trying to stab me…

  He’s pushing me toward the tongue.

  Realization hit.

  Allen almost laughed.

  “Wait… why am I this stupid?”

  Instead of resisting forward pressure—

  He suddenly redirected both wrists outward.

  Not pushing back.

  Not pulling away.

  Just opening the center line.

  The undead’s arms were forced wide.

  Their faces now inches apart.

  Breath against rot.

  Silence.

  Allen looked straight into the undead’s eyes.

  And smiled.

  Not confident.

  Not afraid.

  Unhinged.

  “Let’s see which one’s forehead is stronger.”

  And before the undead could process—

  CRACK.

  Allen launched his head forward.

  Full commitment.

  No hesitation.

  Bone to bone.

  The sound echoed inside the tightening sphere.

  Not a punch.

  Not a technique.

  Just raw human stubbornness.

  Allen didn’t stop.

  CRACK.

  Again.

  CRACK.

  Again.

  Bone met bone with brutal rhythm.

  The undead’s skull split. Dark blood ran down its face.

  It couldn’t retreat.

  Because now—

  Allen was the one holding him.

  The undead’s jaw twitched.

  It considered biting.

  But that would mean sacrificing the tongue.

  And worse—

  Allen was free enough to dodge.

  So instead…

  The undead chose its final resolution.

  The cage.

  The tongue sphere began shrinking rapidly.

  No hesitation.

  No bluff.

  This was a kill move.

  Trap. Immobilize. Bite. End.

  Allen saw it instantly.

  “Ah… so that’s the real plan.”

  He reacted without overthinking.

  With one arm, he forced both of the undead’s hands upward, locking them above its head so they couldn’t stab him when space tightened.

  With the other, he grabbed its neck and pushed it backward, keeping distance between their faces.

  The sphere shrank faster.

  Closer.

  Closer.

  Allen’s mind raced.

  Wait…

  The tongue was slippery…

  It secretes lubricant…

  If it’s slippery, it can’t immediately trap me.

  It needs time to tighten.

  Which means—

  His eyes widened.

  “You’ve gotta be kidding me…”

  The tongue wasn’t limited to one secretion.

  It could switch properties.

  Lubrication to constrict.

  And now—

  The surface of the shrinking sphere began to change.

  The slick sheen thickened.

  Viscous.

  Heavy.

  Adhesive.

  The air felt denser.

  It wasn’t just closing in.

  It was becoming glue.

  Right before the sphere sealed—

  It was still slippery.

  Allen forced the undead’s head backward to avoid the bite.

  And because the surface hadn’t shifted yet—

  The skull slipped past the forming edge.

  Outside.

  Then—

  The sphere completed its closure.

  Instantly, the secretion changed.

  The slick membrane thickened into adhesive flesh.

  Allen’s body was locked in place.

  Arms. Torso. Legs.

  Sealed.

  But the undead…

  Was calm.

  Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

  Because this was never about trapping him.

  It was about positioning.

  The undead had already calculated Allen’s reaction.

  He knew Allen would push the head away to avoid the bite.

  Which meant—

  Only Allen’s head would remain inside.

  And the undead’s head would be outside.

  Free.

  The sphere tightened.

  Not crushing.

  Not compressing bones.

  Just removing air.

  Slowly.

  Deliberately.

  Allen’s neck was immobilized.

  His chest restricted.

  His lungs struggling against the sticky pressure.

  It wasn’t a capture.

  It was suffocation.

  And suffocation requires no strength.

  No precision.

  No risk.

  Only time.

  And time was no longer Allen’s ally.

  The undead’s hands? Too far to strike.

  Its teeth? Completely outside, harmless.

  Allen’s arms? Immobilized by the adhesive sphere.

  Only the tongue remained.

  Slowly tightening.

  Suffocating him inch by inch.

  It was over.

  Absolutely.

  …Or was it?

  The undead had calculated everything.

  Every move. Every escape. Every possibility.

  Well… almost.

  Just as it prepared to declare victory, to savor the final, inevitable choke—

  It felt it.

  A shock.

  Something it didn’t account for.

  Allen’s hand…

  Not free, not ready, not expected.

  Yet it emerged alongside his head.

  And with all the strength he could muster, it clenched around the undead’s neck…

  Hard.

  The undead’s eyes widened.

  The calculated calm vanished.

  Its victory, threatened by the one thing it never considered: Allen breaking the rules of the fight.

  Allen’s grip tightened.

  A sly smile crept across his face.

  “Let’s see… who’s got the stronger neck and throat,” he muttered.

  “I don’t know… how you couldn’t feel my hand holding your neck from the beginning,” he continued, almost teasing.

  “Oh right… I let go the moment your head slipped out with my hand. Clever — now you lost feeling it. Good thing… you have to look upward to breathe, otherwise… you would’ve noticed my hand sooner.”

  Allen’s eyes burned with a new intensity.

  “Now… it’s all about endurance. Who gives up first? Who surrenders? Who declares defeat?”

  The adhesive sphere pressed tighter around him, constricting his arms and legs.

  The tongue still pulsed with sticky suffocating intent.

  But Allen’s grip never wavered.

  He wasn’t just surviving.

  He was controlling the fight in reverse, turning the deadly trap into a contest of will.

  Every second stretched.

  Every breath counted.

  Every millimeter of pressure tested limits.

  And the undead…

  It finally realized…

  This wasn’t just a human.

  This wasn’t just a reflexive opponent.

  This was a mind… capable of turning inevitability into challenge.

  Now the fight isn’t about speed, strength, or weapons — it’s pure mind versus mind.

  Allen: trapped, suffocating, completely blind to the undead’s actions, forced to rely on focus, endurance, and sheer will.

  Undead: immobilized except for the head outside, trying to maintain dominance, predicting Allen’s limits, testing how long he can hold on.

  No sight.

  No external cues.

  No timing.

  Just determination, mental stamina, and the desire to outlast the other.

  Every second is a battle of nerves:

  Who panics first?

  Who surrenders first?

  Who lets their resolve slip, even for a fraction?

  This is ultimate psychological warfare.

  The physical fight ended… now it’s a contest of souls.

  Allen isn’t just surviving anymore.

  He’s trying to bend inevitability with sheer willpower.

  And Nimare… he’d love to see this unfold.

  Nimare was watching in amazement.

  Eyes wide.

  “Hey… where’s the popcorn? Where’s the popcorn!?!”

  He sat like he was in a cinema, completely engrossed in every second of the fight.

  His assistant, standing nearby, frowned.

  “Weren’t you… crazily mad a moment ago…?”

  Nimare waved a hand dismissively.

  “Who? Me? Naaah… I’m a high guy. Who could ever make me mad?”

  The assistant’s gaze stayed sharp, unamused.

  Nimare smirked.

  “Oh… you mean that? …It wasn’t madness. At all.”

  The assistant’s stare didn’t falter.

  Nimare leaned back.

  “Okay… maybe I was mad… a little.”

  Still… no reaction from her.

  “Maybe… a little more…”

  She continued to stare.

  “It wasn’t that bad…”

  Her eyes didn’t move.

  Nimare sighed dramatically.

  “Okay, fine. It was… too much.”

  Nimare looked back at the fight.

  “Well… this is an interesting turn of events. That guy exceeded my expectations and ruined every plan I made for him… And that undead… violated and broke my orders. But why does he keep fighting if he knows I will kill him eventually? He simply chooses a fight where he will die slowly…”

  He leaned back with confidence.

  “I would have even given him a quick death…”

  His assistant stared at him, unimpressed.

  “Excuse me… Don’t you see yourself when you kill someone? Even torture would be a mercy compared to you.”

  Nimare turned, wearing a confused smile.

  “Am I that scary…?”

  She crossed her arms.

  “You’re so scary I can’t think of anything that could beat you in it… except losing the sensation of your phone in your pocket.”

  Nimare raised an eyebrow.

  “And I thought I’m a kind person…”

  She shot back, deadpan:

  “Excuse me…”

  Nimare threw up his hands dramatically.

  “Okay! Enough! I get it! We’ll talk later… we’ve got a fight to watch!”

  He glanced at the timer, frowning.

  “Wait… five whole minutes have passed and still nothing has happened…”

  Both Allen and the undead had been testing each other’s endurance, unaware of how long they could hold on…

  It was like being trapped in an empty white room, with no clue when the exit would appear.

  Until…

  Allen’s hand…

  Relaxed.

  Fainted.

  The undead exhaled deeply, finally able to breathe again.

  Nimare watched the moment unfold.

  “This is it… that’s the end. Not what I planned, and not what I wanted, but… that’s what you get when you try to make an undead follow your orders. I wanted this stage to be punishing… but not like this.”

  He turned his gaze to the undead, now emerging from the cage in victory.

  “That bastard has deprived me of a possible entertaining game.”

  Then Nimare looked back at the cage, which was relaxing to release both combatants.

  “You gave me an entertaining fight to watch… one I would have spared you from the rest of this stage for, and sent you into the next immediately… but fate had other words.”

  He closed his eyes and started to turn away.

  “That’s it…”

  He walked slowly, almost reverently.

  “That’s the end…”

  Nimare turns… expecting a calm aftermath…

  And then… the chaos hits him like a storm.

  Every expectation, plan, and sense of control? Gone.

  Hilarity and madness unfolding right in front of his eyes, probably in ways he never even imagined.

  Right after the cage relaxed and released the slippy substance, Allen pushed his way out…

  And in one shocking move, he broke both of the undead’s arms before it could even process what was happening!

  The undead froze, utterly confused… but deep down, it already knew: victory was slipping away fast.

  Allen was free. The fight was no longer even close.

  The undead tried to run… but Allen caught its tongue.

  “Not this time!” he shouted.

  He wrapped the tongue around his fist, holding on tight before it could slip away.

  The undead had no choice now. The tongue was expendable. It opened its mouth wide, preparing to bite through its own tongue to escape…

  Allen, refusing to let that happen, shoved one fist into the undead’s mouth, blocking it completely.

  He didn’t want to waste a second before the undead could cut through his hand.

  Allen grinned, eyes blazing with chaotic determination.

  “I’ve been dying to do this for a long time…”

  AND HE PULLED THE TONGUE WITH ALL OF HIS MIGHT — RIGHT OUT OF THE UNDEAD’S INSIDES!!!!!!

  Nimare froze.

  He didn’t blink.

  He didn’t breathe.

  His mind replayed the sequence in perfect clarity.

  “That guy is insane…”

  “He deals with risk like it’s a game… No — worse.”

  “He treats risk like a win-win plan.”

  Instead of continuing the already dangerous strategy…

  Allen escalated it.

  He made it more dangerous.

  Nimare understood.

  Allen had faked defeat.

  He surrendered control to luck.

  Either the undead would sense a false victory…

  Or it would continue the suffocation long enough that survival became mathematically impossible.

  It was a gamble balanced on a razor’s edge.

  Nimare slowly lifted his coffee.

  He took a sip.

  He processed.

  And then—

  He spat it out again.

  Silence.

  Then a slow smile spread across his face.

  He turned to his assistant.

  “Remake the plan.”

  His voice was calm now.

  “I never wanted to kill someone like this before.”

  He looked back at Allen — not with hatred…

  But fascination.

  “If I kill him… I want it to be the most entertaining kill I’ve ever witnessed.”

  A pause.

  “…I almost forgot why I wanted him dead in the first place.”

  His eyes narrowed, amused.

  “This is no normal human.”

  Nimare’s smile stretched wider.

  Not amused.

  Not impressed.

  Hungry.

  His desire for blood and killing intensified so visibly that even his assistant took a subtle step back.

  Something had changed.

  But it wasn’t over.

  Not even close.

  Allen collapsed onto the ground, finally allowing his body to rest.

  His chest rose and fell heavily.

  “I don’t even know how I’m still standing after all of this…” he muttered.

  “So many twists… and I never once questioned how any of this supernatural madness even exists…”

  His thoughts were fragmented.

  His body exhausted.

  Then—

  He heard it.

  A sharp, dry sound.

  Clack.

  Like bones grinding against each other.

  Clack… crack…

  Allen’s eyes slowly shifted toward the source.

  “This is not promising…”

  Allen slowly raised his head.

  And froze.

  The undead’s broken arms… they were knitting themselves back together, bone by bone.

  Muscle, sinew, and skin reformed as if nothing had happened.

  Its body went still for a moment, lifeless…

  Then, with a sudden, horrifying clarity, consciousness returned.

  It stood.

  That skinny, fragile-looking body?

  Not to be underestimated.

  From within, the bones began to grow outward, reshaping themselves into spikes and armored plates.

  Teeth sharpened, turning into armored fangs.

  Claws extended from fingertips.

  Fists hardened like forged steel.

  Allen muttered under his breath, half in awe, half in frustration:

  “Next time… I’ll make sure whatever I kill… doesn’t get to keep its soul…”

  The transformation completed.

  Weaponized. Armored. Terrifying.

  Allen’s gaze swept over the creature, calculating, absorbing the new threat.

  Then… he exhaled.

  And with a resigned tilt of his head, he gave the look of someone accepting their fate:

  “Well… we’re screwed.”

  Allen muttered under his breath, eyes scanning the upgraded undead.

  “I’ll be fighting something stronger than concrete… four times stronger… and stronger than steel in compression…”

  He paused, letting his gaze lock with the creature.

  “…And a creature you don’t want to cross. I just hope he doesn’t have something else I’m afraid of…”

  The undead screamed. A chilling, bone-rattling sound that cut through the crimson horizon.

  It lunged.

  Allen didn’t even flinch.

  He knew that blocking this attack — especially with the spikes, claws, and weaponized limbs — would be fatal.

  This wasn’t just a fight.

  It was survival versus engineered death.

  Fist met fist. Weapon clashed with weapon.

  Sparks flew. Bones groaned. Metal screeched.

  Allen’s mind raced.

  “Even though this is somewhat familiar — humanoid, fists, weapons — it’s still… unsettling.

  I’m dealing with something no normal human would face every day…”

  He tightened his stance, muscles coiled like springs.

  Every strike, every dodge, every block could be his last misstep.

  Both combatants locked eyes, the air thick with determination.

  The undead finished repairing its armor. Bone spikes glinted under the faint light, polished and sharpened, its body a living arsenal of death.

  It thought through its strategies.

  Spread the spikes all over? Too heavy — strikes would slow to lethargic swings. Cancelled.

  Make spikes lighter? Weaker, ineffective. Cancelled.

  Turn them into weapons? Exposed joints — too risky. Cancelled.

  Every plan — meticulously weighed, meticulously discarded.

  Finally, it settled.

  Keep the vital spikes in place.

  Remove unnecessary ones.

  Lighten the armor in areas that didn’t need protection.

  Turn the stripped bones into makeshift weapons, sharp and deadly.

  Meanwhile… Allen.

  He didn’t think in strategy or calculation.

  No plans. No hesitation. No limits.

  He existed in a parallel universe of instinct and raw power.

  All he wanted was to give it everything.

  The undead braced, spikes flexing, muscles tensing like coiled steel.

  Allen cracked his knuckles, a grin spreading across his face, eyes alight with feral determination.

  The air vibrated. Sparks of tension danced like lightning.

  Now, the stage was set.

  For the Epic Fight.

  The first blow would shatter reality.

  The first strike would echo like thunder.

  And nothing would ever be the same.

  The undead flexed his reconstructed arm.

  Bone shifted. Spikes adjusted.

  From his knuckles, claws extended — curved, serrated, gleaming like polished ivory blades.

  Allen stood before him. Still. Grounded. Ready.

  The air trembled.

  The atmosphere was calm —

  too calm.

  Somewhere in the distance, Nimare watched, eyes burning with anticipation. He wasn’t surprised. He already knew what the undead was capable of.

  But even he leaned forward.

  Both combatants stepped.

  One step.

  Then another.

  Their pace increased — slow walk becoming a measured advance… then a controlled rush.

  And then—

  They collided.

  The undead struck first.

  Claws slashed in a relentless barrage, cutting the air with violent precision. Each swipe was fast — faster than before — lighter armor making him dangerously agile.

  Allen moved like flowing water.

  Left. Right. Lean. Pivot.

  The claws missed him by inches, slicing through empty space where he had stood a fraction of a second earlier.

  He searched for an opening.

  There wasn’t one.

  The undead was adapting — faster, sharper, more aggressive.

  One misstep.

  One mistake.

  And Allen would be torn apart.

  So he stopped thinking.

  Instinct took over.

  A claw came from the right.

  Allen didn’t just dodge —

  he vanished from its path, shifting diagonally away from the second arm’s reach.

  In the same motion—

  He grabbed one blade mid-swing.

  His foot slammed onto the undead’s wrist, pinning it to the ground with brutal force.

  Muscle and bone strained.

  Then—

  He bent the claw.

  A violent crack split the air.

  The blade snapped.

  Allen tore the broken claw free, spun around the undead’s back in a blur, and drove the sharpened bone toward the back of its skull.

  But—

  Without warning—

  The undead’s head twisted unnaturally, rotating vertically with a sickening precision.

  Its jaws opened.

  And it BIT the blade mid-thrust.

  Bone met bone.

  The sound echoed like colliding weapons.

  For a moment — they were frozen.

  Allen gripping the broken claw.

  The undead holding it between its armored teeth.

  Their eyes locked.

  No fear.

  No hesitation.

  Only recognition.

  This was no ordinary fight.

  This was a clash between two beings who fought not by training—

  But by instinct.

  Two predators.

  Learning each other in real time.

  And the real battle…

  Had only just begun.

  The undead lunged again—

  But Allen stepped back. Calm. Measured. Safe.

  No wasted motion.

  The undead paused.

  Then—

  It swallowed the broken blade.

  The sound of bone grinding against bone echoed from within its throat. The fractured claw dissolved, absorbed back into its frame.

  The remaining claws retracted into his forearms.

  And then—

  Its chest split open.

  Ribs spread outward like the gates of a macabre cathedral.

  From within, it pulled something massive.

  A humongous warhammer formed from condensed bone — thick shaft, brutal head, edges jagged like tectonic plates forced into shape.

  Heavy.

  Slow.

  Devastating.

  Long reach.

  The undead planted the hammer against the ground.

  The hammer rested, and the blood beneath it darkened, spreading outward like a stain reacting to its presence.

  Distance.

  That was the key.

  If Allen stayed outside his reach, the hammer would crush him.

  If Allen rushed inside the arc—

  He would abandon the hammer instantly.

  Fists. Grapple. Break balance.

  One stagger.

  One unstable footing.

  And before Allen could recover—

  The hammer would return to his grip.

  And the finishing blow would fall like judgment.

  All he needed…

  Was the right moment.

  The undead steadied its stance.

  Weight distributed.

  Shoulders relaxed but ready.

  Across from him—

  Allen didn’t smirk.

  Didn’t taunt.

  Didn’t rush.

  He just stared at the warhammer.

  The air grew heavier.

  Nimare’s eyes narrowed slightly.

  The tempo had shifted.

  This was no longer speed versus speed.

  This was control versus instinct.

  And somewhere between them—

  The battlefield waited to see who would claim dominance first.

  Allen’s mind was a storm.

  The crimson blood beneath the hammer rippled strangely, reacting in ways that made no sense.

  Something was off…

  And how the hell was that massive warhammer even stored within the undead’s body?

  Thoughts collided inside him — a chaotic dance of confusion, calculation, and instinct.

  The undead lunged.

  Hammer slammed down with the weight of a mountain.

  Allen dodged — narrowly.

  The undead didn’t falter. In a fluid motion, he abandoned the hammer, vaulted over it, and delivered a brutal kick.

  Allen absorbed the impact.

  Stability intact.

  The hammer shaft remained just out of reach.

  The undead’s plan had failed.

  He needed Allen unstable and close to the hammer at the same time — and neither had occurred.

  Both fighters circled, exchanged attacks, struck, and dodged.

  Neither giving an inch.

  Allen had no concrete plan — only instinct, waiting for the right opening.

  Minutes passed.

  The clash of titan strength against unnatural reflexes unfolded silently but with deadly intent.

  Then — the undead slammed the hammer down.

  Allen stepped back.

  And in a heartbeat, surged forward.

  Over the hammer.

  The undead readied his next move, intending to leave the hammer and execute the follow-up perfectly.

  Gripped tightly.

  But Allen’s instincts flared.

  “It’s not a good idea to make the shaft of a long war hammer from brittle material…”

  Allen jumped onto the shaft.

  The hammer cracked.

  Then snapped under his weight.

  And in that instant, the undead froze.

  Realization hit Allen with the force of a collision.

  “I messed up…”

  The undead, with no warning, hurled the shaft straight into Allen’s torso with such force that it drove deep, tearing through flesh and muscle.

  Nimare froze for a nanosecond, speaking to himself in calm disbelief:

  "I will not judge this early… I shall wait… This guy is full of surprises."

  Allen shattered every expectation.

  “Thankou…” he exclaimed — and with hands and legs, he snapped the shaft again, vaulting over the undead, ripping it free from his body.

  Risky? Absolutely. But hesitation was not an option.

  Allen hung over the undead’s back, pressing the broken shaft against his neck.

  Decision made: he would end this. Now.

  Every muscle in Allen’s body tensed as he executed the strike.

  The undead’s neck snapped with a brutal twist, his head jerking violently as his body spasmed.

  Allen followed through instantly, smashing the jaw with a punch, the undead’s mouth hanging open in a grotesque rictus.

  Without pause, Allen drove the shaft into the undead’s throat, forcing it through with unstoppable strength until it reached the back of the skull — and he didn’t let go.

  He tore away the bone plate covering the chest, shredding the flesh beneath.

  Grabbing the other half of the shaft, he drove it into the undead’s chest, aiming for the heart.

  The undead, once an unstoppable force, collapsed lifeless.

  Allen, spent and bloodied, hit the ground alongside him — survivor of chaos, victor of a battle that defied human limits…

  But at what cost? ...

  Suddenly, the corpse of the undead trembled violently.

  Allen noticed, frowning.

  "This is not promising… again."

  The bone armor was gone — replaced by something far worse.

  From the undead’s mouth, tooth enamel grew, hard and jagged, forming a new layer of natural armor.

  Allen sighed, a smile creeping onto his face.

  "That’s what I was worried about… that’s exactly what I was afraid of!"

  The undead rose, moving slowly, each step deliberate, heading straight toward Allen.

  Allen stared, exhausted, wishing for even a moment’s rest…

  Then, suddenly, the undead collapsed to the ground.

  Allen blinked, confused…

  And then the jaw moved.

  A rough, gravelly voice emerged:

  "Okaay… you win."

  Allen froze for a moment, blinking in disbelief.

  "Huuuuuh…?"

  The undead’s jaw creaked, voice rough and mocking:

  "What else would you expect?! Some blahbohabibabo and a few groans?! Really?"

  The undead slowly rose, then sank back to sit on the ground.

  Allen stared, utterly confused.

  Eyes closed, the undead hummed softly, “Hmmmmm…”

  Then, opening his eyes, he said,

  "You are extraordinary… Your uniqueness is unique and extraordinary. By normal standards, you should not exist… But that’s nothing to deal with. I’ve never seen a warrior by instinct like you before… Can I ask a favor? Please… forget that insane behavior I acted with in our first encounter. It’s shameful. Now… congrats. You are the winner. I salute you… well..."

  He rose to his feet.

  "I wanted to stay longer… to behold and witness more… but this is no longer an option."

  Turning away, he began walking.

  "My time has come…"

  He paused, glancing back at Allen.

  "I’ll be seeing you… next time."

  A final look, then he continued,

  "That’s if there is even a second time…"

  Nimare watched silently for a moment.

  "You too gave me an entertaining fight to watch… so I’ll spare you."

  The undead halted.

  Nimare snapped his fingers.

  In an instant, the undead vanished, swallowed by the crimson blood.

  Allen, wide-eyed, stammered, "Huuuuuuh!?!"

  Nimare’s assistant tilted her head, unimpressed.

  "Like you didn’t say you’d kill him a while ago?"

  Nimare looked back at her, deadpan.

  "How many times have I said I’d kill you… and I didn’t?"

  She slowly glanced away.

  "You’ve got a point…"

  Allen muttered, "But… I still don’t know your name…"

  Suddenly, a question struck him, echoing in his mind:

  "Wait… when he had the… and was able to release that sticky substance… why didn’t he use it in the first place?"

  A familiar voice came from behind, footsteps approaching:

  "It’s because it should be under certain conditions… and some other things… I’m too lazy to say the details."

  Allen froze, fear gripping him, then slowly turned to see if it was really him.

  It was Nimare.

  Clapping slowly, a smile on his face, he said, "Congrats… it was an entertaining fight."

  Allen ignored the praise, exclaiming, "Stop sneaking into my inner thoughts in my mind!"

  Nimare threw his hands up defensively:

  "Hey! What do I look like to you?! I don’t sneak into private thoughts… I’m a killer with morals!"

  Allen stared at him, wide-eyed and bewildered, his face screaming a silent “What the hell!?!”

  Nimare sighed.

  "You know… I will spare you from the rest of this stage."

  He glanced away casually, whispering almost to himself,

  "Even though you were supposed to live through hell because of what you did to me…"

  Allen’s head snapped toward him.

  "What?!?"

  Nimare quickly looked back.

  "Never mind."

  "I heard that!" Allen protested.

  "Like I don’t know," Nimare replied flatly. "I know you heard. Just forget about it."

  Silence stretched between them.

  Allen’s expression hardened.

  "What do you want now?… And what will you do?"

  Nimare exhaled slowly.

  Then he smiled.

  That same wide, unnatural smile that once nearly shattered Allen’s soul —

  but this time, his eyes narrowed into thin arcs, bending with something far worse than amusement.

  "You wanna know?"

  And just like that—

  That absolute fear returned.

  Not loud.

  Not explosive.

  Just cold.

  Heavy.

  Unavoidable.

  Nimare’s voice dropped — deeper now, warped with something diabolical.

  "Like I said before… you will be participating in an experience I like to call… The Survival Game."

  The air felt heavier.

  "This stage was merely to test whether you could hold yourself together before dying without even realizing it."

  He tilted his head slightly.

  "There were supposed to be more stages for you to witness before the game truly began… but I am a person with zero patience."

  A faint chuckle escaped him.

  "So this time… I merged all of them into the game itself."

  His eyes locked onto Allen’s.

  "You are unique… and so shall the game be."

  His smile widened unnaturally.

  "An ‘Only For You’ gift."

  With every inch that smile stretched, Allen’s fear grew alongside it.

  Inside Allen’s mind:

  “…What’s wrong with that guy?… His presence is terrifying… It feels like it’s reaching into my soul…”

  His breathing became heavier.

  Slower.

  Shakier.

  The space around him felt distorted — as if reality itself was leaning toward Nimare.

  Suddenly…

  Nimare lowered his head.

  The suffocating fear that had clawed at Allen’s mind vanished the moment Nimare moved.

  Allen’s body exhaled automatically, his muscles relaxing, his heart trying to catch up…

  And then, in a heartbeat…

  Nimare was right in front of him.

  Time froze.

  Allen’s eyes widened, frozen in shock.

  A knife gleamed, cruel and merciless, sliding into his chest, inching relentlessly toward his heart.

  His mind screamed, his body refused to respond. Fear had petrified him.

  Nimare’s voice, smooth and terrifying, whispered:

  "We will meet soon…"

  Then, with a motion both fluid and savage, the knife slashed upward, carving a dark, angry line of blood from chest to shoulder, tearing flesh with surgical precision. Every nerve screamed, every instinct begged him to move — but Allen couldn’t.

  "See you on the other side…"

  Before he could even blink… Allen was drowning in a river of crimson, the blood rising around him, the world spinning, darkness pressing in from all sides.

  Every sense was consumed by it. His body, his mind, his soul… all trapped in a moment where horror became reality.

  Allen lost consciousness, his body refusing to hold itself together.

  He surrendered to the unknown.

  After a while, his mind slowly stirred.

  He regained awareness, his vision blurry, limbs trembling.

  Exhaustion pinned him to the ground — standing was impossible, so he settled for sitting.

  He looked around.

  Shock gripped him.

  In the distance, a huge modern city loomed — buildings detailed, yet abandoned. Nature had long begun reclaiming it, creeping over steel and concrete. Crimson plains stretched endlessly around him, merging seamlessly with the desolation under his feet.

  He lifted his gaze.

  The sky was a murky black-grey. At first, he couldn’t tell if it was clouds or the void itself. Then, as it shifted, the true sky revealed itself — pure, impenetrable black, like staring into nothingness. Into the void.

  His eyes fell on a massive screen hanging from one of the buildings, flickering and glitching.

  Suddenly, Nimare appeared, seated in an office, elbows resting on the table, fingers interlocked before his head, hat shadowing his eyes.

  "This time… it is different," Nimare began, voice calm yet commanding.

  "It will be about survival — in every sense, by every measure.

  You will witness something entirely unique… just like you.

  Here, you shall face your fate… your demise… your destiny."

  Allen’s eyes widened, fixed on him.

  Nimare’s voice rose, sharp and resonant:

  "The Survival Game shall begin… NOW!"

  He lifted his head, revealing that terrifying, uncanny visage, eyes locking on Allen like steel.

  "Let us begin… shall we?"

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