Ken felt his blood turn to ice as the ground cracked open everywhere around him. An uncountable mass of battered figures swarmed forth like locusts, endless shadows given rough form.

Clad head to toe in rusted iron that screeched with their movements, the legions advanced with unrelenting, blundering steps. Beneath corroded helms, hollow eyes peered out from decayed flesh, bearing only a pang of hunger for battle.

They surrounded him in a creaking, bristling grove of rusty spears, closing off all hope of escape. Ken's terror threatened to swallow him whole - he was but prey to these bitter husks of war.

What da hell is going on!

But their ranks became overcrowded. Long-buried instincts flickered to life in their decayed brains. Spears began jabbing at armor-clad limbs beside them as jerking bodies lost coordination.

A piercing screech rent the air as rusted blades bit into fleshless bones. Nearby ghouls swung raggedly at the source, tangling others. The tight-packed horde turned into a spinning dance of rotting limbs and torn iron as mindless violence took hold.

Spears were dropped, helms tossed aside as things that were once men grappled and tore at each other like rabid beasts. No ploys or tactics remained - only an all-consuming madness driving them to destroy all in their path.

Ken stood horrorstruck amid the mayhem, watching the warriors dismember each other. Then, piercing his panic, a voice echoed across the ruins, “If you want to get out, find me there.” Ken's head jerked left to see Azrael pointing north before vanishing in an instant.

It wasn’t there before!

Ken spotted a pillar of obsidian spearing the gloom and spiking the writhing sea of undead below.

Without hesitation he rushed towards it, weaving between the preoccupied undead. Mid-sprint, an iron grip closed around Ken's ankle, slamming him to the ground. Turning, he saw a ghoul tearing its decayed flesh through its armor to grasp him. Its strength was unnatural, dead muscles straining to claim prey.

The clang of steel was thundering into Ken’s ears as he was dragged into the fray. Around him, warped figures hacked and swung on a loop, and an endless barrage of shrieks and thuds boomed into his mind.

The sickly-sweet scent of decay filled Ken's nostrils as three warriors descended. Steel flashed before his eyes, blades biting deep into his flesh. His scream was torn away by the noise as his nerves ignited in horrific pain.

But instead of death, a strange numbness came over him. Through the haze of agony, he felt split edges of injury pull back together, skin and muscle knitting at the joints. But the anguish lingered, a phantom echo in his bones.

Adrenaline surged through his veins like acid. His panicked breaths came too quick, jagged, and shallow. The taste of copper flooded his mouth as discarded limbs kicked up rust around thrashing boots.

Another heavy sword smashed into Ken's jaw, unleashing starbursts across his vision. Before the pounding in his skull could fade, hands grabbed his clothes to fling him upright once more.

Ken stumbled left as a rusted blade swept his right arm when another thrust bore down his leg—all he could do was fall back to the dirt and roll wildly between stamping boots and slashing weapons.

Grit was crushed under many wounds as Ken scrambled on all fours. He thrashed wildly, clawing through boots and mangled limbs for any escape from the endless torture. But the horde pressed relentlessly, blows landing ceaselessly to push him along like cattle to slaughter.

With each blow that should've felled him, Ken's vision spun, colors warping beneath a wave of nausea. Still, he was rooted in place, forced to repeat this cycle until sense abandoned him entirely.

Now he was lost in the tangle of combat, fear and fury cascading as his swarming attackers blurred into a hellish mist.

A hand grabbed Ken's hair, wrenching him down. A kick slammed into his ribs, throwing him onto his back.

Through watering eyes, Ken saw a warped figure looming over him, blade raised to cleave his flesh once more. He tried parrying the rusted sword one-handed. Steel echoed through flesh, and agony shot through his sliced palm. But he had deflected the blow.

Instinct took over – the fingers of his other hand scrabbled blindly at the ground. His questing hand closed around some object. Glimpsing down, Ken beheld a rusted dagger, its tip crimson with blood.

Bracing the knife forward two-handed, Ken rolled forth from beneath his assailant. The dagger plunged into a joint in rusty armor, barely hindering its motions but encouraging Ken to his feet.

Now armed, Ken parried the next attack with the dagger’s edge. He countered with a quick thrust, as he felt the edge piercing ruined flesh. Though wounds meant nothing, fighting back rekindled a small flame of hope in his heart.

I can see a way out of this! He grinned.

The first clashes were a blur of pain. Ken stumbled defenses, unable to parry the simplest strike. Blades pierced from all angles as he failed again and again.

Steel rang as Ken's blade was slapped aside yet again. His new opponent's return strike sent him crashing to the ground, lungs heaving. How long had he been at this? As always, wounds healed instantly. But a part of Ken longed to finally feel fatigued, to rest even for a moment. He gazed up at the eternal twilight, pleading silently for deliverance from this unending nightmare.

But escape meant mastery, and mastery lay in learning from failure. With a grunt, Ken pushed himself up once more. This time, when his foe charged in for the kill, he was ready.

Sidestepping smoothly, Ken allowed momentum to carry his attacker past, buying an opening. His blade darted through, landing a touch in rotten flesh through the small fissure on its back.

One small win at a time. Ken broke into a grin once more. One success built on failures past - if I could learn from one, more would follow.

On and on the battle raged, movements blending into instinct. Each exchange added to his experience, guiding his feet and honing reactions. An elegant dance took form as brute force gave way to finesse.

As the next wave approached, Ken braced for battle once more. But this time, he greeted them with a smirk.

“Ah, if it isn't Lefty and Stabby coming back for more!” The two rusted warriors shambled forward, oblivious to their new nicknames.

Ken danced around Lefty's clumsy swipes, landing quick stabs. “Not so fast without that arm, are ya?” With Stabby approaching, he rolled between them and kicked both into the marsh.

More spilled from the mist. “Look who decided to join, it's Crusty and Smashy!” Ken slid between the towering pair, provoking creaks from their ancient armor. A spin kicked off Crusty's helmet while Smashy stapled himself on Stabby's returning spear.

Chuckling, Ken surveyed the remaining squad. “Alright, lads, who's next? You look like a Bitey, and you... Legless!” His taunts brought down the shambling hordes one by one, laughter rising over their fast hisses.

As the battle dragged on, Ken began to forget the meaning of the word pain, but he most certainly had forgotten something called time. Perhaps dozens of cycles passed, who knew!

A hopping, spinning, gliding, rolling, and chuckling shadow he became.

Ken refined his technique. Subtle shifts of mass and minute gestures disrupted charging adversaries. Deflections transitioned to disarmament, turning weapons against their owners. The tide had slowly turned, but the legions were infinite.

Iteration upon iteration, Ken honed both body and mind. Predictive glimpses blossomed into full combat foresight. He saw openings before they existed and counters before strikes were thrown. Motion became flowing stillness, and what was brute force transformed into elegant efficiency.

Ken wove his deadly dance, luring warriors to their doom. With practiced grace he spun, letting momentum send foes toppling into the awaiting pits of quicksand.

One warrior tumbled into the wide pits with a metallic screech, flailing arms dragging neighbors down in linked armor. Ken spun amongst the shaking mass, pushing more over the brink with precise kicks.

Laughter danced upon Ken's lips at the absurdity of it all. “Bye bye Crusty! Don’t worry, your pal Lefty is keeping you company down there.”

Swamps engulfed armored shells by the dozen, the sand greedily sucking bodies down out of reach. But still, the horde pressed on, numbers ensuring some came within Ken's range. He led this new dance of death towards his only allies; the pits.

He parried with a flourish, allowing a well-aimed shove to topple the next into oblivion. Ken glided through the horde, a silken reed guiding an unrelenting flood to restless graves.

Spears thrust wild and true, yet found only sinking sands beneath nimble feet. Rusted blades sliced empty air, meeting only mocking grins and jesting taunts.

The field shivered under an ever-mounting weight of armor, the boy drove old adversaries to become companions in the watery end.

He danced on until his chuckles were the loudest sounds on the field.

He danced on, a tireless maestro conducting this grim music of flawless skill until finally, only one ghoul remained on steady ground.

It lurched toward Ken with a rough cry. “Last one standing! I'll call you Stubborn.” With a grin, Ken sidestepped and kicked it, dispatching Stubborn into the pit.

Exhausted but victorious, he turned northwards, the looks and shrieks of new undead friends seeing him off, on his way, as he began to run.

As he sprinted, more questions swirled in his head. The peak grew taller with each pounding step, an imposing monolith crowned with roiling hazes. What mysteries and dangers awaited underneath that shadowy crown? Only by finding Azrael would he learn more. His legs drove on, carrying him towards answers in that bleak stone.

Upon arriving at its base, carved from the same dark stone, was a throne. And seated upon it, as though he had waited millennia, was the enigmatic stranger.