Dearest observer,

Let me tell you a tale—one that begins on a fateful night. A night when the shadows of the massacred and the tortured souls of the mystical world writhed and twisted, birthing a disastrous change—an anomaly in this already illogical realm of fantasy.

***

Slash Slice Scrape Shred Smash

These agonising sounds echoed endlessly in the nightmarish room. It was a dark, cold place—a unique kind of hell for its sole occupant. The room's hollowness made even the faintest breath linger in its oppressive silence. Shadows crept slowly, swallowing the figure of a man suspended by chains.

From the consuming darkness, another figure emerged—a nightmare draped in flesh.

"Are you aware... that human skin sheds and renews its outer layer every two to three weeks?" The man spoke with a chilling poise, his voice low and deliberate, yet tinged with a peculiar fascination.

He wore a hooded robe, its tattered edges casting shadows over his face as he addressed the bloodied figure hanging by his wrists.

The man hanging by his wrists didn’t answer. His shredded Oxford shirt and mangled trousers barely clung to his battered body. Blood trickled from deep gashes on his head, pooling at the floor beneath his unrecognisable feet. He hung limply, a broken puppet held by rusty chains.

The mysterious hooded man stepped into the dim light—a towering figure of dread. His robe, tattered and as dark as a starless night, seemed to absorb what little light surrounded him. It rendered his form almost invisible, yet his presence was undeniable, as if the shadows themselves bowed to his command.

Cracked leather gloves, their oxblood hue faded and worn, encased his hands. The weathered surface spoke of years steeped in sinister deeds, each crack a testament to unspeakable acts.

Beneath the robe, faint glimpses of a black silk vest revealed themselves. Its surface was embroidered with intricate crimson patterns that pulsed faintly, alive with an enigmatic energy. The red accents shimmered like smouldering embers, casting an eerie glow that seemed to dance across the encroaching shadows.

The hooded man paused, his tools of torment clattering onto a nearby table. He stood motionless for a moment, his gaze fixed on the broken figure before him. The shattered ribs, slashed and shredded flesh, the grotesquely swollen face, and, most horrifying of all, the crushed, pulsating remnants of the man’s legs—all bore testament to his cruel artistry.

"Fascinating, is it not? A true masterpiece, yet... it lacks a certain thrill," the hooded man mused, his gloved hand reaching for a slim steel stake. His voice, deep and smooth, carried a refined air that clashed with the barbarity of his actions. The polished cadence of his British accent lent him the demeanour of an aristocrat—a stark contrast to the sadistic fiend he so clearly was.

With a swift, deliberate motion, he drove the stake into the mangled man’s nerve-damaged legs. The tortured figure convulsed slightly but remained silent.

The hooded man tilted his head, a trace of curiosity flickering in his shadowed face. "This should cause unbearable agony—yet not a single scream," he observed, his tone cool and analytical. "A groan here, a whimper there... but no cries of despair."

He pressed the stake deeper, prodding mercilessly as if searching for some hidden reaction. Yet the silence persisted, the defiance of the broken man only fueling his captor's intrigue.

"Why is that, I wonder?" the hooded man mused aloud, pressing the steel rod firmly against the man’s ribs. The victim squirmed under the pressure, his body betraying flickers of pain, though he uttered no sound beyond his laboured breaths.

At last, the bloodied man raised his head, though it hung precariously. His voice, hoarse and defiant, broke through the suffocating silence.

"I suppose I’m just...built different, haha," he rasped, a faint, grim chuckle escaping his cracked lips. He gasped sharply, his breath wheezing through bloodied teeth. "Why...are you doing this to me? Do I—" He coughed, his words faltering as he struggled for air. "Do I know you or something?"

Though fractured and strained, his voice carried a peculiar menace—a low, chilling rasp softened by an Irish lilt. Each agonising word was punctuated by gasps, his punctured lungs labouring to sustain him.

The hooded man halted, tilting his head in mock contemplation. "Why?" he repeated, his tone feigning innocence. "Why am I doing this to you? Well...let's just say you're someone who has a lot of sins to atone for. And I'm simply here to execute your punishment."

"Punishment?" The bloodied man coughed, his voice brittle but laced with a grim edge. "You mean t’say all this madness is meant to settle some score o’ mine? What sins, eh? Tell me what crime deserves this."

“Don’t act so innocent,” the hooded man said, his voice dripping with malice. Then, with a sly chuckle, he leaned in and whispered, “But no, this isn’t about justice. This is about revenge.”

The victim’s gaze sharpened. “Revenge?”

“Exactly,” the hooded man replied, grabbing a rusted saw. He caressed the jagged blade as though it were a cherished possession. “And now... let’s have some fun.”

“Wait!” the hanging man shouted, desperation creeping into his voice. “Let’s make a deal!”

“A deal?”

“Yes.” He gasped for air. “If you let me go, I’ll pay you. A hundred thousand manos, maybe two hundred. Hell, half a million. It’s yours—just let me go.”

The hooded man scratched his chin thoughtfully with the saw’s blunt edge. “Hmm... tempting.”

The victim’s face lit with faint hope.

“But no.”

With brutal precision, the torturer began sawing through his victim’s leg, the jagged blade tearing flesh and bone. The man screamed, his voice echoing through the chamber.

"Did you really think I'd let you go for a bit of manos?" he taunted, stepping back to admire the growing pool of blood.

The hanging man groaned but lifted his head, his bloodied purple eyes locking onto his captor. Through laboured breaths, he smirked. “Ha… Is that the best ye can do?”

The torturer’s smile faltered as his eyes narrowed, his gloved hand tightening around the rusted saw. “You know…” he began, his tone low and venomous, “I’ve always hated those cursed eyes of yours. They’ve haunted me for years.”

Leaning in close, the hooded man’s shadow consumed the tortured figure, his voice dropping to a chilling whisper. “Now, I’ll be doing the haunting. You won’t break easily... Good...! I wouldn’t want to end our fun too soon. You see…” He paused, a cruel smirk tugging at the corners of his ring-pierced lips, illuminated briefly by a stray beam of moonlight. “I’m just getting started.”

With that, he melted into the shadows once more, his presence as inescapable as the suffocating darkness around them.

The tortured man’s voice broke through the silence, hoarse but unwavering. “Kill me, if ye’ve got the nerve!” he barked, his Irish accent cutting through the oppressive air. “Tear me apart, break me into pieces—but ye’ll never take what makes me...me.” His words carried a stubborn fire, a flicker of hope in the suffocating gloom.

From the shadows, the hooded man’s voice resonated, calm and menacing. “Kill you?” He sounded almost amused, his tone laced with sinister intent. “Why would I kill you? Death is freedom... a mercy I have no intention of granting.”

Emerging slightly from the shadows, he loomed over his broken victim, his voice dropping to a chilling whisper. “Do you have any notion how long I have searched for you... old friend?” The last two words dripped with venom, as though the very phrase tasted bitter on his tongue.

The hooded man straightened, his presence dominating the room. “You’ll know pain,” he continued, his voice quiet but dripping with malice. “Not the fleeting kind. No... You’ll feel the kind of pain that tears at the very fibres of your being—a pain so deep it will unravel everything you are.”

As the words settled like a suffocating weight, small orbs of light began to flicker into existence around the room, their glow casting an unsettling pallor across the iron and blood-stained surfaces.

The tortured man, wide-eyed and trembling, rasped, “What... what are ye?”

The hooded man took a step forward, his silhouette merging seamlessly with the swirling darkness. The orbs floated around him, their ethereal glow tracing the outline of his haunting form.

“I am…” he began, his tone unnervingly calm, like the stillness before a storm. He leaned forward, his shadow engulfing the room as his next words came in a chilling whisper:

“…your nightmare.”

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Author's Notes✍🏾

['Manos' - the ruling currency of the novel world.]