Obinai forces his gaze to sweep the nightmare again.
His mother's corpse—no, not corpse, not quite—twitches where it hangs suspended in the black. Her fingers, too long and too thin, curl and uncurl like dying spiders. Her face is still hers, but wrong—lips peeled back too far, eyes hollowed out, weeping thick black tears that drip into the abyss below.
His father's body is worse.
Ribs jut through torn flesh, the bones yellowed and cracked. His mouth moves, whispering words that don't reach Obinai's ears, just the wet, clicking sound of a tongue lolling against broken teeth.
And Mya—
He can't bear to look.
But...
She's the most intact. The most alive. Her fingers clutch at the darkness like a child clinging to bedsheets, her wide, glassy eyes staring right at him. Her lips part—
"Obi...?"
A whisper. His name. In her voice.
Obinai's knees nearly give.
Beelzebub laughs—a sound like nails dragged across slate.
"Like it?" he purrs, gesturing to the horror show with a flick of his wrist. "Took me ages to get the details right." He leans forward, grinning. "The sounds were the hardest part. Had to dig deep for those."
Obinai's chest heaves. His vision blurs.
Not real. Not real. NOT REAL—
"Oh, but it could be." He says. "All I need... is a little cooperation."
Mya whimpers.
Obinai snaps.
"SHUT UP!"
His voice cracks like a whip. The void shudders. Beelzebub's grin doesn't falter—if anything, it grows.
"There he is," he says.
Beelzebub follows Obinai's horrified stare once again before giving a silent sigh of satisfaction. "But what can I say, right?" He shrugs. "They keep me company. I mean, I did get the juiciest bits of my power from them. Least I could do was, y'know… preserve them."
He giggles at this.
Obinai's mouth opens, but Beelzebub claps his hands together, cutting him off. "Wait, wait, wait! Silly me!" He hops around in front of Obinai, landing with a wet squelch in the black sludge as it separates to avoid him. "I showed you the boring stuff. C'mon, c'mon—gotta see my favorite part!"
He grabs Obinai's wrist—his fingers burning cold—and drags him forward. The sludge parts like living oil, corpses bobbing to the surface as they pass.
Obinai's stomach lurches.
Lab coats.
Tattered, blood-soaked, but unmistakable. The faces beneath are almost familiar—like people he's seen in passing, in dreams, in half-remembered flashes.
Then—
A woman.
Long black hair, still tied in a neat ponytail. Her neck is crushed, bent at a grotesque angle. Milky-white eyes stare blankly, tears of black ichor rolling down her cheeks.
Beelzebub cackles, kicking her shoulder. "Ohhh, this one! Chef's kiss." He licks his lips obscenely. "Her knowledge? Mmm. Delicious." He taps his chin, mock-thoughtful. "Emily, right? Yeah, Emily." A sigh. "Such a bright future she had. But—" He leans in, whispering conspiratorially, "—I'm someone who skips to the good parts."
Obinai's hands shake.
No. No, no, no—
Beelzebub skips ahead, humming tunelessly. The corpses thin out, until—
Crowe.
Obinai's breath stops.
The man lies perfectly preserved—blue eyes glassy, jaw gone, a jagged scar splitting his face. His gray military cut is still crisp, the scent of cigarettes clinging to him like a ghost.
Beelzebub whistles. "Ooooh, this one pissed you off, huh?" He pokes Crowe's cheek. "I mean, I get it. Guy had serious stick-up-his-ass energy."
Obinai's vision swims.
I did this.
The thought slams into him.
No—HE did. But with my hands. My body.
Beelzebub pivots gracefully. "And the most delicious irony?" He extends his arms in a mockingly grand gesture, the shadows clinging to his form like loyal serpents. "No one will ever believe it wasn't you who did this." A dark chuckle slips through his teeth. "How... unfortunate."
The void itself seems to pulse in amusement, a chorus of whispering echoes wrapping around his words.
Obinai's legs give way, his knees sinking into the black sludge with a sickening squelch.
Beelzebub lowers himself into a crouch. He tilts his head, studying Obinai with a gaze that's both mocking and disturbingly intent. "Come now," he murmurs. "Isn't regret your oldest companion? Your most faithful friend?" A smirk tugs at his lips. "Or did you truly think you could outrun it forever in this small bliss of life I've given you?"
Obinai's fingers curl into fists.
Beelzebub's grin stretches again, his teeth glinting in the dim, sourceless light of the void. His fingers tap against his thigh in a restless rhythm.
"Such a pity," Beelzebub muses. He exhales dramatically. "I did comb through his memories, you see. Delved deep into that fascinating human psyche of his." A delicate shudder runs through him, his nose wrinkling in distaste. "All those squishy little thoughts and emotions—messy business, really."
His lips curl. "But you have to admire the dedication. The man was positively enchanted by human history. Could recite entire eras like poetry. Almost charming, in a pathetic sort of way."
Then his expression shifts, something sharper creeping into his gaze. "Ah, but his death?" A slow, deliberate blink, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips. "Exquisite. That precise instant when the spark of life just... snuffs out?" He tilts his head, savoring the memory. "Mmm. Nothing quite like it."
Obinai stares at him, disgust twisting his features.
Beelzebub blinks. "What? You hated the guy! Thought you'd be, like, thrilled to see him like this!" He lazily skips around over to the corpse and giving it a playful poke with his boot. "I mean, look at this mess! Half-elf wife? Dead. Died right in his arms because of elves—"
Obinai catches that. "Wai—"
Beelzebub isn't listening...
"And then," he declares, spinning on his heel with a flourish, "the man goes utterly deranged, doesn't he? Decides it's best purge every race from existence—save for his precious humans—only to realize, oh dear, his own flesh and blood carries those unsavory non-human traits he so despises!" He clutches his chest, gasping in theatrical distress. "The hypocrisy! The betrayal! So what does our noble visionary do?"
A pause.
"Why, he turns his own child into a test subject, of course."
He clicks his tongue, shaking his head with faux disappointment. "And let us not overlook how he weaponized his subordinates' unwavering loyalty—oh, their fervent devotion—to further his grand, genocidal ambitions." He sighs wistfully, fingers twirling in the air. "I yearned to carve his heart out myself, you know. To make it exquisite. To make it personal..."
His expression darkens, just for a moment. "Alas, I was... overzealous." He shrugs. "Popped his head like an overripe melon before I could truly savor it."
His gaze snaps to Obinai.
"Men like him?" His voice drops to a whisper, cold and deliberate. "They deserve to know death when it comes for them. At the very least."
Then—his eyes light up. "OH! And him!"
Before Obinai can react, Beelzebub moves with unsettling grace, his form blurring as he glides past.
Obinai's feet move before his mind catches up—one step, then another—until he freezes.
No.
The body.
Santos.
The blond's usually messy hair is plastered wet and dark against his forehead. His green eyes—once so annoyingly bright—are dull, staring blankly at nothing. His chest is a ruin, a gaping hole torn straight through, edges still glistening with phantom blood.
Memories surge—flashes of Beelzebub's taunting laughter, Santos choking on his own blood, the demon using Obinai's own hand to plunge through his back—
Obinai's knees hit the muck with a sickening squelch.
"Why...?" The word tears out of him. His vision blurs, hot tears spilling over. "Why me? You could've picked any self-righteous bastard to ruin! I was supposed to fade—just die like I was meant to—!"
Beelzebub stops poking Santos's corpse. His grin doesn't fade, but his eyes—Obinai's eyes—narrow with something like annoyance.
"Ugh, must we endure this tiresome routine again?" Beelzebub rolls his eyes with theatrical exasperation, his body tilting backward as if pulled by invisible strings. He floats midair in a languid sprawl, one leg crossed over the other, his arms draped behind his head like a lounging aristocrat. "You persistently fail to grasp the fundamental premise! Each time I present you with an exquisitely crafted nightmare, you respond with the same dreary lamentations!"
His legs kick petulantly. "'Woe is me!' 'Why must I suffer?' 'This is unjust!'" He mocks in a high-pitched whine, fluttering his fingers in dismissal. "Such monotonous complaints. Have you no creativity in your despair?"
Obinai's choked sob dies in his throat.
Beelzebub tsks, flipping upright with unnatural grace until he hovers just before Obinai's face, close enough that their noses nearly touch. "The entire point, my obtuse little host, is to enrage you. To stoke that delicious, seething fury until it eclipses all reason." He tilts his head, lips curling in a smirk. "I want you quivering with the need to tear me limb from limb."
A dramatic sigh escapes him. "And yet, here you are—philosophizing. Pondering ethics and fairness like some dull scholar." His golden eyes flick back to Obinai. "Honestly, it's exhausting."
He twirls a lock of Obinai's hair around one finger before releasing it with a flick. "Must I spell everything out for you?"
A beat.
Then—WHAM!
An invisible force smashes into Obinai's gut, lifting him clean off the ground. His breath explodes out of him in a choked gasp as he spirals through the air before crashing back into the muck, skidding several feet.
He groans, rolling onto his side—just in time to see Beelzebub looming over him, arms crossed.
"You're really testing my patience," the demon grumbles, tilting his head. "And I don't have a lot of that."
Obinai gags, black ichor dripping from his lips as he spits onto the endless dark floor. His ribs ache where phantom wounds still throb, his skin sticky with sweat.
Beelzebub watches. Then he sighs, long and dramatic.
"Ugh. Do you know what I find utterly insufferable?" He flicks his wrist with deliberate grace, and the grotesque puppets of Obinai's family jerk violently in response, limbs contorting at unnatural angles. "The tediously dull." His voice drips with exaggerated disdain as he leans in closer. "My dear, obstinate child...I am eternal. Entertainment isn't merely a preference—it's a necessity."
A slow, razor-edged smile spreads across his face. "So you'll forgive me if I refuse to sit idly by while my host bores me into an early...well, not death, obviously. But you understand the principle." His fingers twitch, and the corpses let out a synchronized, gurgling moan. "I simply cannot tolerate wasted time."
Obinai doesn't move.
Doesn't flinch.
He just sits there, slumped forward. Slowly, he drags a hand across his face, wiping away the grime and the tears.
Then, a sound.
A weak, broken chuckle.
"Yeah, well..." Obinai rasps. "Hard to 'move on' when you keep shoving this shit in my face." He gestures vaguely at the nightmare around them. "Like, congrats, asshole. You've traumatized me. Again." His lips twist into something that might've been a smile if it weren't so hollow. "But if anything? You're the boring one. Running out of material. Same old tricks."
For the first time—the very first time—Beelzebub's face twitches.
A flicker. A crack in that smug, ever-present mask.
Just for a second. Just long enough for Obinai to see it.
Anger.
Then—
Beelzebub laughs.
It starts as a low chuckle, then builds, echoing through the void like a chorus of screaming shadows. He slaps his knee, doubling over, wiping imaginary tears from his eyes.
"Ohhh, that's exquisite!" Beelzebub gasps between peals of laughter, clutching his stomach. Slowly he regains his composure before continuing. "Then again," he says, tapping his chin, "I'm actually a little stunned that the little stunt you pulled brought you here." He chuckles.
Obinai's fingers twitch involuntarily at his sides as fractured memories surface through.
"Wait..." His voice is hoarse, uncertain. "I... remember something. When I hit the dirt—there was this... voice. Like a command, but... soothing. Said I'd win if I just... said it." He flexes his hands, phantom pain lancing up his arms. "My body hurt... but then..."
He trails off, the pieces not quite connecting.
Beelzebub's grin stretches, slow and knowing. "Ahhh," he drawls. "That must be why."
"Why what?" Obinai snaps.
"Your soul is cracked, Obinai."
A beat.
"...What?"
Beelzebub sighs, rolling his eyes. "Vale constructed your soul like some exquisite little citadel—every layer of essence meticulously compacted into an absolute bastion against tampering. He leans forward, invading Obinai's space until their faces are mere inches apart—close enough for Obinai to see the fractured versions of himself reflected in those bottomless black eyes.
"Unless, of course," he continues, "you were to compromise it yourself. Say... by invoking one of those archaic spells conveniently embedded in your psyche for this tournament."
"Almost as if someone _wanted_ you vulnerable to having your soul crushed by me."
Obinai's heartbeat stutters.
No.
Images flash—his family's faces. Blood running in rivulets down academy hallways. Bram's corpse, cold and staring—
"No, no, no—"
His hands fly up, fingers trembling with barely-contained rage. One palm slaps over his forearm—the casting stance for Magic Missile—
—and nothing happens.
The spell flickers, dies.
What...
Beelzebub lets out an exaggerated sigh, rolling his eyes as he scuffs the toe of his boot against the void's surface. "Oh, do relax," he says, flicking a dismissive hand through the air. "Must you always assume the worst? I was merely indulging in a bit of dark humor."
His lips twist into a lopsided smirk. "Honestly, if I intended anything untoward, child, you'd be the first to know." A pause, then he adds with a wink, "Well... perhaps the second."
Then he turns, sauntering toward the eclipsed sun, hands stuffed in his pockets. His white locs sway with each step, the shadows curling around his ankles like affectionate cats.
At the horizon, he pauses. Doesn't look back.
"But just remember..." His voice lingers in the air like an aftertaste. "The pieces are now in motion, and the stage is set. How... entertaining this shall become."
"You may resist, little spark. But the tale has already begun its telling."
A beat.
"Leave."
Obinai's body launches backward, bones rattling, vision whiting out.
Then—
Nothing.
...
...
Obinai's eyes snap open—
—and his scream shatters the silence.
His body convulses, arching off the cot, muscles locked in a spasm of pure panic. The sheets tangle around his legs, damp with cold sweat. His hands claw at nothing, fingers curling into rigid talons—
Not real not real NOT REAL—
The elven nurse—her silver hair pulled into its usual severe bun—jerks back, her porcelain composure cracking for a single, unguarded moment. A glass vial slips from her fingers, shattering against the tile in a spray of blue liquid.
"Gods—!"
She recovers fast. In an instant, her hands clamp down on his wrists, her grip iron-strong despite her slender frame. Obinai thrashes, his elbow catching her ribs with a dull thud. She hisses but doesn't let go.
"Enough!" Her voice cracks like a whip. "You're awake! You're safe!"
Safe? Safe?!
His lungs burn. His vision swims with afterimages—his mother's hollow eyes, Mya's pleading voice, Beelzebub's grin stretching too wide—
"Get off me—!" He wrenches against her hold, his knee jerking up, barely missing her stomach. The cot groans beneath them, one leg buckling under the force of his panic.
The nurse's lips press into a thin line. With a grunt, she shoves him back down, her knee pinning his thigh to the mattress. "I said stop!" Her breath is warm and sharp with the scent of mint leaves and antiseptic. "Breathe, you fool! Breathe!"
Obinai's chest hitches. Air scrapes down his throat like broken glass.
Breathe. Breathe. FUCKING BREATHE—
Slowly—agonizingly—the world comes back into focus.
The sting of her nails in his skin. The drip-drip of the shattered vial still pooling on the floor. The too-bright glow of the floating lamps overhead, their light searing his dilated pupils.
His body goes slack, all at once. A puppet with its strings cut.
The nurse exhales sharply but doesn't release him. Not yet. Her eyes— blue—scan his face, searching for any sign he'll bolt again.
A sharp exhale escapes the nurse's lips—half relief, half exasperation. "There," she mutters. "Finally decided to use that brain of yours instead of thrashing it to pieces."
Her grip loosens, but not before she ensures the wild, animal panic in his eyes has receded. The moment his breathing steadies—ragged but no longer frantic—she releases him, stepping back.
Obinai collapses against the cot, his body sinking into the thin mattress. His chest rises and falls in uneven bursts, sweat cooling on his skin, the phantom echoes of the nightmare still clinging to him like cobwebs.
Alive. Awake. Not there.
The nurse watches him for a heartbeat longer. "You scared the life out of me," she admits, the words clipped but lacking their earlier bite. She smooths her tunic with a brisk tug. "If you wake up like that again, I'm strapping you to the bed. Understood?"
Obinai nods weakly.
The nurse turns away, her movements efficient as she cleans the mess before sorting vials of shimmering elixirs and bundles of fresh bandages. Glass clinks softly, a fragile counterpoint to the tension still humming in the air.
"Your external injuries are stable," she says without looking at him. "Bruises will fade. Cuts will close." A pause. The next words land like stones. "But it'll take months for you to recover."
Obinai's brow furrows. His voice, when it comes, is sandpaper rough. "Recover... what?"
The nurse exhales sharply through her nose. Her fingers—knotted with old scars from magical backlash—tighten around the clipboard as she fixes Obinai with a stare that could flay skin from bone.
"That spell," she begins, "is Sun Eater—an ancient abomination ripped from the Black Vault's deepest archives." Her knuckles whiten around the pen. "It doesn't just use mana. It ruptures the magic circles inside a one's body and cause quite detrimental effects to the soul. Turns them into a living detonation."
Oh...
The nurse leans in. The scent of crushed moonblossom and antiseptic burns his nose. "If you'd fully shattered both circles?" Another pause. "The explosion would've liquefied everyone within fifty paces."
A cold sweat slithers down Obinai's spine. His throat works—no sound comes out.
For a fractured moment, something flickers in the nurse's gaze. Not pity. Not quite. Her hand twitches toward his shoulder—
—then recoils, as if burned.
"Your inexperience saved lives today," she mutters, turning sharply toward the next cot. Her heels click like a judge's gavel against the tile. "Pray it's the last time."
Obinai stares at his palms.
They're clean.
No blood.
No scorch marks.
Just—
He cuts off the thought, shaking his head. His gaze locks onto the figure lying motionless in the bed across from him.
Gideon.
The sight of him sends a jolt through Obinai's chest. His friend—always so loud, so alive—now lies unnervingly still, his broad frame swallowed by layers of bandages. The wrappings are tight, but the faintest bloom of red seeps through near his shoulders.
The nurse moves efficiently, her fingers adjusting the linen strips. She doesn't look at Obinai as she speaks.
"He'll wake soon," she says. "A spell keeps him under so the healing can take properly." Her hands hover over Gideon's reattached arms, the skin there still too pale, too wrong, like wax molded back into shape. "Reattaching limbs isn't like stitching cloth. The body remembers trauma."
Obinai's fingers dig into the sheets, the fabric rough against his skin. "Will he...?" The words die before they fully form.
The nurse exhales sharply through her nose, finally turning to face him.
"The arms will move. In time." Her lips press into a thin line. "But the nerves? The muscle memory? That's not something even high magic can rush." She hesitates, then adds, quieter, "And the mind... the mind holds onto pain longer than the flesh."
A beat of silence. Somewhere in the infirmary, a water clock drips...
Obinai's jaw clenches. His vision blurs, but he refuses to let it linger. Instead, he watches Gideon's chest rise and fall—steady, at least.
The nurse turns back to other work. "Rest," she says, not unkindly. "You're no use to him like this."
Obinai spares another look at Gideon.
He looks smaller like this.
Obinai watches as the nurse adjusts the pillows beneath Gideon's head, his gaze flickering to the way her fingers linger—just for a second—on Gideon's wrist while checking his pulse. A small, unconscious gesture.
Then she turns away, crossing to the empty bed in the corner. The sheets there are rumpled, the imprint of a smaller body still pressed into the mattress. She strips them with quick, sharp tugs, the fabric whispering as it slides free.
"That halfling boy," she says, her voice flat, "healed fast. Not fast enough, though." The fresh linen snaps as she shakes it out. "Not for that dark elf."
Damn.
He doesn't answer. Doesn't trust his voice not to crack. Instead, he exhales, long and slow, and lets himself sink...
The frame creaks under his weight, the sound oddly comforting.
Above him, cracked ceiling stretches above him. A soft blue glow leaks through the gap—one of the floating light bulbs drifting past outside. Its light flickers weakly, gears inside it clicking as it moves. Puffs of steam escape from its sides, disappearing into the darkness of the crack.
Obinai stares at the broken line, watching the light pulse through it. The steady hum of the academy's machines vibrates through the walls, their sound deep and constant.
Another bulb passes by outside, its glow brightening for a moment before dimming again. The light feels like something he should understand, but he's too tired to think about it. His eyes grow heavy, the blue smears against the ceiling blurring as the world fades at the edges.
Sleep comes in fits and starts, a restless, shallow thing.
Somewhere in the haze, he thinks he hears Gideon groan.
But when he jerks awake, the room is silent.
And Gideon hasn't moved at all...