"What is this?" Hill's father began, his gravelly voice cracking with confusion as he stared at the bandaged figure. "What have you done to me? Why is my son here?"
The figure didn't reply. Not bothering to pay any attention to the old fool beneath it. Instead, it broke its pose of worship, separating its palms and spreading its arms to full span. It looked up, staring into the dimensional divide above it, where utter darkness met overcast grey clouds.
"Hey! I was talkin' to you, basta—" The old man began, stomping towards the bandaged figure. However, the return of the ethereal text stopped him in his tracks. With a sudden hum, glowing glyphs started emerging from the crystal balls. Swirling around the winged figure, they ascended until they stood just above the crystal balls before violently clashing against each other in brilliant light flashes. It was like they were watching a heavenly fireworks show.
And as Hill watched, he noticed that the light flashes weren't for show. With each brilliant clash of glyphs, an earthly letter was formed. This continued until a harrowing message was left suspended above the winged mystery.
[Two souls stand at the crossroads of existence.]
[Yet the path to rebirth remains narrow.]
[The victor shall walk the path.]
[The vanquished shall be erased.]
The two stared at the glowing text in shock, unsure what to do next.
This...this creature...it wants me to fight my father? That seems to be what it's implying... Hill thought to himself as he gazed at the message, a sinking feeling overwhelming his mind. The vanquished shall be erased...those words can only mean one thing.
He stared at his father, who was still gazing at the glowing text. If I lose, I won't be reborn...I will die forever.
His father seemed to reach the same conclusion as Hill did. Wrenching his gaze away from the glowing edict, the old man fixed Hill with an intense glare. Usually, Hill was accustomed to seeing the drunken rage in the old man's eyes, but this gaze differed.
His father wasn't drunk or woozy; he had definitely tasted death just moments earlier. Right now, he was as clear-minded as he could possibly be. This version of his father was unknown to him, and Hill grew increasingly nervous.
With a heavy sigh, the elderly man scratched the back of his head.
"Looks like only one of us will get a ticket out of this hellhole, boy," his black eyes glimmering in the darkness of his face. "You know what that means?"
"I get it, sir," Hill answered, hardly raising his voice above a whisper.
"All right," the elderly man said, his face even more stern, "let's finish this as soon as possible. I don't want to waste any more time in this dreary afterlife.
However, a sudden gust of wind blew from the direction of the bandaged figure before either of them could move. It was moving slowly downward, dislodging the air next to it with its ferocious beating wings.
Then, the creature spoke. Its voice didn't come from its mouth but seemed to 'spawn' directly into Hill's mind. The voice had no discernible gender, and many voices were overlapping in uncanny synchronization. A thousand voices compacted into one ominous tone.
"THE CONDITIONS ARE UNDERSTOOD," the creature announced, its many voices shaking Hill to his bones. "FIVE CYCLES OF THIS REALM'S TIME SHALL DETERMINE THE VICTOR. UPON THEIR COMPLETION, A VICTOR WILL BE DETERMINED."
Upon saying this, the winged figure raised both hands. Strings of light began to shoot out from its fingertips. They convoluted and twisted around each other rapidly as they began to form. Eventually, the strings of light were woven into the shape of two daggers slowly floated towards them by the creature.
Then, the pillars around them began to shine from within, causing the carvings to shine ominously as if some strange ritual had begun. The crystal balls began to shine as well. The glowing edict above the figure warped, changing shape and size until it became a straightforward line.
[5:00]
A timer set for five minutes. As soon as the final change occurred, a thunderclap shook the entire realm, and the timer began counting down. Hill instinctively grabbed his dagger as it finally came to him.
The blade, composed of a glowing white substance he had never seen before, was extraordinarily light and sharp. Even though it felt alien, the handle was precisely sized to fit his fingers and palm.
This was the first time he had wielded any weapon, after all. He had no way of knowing whether he would use it correctly. It could be completely different from what he had imagined. Maybe he would end up hurting himself if he used it recklessly. There were too many possibilities and uncertainties.
But that worry was quickly pushed to the side of his mind as he prepared for his father's inevitable attack. Hill had been on the receiving end of the old man's violence enough times to know what came next. His father would lunge forward without warning, aiming to end things as quickly and brutally as possible.
He would just have to wait for him to rush in, and hopefully, he could stick a mean counter into him. There was no hope for him to initiate the action; his body was too frail for an attack like that to achieve anything.
The timer showed 4:45, then 4:44, and still, his father remained where he was. Hill tensed, expecting the attack at any second, but it didn't come. The old man just stood there, staring at the weapon in his hands.
Hill found himself growing more anxious with every passing second. This wasn't like his father at all. The man he knew would have already made his move, would have already been across the space between them with fists, belts, or whatever else was handy. But instead, his father just kept looking at the dagger.
The timer showed 4:30, then 4:29, and still, the old man made no move to attack.
Then, his father's expression finally shifted, settling into the mask of rage that Hill had learned to fear over the years.
Hill's father lunged forward, slicing at his throat with the glowing blade. His swing was very wide arcing, too broad. It missed Hill's neck by a mere inch.
Hill gasped as he felt the displaced air brush against his skin, causing him to stumble backward in surprise.
His father swung again, but Hill had already stumbled out of range, so the swing cut through empty air again.
"Quit the movin', ya bastard," his father grumbled with frustration. "I'm trying to make this quick for you."
Hill opened his mouth to respond, but the old man wasn't intent on letting him speak. He continued to slice at his son in wide, deliberate motions. But each swing seemed to lack the precision that Hill had expected. His father was much stronger than him, and he wasn't hindered by alcohol at the present moment.
Yet despite these advantages, the old man's movements were sluggish. It was clear that the years of heavy drinking had taken a costly toll on his body.
Hill dodged each strike mostly out of trauma-induced instinct. His body seemed to automatically recoil whenever his father extended his arm to swing. It was a response he'd learned early, and it was something he could never unlearn.
The flinch that came from too many nights when those same hands would find their mark for no understandable reason.
But despite his success in keeping out of the range of the deadly slashes, Hill knew this couldn't last forever. The state of his body was horrible, worse than his father's aged flesh. His respiratory problems would catch up with him soon; when they did, he would be left wheezing for air.
It was a vulnerability he couldn't afford, and his time was running out.
I have to try something, Hill realized. I can't just keep running from him. I need to be offensive, somehow.
As his father lunged at him again, swinging widely and wildly, Hill finally made a move.
Instead of dodging away like before, he held his blade close to his body and pushed forward, closing the distance between them. He thrust the blade toward the old man's chest, making sure to put his entire flimsy body weight behind it.
His father's eyes widened with shock as Hill suddenly ended up behind his blade. The old man tried to twist away, but he moved too slowly. Hill's blade plunged through his father's chest in a wet thunk, burying itself deep into flesh and muscle.
The sight of blood—so much blood—spilling onto his feeble hands made Hill recoil in horror. He yanked the blade out with a sickeningly wet sound, several heavy droplets of blood following the sharp edge out.
His father dropped to his knees, clutching at the deep wound as he struggled to breathe.
Hill stared down at the damage that he'd done. His own father, the man who had raised him with a drunken fist, was on his knees, bleeding out from a deep stab wound to the chest.
A torrent of emotions overwhelmed his consciousness. He knew he should feel...vindicated. He should feel free. But that wasn't the case at all.
Despite everything—despite years of piled-up emotional and physical abuse that had battered his young soul to its core—tears began to fall from Hill's eyes. His hands trembled with guilt, and his lips quivered in anxious agony.
He moved closer to the bleeding man before him, his free hand reaching out.
"F-father?" he asked, his voice shaking. "Are you..."
What a foolish decision that was.
The dagger came from out of nowhere, carving through Hill's torso and chest in a brutal arc, causing blood to splatter onto the black marble below.
Hill stumbled backward, looking down to see blood pouring out of his body.
"Ah—" He began, his voice cut off by the blood welling up in his throat. The pain hit him like a freight train, and he collapsed to his side. His head struck the ground hard enough to make his vision blur.
The feeling of something warm spreading across his chest meshed weirdly, with a chilling cold spreading within his chest. His thoughts were blurred, just like his vision. Countless images flashed before his mind, primarily memories of mundane but memorable moments of his sixteen-year-old existence.
Tears began to trickle from his open eyes.
"You...idiot..." his father said, coughing up blood between those two words. "Why...the hell did you move closer?"
Hill couldn't speak. Every attempt at speaking was met with a wet, choking sound. He could taste copper in his mouth, and he could feel his blood spilling onto the cold floor below.
He heard the shuffling of fabric and the screech of shoes against the marble ground. He couldn't see the old man but could hear his wet breathing, like a drooling dog.
Then, out of the corner of his blurry vision, he could see his father standing above him, the bloody dagger held in his trembling hands.
His father's signature grey coat was drenched in his own blood and splattered with some of Hill's own. Blood streamed out of his nose and mouth, and his eyes were unfocused. His facial expression was strangely unreadable. It wasn't angry or sad; it was something that Hill had never seen before.
"Stupid little shit..." his father said, his voice trembling and cracking at the same time. "That was a damn good stab, you know."
He felt his father's shaky knee brush against his chest as the old man knelt down. Then, he felt the edge of his father's blade against his own throat. His eyes widened.
The old man's hands were shaking badly now, and he could feel the edge of the blade rubbing sharply against his neck, drawing blood.
Hill tried to protest but only managed to cough up a load of blood instead. Tears began to stream from the corners of his eyes as he felt his life coming to an unceremonious end.
For some reason, though, his father seemed to be hesitating.
Hill heard him attempt to take a deep breath, but that was quickly followed by him vomiting blood onto his frail form instead. The old man spat out the remnant blood onto the floor and looked back down at Hill, making eye contact with his son.
For a moment, nothing happened. They stared at each other, jet black staring into deep crimson. Then, Hill closed his eyes and waited for the final blow.
But it never came.
Instead, he felt his father's weight suddenly collapse on top of him. His dagger clattered harmlessly to the floor as the old man's body went limp, driving the remaining air from Hill's blood-filled lungs.
And then...everything turned black.