Poisons call

The venom coursed through Belial like molten lead, searing his veins with every ragged breath. Each inhale dragged invisible shards of glass through his lungs, each exhale a shuddering fight against the haze clouding his mind.

His legs trembled beneath him, caught in a paradox of feeling too light...like they might float away and too heavy, as if rooted to the cursed earth. His head pounded with a rhythm that matched his faltering pulse, vision swaying like a drunkard's dance. The makeshift horn containers slung across his chest sloshed with water, their weight pulling at his weakening grip. Yet he forced himself onward—one step, then another...clinging to the fraying thread of his will.

Not here, he growled inwardly. I'm not dying here.

The forest, though, seemed to disagree. Its shadows stretched long and jagged under the fractured moonlight, the air thick with the musk of decay and something alive—something watching. The trees loomed like silent sentinels, their gnarled branches curling downward as if eager to snare him. Every rustle of leaves, every snap of a twig, set his frayed nerves alight. He was a trespasser here, and the forest knew it.

A low growl rippled through the underbrush, guttural and close. Belial's heart lurched, a violent jerk that snapped his weary mind into focus. Something's there. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword, but the grip felt wrong...weak, unsteady, like the blade belonged to a stranger. The venom's sluggish pull dulled his reflexes, turning his once-sharp instincts into a muddy haze.

Then—an instance of motion. A blur of shadow and teeth.

It lunged.

Belial swung his sword in a clumsy arc, the motion drunken and slow. Metal met flesh with a wet, sickening crunch, and a piercing screech tore through the night, sharp enough to rattle his skull. The beast recoiled, its dark mass staggering back, but the force of the collision ripped through Belial's unsteady frame. His footing faltered—his boots slipped on the damp moss—and he crashed backward, the earth slamming into his spine with a dull thud. Pain flared, bright and blinding, but he had no time to recover.

It was on him.

A howling whirlwind of claws and fury pinned him down, its weight crushing the air from his chest. Fangs...razor-sharp and dripping with venom—sank into his shoulder, shredding through leather and flesh in a single, brutal bite. Fresh agony erupted, a wildfire racing through his nerves, joining the venom's slow burn in a symphony of torment. His sword slipped from his grasp, clattering uselessly to the dirt. Claws raked across his ribs, a wet snap echoing as something inside him gave way—bone or cartilage, he couldn't tell. His vision flickered, black spots dancing at the edges.

Hallucination? he wondered, delirious. No—real. Too real.

His head lolled to the side, breath coming in shallow, wheezing gasps. The world warped around him, sliding into nightmare. Shadows stretched into towering, monstrous figures—hulking shapes with too many limbs. The trees above twisted, their branches reaching down like skeletal hands, eager to pluck him apart. The beast's growls deepened, slithering into his ears like worms.

Move, damn it MOVE.

With a roar that clawed its way from his gut, Belial summoned the last dregs of his strength. He thrust his knee upward, slamming it into the beast's soft underbelly. The creature howled, its grip loosening for a fleeting second—just enough. He shoved against it, rolling free as his body screamed in protest.

Blood oozed from his shoulder, hot and sticky, soaking into the earth. His fingers scrabbled in the dirt, finding the cold steel of his sword. He gripped it just as the beast lunged again, its claws a blur of death.

Too fast. Too damn fast.

Then suddenly instinct took over.

Belial twisted his momentum into a desperate stumble, lurching backward into the thick underbrush. Branches clawed at his skin, tearing fresh welts across his arms and face, but he didn't care. Distance—he needed distance. He stumbled into a run or what passed for one. His legs dragged, heavy and disobedient, tripping over roots and sinking into mud. The venom, the wounds, the exhaustion—they gnawed at him, a pack of wolves tearing at his resolve. But he didn't stop.

Behind him, the beast shrieked—a sound that split the night like a blade. Its pounding steps thundered closer, shaking the ground beneath him. Belial's vision blurred, reality fraying at the edges. The trees twisted into leering faces, their bark splitting into hollow, eyeless grins. Shadows darted where they shouldn't, flickering at the corners of his sight. The forest floor rippled, tilting beneath his boots as if trying to swallow him whole.

Keep going, he snarled to himself. Don't you dare stop.

Then—a hole of hope.

A burrow.

A collapsed tunnel carved into the earth, its mouth barely wide enough for a man. Salvation, or a trap—he didn't care. Without a second thought, he dove in, his body slamming into the dirt with a jolt that rattled his broken ribs. He rolled into the damp darkness, curling tight against the cold earth, sword clutched to his chest. His breath came in shallow, controlled bursts as he listened.

Outside, the beast's footsteps shuffled closer. A low, wet growl rumbled through the air.

It was waiting.

The burrow was a coffin of dirt and stone, its walls pressing tight against Belial's back. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of mold and his own blood. His shoulder throbbed, a pulsing fire where the beast's fangs had torn into him. The venom still gnawed at his insides, a slow poison sapping his strength, but his mind was sharpening—painfully, reluctantly. He forced himself to focus, to count his breaths, to anchor himself against the tide of delirium.

Above, the beast paced. Its claws scraped the ground, a slow, deliberate rhythm that set his teeth on edge. Its breath huffed in uneven bursts, hot and rancid even from a distance. It wasn't leaving. It wasn't retreating. It was waiting—patient, calculating, a hunter certain of its prey.

Belial swallowed hard, the taste of copper thick on his tongue. His body was a wreck—bleeding, bruised, poisoned...but he wasn't dead yet. He shifted slightly, wincing as the movement sent a fresh spike of pain through his ribs. The burrow felt smaller with every passing second, the walls inching closer, the ceiling sagging as if it might collapse and bury him alive. Shadows danced in the corners of his vision, twisting into shapes—clawed hands, hollow faces, eyes that gleamed with malice. The whispers returned, soft and hissing, slithering through the dark.

"You can't run forever."

"They're already dead."

"You will be too."

He clenched his jaw, teeth grinding together.

Its not real, The venom's screwing with me.

But the words felt real—too real...their weight pressing against his skull like a physical force. The beast outside was flesh and blood, a tangible threat. The things inside the burrow? Maybe they were illusions. Maybe they weren't. The line between reality and madness was fraying, and he was teetering on its edge.

His fingers tightened around his sword, the cold steel a lifeline.

Two paths lay before him.

Stay here—wait it out, let his body recover, hope the beast grew bored and wandered off. Or make a move—climb out, face it head-on, end this one way or another. His muscles ached, his mind splintered, but surrender wasn't in him.

I'm not dying here, he vowed again, the words a mantra against the dark.

Slowly, he shifted, pressing a trembling hand against the dirt to steady himself. His breath hitched, shallow and sharp. Outside, the pacing stopped. The growls faded into a low, clicking sound—unnatural, deliberate. The beast knew he was still alive. It knew he was cornered.

It was still waiting.

A cold dread settled over Belial as his body betrayed him. The poison slithered deeper into his veins, twisting through his flesh like liquid fire. His limbs felt like dead weight, his breath shallow, heart pounding in uneven, frantic beats.

Ether Matrix Reconstruction.

His mind latched onto the technique, desperately weaving together threads of ether to repair the damage. But his body was too weak. The most he could do was hold the poison back, delaying the inevitable.

At least...at least he could see it now.

Particles of ether danced in his vision, shimmering threads of energy pulsing through the world like faint embers in the dark. But if he moved, the poison would spread faster.

His fingers twitched. His body screamed.

He had one choice.

Belial exhaled slowly.

And closed his eyes.