Caught between its legs

A crystalline limb gleamed under the fractured moonlight, its jagged edges refracting the pale glow into a thousand slivers of cold, prismatic light. Perched upon it, Belial crouched, his lithe frame coiled like a predator, though his heart thundered with the weight of the hunted. His dark yellow shirt, tattered at the edges, fluttered faintly in the ethereal breeze that stirred the desolate plain below. The world was thick with decay, a sour tang that clung to the back of his throat. His blood, viscous and warm, traced slow, deliberate paths down his side, dripping from the gash in his ribs to splatter against the crystalline branch. Each drop shimmered briefly before sinking into the translucent surface, as if the tree itself drank his life away.

Below him, the Blind Witness moved.

It was tall—grotesquely so—its humanoid form a mockery of nature. Its body was a patchwork of mangled flesh and bone, as if it had been stitched together from the remnants of a dozen shattered corpses. Its limbs, unnaturally long, dragged through the glass-dusted soil, leaving furrows in the earth that sparkled faintly in the dim light. The sound was excruciating: a slow, rhythmic scraping, punctuated by the wet pop of bones realigning, cracking into place with every lurching step. Its head, bald and featureless save for the hollow sockets where eyes should have been, tilted upward, as if sensing the air for the scent of Belial's fear.

He had seen it before…Too many times.

The Haunter.

The Blind Witness.

The Inevitability. It had no name that stuck, for it was not a creature bound by titles or reason. It was a force, relentless and unyielding, driven by a singular purpose: to close the distance between life and death. Belial had fought it, He had struck it down, carved its flesh, and watched it fall—only for it to rise again, its wounds knitting together with grotesque, sinewy growths. It adapted. It evolved. It learned.

And now, it was closer than ever.

Belial's breath hitched as he watched it drag itself forward, its claws raking through the earth. The memory of their last encounter burned in his mind. He had struck it down, his blade—Bloodhound—whistling with malevolent ether as it tore through the creature's shoulders and legs. He had thought it finished, its body broken and bleeding. But he had underestimated its resilience. Even now, as it moved, the gashes he had inflicted were closing, the flesh weaving itself shut with a sickening, organic precision. It wasn't as fast as Xin, whose speed was a blur of lethal grace, nor as smart, But it was fast enough. Time, it seemed, was no longer his ally.

He shifted his weight, the crystalline limb creaking faintly beneath him. His eyes narrowed, scanning the creature's form for any sign of weakness. There. Its back. The scar tissue there was patchy, irregular, a patchwork of poorly healed wounds that refused to fully mend. It was slower to heal there, more vulnerable. A flaw. One opening. That was all he needed.

He tightened his grip on Bloodhound, the blade humming faintly in his hand, its edge glinting with a malevolent light. The ether within it pulsed, alive and eager, as if it sensed the bloodshed to come. Belial's lips curled into a grim smile. He had no time for hesitation. No room for doubt. The Haunter was coming, and he would meet it head-on.

With a sharp intake of breath, he launched himself from the branch, his body spinning through the air with lethal precision. The mana-split tree groaned as he pushed off, its crystalline structure trembling under the force. Bloodhound arced downward, aimed directly at the decaying spot along the creature's spine. The air screamed around him, the ether in his blade flaring brighter as he descended, a comet of shadow and steel.

But just as the blow was about to land—he felt it.

A tear in his side. Pressure. Cold.

Then pain.

His body froze, suspended in midair for a fleeting, agonizing moment. He looked down, his breath catching in his throat. Something black, leather-like, and jagged had pierced through his abdomen. A hideous spike of flesh, wrapped in a sheen of chitin, glistened with his blood. The tail.

The Haunter had stabbed him.

Blood bubbled up his throat, hot and coppery. He gritted his teeth, forcing back the scream that clawed at his lips. His vision blurred at the edges, but he held fast, his fingers tightening around Bloodhound's hilt. The pain was a white-hot brand, searing through his nerves, but he refused to let it claim him. Not yet.

The creature's movements were no longer sluggish. It moved with purpose now—deliberate, cruel, as if savoring the moment. The tail twisted slightly, and Belial's body jerked, the wound tearing further. He bit down harder, his jaw trembling as he fought to stay conscious.

Then—he heard it.

A laugh.

Small. Not fully-formed. Childlike.

Mocking.

"You laughing bastard…" Belial hissed, his voice barely a whisper, laced with venom and defiance. The words were a spark in the darkness, a flicker of resistance against the inevitability that loomed before him.

The tail hoisted him upward, lifting him like a grotesque banner. His body hung nearly vertical, the wound stretching as gravity pulled him downward toward the creature's maw. His free hand shot out, grasping the tail just as he began to slip. The leather-like appendage squirmed beneath his palm, alive and twitching, but he held on, his fingers digging into its slick surface.

And then—the Haunter turned its face up to meet his.

Belial's eyes locked onto two hollow sockets, black and empty, yet brimming with something deeper than hatred. Recognition. There was nothing behind those eyes but echoes, a void that swallowed light and hope alike. It was like staring into a forgotten grave, a place where memories went to die. His body trembled, not from the pain or the blood loss, but from the weight of that gaze. This wasn't a monster. It was death, dressed in the flesh of the damned.

He raised his sword arm, muscles screaming in protest, and swung Bloodhound in a desperate arc. A last-ditch effort to sever the tail, to free himself, to survive. But the creature was faster. Its clawed hand shot up, catching the blade mid-strike. The metal stopped inches from its face, trembling in Belial's grasp as the Haunter held it in place with unnatural strength. It didn't even strain.

Belial's breath came in ragged gasps. The creature's other hand rose, massive and broken, its fingers clicking and cracking as they wrapped slowly around his throat. The pressure was immediate, crushing, cutting off his air. He struggled, wrenching his arm, twisting his body, but he couldn't budge the blade, nor could he breathe. His vision darkened further, the world narrowing to the hollow sockets staring up at him.

For a moment—just a moment—he wondered if this was it. The end. The final step on a path he had been running down for too long. His mind flickered with images of those he had lost, those he had failed…

No.

His mind clawed at ideas, plans, traps—anything to keep him alive. And then one surfaced. One he had locked away, buried deep in the recesses of his mind. One he had held off from using unless there was no other path.

Not this early… Not now…

But what choice did he have?

The creature was adapting to everything—his strikes, his strategies, even his fear. It was closing the distance, not just physically but in every way that mattered. It would consume him, just as it had consumed everything else in its path.

Belial's hand relaxed slightly, his fingers loosening around Bloodhound's hilt. The blade shimmered with faint flickers of static ether, the energy within it pulsing erratically. He closed his eyes, exhaling through blood-soaked lips. The pain was distant now, a dull roar in the background of his mind.

"I didn't want to do this now…" he muttered, his voice a whisper, barely audible over the faint rustle of disturbed ether.

His lips moved, slow and deliberate.