The Monster

Minho pressed onward through the contorted forest; the faint metallic tang of blood lingered in the air. Each step sank slightly into spongy ground, leaving faint imprints that oozed a viscous black substance. The writhing trees loomed above, their limbs curling like grasping hands. Shadows danced at the edges of his vision, fleeting (and) insubstantial. His fingers remained tightly curled around the hilt of his dagger—knuckles white against darkened leather grip. The whispers commenced anew: soft, almost imperceptible; however, undeniably present.

*"You cannot escape us, Minho."*

He froze mid-step; his heart lurching (in his chest). This voice was different (from the murmurs of the forest): it was sharper, clearer and achingly familiar. He turned sharply—dagger raised—but saw nothing except the gnarled trees (and endless shadows). However, a chill crept down his spine, because he felt as if someone (or something) was watching him. Although he searched the darkness, he found no source for the sound.

*"We trusted you."*

His pulse quickened. It was Yuri's voice.

*"We pursued you and you recompensed us with demise."* "Enough!" Minho snarled (through clenched teeth). The utterance reverberated (through the atmosphere) like thunder, momentarily silencing the murmurs. However, the stillness proved fleeting. Suddenly, the forest transformed; the gnarled trees groaned and twisted as if animated, their branches creating a labyrinthine structure around him. The air felt heavier—oppressive, even—and the faint odor of blood heightened. His every inhalation felt akin to drawing in ash. Ahead, a flicker of light seized his focus. A faint golden glow emerged from the dense maze of trees (beckoning him onward). Minho hesitated, instincts (screaming) for him to stay put, but the glow pulsed weakly—almost like a heartbeat. Compelled by a blend of curiosity and trepidation, he advanced with caution. The light appeared to recede with each step he took, drawing him deeper into the maze. His boots squelched against the spongy earth, the sound disturbingly loud in the oppressive silence. As he rounded a corner, the golden light flared brilliantly and a figure emerged into view.

Minho froze.

It was Jiwoo.

She stood (in the center of) a small clearing, bathed in golden glow that emanated from circular sigil etched into ground beneath her feet. Her body was whole, unblemished, as though untouched by battle that had claimed her life. Her eyes, however, were hollow and lifeless; her expression was one of quiet reproach. "You left us," Jiwoo said (her voice soft, but heavy with accusation). Minho's grip on his dagger faltered for briefest moment. "You… you're not real," he said, more to himself than to her. Jiwoo tilted her head slightly; her gaze piercing. "Does that make what you did any less real?" Minho took a step back, shaking his head. "I didn't have a choice. You all turned on me. It (was) Jiwoo's lips curved into faint, bitter smile. "Is that what you tell yourself to sleep at night?"

The sigil (beneath Jiwoo's feet) flared with increased intensity; searing crimson veins spread like cracks across the forest floor. The ground trembled violently and Jiwoo's form began to twist (however), her body warping and contorting with a sickening chorus of cracks, pops and wet tearing sounds. Her limbs elongated unnaturally, splitting apart into clusters of spindly, malformed arms tipped with too many jointed fingers that writhed (like worms). Her face dissolved into a grotesque amalgamation of features: her mouth stretched unnervingly wide, the flesh around it splitting to reveal rows of jagged, yellowed teeth set in bleeding gums. Her eyes multiplied, sprouting across her face in uneven clusters, some large and bulbous, while others were sunken and milky white. From her back erupted grotesque protrusions, each resembling a ribcage turned inside out (because) they dripped with black ichor that sizzled as it met the ground.

Her voice deepened, distorted into a guttural growl that reverberated through the clearing like a death knell. "Do you see what you've made of us, Minho?" the creature snarled (its voice) a horrific symphony of Jiwoo's and countless others—Yuri's bitterness, Seungho's fury, Jaehyun's scorn—all blending into a single, nightmarish cacophony. The amalgamation dragged itself toward him (its misshapen body) heaving and undulating. From its chest, an obscene cavity opened, lined with fleshy, grasping tendrils and the faint shapes of faces—mouths silently screaming, eyes darting frantically—emerging from within. The air around it grew rancid, stinking of decay and sulfur, as though the creature's very presence rotted the world around it. Minho's stomach churned; his throat tightening against the bile that threatened to rise. His fingers trembled on the hilt of his dagger; however, he forced himself to steady. Whatever this thing was, it wasn't Jiwoo—or any of the others. It was the Tower, manifesting their deaths into a grotesque, living mockery of his guilt (and despair).

The creature lunged (its grotesque maw unhinging) as a wet, guttural screech tore from its throat. Strings of saliva and black ichor dripped from its gaping mouth, splattering onto the ground and hissing upon contact. Minho threw himself to the side just in time (to avoid) the massive claws that tore through the space he had occupied. They raked deep furrows into the ground, chunks of earth spraying outward. The creature turned toward him with unnatural speed; its limbs bending in ways no human body could. The cluster of fingers on one of its arms fused together into a jagged (spear-like) appendage that it thrust toward his chest. He ducked—rolling under the attack—and slashed at the grotesque limb. His dagger bit into the flesh with a sickening squelch and the creature let out a piercing, guttural wail because black ichor sprayed from the wound. The smell was overwhelming, like rotting meat left in the sun for weeks; however, this did not deter him. Although he fought desperately, the horror of the scene lingered in his mind.

The thing's (chest) cavity yawned open wider; tendrils inside writhed and lashed out at him. One coiled around his arm, its slimy, pulsing surface burning his skin like acid. Minho gritted his teeth against the searing pain and drove his dagger into the tendril, severing it with a forceful twist. The creature reared back, its many eyes blazing with unholy light—its maw stretching impossibly wide as it let out another shriek. The sound wasn't just heard—it was felt: a physical force that made his bones vibrate and his vision blur. "You can't run from what you've done," it bellowed (the voices of the dead twisting together) in unison. "We will consume you, Minho. Just like you consumed us." Minho's jaw tightened as he forced himself to his feet. His body screamed in protest; however, his mind remained razor-sharp. "You're not them," he hissed, his voice low but steady. "You're nothing but (the) Tower's lies."

With a surge of adrenaline, he charged forward (dodging the flailing tendrils) and slicing through the creature's bloated, malformed limbs. The ichor sprayed with each strike, sizzling as it hit his armor and burning tiny holes into the fabric. The stench was unbearable; however, he pressed on—his every movement precise and deliberate. The creature shrieked again, its body convulsing violently because Minho drove his dagger deep into its chest cavity. The tendrils lashed out in a frenzy, tearing at him, but he didn't relent. With a guttural roar, he twisted the blade and ripped it free, carving a jagged path through the pulsating mass of flesh and bone. The creature let out one final, earsplitting wail (before collapsing in on itself). Its body dissolved into a putrid, bubbling pool of black ichor, the faces within its chest cavity melting away into formless shadows. Minho staggered back (his chest heaving), his body slick with blood—his own and the creature's. The clearing fell silent; the oppressive atmosphere lifting slightly, although the stench of decay lingered.

He wiped (the ichor) from his blade; his expression hardening as he turned his gaze to (the still-glowing) sigil. "If that's all you've got," he muttered under his breath, "you're going to have to try harder." However, there was a hint of determination in his eyes—this was not the end. Although his words seemed dismissive, he understood the weight of the challenge ahead.

The Tower was watching, but so was Minho.