No Rest

Azare limped through the suffocating fog, his breath labored. The blood-red moon loomed overhead, casting an eerie glow over the rivers of lava that snaked down the jagged mountains like veins of fire. Shadows danced in the mist, and his every step felt like a descent deeper into Hell.

"You encountered a legendary-class yokai and survived," his Anima whispered in his mind, its voice cold and low. "Consider yourself lucky."

Azare said nothing. The dull, throbbing pain in his leg from his earlier battles made it hard to think straight. Every muscle in his body screamed for rest.

"I need to find shelter. I've been fighting nonstop since I came here." He grimaced, looking around at the unfamiliar terrain. "And… what is the Blood Forest?"

"The blood forest is a graveyard for countless warriors and yokai. It's the perfect representation of bloodshed and malice. Not a place I'd expect you to survive." His Anima answered.

He pressed on, the fog parting just enough to reveal what looked like a cluster of dilapidated structures. They appeared to be old, rotting remnants of homes, long abandoned and weathered by time. One house stood slightly taller than the others, its crumbling balcony sagging under unseen weight. It was the perfect place to rest—or so he hoped.

As he entered the broken home, the air grew unnaturally still. The faint, metallic scent of blood lingered, mixing with the earthy smell of decay. On the floor, a patch of dried blood stretched across the planks, its edges blackened with age. From the center of the blood grew a strange, crimson flower, its petals glowing softly with an unearthly light. The flower's soft illumination revealed a skeleton lying nearby, slumped against the wall as if resting.

Azare froze, his instincts prickling. The sight was wrong—unnerving. He had seen plenty of death since coming to this wretched place, but this was different. The flower seemed to pulsate faintly, its glow breathing in and out like a heartbeat. Tendrils of amrita energy coiled faintly around the petals, as if feeding on the lingering essence of the blood.

"What happened here?" he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

Something about the skeleton drew his attention. Its bones were jagged and blackened, as if scorched by hellfire. In its bony grip was a massive, rusted blade. Ancient runes etched along the weapon's surface pulsed faintly with amrita, the energy snaking in fractal patterns along its length.

Azare hesitated, then stepped closer, his curiosity warring with caution. He reached out a trembling hand toward the flower, its light warm and strangely inviting. The moment his fingers brushed a petal, pain exploded through his wrist.

"ARGH!" he cried, yanking his hand back. Blood dripped from a fresh wound, a gash that hadn't been there a second ago.

He spun around, and his blood ran cold. The skeleton was no longer slumped against the wall. It was standing.

Its hollow eyes burned with crimson light, two hellish flames flickering in empty sockets. The skeleton's movements were jerky at first, like a marionette being forced into motion. Then it straightened, its spine cracking loudly, and turned its head toward him with a sickening pop. The sound echoed in the silence, louder than it should have been.

Azare's heart pounded in his chest. The thing was massive—easily eight feet tall, its bones unnaturally thick and reinforced with jagged shards of obsidian. Its rusted blade dragged against the ground, sparking as it moved. A guttural, otherworldly growl emanated from its ribcage, a sound that shouldn't have been possible for something without lungs.

"Run," his Anima hissed in his mind. "This is no ordinary skeleton. It's a Death Knight—a cursed warrior infused with amrita. You cannot defeat it."

Azare's legs felt like lead, the weight of exhaustion pinning him in place. The Death Knight stepped closer, its every movement deliberate, like a predator savoring its prey. The flower on the ground flared brighter, and a suffocating wave of malice filled the room.

"Move, Azare!" his Anima shouted, panic creeping into its tone.

The Death Knight lunged. Its blade came down with the force of an avalanche, splintering the wooden floor where Azare had been standing a heartbeat earlier. He rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding the attack. The shockwave knocked him off balance, and he crashed into the wall.

The creature roared, its skull splitting open in an unholy scream that rattled his very bones. It raised its sword again, the runes glowing brighter, feeding off the amrita-rich atmosphere saturating the room.

Azare scrambled to his feet, his leg burning with agony. He reached within, trying to summon the last reserves of his own amrita, but the energy sputtered weakly, a pale imitation of his usual strength. The Death Knight swung its blade again, and he barely managed to dodge, the edge grazing his side and leaving a burning gash.

Blood poured from the wound, and Azare's vision blurred. He backed away, his chest heaving, his mind racing for a plan. But the Death Knight was relentless, its footsteps shaking the ground as it closed the distance.

"You're going to die here," his Anima said grimly. "Unless you find a way to disrupt the amrita binding it to this place."

Azare's gaze darted to the glowing flower. The amrita swirling around it seemed to tether the Death Knight like a leash. The only thing he could think of was to destroy it—but how? Another swing of the Death Knight's blade forced him to dive forward, landing hard on his already battered body.

The flower pulsed again, brighter than before, as if mocking him. He had one chance. Summoning every ounce of strength he had left, Azare focused inward, drawing on the last scraps of amrita within himself. Flames weakly flickered from his blade.

With a desperate cry, he launched himself toward the flower, ignoring the pain in his body and the Death Knight's looming presence. The world seemed to slow as the creature's blade descended toward him, and his flaming blade aimed for the flower.

For a moment, everything went white.