The girl with red hair(72)

The blood in me ran low.

I could feel it.

Five more times.

Five more tears, five more mutilations, five more desperate, stitched-together miracles—

And then it would end.

I could feel the timer inside my veins ticking down.

Every stitch of healing burned slower. 

Every second stretched thinner. 

Every heartbeat felt like it had to be wrenched out of my chest by force.

After that, after the last drop of the sentient blood exhausted itself—

I would die.

Simple. 

Clean. 

Unceremonious.

And maybe...

Maybe that was fine.

Maybe it would be a release.

For me. 

For the world.

A mercy I didn't deserve but might finally be allowed.

Because living here?

In this place? 

This godless, broken, rotten world?

It didn't feel like a gift.

It felt like madness.

Living meant carrying the weight of broken promises, broken people, broken dreams. 

Living meant becoming something like the demon that chewed through my skull even now—something too stubborn to fall but too twisted to be saved.

It didn't matter anymore.

None of it mattered.

But still.

Still.

There was a part of me—a small, pathetic ember—that raged at the thought.

Dying like this?

Without completing my promise?

Without fulfilling the regret that had dug its claws into my bones?

It wasn't tragic.

It was stupid.

It was infuriating.

I wanted to make my parents proud. 

God, I wanted that so badly. 

It sounded childish now. Laughable. Petty.

But it was real.

Were they still waiting for me?

Did they miss me? 

Did they wonder what happened to the son who just... disappeared?

I came to this world through a transmigration—a blink, a curse, a fucking joke of fate—and now?

Now I was going to die here.

Like a dog.

Like a failure.

Would my brother take care of them?

Would he tell them I loved them? 

That I tried?

Were they proud of me?

Were they proud of this broken, dying thing dragging itself through hell because it didn't know how to quit?

And the girls?

The ones I promised to save?

The ones whose broken bodies reminded me of the despair they went through.

What would happen to them?

Would the demon devour their remains too?

Chew through their dreams the way he chewed through my brain?

Would they vanish from the world without even a whisper of justice?

Without a single person left to remember their names?

The thought dug deeper than any claw or fang ever could.

I was a waste.

A liar.

A fool making promises he never had the strength to keep.

I told them I would make them whole again.

I told them I would give them peace.

A goodbye.

A home.

And what had I done?

Nothing.

Nothing but bleed.

Nothing but fail.

I couldn't even save the girl still locked below—the one hidden in the shadows, clinging to life by a thread thinner than mine.

I had failed them all.

I had failed everyone.

I closed my eyes, just for a second.

Let the despair crush me.

Let it wrap its hands around my throat, whispering sweet surrender.

Let it show me how easy it would be to give up now.

To fall.

To die.

And then—

The demon crunched another piece of my skull between his teeth, slurping brain matter like it was the sweetest thing he'd ever tasted.

The sound was wet. 

Triumphant. 

Final.

It echoed in my ears louder than any drum, louder than any scream.

It should have been the end.

It should have broken me.

But it didn't.

No.

It ignited something.

Something ugly. 

Something final. 

Something beautiful in its sheer, stubborn rage.

"Fuck it," I whispered.

My voice was shredded—barely more than a growl torn from the ruins of my throat.

"If it's the last thing I do..."

I dragged my hand to my side.

Fingers trembling.

Bones creaking.

Muscles refusing to obey.

And I pulled out the last two objects I had.

The two bricks.

The ones I had found in the fog. 

In the cathedral that bled memories and promises and death.

Heavy in my hands.

Cracked. 

Ancient. 

Waiting.

They thrummed with something.

A memory? 

A curse? 

A prayer?

Maybe all of it.

Maybe none of it.

It didn't matter.

If there was even a chance—

A flicker, a whisper, a thread—

That these bricks could help me fulfil my ritual...

That they could stitch the souls back together... 

Give the girls peace... 

Give the dead a voice... 

Fulfill even a fraction of the promise I made...

Then I would take it.

I would gamble what was left of me on it.

I would throw myself into the fire if that's what it took.

Because if I was going to die here—

If I was going to let this monster tear me apart piece by piece—

Then I would die doing something that mattered.

Not begging.

Not bleeding.

But fighting.

Fighting to carve meaning into a world that wanted nothing but ashes.

I clutched the bricks to my chest.

Felt them hum against my ribs.

Felt the last shreds of my blood coil tighter around my heart, fueling the last embers of me.

Maybe it would be enough.

Maybe it wouldn't.

I didn't care.

I had decided.

One way or another—

I would keep my promise.

Or be one with the dust.