Memories: Meeting at the top

The man stumbled up the final set of uneven stone steps, his breath ragged, his body screaming in protest.

His clothes were torn, stained with sweat and blood, some his, others belonging to the things that had tried to drag him down. His grip on the dagger was iron-tight, its white flames flickering weakly, exhausted as he was.

The last creature had nearly gutted him, but he had managed to survive by burning the wounds.

Now, he was standing before a doorway of jagged black stone, its edges pulsing faintly like veins beneath flesh. There was no grand entrance, no echoing chime like before. Only silence.

He pushed forward.

The chamber beyond was massive, its walls stretching far into darkness.

In the center, a lone figure stood before a window—or what resembled one. It was an opening into something vast, swirling with light and shadow, shifting in ways his mind refused to fully comprehend.

The figure turned.

It was human, or at least it looked like one.

It was taller than him, wrapped in tattered robes of faded red and deep black.

The hood was drawn, but beneath it, he could make out the barest hint of a face, pale, too smooth, too perfect somehow. Yet the presence it radiated was undeniable. Heavy. Inescapable.

"You made it," the figure said, with a smooth voice, calm, and almost welcoming.

"I expected you to fall long before reaching the end."

The man tightened his grip on the dagger, though his arm trembled from exhaustion. "Who… are you?" His voice came out hoarse.

The figure took a step forward, slow and measured. "A question you should already know the answer to."

He didn't. But he wasn't about to admit that.

"Are you the wandering nomad? The one the wounded man told me about" The man asked

The figure laughed. "Perhaps, you could say I'm that in a way. I'm not the real one though.

You are still in a memory "

The figure gestured toward the dagger in his grip. "So you knew? And yet you carried it here. Did it whisper to you? Did it burn when you hesitated?" A pause. "Did you really think you could end me?"

The man said nothing. His thoughts felt sluggish and his mind was a mess of exhaustion, pain, and lingering adrenaline.

A low chuckle escaped from the figure.

"You stand at the threshold of understanding. And yet you still cling to fear. Where did the bravery from earlier go?"

The man forced himself to straighten. "I didn't come here for riddles or mockery."

"Of course not." The figure's hooded head tilted slightly. "You came because you had no other choice."

A sharp gust of wind howled through the chamber, yet the air remained still. The man didn't move.

The figure sighed, almost wistful. "You are more ignorant than I thought. Shall we see if you are truly worthy?"

And then, without a sound, the figure raised a hand.

"Ḯ̴͚͚͇̾͌̆͊̂͒̊̆̊͝ͅ ̴̨̧̨̝̰͉̬̱̙͉̠͕͓̼̩̼̯̟͍̣̃"

The man heard the figure speaking in a strange tongue, but it sounded as if it was blurred somehow.

He barely had time to brace himself before the world twisted.

In the figure's hand a sword started to materialise. First, a metal hilt, then.... A bizarre blade? It was red as blood and it lacked a pointed end . The man looked, surprised, as suddenly eyes started to open in the blade.

The moment the blade fully formed, the air in the chamber grew dense, suffocating. The eyes embedded in the sword's surface blinked in unison, their gazes locking onto him, staring through him. He felt them watch as a strange weight pressed against his mind, like unseen hands gripping his skull.

The figure lifted the executioner's sword with an unnatural ease, its blood-red metal humming as if alive. "This is the end of the path for you," the figure said. "Unless you can prove otherwise."

The man's grip on the dagger tightened. The white flames guttered, weak but defiant. His body ached, his muscles screamed for rest, but there was no more time to hesitate. He had already come this far.

The figure moved.

No sound, no wasted motion—just a blur of red and black. The sword came down in a brutal arc. The man barely managed to throw himself to the side, the impact shattering the stone where he had stood. The force sent him stumbling, his vision swimming, ears ringing from the sheer noise of the strike.

The figure was too fast. Too strong.

The man forced his body to react. He lunged forward, dagger thrusting toward the figure's side. The blade's white flames flared as it neared its target.

But the figure was faster.

A flick of the sword's flat side sent him crashing into the chamber wall. The impact knocked the breath from his lungs, pain lancing through his ribs. His fingers went numb, and for a horrifying moment, he thought he had dropped the dagger. But as he pushed himself up, he felt its warmth still in his grasp, pulsing like a dying heartbeat.

"Too slow," the figure remarked. 

The man gritted his teeth. He couldn't overpower this opponent. He could barely keep up. But he had to survive somehow.

The figure raised the sword again.

This time, the man didn't dodge. He ran forward.

The blade came down, but he was already moving past it, feeling the wind of its swing graze his back. His dagger lashed out, the white flames crackling, searing through fabric, through flesh.

The figure staggered slightly, the first sign of resistance.

The man didn't stop. He pressed in, slashing, stabbing—desperate, relentless. The dagger burned brighter, feeding on his will, the flames licking hungrily at his enemy.

And yet, despite the strikes, the figure did not fall.

It merely… laughed.

"Good," it murmured. "You're learning."

And then, with terrifying speed , the executioner's sword swung upward.

The man barely saw it before pain exploded across his body. His world turned to darkness.