Aurora of Corpses and Blood on Iron

Oliver opened his eyes, and the first thing that entered his field of vision was a colossal tree that seemed to touch the sky with its height. The tree was cloaked in a white gown of snow, breathtakingly beautiful under the lights of the aurora.

*"What is that smell?"*

Oliver shuddered as a repulsive stench of decay flooded his nostrils, emanating from the tree—or perhaps from beneath it.

In his initial shock, Oliver realized he had overlooked the scene of dozens—no, hundreds—of people resting in the tree's shadow.

*"Or at least, that's what Oliver thought at first glance."*

Indeed, all the people beneath the tree were dead. They were mere corpses with hollow eyes, staring at Oliver. Their icy gazes chilled him more deeply than the physical cold he felt.

Oliver lifted his head toward the skeletal tree. On its branches, men, women, and even children were crucified. His hands trembled.

*"Where... where am I? What is this?"*

A primal surge of fear, regret, and sorrow overwhelmed his heart.

Then, a pain in his throat made him realize he had been screaming. Oliver turned, desperate to flee. There, he saw a figure with hair burning in a vivid red hue.

Above the tree's branches hung a banner—one Oliver didn't recognize, yet it felt eerily familiar. It was black, with a white flower at its center.

Suddenly, the scene around him shifted.

The white hills tinged with crimson light vanished. The countless corpses strewn on the ground and nailed to the tree disappeared. Even the great tree itself faded away.

In its place stood a metallic room, dominated by a wooden armchair. On it sat a person.

Beside the chair was a four-legged table cluttered with blood-stained tools: a saw, metal cutters, and more. The entire room was drenched in blood—on the floor, the walls, pooling around the chair and the figure upon it. Some blood was dry and dark, some fresh and bright.

Oliver couldn't identify the person. Their head was shrouded in a cloth sack, arms bound to the chair's rests. They wore nothing but a rag around their waist. Their body was a canvas of wounds and burns, fingers severed by something sharp, nails ripped out, burns scattered across their torso, and a leg pierced by a large metal nail.

*"I don't know if they're alive or dead... but I hope they're dead."*

That was Oliver's first thought upon witnessing the scene.

He focused on a strange black mark on the man's chest—a swirl resembling a trapped droplet.

Oliver's eyes filled with tears. He trembled, not from the cold, but from terror.

The last thing he heard was the sound of his own screams.