Nightmare (4)

Something was watching.

Something hungry.

It laughed.

Not aloud. But Daniel felt it.

Mocking. Giddy.

It enjoyed this.

Good.

So did he.

After a brutal clash with another group—four this time—Daniel limped back through the portal, leaving behind bodies like breadcrumbs. Every limb ached. His shoulder screamed. His nose might've been broken. Again.

But as he stepped onto the white marble, that divine, eerie hum wrapped around him.

His wounds closed.

Bones realigned.

The pain vanished like mist.

His gear? Repaired. Gleaming.

"God, I love this room," he muttered, flexing his fingers and cracking his neck.

Back in he went.

And this time?

No hesitation.

No mercy.

No wounds.

Just carnage.

He was becoming a machine. Hit. Block. Crush. Step. Repeat. He danced through goblin hordes like a conductor leading a symphony of splatter.

One tried to shove a rusted knife into his neck.

He caught its wrist, twisted it 360 degrees until it popped like a cork, then shoved the mace into its mouth and swung upward.

The top of the goblin's head flew off like a party hat.

He chuckled.

"Happy fuckin' birthday."

Soon, he didn't even need the marble room between every kill. He only used it when the blood blurred his vision too much or his leg stopped responding entirely. Minor inconveniences, really.

It wasn't just survival now.

It was dominance.

He owned the first floor.

And every goblin that dared squeal in his presence was a footnote in his path to power.

When the counter hit [50/50], Daniel stood among a mountain of mangled flesh and shattered bone. His chest heaved. His arms trembled—not from weakness, but from adrenaline withdrawal.

His black track pants were now brownish-green, sticky with a dozen different kinds of blood. His shield was dented, but not broken. His mace? A legend in its own right.

His expression?

Serene.

He tilted his head toward the cave ceiling, now quiet, no longer pulsing.

"I don't know who's watching," he said, voice soft. "But I hope you're entertained."

[OBJECTIVE 1 COMPLETED]

[KILL GOBLINS: 50/50]

[OBJECTIVE 2: KILL ORC]

[PROGRESS: 0/1]

He slammed the mace into the ground like a judge's gavel and flashed a grin so full of blood and madness it bordered on holy.

"Let's fuckin' go."

***

Daniel limped toward the portal.

His breathing was shallow. Each step was pain wrapped in skin. Green blood dripped from his mace, goblin viscera clung to his boots, and his shield hung loosely from his arm like a piece of meat already halfway chewed.

Just a few feet more.

Just a few—

The ground trembled.

A low, guttural snort echoed through the cave.

Daniel froze mid-step. His gaze shot forward—and there it stood.

A teenage orc.

Eight feet of raw muscle and malice. Its green skin stretched tight over bulging veins like cords of stone. Bone-white tusks jutted from its jaw, each as thick and long as a human forearm, glistening with dried gore. Its beady bloodshot eyes locked onto Daniel with the weight of a guillotine's blade.

And in its massive hands?

A spiked club carved from a petrified tree, wrapped in rusted iron bands. A weapon designed for pulverizing, not killing.

Behind Daniel: salvation.

The white marble portal shimmered gently, humming with its healing promise.

Before him: death in flesh.

The orc snarled, cracking its neck. It raised its club lazily onto its shoulder.

Daniel's fingers tightened around his mace.

He could run. Limp. Crawl. Get out. Get healed.

But something inside him twisted.

No. Not this time. Not without knowing. Not without testing.

He'd come so far, torn through fifty goblins like a butcher through lambs. If he wanted to survive this place—thrive in it—he couldn't just run every time something bigger showed up.

He needed to know how strong he had become.

So he charged.

"COME ON THEN, YOU OVERGROWN BACON STRIP!"

The orc grunted in surprise at the sudden aggression. Daniel's mace swung upward, aimed for the creature's chin.

CLANG!

The orc moved faster than expected. The club came down like a god's hammer, knocking Daniel's shield aside and blasting him off balance.

Still—he landed a hit.

The mace raked across the orc's chest, carving a shallow cut just above its ribcage.

A single line of blood welled up.

The orc looked down at the wound. Then at Daniel.

It smiled.

And then the real fight began.

Daniel darted and ducked, shield raised, mace striking out like a piston. Each time he made contact, he was rewarded with another shallow gash—shoulder, forearm, thigh.

But every attack cost him.

The club smashed into his ribs—crack.

His arm—snap.

His shield splintered—crunch.

The air rang with every impact, and blood—his blood—splattered across the cave walls like red rain.

Then came the worst of it.

He saw the swing too late. The club moved in a horizontal arc, wide and sweeping.

Daniel leapt—

But not fast enough.

The club caught his leg mid-air. His world flipped.

He landed hard.

He screamed.

Where his leg had been was now a torn, pulpy ruin. The limb hung by a flap of meat before severing entirely, rolling away like a discarded sausage.

The orc stomped closer, club raised once more.

Daniel didn't think.

He crawled.

His arms burned. His single good leg kicked at the stone like a drowning man. He dragged himself, clawed at the cave floor, pushing past rocks, blood trails, and pain.

The orc followed, slowly.

It wasn't rushing anymore. It knew he was dying. It wanted to watch.

Daniel's vision blurred. The club thudded into the ground behind him, spraying rock and dust as the orc toyed with him.

Closer.

Closer.

One more push.

Daniel's hand slammed into the white marble.

Light swallowed him whole.

Warmth. Silence.

The sterile hum of the healing chamber wrapped around him like a mother's embrace. Bones reknit. Flesh reformed. The agony was gone, replaced by the ghost of pain fading fast.

He stared at the ceiling, eyes wide. Breathing. Alive.

He sat up.

His leg—intact.

His shield—whole.

His mace—shining.

But his hands trembled. Not from pain. From fear.

He had been completely overpowered. Torn apart like wet paper. And the orc… that thing barely bled. Just three shallow cuts. He couldn't kill it. Couldn't even hurt it enough.

Was he fated to die here?

Was he just another soul ground into red mist by the Nightmare?

He clenched his jaw. No.

There had to be a way.

His eyes scanned the marble around him, the soft light pulsing with energy.

Then it clicked.

This was his advantage.

This was the edge.

The orc couldn't come through the portal. It wasn't allowed. The magic denied it.

But Daniel?

He could crawl back here.

He could heal.

He could wear the bastard down.

He didn't need to win in one fight.

He just needed to fight smart.

He stood.

His reflection in the polished marble floor stared back—blood-streaked hair, dark circles under wild eyes, armorless, cracked and battered and smiling.

Daniel raised his mace and rested it on his shoulder.

"Well then, Shrek," he muttered. "Let's dance again."

He stepped through the portal.

The orc waited.

Standing exactly where Daniel had left it. Its club rested on its shoulder, but now it looked… curious. It tilted its head as Daniel approached, fully healed, leg intact, shield raised.

Round two.

Daniel rushed again—but this time, with a different purpose.

He struck fast, landed a clean hit on the same wounded shoulder.

The orc roared and retaliated—but Daniel didn't stay. He rolled backward, baiting the club swing and retreating the moment his shield cracked.

He ran.

The orc followed.

He led it close to the portal, drew it in, then at the last moment—dove through.

Healed.

Returned.

Attacked again.

It became a cycle.

A ritual.

Hit. Retreat. Heal. Return.

Each time, Daniel carved another cut into the orc. Each time, it bled just a bit more. Its movements slowed. Its rage deepened. But it coundt back down and retreat, something in its head was saying to kill the human. 

He broke its rhythm.

Chipped away at its strength.

Forced it to waste stamina, to get sloppy, to bleed.

It roared in frustration as Daniel vanished into the portal again.

When he came back a final time, the orc's shoulders sagged. It panted, bloodied and weary. Its tusks were chipped, its club dragging.

Daniel smiled.

Not out of victory.

But out of madness.

He was surviving.

He was fighting the system with its own rules.

He wasn't supposed to win.

But he would.

By crawling.

By bleeding.

By never giving up.