Chapter 34 – Immortal Skin

The Flesh Catacombs were not a place of death. They were a place of failure—of lost hope, rotting ambition, and forgotten dreams. To enter was to descend into the very skin of the fallen immortals who had sought to conquer the cycle of life and death but had failed. Their souls, torn and twisted, now lived within the walls—writhing in agony, clinging to the faded remnants of their identities. Every step Rin took reverberated with an echo of his own future, should he ever fall prey to the allure of immortality.

The catacombs were not built—they had grown. Flesh and bone intertwined in organic growth, stretching and coiling into endless corridors that seemed to breathe with a life of their own. The walls pulsed, hot and wet, as if alive with suffering. They whispered with voices that once were—now only fragments of forgotten souls begging for release. The air stank of rot, heavy with the odor of decayed skin and the faintest trace of blood.

Rin's every step was met with resistance, as though the catacombs themselves were resisting his intrusion. Each time his foot touched the ground, the very earth seemed to shudder, sending waves of pain through the walls. He had come here for one reason: to reach the Bone Garden, where he would forge the next artifact from death—a weapon, a tool, or perhaps an answer to a question he had yet to ask.

But the path was treacherous. The deeper he moved into the labyrinth, the more the walls seemed to close in on him. The flesh of the catacombs quivered, reaching toward him, and as he passed, it would twitch and groan as though it recognized his presence. The labyrinth was alive, and it did not want him to leave.

He gripped Ny'xuan's hilt, feeling the dagger hum with awareness beside him, its dark essence a reminder of the deal he had struck with death itself. Ny'xuan had been with him since the edge of the Ravine of Unspoken Names, a reminder of the cost of betrayal and the power that could be harvested from death's very bones.

"This place stinks of rot," Rin muttered under his breath, but Ny'xuan, as always, offered no reply, its blade unspoken yet ever watchful.

Suddenly, the walls seemed to grow louder. The whispers turned into screams. The walls stretched unnaturally, and Rin stumbled as the flesh of the catacombs began to crawl toward him, tendrils of skin, bone, and sinew reaching for his limbs, as if trying to suffocate him in their grasp.

"Release me," a voice hissed from the darkness.

Rin spun, but no one was there. He could only see the glint of wet, shifting walls—skin pulled tight over jagged bone, veins pulsing with something that was no longer alive.

The voice came again, closer this time: "Release me... you are me."

Rin's pulse quickened. His grip on Ny'xuan tightened, and a wave of unease washed over him. He recognized that voice—he knew that voice. It was his own.

A figure materialized from the flesh—a towering, monstrous form, stitched together from the remains of countless failed immortals. Its skin was a patchwork of tattoos, sigils, and scars, its body both familiar and grotesque. Eyes gleamed from every direction, and its mouth stretched too wide, an impossible thing that spilled forth a grotesque laughter.

It was him. It was what he would become if he sought immortality—an endless, hollowed version of himself, sustained by the skin of the dead.

"You have entered my domain, Rin Xie," the monstrous figure snarled. "You have come to claim what was never meant for you. You seek immortality, and yet, you walk the path of death. Why?"

Rin recoiled. The vision—it wasn't a hallucination. This was him, but twisted, distorted beyond recognition. He saw in its eyes the terror of losing himself to endless life. He saw the hunger that had driven it, and he realized with horror that the monster before him was no mere vision. It was a part of him—a consequence of his own darkest desire, should he fall victim to the temptation of immortality.

"I do not seek immortality," Rin said, his voice low and steady despite the terror that gripped him. "I seek to master it."

The monstrous version of himself laughed, a cruel, guttural sound that echoed through the catacombs. "Master it?" it mocked. "What is mastery but another form of enslavement? Do you not see? Death is not the problem, Rin Xie. Living forever is. You will become a shell. A puppet. Bound by your own flesh, unable to die, unable to escape the hunger of eternity."

Rin gritted his teeth. "You're wrong."

The creature's eyes flared, fury spilling out in a wave of force that knocked Rin to the ground. The air shifted as if it had thickened, pressing against him from all sides. He felt the weight of it—each breath, a battle. His heart pounded in his chest, as though it, too, had become a prisoner.

"You cannot outrun me," the creature whispered, bending down to meet him, its breath rancid with the stench of decay. "You are me. We are the same. The same cursed desire. You will become me. You must."

Rin's hand tightened around Ny'xuan's hilt. The dagger pulsed, its essence stirring in his soul. He could feel the echoes of death—it was always with him, a constant companion, and now, it was his strength. Slowly, with measured control, Rin rose to his feet, eyes locked onto the monstrous version of himself.

"I do not fear you," Rin said, his voice cold and unwavering.

The creature's laugh faltered. "You should."

But Rin was already moving. With a single motion, he drew Ny'xuan, the dagger flashing in the dim light. The world seemed to blur as he slashed through the air, and in that moment, he understood something profound about his own existence: to control death was not to escape it, but to define it.

The creature before him recoiled, its form flickering like a dying flame. It writhed in agony as Ny'xuan's blade cut through its flesh—not with the intent to destroy, but to sever the illusion of immortality that it had become. Rin's eyes gleamed with resolve as he pressed forward, each strike more purposeful than the last.

"You are not me," Rin said with finality, driving Ny'xuan deep into the creature's heart. "You are the death I refuse to become."

The creature's screams echoed through the catacombs, its form disintegrating into a cloud of flesh and bone. Rin stood motionless, breathing heavily as the last remnants of his twisted reflection faded into the labyrinth.

The Flesh Catacombs were silent again.

Rin lowered Ny'xuan and wiped his brow, the weight of his victory settling in. He had confronted a part of himself, and he had won—not by slaying it, but by accepting what it was and severing it from his soul.

He took a deep breath and began walking again, the path now clearer ahead of him. There was still a long way to go before he could reach the Bone Garden, and the catacombs would not let him pass easily. But Rin was certain of one thing now: he would never seek immortality. He would not run from death. He would master it, bend it to his will.

And as he moved deeper into the labyrinth, Rin knew that his journey—his true journey—had only just begun.

To be continued…