Crimson Baptism

The Joua stood before Damián like a statue carved from nightmares — motionless, massive, unblinking. Its singular eye tracked him as though memorizing his soul.

Damián's legs trembled, but he forced himself to stand. He turned, ready to flee. But as he ran, the beast appeared in front of him. Again. And again. As if the air itself bent to the creature's will, replicating it in every direction.

He skidded to a stop, surrounded.

A tremor rolled through him — not just fear, but something deeper. A primal helplessness, the kind a lamb feels in the jaws of a lion.

He backed away, eyes wide, lips quivering.

"What the hell did I do to deserve this?!" he screamed, voice cracking, raw and desperate.

His body moved on instinct. He threw a punch — a sloppy, terrified strike — but his fist passed straight through the beast. Like it wasn't there. Like reality itself refused to acknowledge his defiance.

And then — pain.

It hit him like a blade tearing through his stomach, slicing nerves with surgical cruelty. He collapsed to the ground, clutching his midsection. Blood pooled at his lips, thick and warm and metallic. He spat, and crimson droplets stained the dirt.

He tried to crawl.

Ahead of him, the world dissolved.

There was no forest. No Axir. No path.

Only void — a yawning expanse of absolute nothingness. Floating before it, impossibly silent, was the Joua. Its eye glowed with ancient contempt.

A piercing sound erupted in Damián's ears — high-pitched, sharp, like a violin string snapping inside his skull. He screamed, palms pressed to his temples.

It was speaking.

But not in words. Not in language.

The beast poured something into him — a vibration, a frequency, a message too twisted for understanding. Damián writhed, the sound burrowing into his brain like a worm made of static.

He saw his own reflection in a pool of blood beneath him. His tears weren't clear. They were red.

He was crying blood.

His scream turned into a sob.

Then rage.

He fumbled for the pistol Axir had given him. His hands shook violently, but he raised the gun with both hands and unloaded — firing over and over and over. The bullets screamed through the air.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

"WHAT ARE YOU?!" he howled, each shot a prayer, each breath a death rattle.

The Joua did not move. It absorbed the rounds like mist. Then, with effortless cruelty, its long arm extended — massive fingers coiling around Damián's throat like serpents.

The grip tightened.

His feet lifted from the ground.

Damián choked, the world narrowing into darkness. Spots danced in his vision. The pistol fell from his hands. His body convulsed in the air.

And then — a crack.

A gunshot.

From far behind.

A bullet flew like fate — and struck the beast's eye.

The Joua recoiled, its grip loosening. A gurgled shriek echoed through the void. The eye pulsed, convulsed, shimmered with black veins.

Damián dropped to the ground like a broken doll.

His vision blurred. He gasped for breath, clutching his throat. He looked up through bleary, bloodshot eyes and saw Axir — standing tall at the treeline, smoke curling from the barrel of his pistol.

The Joua wasn't dead. But it was staggered.

And that... was the only window they were going to get.