Supply Crates (2)
At the Wooden Box
The stalemate broke—not with steel, but with a scream.
"BAAAABIEEEES… I'M HUUUUUNGRYYY—!"
The sound warped through the Center like a rusted blade grinding against glass, unnatural and vile. It didn't sound like a beast. It didn't even sound alive. It was wrong—something that had once been human and shouldn't have been given a voice again.
Luke's chest seized.
A beast was near.
He couldn't see it. No one could.
But they all felt it.
And in that moment, their fragile human conflict vanished. No words were needed. Luke's gaze swept across the faces of his pack—Caelan, the jet-black-haired noble, the short brown-haired girl, the others.
They remembered.
"If you see a beast—scatter."
Even the thought of facing one was enough to draw sheer terror into their faces.
Then, like shattered glass flung into the wind, the Pack scattered.
No formation. No strategy.
Just pure survival.
Luke didn't hesitate either—but he didn't run away.
He ran toward the box.
Not because it was safe. It wasn't.
But because it could be the key. One risk to buy them another day.
As he sprinted, his mind raced.
Food. Water. Weapons. Even clothes could mean the difference between life and death in this nightmarish warren.
If I can get there before the others—before the Beast—this could change everything.
The crate came into view.
Massive.
It stood like a shed in the middle of nothing, wood creaking softly from the shifting air, as if it, too, feared what approached.
He glanced around—the hostile humans from earlier were gone.
Cowards. Gone without a fight. The scream had done its job.
Luke yanked a metal lever on the side. It stuck for a moment—then snapped downward.
CLANK—THUNK.
One wall of the crate dropped open like a
door—and for the first time in half a day, light spilled into Luke's vision.
It wasn't bright. But to his eyes—starved of anything but black—it was blinding.
FUCK—MY EYES!
Luke hissed and reeled back, shielding his face with his arm. The light throbbed in his skull like a migraine.
After a few seconds of blinking pain, his vision adjusted—and what he saw inside made his breath hitch.
Weapons.
Water.
Food.
More than enough.
It wasn't just a drop of salvation.
It was a lifeline.
On the floor of the room-like crate lay a single letter.
Luke picked it up.
The paper was white. Too clean. Almost mocking.
"Congratulations. This is a Triple Reward box. You have been granted weapons, food, and water, enough for a group of ten. However, according to the Law of Equivalent Exchange, upon reading this letter, a signal will alert a nearby Beast to your position. Good luck!"
The moment his eyes scanned the final word—
A sound cut through the air.
The whistle.
High-pitched. Artificial. Identical to the one that had played when the beasts were first unleashed.
Luke's blood turned cold.
I HAVE TO HURRY.
He dove into the crate, grabbing handfuls of food—dried meat, canned goods,
hardened bread—and stuffed them into his shirt. Water bottles were jammed into his pants, sleeves, and between his arms.
Then something caught his eye—a glint.
Tucked against the crate's inner wall:
A smallsword.
The hilt was etched with a symbol: a rising sun. Weathered, but unmistakable.
He touched it—and the past rushed in.
Fencing.
Five years.
The parries. The lunges. The stabs.
His father watching silently. His mother cheering.
Second place.
Not enough.
Never enough.
He'd abandoned it. Abandoned everything. Switched from passion to passion like a man running from failure.
But now—here—this smallsword felt like an old friend. Not perfect, but familiar.
Heavy. But manageable.
He remembered the footwork. The thrusts. The feel of narrow steel against his palm. He'd buried it long ago, dismissed it as
wasted effort.
But the moment he wrapped his fingers around the hilt—it came back.
Not perfectly.
But enough.
He stepped into stance instinctively—front foot pointed, blade forward, knees bent.
He lunged, struck air, twisted, reversed.
The blade was heavier than an épée. But it worked.
He smiled—not in joy, but in disbelief.
"Heh… I thank my parents for this…" he whispered.
For once, a part of his past mattered. Something wasn't wasted.
But now wasn't the time to reminisce.
Because from deep in the black labyrinth of corridors, something was coming.
He could hear it now—the drag of something wet, the skittering of claws, the gurgle of breath struggling through a ruined throat.
The Beast had heard the whistle.
And it was hungry.
Luke stuffed the rest of the food he could carry, gripped the smallsword tight, and stepped out of the light.
Let's see if fencing was worth a damn after all.
Luke was ecstatic because he didn't guess that one of his most enjoyed sports can be used in this situation of life or death.
Luke bolted.
Food crammed beneath his shirt shifted with every step, the plastic of water bottles crinkling and sloshing (shhk—clnk—shhhk) against his sides. The smallsword gleamed faintly in his grip, trailing thin slices of light across the crate walls as he sprinted toward the entrance.
But something was wrong.
The exit wasn't empty anymore.
Luke's footfalls slowed (thud… thud… scrape), his instincts screaming.
Then he saw it.
And he nearly dropped everything.
A figure stood in the mouth of the crate—man-shaped, but not human.
Its skin was stretched unnaturally, hanging like wet fabric over brittle limbs. Deep purple flesh clung to its bones, glistening with oozing rivulets of dark blood that dripped (drip… drip… hiss…) onto the wooden floor.
Its face was missing.
In its place: a flat, polished mirror, warped slightly at the edges, like a carnival trick. And in it, Luke saw—
Himself.
A pale, wide-eyed boy. A reflection of fear.
The creature's arms hung low, grotesquely long, fingertips scraping the crate floor with a sickening skrrrch—skrrrch, claws clicking like glass tapping against tile.
The claws themselves were made of hardened children's fingers, fossilized and fused together—tiny knuckles still visibly bent.
"B A A A B I E E E E S . . ."
The voice wasn't one voice.
It was many.
Male. Female. Old. Young.
Layered and leaking through the air like gurgling sewage (glug-glug... squaaah...) and shattered radios (kssshh... reee—kkk—zrrt!).
Luke didn't know what it was.
But it wasn't alive.
It took one stumbling, twitching step forward, its limbs cracking (pop—crack—snap) unnaturally as it moved.
"Y O U . A R E . B A A A B I E S S S . . ."
Then, with a wet SNAP, it lunged.
FWOOOOOOSH!
Luke dove left, shoulder slamming into the crate wall (THUD—CRACK!). Splinters exploded outward as the wall cracked beneath the force of his body.
The Veil's claws slammed where he had stood.
KRA-KRA-KRAK!
Wood splintered. The claws stuck deep, tearing through planks like tissue paper.
Luke hit the floor hard.
BAM!
Ribs aching. Fingers tightening around the sword hilt. His vision swam as the mirror-faced horror turned toward him—his own panicked reflection flickering across its smooth, silent face.
It twitched.
Its claws made a soft click-click-click as they tapped the wood.
Luke rolled sideways—shhk—thud—grunt—and pushed himself up. Not into a perfect stance, no—it was messy, rushed, but the memory of fencing flowed like muscle memory.
He had to fight.
The creature twisted its neck with a sharp crickkk, as if scanning him without eyes.
And then, like a marionette held by frayed wires—
It charged.
Its feet didn't slap the ground. They skittered—skkkt-kt-kt-kt-kt!—almost gliding as its arms flailed wide.
Luke let out a breath.
"HRAAAAH—!"
He lunged, blade first.
CLANG!
The sword scraped across its mirrored face, sparks flying. The creature reeled,
shrieking with a noise that sounded like a child screaming into a bucket of water:
"AAAAAAAEEEGGGHHHHHHH—!!!"
The Veil swung blindly, claws raking the air (SWISH—SWISH—KRAK!), slamming into the crate's ceiling—splinters and dust rained down like snow (crick... fsssh...).
Luke ducked.
He stabbed upward.
CHUNK!
The blade sank into its underarm, crunching through twisted cartilage and soft meat (squlch—crrrk!).
Black-red blood sprayed against Luke's
face. It smelled sweet and rotting, like spoiled fruit left in a corpse's stomach.
The creature stumbled back, its movements spasming—uncoordinated, like it had no idea which limbs it was supposed to use.
But it wasn't dead.
Not even close.
It turned again, mirror flashing, claws raised.
Luke's chest rose and fell.
The water bottles inside his shirt sloshed. His breath rasped (hhhh... hhhh...) against his dry throat.
I won't die here.
Not like this.
He gripped the smallsword tighter.
Not by something that can't even show me its face.
The Veil twitched.
Its body spasmed with violent jolts, limbs bending at impossible angles, like broken joints forced to dance.
CRIK-CRIK-CRIK—SWICK—THUMP—CRACK!
Luke backed up, blade trembling in his grip. His breath burned in his lungs.
Then—
"B A A A B I E S S . . ."
It moved.
Suddenly. Erratically.
Its body whipped left, then snapped forward—arms swinging low, dragging claws across the floor with a shrieking SKREEEEEEECH!
Luke barely dodged—
SWISH—THUNK!
—but not fast enough.
A claw raked across his shoulder, slicing through flesh and shirt with a sickening
SHLK!
Pain exploded through his left side.
"AGH—!"
Blood spattered the floor. He stumbled back, vision flickering from the sharp shock. Warm liquid ran down his arm, slicking his fingers.
Then the Veil stopped.
Its mirror-face locked onto him.
And something changed.
HMMMMMMmmmmmmmmmm. . .
A low, droning vibration leaked into the room—like glass humming just before it shatters.
The mirror began to glow faintly, fogging over with strange mist from within.
Luke stared.
No. Don't—
But it was too late.
The mirror pulled him in.
Not physically.
Mentally.
His eyes widened.
The crate was gone. The Center, gone.
The Veil, gone.
He stood in a hallway.
White walls. Fluorescent lights. Cold linoleum floor.
I know this place…
Footsteps echoed.
Then—
BANG.
He saw it again.
The gun.
The blood.
His own chest ripped open by the bullet that had ended his life on Earth.
His own body slumped. His own eyes
stared wide. The floor grew red.
It wasn't a metaphor.
The Veil showed him his real death.
His true, original end.
A gift. A curse. The mirror's ability to show the death of the one who dares to look within.
And for a moment—
Luke was gone.
Drowning in that pain again. In the injustice. The rage. The confusion.
But something snapped.
He clenched his jaw.
"No…"
He gritted his teeth so hard they cracked.
"No. NO!"
And just like that—
The spell shattered.
CRASH!
His mind snapped back, like a rubber band recoiling to its original shape.
He wasn't dead.
He was here.
Alive.
Flesh torn. Weapon in hand. A beast in front of him.
He had a chance to live.
And The Veil—still twitching, confused by his sudden recovery—hesitated.
That was enough.
Luke let out a war cry—
"RAAAAAAHHH—!!"
And charged.
The smallsword gleamed under the flickering crate light as he stabbed—
THNK! THNK! THNK!
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
SHLK—SHLK—SHLK!
Red blood gushed out with each strike.
Into the chest. Into the neck. Into the jawline just beneath the mirror.
Over and over again.
"YOU—" STAB — "DON'T—" STAB — "GET TO—" STAB — "SHOW ME—" STAB — "MY DEATH!"
The Veil convulsed, shrieking in layers of broken voices.
"AAAAAAHHHHHHHRRRRGHHHH—!!!"
Its blood splattered the inside of the crate. Steam hissed from the wounds (pssshhh…) as the black-red sludge evaporated into the air.
It fell.
Twitching.
Twitching.
Still.
Then—silent.
The mirror-face cracked… and shattered.
tink—tink—tink…
"I...want....to....hug.....babies..."
It muttered in its dying breath.
Shards of reflective glass scattered across the floor like stars fallen from the sky.
Luke stood above it, panting. Covered in blood. Shaking.
"I'm… still here…"
And this time, the only reflection he saw was his own survival.