Pain came coursing through his body.
His thoughts faded in and out, doubt ate away at him. Was this the right choice?
Cold air pressed against him. Frozen. Heavy. As time had stopped itself.
Ninety feet away.
An endless struggle followed.
The ground no longer felt like stone. Every inch demanded something, his blood, breath and focus. His fingers dragged across the stone, nail bending, skin tearing, yet the floor never yielded. Time lost all form. Each second stretched, heavy, as if the world resisted his every move.
Even if it wasn't the correct choice, it was the only choice he had left.
The man followed behind him.
Quiet footsteps.
The footsteps were never hurried. They were patient and measured. The man observed Roako closely, waiting for his strength to give in. Ice crept along the stone in thin vines, stopping just short of his skin. Close enough for Roako to feel the burn of the cold without mercy.
Slow breaths grew louder with each footstep.
Roako's finger slipped against the cold stone. His strength drained faster with every inch. Markings burning through his skin. Unstable. Angry at the persistent use.
If he had stopped now, he would freeze.
Not die, but kept. Stored. Showcased.
His leg continued kicking forward. An attempt at closing the distance.
Terrain grew rough. Rubble stopped him in his tracks.
"You're close," the man said calmly.
The man walked forward before picking up Roako.
In a desperate struggle, Roako mustered as much strength as he could to break free. His muscles gave out. His body was shutting down. Only his brain was alive.
Blood dripped down the man's suit.
The man advanced toward the underworld with a faint grin on his face.
Roako felt his world crumbling down. Justice. Unfair. Strength. Words he wanted to scream. His voice wouldn't come out. Ice crawled from the man's hand onto his neck.
It was cold. It hurt more than anything. The thought of failing.
Five feet away. That was the distance between the underworld and them.
He set Roako down. Walking past. The only thing standing between Roako and the underworld was this man.
Roako's eyes started to fade. His consciousness was waning. His aspirations were crumbling before him.
He thought of the orphanage's walls, the empty bowls, the laughter turned cruel. Each memory stoked a fire within his chest. If he fell now, all would be for nothing. He would join the list of forgotten faces.
One last attempt.
He swiped away the failing mark and burned a new one into his skin. Jagged and desperate.
A necklace etched into his flesh with shaky fingers.
It mirrored the one across his chest, the only thing his parents left behind. Not a weapon. Not protection. Just proof there was something before the orphanage. Before survival became everything.
He had burned it into himself anyway.
If this mark had a power, he needed it now.
The mark flared.
Blue light clouded his eyes.
Pain vanished.
Roako lurched forward, hope surged before him.
Then the light vanished.
The marking fell apart.
The pain had returned.
It had failed.
He didn't care anymore. Pain gnawed at him, yet he dragged himself forward.
If death waited for him, he would meet it on his own terms.
"Roako, son of Horis," the man said, eyes cold, smile detached.
"Push. Or die before me."
Three feet.
A distance so small that mocked him. A distance that felt wider than Kyisok itself. His vision narrowed as the world became stone, shadow and the faint opportunity of survival.
His breath came in short, shallow bursts. His arm moved then failed. His leg followed, dragging uselessly behind. Every motion felt delayed, as if his body no longer trusted him.
One arm pushed. One leg dragged. His mouth opened in a silent scream. His body betrayed him at every turn, yet his pain was obvious. Bloodshot eyes. Blood ran down his face.
Burnt forearms. Gashes across his legs, bruises along the body. Blood flowing down the mouth.
His desperation was visible.
He dug his fingers deeper into the hardened stone floor.
One last desperate push.
He threw his body forward with all the strength he could muster.
He lay bare, right beside the man. His body hadn't made it past the entrance. His eyes closed. His consciousness was gone. Blood leaving a trail. Body lying still.
A finger had crossed the entrance.
The cold breeze continued to flow.
Ice retracting back to the man.
An impressed stare.
Silence.
Then the man laughed.
"I hope to see you when you're stronger," he said softly.
"Son of my friend."
His back turned, walking away from the bloody scene.
A hand reached out from the underworld. Slowly dragging Roako in.
His cold body. Absence of consciousness. Full of wounds.
The hand's grip tightened.
Stone scraped against the unmoving body of Roako as he was pulled across the threshold.
The air changed the moment he crossed the threshold.
Heavy pressure replaced the wind. Sound had collapsed, faded until nothing remained but a deep silence. His skin shook, not from the cold or the heat, but rather from awareness. The markings beneath his skin pulsed weakly, before going silent. The slums had vanished in its entirety, not with force, rather with indifference. As if the slums had forgotten his existence.
The silence was unwavering.
Eerie.
Empty.
Waiting.
The entrance sealed behind him without an ounce of noise or force, as if it never existed.
Darkness caved in.
Roako did not wake.
Yet something inside his body stirred.
The underworld had taken him.
Slithering broke the silence.
Something moved beneath his body.
His body was lifted, set atop a scaly body that shifted beneath him. Warm yet uneven scales, lifted his body with care, contrary to the previous hand. His body was no longer dragged, it was carried.
They moved.
A faint pulse ran through his chest as his fingers twitched. Darkness started to thin, revealing firelight crackling somewhere. The firelight ahead casted long, warped shadows along the walls revealing murals of survival. The sounds that followed it were unlike that of the slums. They were not screams of fear, rather screams of dominance and hunger, rising alongside it, was the sound of predators. The city below exhaled, alive, waiting.
In contrast to the slums. The world below was deeper, throaty, yet alive.
The underworld breathed.
Somewhere, eyes waited.