It was cold.
Not the kind of cold that nipped your fingers or bit at exposed skin.
The kind that emptied you.
That poured into your lungs like silence given form and stretched time until it snapped.
Jack opened his eyes.
The world around him was a shifting blur of blue and black. Heavy. Slow. Weightless.
He wasn't in water.
He wasn't in air.
He was in something else.
Floating.
No pain. No breath. No blood.Just a suspension—like his body was a forgotten thought drifting inside a memory he didn't own.
He looked up.
Above him—far above—was light.
A soft, pale glow, flickering behind a curtain of mist. It shimmered like a distant star seen from underwater. Gentle. Silent. Clean.
It didn't call to him.
But it felt like it should.
Something in his chest—a reflex, an instinct—said: Go there.
So he swam.
Slow. Steady.
Each kick sent ripples through the thick space around him, like swimming through syrup. His arms moved on autopilot. His breath didn't matter. The rules of dying didn't apply here.
He reached toward the light.
It wasn't getting closer.
But he didn't stop.
Then—something grabbed his ankle.
Not fast.Not violent.Just… claimed.
Jack froze mid-kick.
The cold inside him sharpened.
He twisted downward—and saw it.
A hand.
Not human.
The fingers were red, clawed, as thick as pipe segments. Skin like cracked armor. Veins glowing faintly like embers under stone.
It didn't pull.
It didn't tighten.
It just held him. As if to say: You are mine.
Jack's stomach dropped.
Below the hand was darkness.
And within that darkness—eyes.
Two of them.
Glowing red, wide and patient, watching from deep inside the black.
A shape began to form.Large.Larger.Massive.
The silhouette of a demon, unmoving but omnipresent. A body like a weapon. Horns like jagged spires. Armor fused to flesh. Mouth closed, but somehow smirking.
Not snarling.
Not screaming.
Waiting.
Jack kicked harder.
Tried to shake free.
He twisted. Pulled.
The hand didn't budge.
Didn't fight him.
It didn't need to.
Jack wasn't going anywhere.
His breath, wherever it was stored, came faster now. Panic started to squeeze into his chest. The light above began to fade—not dim, but distant. Like someone was pulling it away.
He looked up.
Swim, dammit. MOVE.
But his body wasn't listening.
Or maybe the water wasn't real.
Maybe none of it was.
He looked down again.
The demon still stared.
No motion. No blink.
Just intent.
Not rage.
Claim.
Jack stopped kicking.
Just for a second.
Because it hit him:
This wasn't drowning.
This wasn't falling.
This was being taken.
"So this is it?" he muttered. Or thought. He couldn't tell.
"No fire. No pitchforks. Just... gravity."
He laughed. Quiet. Bitter.
"Figures."
He looked up again.
The light was smaller now. A pinprick.
He reached anyway.
The hand held firm.
The pressure around him grew heavier.
Denser.
Final.
He was being pulled down. Not violently. Not unfairly.
Just… inevitably.
Then—
Something moved.
Not below.
Above.
He squinted through the haze.
At first, he thought it was a fragment of debris. Maybe a body.
Then it twisted.
Flailing.
A shape.
A person.
Jack blinked hard.
No fucking way…
It was falling fast.
Spinning. Tumbling.
And then—
He saw the helmet.
The crooked limbs.
The glint of broken glasses.
And that stupid, hopeful grin.
"Sam…?"
It wasn't possible.
Couldn't be.
Jack blinked again, water—or whatever this was—distorting everything like a dream with a bad connection.
But the figure above wasn't vanishing.
It was getting closer.
Flailing like a falling scarecrow. Spinning once. Legs kicking. Arms wide.
A blur of movement in the haze—and then it leveled.
It wasn't graceful.
It wasn't heroic.
It was Sam.
Of course it was.
Jack didn't know whether to laugh or scream.
There he was.
Helmet missing.
Glasses drifting behind him like sad, nerdy satellites.
Limbs jerking awkwardly with every motion, like he didn't know how to fall properly.
And then—he grinned.
Wide.
Genuine.
Stupid.
That same damn grin he wore the first time Jack saw him trip over a sidewalk carrying a full tray of pudding cups.
Sam reached out, voice muffled—maybe not sound at all, but thought. Emotion.
"H-h-hold on, J-Jack! I'm c-coming!"
Jack stared at him, stunned.
"You idiot…"
Sam came closer, arms extended like he was trying to tackle gravity.
Jack wanted to yell.
To tell him to go back.
To get out while he still could.
But it was too late.
Sam's hand found his.
Weak. Slippery.
But real.
Jack felt it.
Felt him.
Gripping Jack's wrist with everything he had.
"Y-you're not g-g-going alone."
Jack didn't respond.
Couldn't.
He just stared.
At the ridiculous, hopeless, stuttering little man who dove into the abyss just to keep him company.
The demon's hand still gripped Jack's ankle.
Now it had both of them.
The pull intensified—not fast, but absolute.
They were going down.
Together.
The light above flickered.
Shrank.
Gone.
Only the black remained.
And the pressure.
Sam tightened his grip.
"I-I've got you."
Jack blinked hard.
His throat tightened.
"Jesus Christ, Sam…"
"T-this ain't Mordor without you."
Jack laughed, weak.
But he didn't let go.
The dark opened below them.
Not like an ocean.
Like a mouth.
And they sank deeper.
The silence gave way to heat.
Pressure.
The sense that something was watching from below.
Still.
Waiting.
And then—
The surface beneath them broke.
Not rock.
Not water.
Not even reality.
It just gave way.
And they fell.
Hard.
They hit like dropped cargo.
Jack struck something hard and uneven—his ribs bounced off jagged angles, his shoulder skidded against brittle ridges. The landing wasn't like falling on rock.
It was like falling on teeth.
Everything cracked beneath him.
Or inside him.
He rolled once, coughed, and spat something that tasted like rust and ash.
When he opened his eyes, he saw bones.
Bleached white. Splintered. Some still with bits of tendon clinging like rotten lace. He pushed himself up, fingers slipping on a cracked pelvis, and looked around.
They were on an island.
Not of stone.
Not of sand.
Just bone.
A rising mound of skulls, femurs, vertebrae, claws, horns, teeth. Some human. Some… not.
The shape of the land was jagged and wrong, like a graveyard had been churned into a mountain and dumped in the middle of an endless sea.
And that sea?
Still black.
Still silent.
It didn't ripple. Didn't breathe.
It just watched.
Jack turned slowly, spine aching, and saw Sam beside him—face down, moaning into a bed of shattered ribs.
"O-ow... I think I landed on a troll skull."
Jack groaned.
"You'd know what that feels like."
Sam grinned through the pain, half-rolled over, and blinked up at the void around them.
"W-we're not dead, right?"
Jack snorted.
"Define dead."
They both sat up.
Around them, the island cracked.
Bones shifted with each movement—like the structure was alive, or just very tired of their presence.
Jack looked past the edge.
Saw movement.
Shadows under the water.
Arms.
Faces.
Dozens. Maybe hundreds.
Ghosts.
But not the pretty, glowing kind.
These had hollow eyes, long fingers, mouths stretched wide with teeth that looked sharpened by hunger. They didn't float—they crawled through the water like spiders in oil.
And they were getting closer.
Jack stood slowly.
His joints screamed.
But he kept his eyes on the sea.
"We stay away from the edges."
Sam nodded, wide-eyed.
"Th-they're hungry."
"Yeah. For us."
They backed toward the center.
Footing was treacherous—bones cracked and shifted under each step. Jack slipped on a shoulder blade and nearly impaled himself on a twisted rib. Sam tripped twice, arms flailing like a cartoon character in a minefield.
The middle of the island was flat—relatively. Ten feet of almost-level skulls and broken limbs stacked like tiles in some hellish cathedral floor.
And that's when Jack saw it.
Floating.
Perfectly still.
Just a few feet above the bone.
A dagger.
It hung there, motionless, not suspended by anything—just floating in the air, like the laws of reality had forgotten it.
The blade was long—almost the length of Jack's forearm—and slightly curved, the metal black with crimson veins running just beneath the surface like embers under glass.
The edge shimmered.
The tip narrowed to a killing point.
And the hilt?
Twisted bone wrapped in leather, but at its center—a chamber.
Glass.
Empty.
Jack stopped walking.
So did Sam.
"Th-that's... that's not good."
"Nope."
"Let's not touch it."
"Agreed."
But something shifted beneath them again.
Another chunk of the island—maybe ten feet wide—collapsed into the sea.
The ghosts surged toward it, fighting one another in silence, mouths open, reaching.
Bones tumbled down like dominoes into the abyss.
Jack felt it in his ankles.
The island was shrinking.
Fast.
He looked back at the dagger.
It hadn't moved.
But it felt like it was watching.
No noise.
No voice.
But it was calling.
Like gravity.
Like pressure.
Like a weight on the back of your mind whispering:
You already know what this is.
The dagger didn't move.
But it felt closer now.
Like space itself was leaning toward it. Like gravity forgot what it was supposed to pull on.
Jack didn't want to touch it.
Everything in his gut told him not to.
But the island was dying.
Another piece—bigger this time—collapsed into the sea behind them. The ghosts surged again, silent and wild, climbing over each other for the falling bones.
A white, eyeless face surfaced just yards from the edge.
Its mouth opened in a scream Jack couldn't hear—but somehow still felt.
"W-we need to stay away from that thing," Sam said, backing up.
"I'm open to other suggestions," Jack muttered, never taking his eyes off the dagger.
Another crack beneath them. The floor buckled.
They had maybe six feet of space left.
No cover.
No high ground.
No weapons.
Except—
Jack stepped forward.
The dagger hovered just above chest level, turning slowly in the air like it was on display.
Beautiful.
Elegant.
Wrong.
The metal pulsed faintly with red light, flowing just beneath the surface like slow-moving lava. The hilt was bone, twisted and smoothed into something disturbingly organic.
And that glass chamber—
Still empty.
Still waiting.
He didn't mean to reach out.
But his hand moved anyway.
His fingers trembled, hovered an inch from the grip.
Don't touch it.
He heard the voice.
His own.
The sane part.
The last sane part.
And then—his skin brushed the handle.
The world changed.
Instantly.
Heat surged through his palm, up his wrist, crawling like molten threads through his veins.
He gasped.
It wasn't pain.
Not at first.
It was power.
Blinding, sick, intoxicating.
Like adrenaline soaked in oil and rage.
His spine straightened.
His muscles tensed.
His heart slammed once—twice—then locked into rhythm with something older than time.
He saw the ghosts at the edge stop.
Freeze.
Stare.
Like they knew.
Like they feared.
Sam gasped behind him.
"J-Jack… l-let it go."
Jack tried.
He really did.
His fingers wouldn't open.
"What the fuck—"
He pulled.
Twisted.
Tried to pry it off against a jutting femur.
Nothing.
The dagger didn't cling.
It just... refused.
Like it had chosen.
And Jack was no longer in control.
More heat.
Now it burned.
Not like fire.
Like infection.
Creeping through his blood, worming into his chest.
And with it—understanding.
Not in words.
But in meaning.
The dagger wanted blood.
A soul.
It didn't speak.
But Jack knew.
It wanted to be filled.
The glass chamber was a jar, and it was empty.
And the thing it needed most...
Was Sam.
Jack tried again to drop it.
Slammed it into a rib.
It sparked—but held firm.
His arm locked.
His pulse pounded in his ears.
"I can't—fucking—let go—"
Sam backed up, wide-eyed now, really scared.
The ghosts were climbing the island now, their eyeless faces crawling just over the ridge, arms pulling their pale, hollow forms upward like spiders made of ash.
The dagger pulsed again.
Hotter.
Faster.
Hungry.
Jack stumbled back.
Stared at Sam.
Sam stared back.
"No…"
Jack's voice cracked.
"I'm not doing it."
The dagger didn't care.
It was waiting.
The sky cracked.
It didn't thunder.
It broke.
Like glass under pressure, like the surface of reality giving way to something older and angrier than time itself.
Above the black sea, the red light—once distant—opened.
Not like a window.
Like a wound.
A ring of flame burst across the void, stretching wide and blinding, bathing the shrinking island in unbearable heat.
Jack turned his face away. His skin sizzled.
Sam cried out, falling back on his elbows as the last edge of the island crumbled behind him.
The ghosts below hissed and shrank away—but not far.
The light above them had changed.
It wasn't just flame.
It was hell.
From within the circle of fire, something moved.
Not fast. Not clumsy.
It didn't need to rush.
The demon god was arriving.
First came the horns—twisted like scorched trees, taller than buildings.
Then the head, emerging from the flames—massive, bone-plated, crowned with iron and skulls, eyes glowing like stars on the verge of collapse.
Then the teeth.
Rows and rows.
Too many.
Each as long as a man's body.
Each sharp enough to split a tank.
And beneath it all: Khorne.
His form wasn't just seen—it was felt.
Like a mountain made of rage.
A god born of violence and prophecy.
The god of war and slaughter.
The god who had chosen Jack.
The dagger in Jack's hand pulsed again—this time not with heat, but with pressure.
It ached. It itched. It wanted.
The glass heart flickered—ready to be filled.
And Jack?
He couldn't breathe.
Not from fear.
From expectation.
The demon did not speak with sound.
His voice was a weight behind Jack's eyes. A presence inside his bones.
Words carved themselves into his mind like commandments written in fire.
"I CHOSE YOU."
"YOU ARE MY VESSEL."
"I WILL SEND YOU TO A WORLD WHERE FIRE IS LAW AND DEATH IS GLORY."
"YOU WILL SOW CHAOS."
"AND I WILL OPEN THE GATES."
"YOU WILL FEED ME WITH BLOOD."
"WITH SKULLS."
"WITH EVERYTHING."
Jack's knees buckled.
He felt the command like gravity.
The dagger screamed in his hand.
He wanted to throw it away.
But it was too late.
He was bonded.
Then came the ultimatum.
"ONLY ONE SHALL LEAVE THIS PLACE."
"CHOOSE."
"FEED THE BLADE."
"OR BE CONSUMED TOGETHER."
The ghosts surged again—halfway onto the island now.
Hands. Teeth. Hunger.
Sam stood beside Jack, trembling, breathing hard.
Then—
He stepped forward.
"I-it's alright."
Jack turned.
Sam's face was pale.
His eyes glassy.
But he smiled.
"Y-you can do it, Jack."
"No."
"I-it's okay."
Sam stepped closer. Calm now.
"I know I'll go to heaven."
Jack blinked.
"You're serious."
Sam nodded.
"Y-you don't believe. You n-need another chance."
"Sam, don't—"
"Maybe you'll f-find it."
His eyes welled up.
"Redemption. G-God. Something."
"I-I want you to have that."
"Maybe… m-maybe we'll meet again. There."
The dagger pulsed again.
The ghosts screamed louder now.
The demon leaned in through the fire, watching.
Waiting.
Jack gritted his teeth.
He was shaking.
Tears filled his eyes—not from sorrow.
From rage.
"This isn't right."
"I know."
"This isn't fair."
"I-it never is."
Sam opened his arms.
Smiling.
"M-make it count."
Jack stared at Sam.
The dagger pulsed in his hand, searing now—its heat no longer a suggestion, but a demand.
Its empty chamber begged to be filled.
The ghosts clawed closer.
The fire roared.
And above them, the demon god of slaughter—Khorne—watched, as if he already knew how it would end.
"CHOOSE."
"FEED ME."
"BE REBORN."
Jack's breath trembled.
He looked down at the blade in his hand.
The bone hilt throbbed with heat. The glass was pulsing. The pressure in his chest was unbearable.
Power swam through his muscles—taunting him with promise. It whispered of another life. Of strength. Of survival. Of conquest.
One soul.
One death.
That was the price.
It would be easy.
So easy.
Sam knelt before him.
Open.
Vulnerable.
Eyes full of fear… and something else.
Peace.
"You c-can do it, Jack."
"I-I'm not afraid."
Jack swallowed hard.
"You stupid little bastard…"
Sam's smile didn't waver.
"I-I know y-you're better than you th-think."
"I believe in you."
That did it.
Jack's face twisted. He bit back whatever emotion was trying to crawl out of his throat.
He took one step forward.
Sam didn't move.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't even blink.
Jack raised the dagger.
"You want blood?"
He stepped in closer.
Voice low. Angry.
"Then fine."
"Take it."
He drove the blade forward—fast, brutal, clean.
Straight into Sam's chest.
Sam gasped.
Eyes wide.
But not in fear.
In relief.
His hand reached up—touched Jack's wrist.
"T-thank y-you…"
And then Jack moved again.
Twisting the blade.
Driving it through.
Not just into Sam.
Through Sam.
And into himself.
The blade pierced Jack's gut.
The edge ripped flesh and muscle. Pain flared. But Jack didn't stop.
He pulled Sam close. Locked them together in one final embrace.
The dagger's chamber lit up.
Blinding.
Two souls.
One act.
Too much.
The sky erupted.
The fire flared.
And the dagger—
Exploded.
From above, the shattered ceiling of this place cracked again.
A spear of golden-white-red light tore through the black.
It screamed as it fell.
Not a weapon.
A judgment.
It struck the place where Jack and Sam collapsed.
And the world convulsed.
The fire roared.
Khorne screamed.
"NO—NO! YOU DEFY ME?!"
The ghosts shrieked and scattered.
The island crumbled.
And the light—impossibly fast, impossibly bright—sucked the souls of Jack and Sam upward.
They didn't rise.
They were taken.
Ripped from the grasp of death.
Fused with the spear of light.
Below, Khorne raged.
Demons with wings and spears of bone leapt from the portal of fire, clawing after them.
But the light was too fast.
Too clean.
It burned anything that touched it.
The first demon's hand vaporized.
The rest turned away—fleeing back into hell, shrieking in pain.
The portal buckled.
Closed.
Snapped shut like a clenched fist.
Silence returned.
The light was gone.
So were Jack and Sam.
Only ashes remained.
And far below, in a throne of molten skulls, Khorne's hand clenched once…
…then bled.