The boy stared at Ingward's body.
The old slave's face was frozen in something like peace, his glass-green eyes still open, reflecting the flickering torchlight one last time. Blood pooled beneath him, dark and thick, seeping into the cracks of the stone floor.
Why?
The boy's hands shook. Not from fear. From something worse. Something hollow.
You didn't even know me.
He reached out, fingers brushing Ingward's shoulder. The flesh was still warm.
You shouldn't have died for me.
A sound behind him.
The golden creature moved.
The boy barely had time to turn before the world split in half.
Pain.
White-hot, screaming pain.
His leg—
Where's my leg—
He hit the ground hard, his vision swimming in and out of focus. Blood. Too much blood. His blood. It pulsed out of him in ragged spurts, painting the stone beneath him crimson.
The creature loomed over him, its golden skin streaked with red now, his red. It tilted its head, studying him like a child pulling wings off a fly.
"Pathetic," it murmured. "How... disappointing."
Its hand rose.
The boy gritted his teeth. He wouldn't scream. He wouldn't give it that.
Then—
BOOM.
The Gate shuddered.
The creature paused.
The boy's fading vision caught movement, figures pouring into the chamber, armored in steel, their crimson cloaks billowing behind them.
Knights.
For a single, stupid moment, hope flared in his chest.
Then the girl spoke.
"Useless."
Her voice was ice. She stood at the edge of the room, arms crossed, her dark braid draped over one shoulder. The armored giant beside her said nothing, his hollow gaze scanning the slaughter.
The knights fanned out, weapons drawn, but they didn't attack the creature. They just… watched.
The girl sighed. "Can't even clear one floor without dying like dogs." She shook her head. "Disgusting."
The boy's breath hitched.
Disgusting?
His fingers dug into the stone. His blood was everywhere. Ingward's blood was everywhere. And she—
She's just standing there.
The creature chuckled. "Want to finish this one yourself, little serpent?"
The girl didn't even look at him. "Why bother? He's already dead."
The boy's vision darkened at the edges. The pain was fading. That was bad. That meant the end was close.
But before the blackness took him, one last thought burned through the haze:
This is their fault.
Not the creature's.
Theirs.
The Tower. The knights. The girl with her clean clothes and her cold eyes.
They built this hell. They fed people into it. And they watched.
Ingward died for nothing.
He would die for nothing.
And they didn't even care.
The fire in his chest roared one last time.
Then the world went dark.