On the cold, damp floor, crawling with rats and insects, a black-haired young man lay unconscious.
The cell was tiny, stinking of rot. Moisture seeped through the cracks in the stone walls, and a sickly rustling echoed from the corners. The only light came from two dim torches beyond the iron bars, their flickering glow stretching twisted shadows across the walls.
Gradually, the crawling things drew closer, drawn by the scent of living flesh.
A huge gray rat crept up to his bare leg, twitched its nose—and sank its yellow teeth deep into his skin.
A scream tore through the silence.
The young man jolted awake, kicking violently. His heart pounded like a hammer inside his chest as he shook the rat off, sending it scurrying back into the darkness.
Pain burned through his calf, but then he froze—his arm was there.
Whole. Untouched. No blood. No wounds. Not even a scar.
He stared in disbelief. Slowly, his eyes moved over his body. His skin was clean, his muscles intact—
as if all the torture he remembered was nothing more than a dream.
"Not only did I survive… but my body's perfect. What the hell is going on…"
He glanced around, panic creeping into his voice. The cell was nothing but stone and rust, the air heavy and wet.
Terror began to rise from somewhere deep inside, tightening around his throat. He stumbled to the bars, gripping them so hard his knuckles whitened.
"Hey! Is anyone there?! Let me out! Do you hear me?!"
Only silence answered him.
Silence—and the steady drip of water.
He shouted until his voice broke, then slid down to the cold floor and buried his face in his hands.
"What the hell is happening… is this a dream, or… reality?"
"If it's just a dream… why does it hurt so damn much?"
After hours of restless thoughts, he finally drifted into uneasy sleep.
"Get up, filthy scum!"
A brutal kick to the stomach snapped him awake. The air shot from his lungs, vision blurring.
Two soldiers in heavy, battered armor grabbed him under the arms and yanked him to his feet. The clatter of metal echoed down the stone corridor.
Cells lined both sides. Inside some of them, he saw figures—if they could still be called that.
Pale faces. Blue lips. Empty eyes staring at nothing. Some were missing limbs.
He turned away, gagging at the stench.
As they climbed a narrow staircase, cold air bit into his skin.
He wore only tattered shorts and a thin shirt, while the soldiers were wrapped in thick cloaks. Their armor looked ancient, as if from another time entirely.
At the top, a wide hall opened up. Dozens of prisoners stood in chains, connected by a single long shackle.
He was shoved to the end of the line.
No one spoke. No one even moved.
Their faces were empty—like dolls that had forgotten how to live.
"Hey…" he whispered. "Can you hear me?"
No response.
Not a blink. Not a twitch.
Cold fear crawled down his spine.
Ahead, massive iron gates began to open, spilling a gust of freezing wind into the hall.
They were herded outside. The snow bit at his bare feet; the air itself seemed to slice his lungs.
In the distance, dozens of wooden crosses stood buried in the ground like grave markers.
On a raised platform stood a fat old priest in black robes.
His eyes gleamed with fanatical devotion.
"Bring the sinners to the crosses!" he roared.
The soldiers moved instantly, dragging prisoners toward their fates.
The young man staggered back, panic rising in his chest. Memories flashed—the axe, the laughter, the tearing of flesh.
"No… no, not again…"
"Nail the heretics!" the priest bellowed.
Rough hands seized him, slamming him against the wooden beam. He struggled, screamed, begged—
but his voice was swallowed by the howling wind.
"Wait! It's a mistake! I don't even know how I got here! Please, listen to me!"
A rifle butt cracked against his jaw. Stars exploded in his vision. Through the ringing in his ears, he heard the rasp of metal—a nail being lifted, positioned over his palm.
"Listen to me, you bastards—!"
The hammer fell.
A sickening crunch.
Flesh tearing. Bone splitting.
Agony erupted, white-hot, surging through his veins like molten lead. He felt the nail push deeper, crushing muscle and tendon. Blood gushed down the rough wood, warm and sticky.
A scream tore itself from his throat—raw, animal, desperate.
The pain blinded him. His mind splintered; all that existed was the fire inside his nerves.
When the second nail pierced his other hand, his body arched violently. His voice broke—only hoarse gasps escaped his lips.
"Please… stop… it hurts… I can't…"
No one heard him. No one cared.
The priest raised his hands toward the sky, shouting with zeal.
"Let them burn in their sins!"
Straw beneath his feet caught fire.
At first, it was only warmth.
Then—the heat became unbearable. Flames licked at his ankles, crawled up to his knees.
He screamed.
Skin cracked and blistered, curling away from the meat beneath. The smell of his own burning flesh filled the air. Smoke invaded his lungs, choking him, searing his throat.
Tears streamed down his face, mixing with sweat, turning to steam in the heat.
"No… please… I don't want this…"
The fire climbed higher, devouring him.
He could feel his face melting, his teeth grinding under the heat, his flesh turning to ash.
And with one final, trembling breath—
he felt nothing at all.