Capítulo 6: Chapter 6 - The Man From the East
"For what?" I tried to ask, but the words wouldn't come out. The lack of audible speech was a stark reminder that I had made a deal with the devil.
"Hehe, you can't speak!" Sinclair's tone shifted wildly within seconds.
The psychotic Dove stepped closer, lowered his head, and whispered, "you're going to be my favorite killing tool…"
His voice trailed off as he retreated to the metal table covered with torture devices. After a brief moment of thought, he selected a syringe.
He hadn't used this before…
"Night time," he muttered before abruptly injecting the needle.
Consciousness fled as my bloodstream warmed. The once ruthlessly blinding light dimmed. My eyes became heavy as sleep beckoned. And then, I was gone.
———
Discomfort.
The current situation could be summarized in a single word: discomfort.
A sharp pain punctured my brain like a bullet. Thoughts were shattered, and confusion enveloped my psyche.
Where was I? At least, I wasn't dead. Useless panic would only kill.
There was no sound, no voices, no Doves, or reeking incense. However, there was a palpable sense of anxiety. This minuscule moment of peace would cease to exist in a few seconds. Escaping death left a bitter taste on the tongue.
I shifted my fingers to sense the unfamiliar surroundings. It was different. Very different. Legs unbound, hands uncuffed, with no supervision.
The flooring had also changed; it was wooden. The scent of aged wood and faint incense filled the air as my senses returned.
Where was I? Was I still in the Church? No, I couldn't be.
Dishevelment plagued my brain, but waiting would only give that mentally insane Dove a chance for his so-called 'fun.'
A brief moment passed as my resistant eyes struggled to open. But who could blame me? Slipping away from this hell through slumber had grown quite enticing during recent events.
However, a restless thought seeped into my mind. Was I so weak that they just—couldn't care? My body tensed unnecessarily with anger. In six years…revenge would be attainable, with this newfound power. It was possible.
I could feel it: an otherworldly energy coursing through my veins. Whatever that wretched creature had given me…was powerful. Beyond comprehension.
Light returned and revealed that my assumption that the environment had changed was correct.
Morning light filtered through rice paper windows, casting soft patterns on the wooden mats. A gentle creaking echoed with every shift on the smooth, worn wooden floor beneath me.
The distant rustle of bamboo and the quiet hum of nature created a serene, almost sacred atmosphere. Surrounding walls adorned with traditional weaponry and calligraphy hinted at a rich, disciplined history.
The room contained a strange sentiment as if I was foreign, unallowed.
Legs aching with exhaustion, a creak escaped from the floor with each movement as I stood to read the unfamiliar words adorning the wall.
Somehow, the words were slightly recognizable. I spent a short amount of time in deep thought—diving through memories. Any clue could be vital; the utter difference between life and death.
Then clarity struck. The intricate patterns situated on the wall were similar to what I had seen on the Eastern Front.
The Eastern Front. The war.
My breaths became amplified by extreme anxiety as the reality of my predicament became clear. Instinctively, my eyes darted across the room, searching for a possible escape. There was none.
Not a single door was present, the windows were barred, and signs for an exit were nonexistent.
Tension grew as my teeth ground against themselves. During the frantic search for an exit, my attention landed on an assortment of weapons.
With no further options, I scanned the wall for something that would increase my chances of survival. But there was nothing, except blunt weapons.
The wall displayed an array of long, slender implements with gleaming blades, some curved gracefully, others straight and imposing. There were shorter, more intricate tools with intricate handles, designed for precision and close combat.
Not only was I foreign to the room, but also to the weapons. No musket, firearm, or bayonet.
My hands began to tremble with sweat, legs jolted and tensed. For the first time in a while—I was in genuine fear.
Whoever—no, whatever monster had inhabited this room was from the Orient.
The Eastern Front was notorious for its low survivability. It wasn't the godforsaken terrain, the treacherous jungle, or the brutal wildlife. It was the barbarians.
The Church of Masse only engaged in proxy wars, never directly. If the Church wanted something, it got it, without question.
Yet, the Eastern region of the continent denounced the religion. Claimed it to be blasphemy. And had somehow survived.
They didn't use the conventional weapons of war, only themselves…
"Why would someone from the East be here, of all places?" I whispered internally while selecting a weapon from the wall.
A long shaft topped with a sharp, glistening point stood proudly among the weapons. Its polished wooden handle was reinforced with metal bands, hinting at both elegance and deadly precision.
Reaching for the spear, my fingers brushed against the cool metal bands and smooth wood of the handle. It felt solid and reassuring, balanced perfectly for both thrusting and sweeping movements.
The weight settled comfortably, a testament to craftsmanship and design, while the sharp tip gleamed with lethal promise.
"This should work.." the slender armament became lighter through a few swings in the air.
"A spear's true strength lies not in its point, but in the precision and intent of the hand that wields it," a grisly voice sliced through the room's stillness, making my body jolt in apprehension.
My head spun rapidly, only to meet the presence of the alleged monster…
It was an elderly man who stood serenely, his bald head gleaming in the soft light.
His traditional robe, rich with intricate patterns, flowed gracefully around him. Deep lines marked his weathered face, radiating calm wisdom.
His eyes were fused shut, he seemed to see beyond the physical. Each deliberate movement commanded the room's very essence.
The wooden floorboards began to creak with each approaching step. The throbbing of my heart became audible, and my hands lifted the spear—ready for a fight…
Estado de energía semanal
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