"You look like shit, Nyx. Having a hard time?"
He hollered loudly at the monster, like this were a reunion between old pals. A genuine laugh, and a sincere, albeit twisted grin. As if the being standing at the end of that hallway weren't the cause for his missing arm and punctured eye, alongside his rows of shattered teeth. Facial reconstruction surgery hadn't been very fun.
Even No. 8's usually blank expression shifted in response then, tightening into a frown, as if a fly had just spoken to him.
"Coeus."
He lifted the steel door back up, sensing the cold atmosphere from before turn even stiffer. Hands tightened their grips. Fingers twitched silently on triggers. Yet, as expected, they did not shoot. Because No. 12 was present.
Perhaps their belief was equal to their fear.
The Inquisitive Mind wagged his finger at him disapprovingly, while halting the troop's fire with his other hand.
A relaxed, open palm, with five fingers splayed out. Just a simple gesture of command.
However, No. 8 understood well that the moment said gesture closed into a fist...
He might die.
So the monster planted the makeshift shield before him; one arm slotted through the handle, and one hand gripping the bars of the window. The monster felt their tensions rise, raising to a boiling crescendo as his spine hunched, ensuring the security of all his vital points, hidden behind the welded metal.
Scrape.
Screech.
The door grinded against concrete, generating sparks of intense heat as he approached.
The veritable firing squad all immediately looked towards the Captain, but the signal they awaited did not arrive.
And only the ever widening, sickening smile of No. 12 could be seen, gleaming underneath those pale florescent lights.
A measured, unsteady bumble, still accustoming himself to the added weight, No. 8 advanced in a languid speed that morphed instantly into an unrestrained, darting shadow, ignoring even the patches of dead skin he left clinging to the floor.
2 minutes.
The raised hand finally clenched into a fist with a bark of laughter.
Bang!
Gunfire rang out then, again and again, ceaselessly pouring down like a violent storm.
They struck his shield. Fifty in one. And fifty again. The monster staggered beneath the compounding weight, his knees almost buckling as he continued this heedless charge, enduring another round. Exhaustion had inevitably caught up to him, and those wounds, new and old, now began sapping at his strength. Feathers piling upon feathers until they encased his feet in lead.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
His body screamed. A dull, hoarse yell that emanated from his very bones. His heartbeat dipped, blood oxygen plummeting.
1 and a half minutes.
No. Not yet. Although his muscles tore and his ligaments snapped, No. 8's expression remained neutral, like it always had, and has been. Regardless of anything. Regardless of everything. His lips curved in the shape of a smile. But that, was all it was.
A shape.
An outline. A drawing book, with no crayons to draw.
More. He needed more.
The monster roared, his life seeping through his skin, bursting at the seams. Bloodlust, like a boundless sea, surged and roiled and devoured, eating and eating until it consumed even itself, an endless tide dragging a broken body towards a question. The 'Tactician' grimaced at the sight, stepping back and releasing his own Bloodlust, helping the Numbers regain their minds.
"Exactly." The man with the black eyepatch spat, "You're still the same!" He screamed.
No. 8 gained ground. Meters upon meters that vanished with every step he took. The monster could no longer see.
Yet it still got to its feet and ran.
No. 12 shut his eyes now. He no longer wanted to watch. He did not want to see anything.
No. 12 merely raised his arm one last time.
And gave them the go-ahead.
Two Delta Taskforce A members nodded at him, acknowledging his order. One pulled the safety pins and retreated...
While the other released a soundless signal, before pulling the trigger.
Boom!
Light erupted. An explosion lurched throughout the prison walls, causing a deafening ring. When the dust settled, shrapnel had eviscerated the entire area, pieces of contorted metal digging into the riot shields they prepared. But even with that precaution, many frontline troops still suffered laceration and puncture wounds. This was the result from nearly 15 meters away.
So what about that monster within the blast radius?
Ophanim and Delta Taskforce A did not dare breathe easy yet. No. 12 hesitated for a moment as well, then forged onwards.
At the point of contact, only a smoldering door remained, its center a crater of molten metal and ruptured steel, peering through to the other side and revealing the flaring ring of soot underneath.
Over to the horizon, burning flesh wafted.
The reception desk inside had become a wreck, mahogany wood front punched through by a seemingly large object, while the surroundings carried the lingering, acrid scent of gunpowder. The man with the black eyepatch signaled the troops to advance.
And there, lying motionless against the back of the administration hall, reeking of death and singed rot...
Was No. 8.
"What an... unsatisfactory finish." He coughed violently, black blood spilling from his lips as he pointed his chin at Coeus.
"I expected I would at least kill a few of you."
The monster's skin had all but vanished, leaving gaps of exposed, purple flesh. His arms and legs, which were the most badly affected, each possessed sixth-degree burns, unveiling blackened bones. The shrapnel hadn't let him off easy either, as more than a couple shards could be seen perforating his body. Many more probably rested within his organs too.
The biggest of them; a splinter from his own shield that pierced straight through his abdomen.
It was a miracle he was actually breathing right now.
"Nyx-" No. 12 started, but No. 8 immediately cut him off, "Daewi."
Useless eyes bored into his skull, tracing the source of his voice: "My name is Daewi, not Nyx."
Even blinded, they held a certain power. An abnormal strength. The 'Tactician' stopped for a second, before chortling.
"Daewi? The name that old man gave you?" He jested, "Oh Nyx, and here I thought you didn't have a heart."
The monster didn't correct him twice. Instead, he wordlessly lifted up his injured hand and crooked his finger, beckoning No. 12 over in what was quite possibly his gentlest gesture so far. Almost as if he were about to dictate his obituary to him.
"Sir!" The soldier exclaimed, feeling a scarred hand lower his rifle. He was stunned by the Captain's sudden compliance.
No. 12 then signaled a complete standby, and walked towards the charred half-corpse, only a single handgun in tow.
He bent down in front of No. 8, placing his arms on his knees.
"So, any last words?"
"I can sign your epitaph for you, if you want."
The 'Tactician's' tone was light and cheery, reminiscent of a class clown, simply goofing off with nary a care in the world. Even while he aimed the pistol unflinchingly at the monster's skull.
But No. 8 wasn't fazed either, accepting the odd contrast as naturally as fact.
"Words are for people who are alive. Once I'm dead, what use would they be for me?" The monster rejected the notion.
Ba-dump.
Ba-dump.
His heart could no longer beat properly.
"You have it, no? That thing."
"Hm?" The man with the black eyepatch cocked an eyebrow.
"Ugh. That thing that makes you blow smoke." No. 8 drawled impatiently, sensing his time trickle away.
Hearing this, No. 12 blinked slowly for a moment, before bursting into raucous laughter.
"Oh! A cig?"
He slapped his thigh, single eye widening as his laughter trailed off into disbelief, "No shot, I'm sure you said you'd never try it? 'Worsens the reactions', something like that?" The 'Tactician' inquired, squinting.
"What made you change your mind?"
The monster paused for a moment, tilting his head towards his imminent disembowelment without another word of response.
"Ah, that's true. Dying does indeed change much, doesn't it?"
No. 12's aim slightly drifted—much to the dismay of the soldier and co.—as he reached leisurely into his pocket, picking out the last cigarette stick and lighting it. Of course, this movement meant that both of his arms were currently occupied. And yet, No. 8 remained immobile, exhibiting not even a twitch of motion.
The monster merely waited. Silent and still, until the lit cigarette reached his lips.
Phew.
He took a long puff, seemingly savoring the unique experience, both eyes closing in solemn contemplation.
Before No. 8 blew its smoke directly at No. 12's face.
Number or not, everyone but the two involved tensed as the grey cloud obscured Coeus' vision. It was a perfect opportunity for that monster to strike! How could the Captain allow this? These thoughts emerged, running rampant amidst the members, their ranks becoming visibly messier under the anxiety.
But no one moved to shoot. No one dared.
And neither the Inquisitive Mind nor the Vile Beast moved either, the former simply smiling while the latter frowned.
"Tastes horrible. Why do you subject yourself to this?" No. 8 grumbled, removing the cigarette with his injured hand, "Is it a form of self-torment?" He handed it back to No. 12, who stuck it casually in his mouth, taking a long drag as well.
"Gahahaha!" Smoke sprayed unwittingly as the 'Tactician' laughed, retaining not a semblance of his previous gravitas.
"It's an acquired taste, you'll understand in time."
The monster shook his head, speaking bluntly as he touched his throat, feeling an itching soreness, "I'd rather not."
Confusion.
The duo's exchange was confounding, really. A total withdrawal from reality.
Those soldiers stood in place, frozen, witnessing a matter they couldn't truly comprehend. So it came back as jumbled chaos.
Their Captain, touted as the greatest tactical mind, was willingly revealing chances and opportunities for the enemy to counter? And that monster, who expressed a level of violence unseen before even among killers like them, and who they saw murdering their peers even while on the verge of death...
A 'thing' like that actually stayed unresponsive in front of such provocation?
If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
One person, who should have shot and ended the matter at its beginning. Yet hadn't.
While the other should be attacking right this instant. Yet wasn't.
Squadron Ophanim, understanding the eccentricity of being a Number, merely deadened their hearing and kept silent, none of them willing to be the first to speak up against their leader.
Meanwhile, Delta Taskforce A were collectively questioning their own sanity.
They were—obviously—ignored.
No. 12 observed No. 8's injured hand carefully, finally cooling down as he inspected the extent of the damage. Damage that he had inflicted on the man he once considered a comrade. And, although most of it had now meshed together, mixing in a boiling pot of blood and impairment, some of them still stood out clear as day.
"That wound. Was it from No. 22?" He inquired, receiving a nonchalant nod.
"Hoh, then perhaps he was better than I expected. A shame."
"And those..." The man with the black eyepatch noticed something else, "Snipped bone. You were cut? Huh, I specifically asked Delta Taskforce B to forego their knives before combating you. So I assume it must have been her?"
"Right again." The monster groaned, remembering that ordeal, "Three vials of 'Mercy'. Must have cost a fortune, no?"
"Haha! Cost them 'several' fortunes, but the High Scale considered it a worthwhile expenditure."
"All..." He paused for a second, "for me to take your head in the end."
No. 12's brilliant smile suddenly vanished, replaced by the serpentine glare of the 'Tactician', bearing down upon him. And that monster, No. 8, stared back as well, eyes filled with nothing. He wanted to see it, even now. Because it was now. What emotion would there be within No. 12's mind as he made his decision? What shape was it? What color? What texture?
Blindness wasn't an issue, for a person's soul is painted by colors the eye cannot begin to realize.
He gazed in.
Only to grunt, finding a wall that blocked his way.
Only to find he could not see anything at all.
Click.
The 'Tactician' disengaged the gun's safety, pointing the weapon at its target.
"I just have one final thing to ask you."
His voice, receding into a faint whisper, fell on deaf ears.
"Tell me, old friend. Are you afraid?"
". . ."
No. 8 didn't reply. But that silence was as good an answer as any. No. 12 loosened a single bark of laughter, bitter and pained, letting it echo across the empty halls of this abandoned prison. A prison he decided he would later burn to ashes.
The man with the black eyepatch dropped his cigarette, stamping out the final embers of flame as he smiled:
"Fine. Then just-"
Twin figures blurred under the florescent bulbs. A beam of luminance shone at them from above, as if the moonlight of that day, so harsh and ruthless. Blood gushed from Nyx's mouth, as he spat a piece of his inner cheek directly at Coeus' eyes, hindering his vision. But No. 12 also reacted instantly, unarmed hand clamping down upon the monster's injured arm. A preemptive move designed to capture and disable the one limb he had seen him still use.
However, it was No. 8's other hand that struck instead, concealed behind the guise of inactivity, holding a partially melted knife.
The hand that shimmered like steel stretched forth, reaching his neck.
While the gun slid back, pointing unwaveringly on target.
One advanced. One retreated.
And their dance ended in a single exchange.
Bang!
Underneath the piercing moonlight of that day, shining at them from above, stood a lonely victor.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
Today, that victor changed.
No. 12 emptied the clip into the monster's skull. He threw out the magazine, reloaded, then emptied his clip again. Again. Again and again, until his ammo ran dry. Until the bullets weren't shooting at him, but though him, leaving the wall pockmarked by this continuous, fruitless gunfire. The 'Tactician' felt cold sweat drip from his forehead when he finally stopped.
Gasping for air, he wrapped his hand tightly around his neck.
And for a moment, he found that he couldn't breathe, as if something invisible was strangling him.
Could a dead man still exert such pressure? Could a dead man still kill him? The skin of his throat split open, spilling blood. But it wasn't enough to kill. The man with the black eyepatch retrieved a medical patch from his pocket, placing it over the gash.
That knife.
If No. 12 hadn't realized it sooner and adjusted his range accordingly...
He would be dead on the ground as well.
"A pity." Trembling lips muttered, "Such a pity."
He observed his grisly spoils of war in silence for a while longer, before turning towards his troops. "What. Are you waiting for me to wave a flag in celebration?" The man's remaining eye was completely bloodshot. "Clap, you pathetic fools."
"Clap for a job well done."
The Numbered soldier flinched, having never seen the Captain so agitated in his life. This... was the first time ever.
And thus, he accidentally misspoke.
"S-sir," His voice stammered, "Perhaps it would be better to rest. Your emotional state is currently-"
Thump.
Blood spilled from his lips as he sank to the ground, crushed against the floor by an overwhelming pressure. It was no physical attack. It was merely a wave of Bloodlust, condensed into a force potent enough to override his very body, taking advantage of their natural instincts and sense of danger. Hence, causing him to crumple.
Like a deer caught in headlights. He froze.
"Do I need to repeat myself?" No. 12 asked then, shaking his head almost jokingly, almost teasingly.
"CLAP!" He roared, sending everyone to their knees.
Rifles clattered helplessly onto the ground. The 'Tactician' was their superior, and a mentor to the Numbers present. However, at this exact moment, it truly felt as if he would slaughter them all if they didn't comply.
Fueled by a rage of Bloodlust nearly rivalling the monster they had just eliminated.
Applause sounded. A single pair of hands, blending into the symphony of the many that followed. Thunderous applause. Faces contorted into congratulatory smiles, awkward and jarring, as No. 12 raised his arms higher and higher, becoming the center of such madness. A momentary delusion he would willingly partake in.
The man removed his black eyepatch and threw it at the corpse, revealing the gouged-out hole where his eye should've been.
It wasn't strictly an equal exchange, but whatever.
It was good enough for a final farewell.
He spat:
"Now we're even, you fucker."
The pressure constricting the troops vanished, as the 'Tactician' seemingly returned to his old self, barking orders at them. For the cleanup, half of Squadron Ophanim would retrieve their fallen comrades, while the other half doused the prison in gasoline, before planting some explosives within key locations, and blowing everything to high heaven.
"You, and you." No. 12 pointed towards the last few Delta members, "Bag his body. The Divus Consul wants proof."
"And as for you..." He shifted his glare to the soldier, still suffering from aftereffects of their dispute, and angrily snorted:
"Just get me a smoke later."
Hearing this, the Number heaved a sigh of relief and bowed, excusing himself to go help with the arrangements.
No. 12 grunted, leaving the reception hall shortly as well. There wasn't much else to do in there. He had accomplished his task, and the High Scale operatives should be arriving for body collection soon, accompanied by the Divus Consul. Ah, well, the only one that was alive at the moment, anyways.
An old fogey past her prime.
He walked into the hallway, taking a deep breath of the humid air. He could almost smell the fresh grass outside.
The man with a single eye reflexively reached towards his pocket, before stopping, laughing as he placed his hands behind his back. No. 12's current expression seemed almost peaceful, yet it still carried a hidden hint of longing.
"I wonder... if you'll find what we sought over there..."
He spoke aimlessly, wandering, as if talking to the wind.
Coeus felt the medical patch on his neck twinge, a signal that the wound had been sealed.
So he peeled it off, allowing it to slip in between his slack fingers, dropping to the floor below as he suddenly jerked back-
Boom!
No. 12 was sent flying, slamming directly into the nearby wall as the ground erupted from beneath him. "Urgk!" The 'Tactician' heard his back creak, and vomited out a mouthful of blood, trying to quickly orient himself. He analyzed the situation, seeing an abnormal spike sticking up through the tiles like a stalagmite. Dust abated, and then he saw more. And more.
Another shot from the floor at that moment, piercing his thigh.
The entire hallway had been destroyed by these obtrusions.
Coeus immediately swung his hand down and crushed it, pulling out the other end, swiftly freeing himself. But he stopped dead in his tracks soon after. The 'Tactician's' eye widened with unmasked confusion.
"What?" No. 12 wondered aloud, fully taking in his surroundings.
Taking in that familiar blue energy, washing throughout the world, making his hair stand on end as alarm bells began ringing.
An odd sensation gripped his mind. A ceaseless wave of nonsensical information, kneading his skull while he groaned painfully, attempting to cordon the spread. There were flashes of images. Of things beyond his knowledge. Some he understood, like the handle of a wooden knife. Others he did not, like the carcass of an unknown 'being', with green skin and a short stature.
Or that familiar, yet never-seen-before shadowy figure, its darkened hands shaped into bloody blades.
However, the only thing he knew for sure was...
Danger approached.
The man witnessed those slight inconsistencies within space form. One by one. Miniscule nips and nicks, growing into massive rips and tears, shredding the fabric of reality itself. Dozens upon dozens of voices cried. Shrieking. Screeching. Screaming!
As the [Tower]'s Rifts opened their swirling gateway inside the crumbling prison complex.
"Status report!" No. 12 shouted across the intercom. But no response could be heard.
"Shit!" He bounded towards the Reception Hall, flinging himself perfectly through the rocky jungle now blocking his path.
There was little time. If the Rifts had appeared here, then that meant-
Tsk, tsk. Tsk, tsk. Thousands of legs snipped the earth and bone.
Click, clicking.
Gak. Gak. Gak.
They were already here.
The 'Tactician' ducked, feeling the air above him sizzle as a tentacle slashed past his head, snapping like an iron whip. A sonic boom sounded somewhere to the side, released milliseconds at the point where the appendage unfurled, before raking into the walls on the man's left, and carving out a goddamn trench.
No. 12 unsheathed his combat knife, barely looking as he turned to throw, dodging sideways.
Snap.
Another sonic boom. The stalagmite beside his leg ruptured, sending rock shards flying.
No. 12 launched himself forwards, hearing the unworldly replica of a human scream echo throughout the space, understanding that his desperate pitch must have landed somewhere rather painful.
He entered the Reception Hall, finding his troops firing at a group of gargantuan worms, swimming through the concrete.
The 'Tactician' snatched a rifle over and downed most of them in seconds.
It seemed the Rifts had appeared here too, but they were of a decidedly smaller size.
"Status report!" No. 12 barked, returning the rifle to its owner, waiting for the Soldier to speak:
"Sir! Reporting sixteen Rift occurrences and over a hundred worm-like monsters." The Number responded, "No severe injuries, however, a few rifles have been consumed by the entities. Deemed unretrievable." He then quickly checked his monitor. "All personnel have been recalled. Those missing are temporarily regarded as dead. 36 members available."
"Copy."
The serpentine man instantly began designating roles, preparing, informing them about the Category 3 entity in the hallway.
And yet, No. 12 would soon realize that the monster lingering outside... was the least of his problems.
"Captain!" A member of Delta Taskforce A yelled. "Captain, sir!" Another member of the Taskforce repeated. "T-there's been a major issue! Please, sir, y-you have to see this!" Their cries were annoying. He wanted to ignore them at first, but then he found that he surprisingly recognized them. And Coeus could also sense fear when they looked at him.
That was weird.
Why would he remember two insignificant... no. A horrible revelation dawned on him. It can't be.
Fear of death.
They were the ones in charge of bagging the body. Pieces suddenly clicked together.
"Captain, the body! The body is-!" No. 12 was standing at the spot before their sentence even finished. He stared at the wall wordlessly, a wall peppered by brain matter. Bullet holes. He stared at the surrounding tiles, covered in a dark, oxygenated red.
Everything was as it had been earlier. Exactly as it had been.
And yet, there was no body.
There was no 'Beast'.
Only a Rift. A medium-sized blue portal beneath where he should have been resting.
A gateway into the [Tower].
"Please sir, we..." Such excuses trailed off as the Delta Taskforce member collapsed, a bullet through his skull. The other tried escaping, and died shortly after as well, Squadron Ophanim mincing his chest on command. The 'Tactician' attempted to reign in his anger, but failed miserably, and gruesomely stomped on their heads, furiously rendering them to pulp.
He knew it wasn't their fault. Rifts could appear faster than a blink.
Nevertheless, No. 8's body had vanished before collection. There was now no concrete proof of death. And for a stringent bitch like the Divus Consul... proof was everything. He'd been royally screwed.
Someone needed to pay for that.
The Soldier, seeing the Captain's frustration, spoke up then: "Sir, I can go in and retrieve the body if you wish."
But No. 12 simply shook his head.
"That portal there leads to the [Tower]. Supposedly, no one has ever returned from it, either alive or dead."
Coeus looked at the Number tiredly, firmly shutting him up, "You fancy being the first?"
The 'Tactician' sighed. Spilt milk and all, there was no use fussing over something like this anyway. His job was to kill, confirm, and show definitive proof. He'd succeeded in the most important parts. And if the organization disagreed? They could take it up with the dead. Punishment was a given, but it's not like they could kill the last remaining Generation Zero without resistance.
Whatever.
"Soldiers, formation!"
He didn't have the luxury to think further on the matter anyways.
Tsk, tsk...
Gak. Gak. Gak.
It was here.
Coeus inhaled deeply as the 'Screecher' entered the Reception Hall, its countless limbs digging into concrete, carrying bloated flesh and pale bones. Its body resembled that of a slug, slimy and opaque. There were no discernable features. No section that seemed any bit different from the rest of its rotting, putrid self. Just thousands of jittering legs. Thousands of 'tsk's'.
White spines, jutting out of its spotted torso, twitched slightly as the troops readied to fire. The silky hairs on its back shivered.
And the monster began to respond, its 'mouth' stretching wide open.
"Arrgghhh... Urgggghhhh... Ooohhhhh..."
A little girl tearfully mourned the loss of her favorite toy. An old man wheezed his last on a sickbed.
A young male shouted, screaming terribly in pain. And a middle-aged woman shrieked, fearing for her life.
It sounded human. Almost identical. A normal person might not feel it, but those with hands stained by blood, who heard the cry of humans daily, could never mistake it. The monster had perfectly replicated several distinct, 'human' voices. So perfect, that it instead became uncanny. Mechanically flawless... yet missing a soul inside.
Because nothing about it felt even remotely human.
But soon, No. 12 saw with his own eye, how exactly the 'Screecher' achieved such a feat.
The Numbers and taskforce members paled considerably as the creature became fully visible under the blinding lights. Like an anglerfish's esca, the entity from the [Tower] also possessed a protrusion that stretched down from its front.
Yet instead of an attractive light...
Four severed human heads hung from its tip. Conjoined as one. Mouths merging into ears, and noses clipping into eyes.
They moaned shrilly as the creature moved, their distorted faces, contorting in eternal agony. A totem of human suffering.
A fate worse than death.
Coeus calmly held up a hand, five fingers splayed open, sending a silent command. Although they were all experienced killers, pitifully few of them actually possessed the needed expertise to hunt the demons that escaped from the [Tower]. As if toddlers facing off against bulls, the end result of such a battle... needn't be explained.
Delta Taskforce A had already lost most of its operatives from fighting a fledgling outside the prison.
It just wasn't part of their generation.
The 'Screecher' hummed, becoming impatient as it no longer sensed their movement, its spindly legs ceaselessly clicking.
No. 12 readied his own rifle, holding it up towards the four-headed totem.
And the trapped human heads stared at him. Begging. Pleading for death.
Deaths he was more than happy to provide, free of charge.
The 'Tactician's' hand closed into a tight fist, as he immediately switched to his rifle, and fired the first explosive round, barking out an odd, archaic phrase as he did so. A single word that rang aloud even against the backdrop of gunfire.
A word that had previously summarized the bulk of his existence.
"Encounter!"
_______________________________________________________________________________
[Inside the Tower - 1st Floor Tutorial.]
A dead corpse laid on the mossy, damp floor, unmoving.
[Loading... Generating player profile.]
[Warning: Error! Error! Error! Player profile creation failed. Running diagnostics.]
Water slowly dripped from an unknown source, falling at a steady rhythm onto its heat-scorched back.
[Diagnostics completed; error located. Player profile creation - indefinitely suspended.]
[Temporarily providing basic privileges... Successful. Henceforth regarded as {Blank}.]
[Warning: {Blank} is in critical condition. Activating one-time blessing 'Phoenix Down'.]
The long corridor suddenly glowed with a mysterious green light, brightening, and then dimming soon after.
[Administration process - concluded.]
The human-like figure twitched.
[Happy hunting, dear player.]
And a crimson eye cracked open within the darkness, as No. 8—Daewi—awakened inside of the [Tower]'s embrace.
[May all your wishes come true.]