Dozens of sharp, fleshy tendrils, each lined with jagged vertebrae, erupted from the ground like serpents from a pit, slithering at unnatural speed towards the combatants. These grotesque appendages, bristling with bone, streaked past Fredric without so much as grazing him, before coiling around the jailer, entrapping him in a web of barbed muscle.
Haze rose slowly from the ground, his face illuminated by a cruel grin as he approached his trapped foe. “Is this what you had in mind?” he jeered at Fredric, his voice a mixture of amusement and menace.
“Not quite,” Fredric replied, his tone flat, though his eyes glimmered with quiet approval. “I thought you’d be a little less dramatic.”
Haze ignored him, stepping closer to the immobilized jailer. “Why don’t you try putting up a fight?” he taunted, his voice dripping with contempt as he came mere inches from the jailer’s face.
Zeke, watching from the sidelines, caught his first clear view of the jailer. The figure looked grotesque—a bloated, distorted mockery of the human form, its face an emotionless mask resembling cracked porcelain. The jailer’s body was unnaturally pliant, bending and sagging like a doll stuffed with rags, draped in contrasting silks that only highlighted the absurdity of his warped figure.
As Haze leaned closer, cracks spiderwebbed across the jailer’s porcelain mask, dark red blood beginning to seep through the fractures. Then, with a sickening snap, the mask burst apart, and from within the shattered remains, a pale hand with long, gold-painted nails reached out, clawing at the air.
From the broken shell, a man emerged—tall and lean, standing at nearly two meters, his naked body slick with blood. His physique was both graceful and terrifying, his muscles taut and well-defined beneath skin that gleamed with the sheen of freshly shed blood. His long hair, drenched and tangled, hung over his face, the color indistinguishable beneath the sticky crimson.
“All criminals must be prosecuted,” the figure whispered, rage seething beneath the quiet venom of his words. The blood pooled at his feet, swirling and coagulating to form a makeshift armor that clung to his body like a second skin.
Haze chuckled darkly, “You’re out of your depth, jailer.”
With a bestial snarl, both combatants lunged at each other. As they drew near, they roared in unison: “Soul!” Their weapons materialized at their sides with a flash.
The jailer’s wrist split open, and from the gash, blood flowed upward in defiance of gravity, forming into a gleaming blade. The moment his hand grasped the hilt, barbed vines of blood shot out from the sword, coiling around his arm and embedding themselves into his flesh, binding the weapon to his hand like a curse.
Haze’s weapon, meanwhile, grew from his palm, morphing into a whip-like tendril made of jagged bones. It writhed in his grip before contracting into a blade composed of vertebrae, each segment sharp and deadly.
Haze crouched low, one arm bracing against the ground as he launched himself forward in an animalistic leap. Their blades collided with a sharp clang, and the jailer gritted his teeth, straining to push Haze back.
But Haze was relentless. With a sneer, he bit into his own finger, smearing blood across the nearby wall as he surged forward for another attack. The jailer attempted to parry, positioning himself defensively, but before his weapon could intercept Haze’s strike, five fleshy spikes erupted from the wall behind him, the ones Haze had marked with his blood. They pierced the jailer’s back, pinning him in place.
Haze grinned savagely as the jailer struggled to free himself, barely managing to slash through the barbs before Haze was upon him again, their blades clashing once more in a flurry of sparks.
“What’s the matter?” Haze sneered, his voice dripping with mockery. “You’ve got the home-field advantage, don’t you?”
“Silence!” the jailer roared, swinging his blade in desperation, but Haze phased through the attack effortlessly, his body a blur as he summoned another set of spikes from the ground, binding the jailer yet again.
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This time, Haze’s whip extended, snapping around the jailer’s knees with a sickening crack. The jailer screamed as his legs buckled, leaving him suspended from the barbed spikes, gasping for breath, helpless and broken.
“Enjoying the show?” Haze asked, turning his attention to Zeke with a sinister smile. “This is,” he paused, tilting his head, “awfully easy.”
Zeke glanced at Fredric, his brow furrowed in confusion. “What’s going on here?”
“Oh, it’s not entirely his fault,” Haze mused. “Using that reset ability on three people at once? It must be draining. Plus, he can probably only use it with his true soul—and that weapon of his, fragile as it is, would give him the upper hand in a fight.”
Fredric shrugged, his expression unreadable. “You’re quite perceptive.”
“The jailer’s more of a ranged fighter,” Haze continued, his eyes gleaming with confidence. “So as long as I stick close, he’s got nothing.”
Haze took a step forward, his gaze locking onto the jailer. “I had some time to explore this place during our little deaths,” he grinned. “I finally figured it out. This entire prison—it’s your titan body! An amalgamation of your magic and some ancient demon’s power.”
The jailer’s eyes widened as Haze’s words struck home.
“This place is too cramped for anyone to transform, isn’t it?” Haze said, his grin widening. “That’s why you’ve stayed immortal in here. But I’ve figured out how to kill you. I just need to—”
“That’s enough!” A deep, commanding voice echoed through the hallway, interrupting Haze. The heavy, deliberate footsteps that followed reverberated through the stone, casting an enormous shadow across the room.
“Oh look,” Haze muttered, his grip tightening on the jailer’s chin. “Daddy’s here.”
Fredric sighed, “You’re gonna need to help us with this one.”
“Of course,” Haze growled, stepping back.
Zeke glanced at the approaching figure. “What are our odds of winning this?”
Haze didn’t hesitate. “Zero percent.”
The Contractor King emerged from the shadows, his eyes gleaming with madness. “What do we have here?” he asked, his tone sharp and mocking.
“A revolution,” Haze spat, summoning a swarm of writhing tentacles from the ground, sending them hurtling toward the King.
“Then I’d best squash it quickly,” the King said, his voice cold as ice. He lifted his hand, and a single golden chain shot from his palm, obliterating the tentacles with ease.
Haze shook his head, a grim smile on his lips. “I knew I couldn’t beat you. Unless…” he trailed off, lost in thought.
“Unless what?” The King sneered, his voice dripping with disdain. “Even if you kill the jailer, District 17 will remain. It’s buried in magma, surrounded on all sides. Even if you destroy the prison, you’ll all die—everyone but me.”
A low, malevolent energy filled the room, thickening the air like a toxic fog. Zeke’s vision blurred as the oppressive force weighed down on him. It was death—an overwhelming presence, not the gentle release of the afterlife, but a savage, brutal force. It was the kind of death that came with no warning, no mercy—like being devoured by a beast or swept away by a plague. It was suffocating, merciless, and final.
“I freed Haze to help me find the kingpin,” Fredric said, scratching his head.
“And why do you think he can help?” the King demanded, his eyes narrowing with fury.
Fredric shrugged, “A guess.”
The King chuckled darkly, “A guess?”
“A good one,” Haze interrupted with a sigh. “Because I already know who it is.”
“Explain,” the King barked, his posture stiffening.
“The Pale Reaper told me,” Haze said nonchalantly. “He’s an agent for the knights, infiltrating your ranks.”
The King’s expression darkened. Without hesitation, he lifted a handheld transceiver to his mouth. “It’s me,” he said curtly. “Let them out.”
Immediately, the elevator doors creaked open on the far wall.
“Go. Now,” the King growled.
The trio entered the rusted elevator, the ancient doors groaning shut as they began to ascend. As the tension ebbed away, Zeke collapsed to the ground, panting from the exertion.
“I can’t believe we survived that,” he muttered, pulling off his mask and letting the cool air hit his face.
Fredric remained calm. “We haven’t survived anything yet. We still need to capture the kingpin.”
Zeke glanced up at Haze. “Who is it?”
“Logan Saul,” Haze replied, his voice casual. “Nimid’s corporate representative.”
“Fuck!” Zeke and Fredric shouted in unison.
“That bad, huh?” Haze laughed, his voice laced with dark amusement.
“Yeah, pretty fucking bad,” Zeke sighed.
“Nimid’s is the last corporation operating in the Undercity,” Fredric explained as the elevator doors groaned open.
Haze stepped out first, pausing to turn back to them. “I owe you a favor for getting me out of that hellhole,” he said with a smirk. “I’ll figure something out.”
He walked forward, approaching a group of young gangsters lounging beneath a bridge.
“Hey fool, whatcha looking at?” one of the thugs snarled, stepping toward Haze with an aggressive swagger.
Haze leaned in, his face almost brushing the gangster’s. His eyes gleamed with unsettling mischief. “I like your clothes. Mind if I borrow them?”
The streets buzzed with tension, and the wind carried a whisper of violence yet to come.
image [https://i.postimg.cc/pdT6RQNy/Name-Alias-X-Species-Demon-Age-80-Height-182cm-Affiliation-Knights-Rank-Special-grade-investigator.png]