Kurtis stared eyeless into the void.

He didn’t see the particles of his soul drifting around him. They removed and reinstated themselves with the intricate components that comprised the human form as his true soul materialized.

Fingers twitched first and then limbs spasmed as nerves formed. He flexed the fingers. Feeling returned.

The meticulous process of reforming the labyrinth of the ears began. Tissue and sensory receptors grew. He heard the cracking of knuckles from the fingers. Hearing returned.

The pupils of the eyes shrunk and grew sporadically as the newly-formed cornea struggled to interpret the scarce light hidden within the darkness. They soon adjusted to form blurred images with splashes of color. He saw the fingers of his hand straighten and then curl to form a fist. Sight returned.

Kurtis sat unmoving, save for the imperceptible rise of his chest and the slight shift of his eyes.

How many years has it been? he wondered.

That's right. He made a deal with the demon woman: Nanalia.

He'd lost the passage of time since then. The suffering he endured: mental, physical and spiritual. She truly was a Mistress of Torment.

He felt nothing as he recalled the immeasurable agony and purest misery they had inflicted upon him. It was more than any tortured soul should ever endure – even the cruelest, most immoral and downright despicable individuals didn't experience anything close to what he did. But it was all for the sake of molding him into a being with a twisted form of empathy and unmatched willpower.

They'd instilled the pinnacle of pleasure upon him, only to tear it away an instant later and replace it with immense sorrow that promised eternity. He experienced every form of atrocity committed by humans and demons. He'd been raped, torn apart, drowned, burned and purged of hopes for comfort. Even human needs of deprivation complained of starvation and begged for any sustenance. Thirst racked his body despite his form no longer being subjected to dehydration. But he felt it all. The list went on, boundless yet simple as they moved on to the methods of torture even demons feared.

A shiver coursed through him as the images of Nanalia's succubi flashed through his mind – beautiful, terrible, cruel and meticulous. There alluring humanoid forms almost rivaled their mistress. They'd been the worst. Nanalia had made sure his passive manhood begged for reaction to the probes they plunged into his soul to instill perfect sexual pleasures. A moment later he'd lose a part of himself. Their mocking laughter echoed off the walls of the dungeons as he wept and begged for release.

They'd been the worst.

They had once pushed him to the point of desperation where he had nearly broken free of his chains, but only one arm managed to break free and grab one of the wicked succubi by the throat. He'd held her aloft with his one working arm as the others froze in total astonishment. He felt that this one moment of satisfaction, along with their shocked expressions and desperate attacks against his resilient soul, was what pushed him away from the brink of madness.

He allowed himself a brief grin, merely a twitch of the mouth, as he finally felt relief in the emptiness. He was no longer in the terrible place that punished him for his self-mutilation.

Kurtis stared up at the nothingness. His task was not yet complete. He wondered if this was the final trial to become what the surface world hated.

Leave me here, he thought. A foolish wish.

The darkness shifted. Black became blacker. Waves of ink and swirls of charcoal dust alighted in the air. He somehow perceived where he resided in this world – right at its center.

“Hell Knight…”

Kurtis lowered his head as he recognized the voice. Again, the recollection of specific details eluded him. He winced as the stabbing pain returned. The memories fought back against his will and withdrew.

He turned and saw a man clad in familiar royal armor standing behind him. Disheveled black hair fell over his eyes to compliment an unkempt beard. Strapped to his waist was a sword with part of the blade near the cross-guard visible outside its sheath. The symbol of blades circling around a coiled crown glowed in the darkness on his chest plate.

“What have you become?” the man asked. Kurtis saw the sadness in his eyes.

He didn’t answer. There was no need.

Then the once-retreated memories ambushed him. He gasped and gripped the side of his head. The mind was overwhelmed by fire. The void flickered in and out of existence, replaced by a place of ash. Kurtis struggled to his feet and stumbled forward away from the man whose eyes followed him with something akin to pity.

He dragged his feet deeper into the once-empty void and observed the new carnage that emerged around him, as if formed by the brush of an artist working at inhuman speed. Outlines formed, colors bloomed into existence and movement pushed through boundaries to bring the scene to life.

Scintillating bursts emerged from the inside of a barn. The all-consuming flames ate at the skeletons of buildings and carved away the identities of people, screaming and running from soldiers clad in heavy, intricate armor.

What is this? Kurtis stared at his hands and nearly choked at what he saw.

His hands were now that of a child’s. The weak, unmarred hands of someone with no experience in the world. Tears dripped from his cheeks and fell into his soft palms.

“Kurtis!”

He looked up when he heard his name and saw a woman rushing towards him. Her face was obscured by long blonde hair tainted with the red of blood. She only cleared half the distance between them before her back suddenly arched. Her legs failed and she fell to her knees. When she slumped forward, Kurtis could see the black shaft an arrow sticking from her spine.

A pair of soldiers approached from behind, striding casually and giving their surroundings a cursory glance, as if the butchering around them was a common occurrence.

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Kurtis got a clear view of the woman when one of the men grabbed a fistful of hair and wrenched her head up towards him to expose the neck.

Kurtis found himself speaking, “Mom?”

The soldier drew the blade along her throat and let her fall forward unceremoniously into the mud. She choked against the blood and slick mud that washed into her mouth.

Bile built in Kurtis's throat at the horrid sight. He wanted to scream, but his voice was quelled as a hand clamped over his mouth to silence him. He struggled against the person holding him tight from behind. His small, weak body stood no chance against the bulky arm that wrapped around his chest. He then felt a sharp pain in the back of his head. His vision blurred and he fell face first into the mud, the foul taste entering his mouth as he laid there gasping for air.

It's just another memory! his mind screamed. Like the cabin. Just another memory.

“Not this one,” a voice said.

The sound of people's screams and the crackling of fire faded as if distancing itself.

Another memory, Kurtis thought. He was certain of it.

“I see it in him,” the voice said, muffled as the distance lengthened in the void. “He will serve Haven well.”

Kurtis opened his eyes and the scene before him returned to the black void. He was also on his knees again, the man standing in front of him. Kurtis raised his hands and saw that he now resided in his current body once again. In actuality, his materialized soul. His body lay rotting somewhere on Earth.

“What have you become?” the man asked again. This time he knelt.

Kurtis gritted his teeth. “You aren’t him.” He didn't know what he was saying. He didn't know what he meant, but whoever this person before him portrayed was not the person he knew in life.

The remaining flames retreated from the terrible ferocity that exuded from the tortured young man.

The armored soldier's image flickered at his declaration, as if jumping in and out of existence. In place of the armored soldier stood a robed individual. The hood revealed nothing.

“Hmmmmmmmm…”

Kurtis continued analyzing his hands. The leathered patches from recurrent blisters had returned. The callouses on his knuckles still a part of him. All the years of bladework and combat etched into his hands. Weapons were once a crude, yet precise quill. His skin a roughened canvas.

He chuckled humorlessly. “You again.”

The robed figure cocked his head. “Resolute. Certainty. Impressive.”

Kurtis heaved an exasperated sigh. He slapped at his knees with both hands. The sound was unnatural, dulled by the heaviness in the air that had gone unnoticed. He rose and straightened. The new body felt awkward and stiff. He balled his fingers into a fist but soon found himself too tired to even bother with the effort. Why put up any sort of front?

So tired.

“What do you want?”

The unknown figure raised a gloved hand and rested it in a carefree manner where his face may reside. “Nothing.”

“Is that so?”

“Hmmmmm…perhaps…”

The unease crept in. Everything about this otherworldly being suggested a concise perfection in speech and movement.

The figure seemed to read his mind. “Satisfactory. Nanalia. Permitted.”

Kurtis attempted to mask his surprise at the mention of the demon’s name.

“What about her?”

“As said,” The Spectator responded.

Kurtis’s shoulders sagged. “Fine, have it your way.”

The unseen floor rippled, much like the wall in the cabin where The Spectator had first appeared. Except this time, he did not vanish. Instead, he reached below the surface. The inky blackness within the hood remained fixated on Kurtis. From the depths emerged what appeared to be the lengthy handle of some weapon. Perhaps a polearm. But as it extended, he surmised that this was no ordinary thrusting weapon. The elongated pole with its soiled designs indicated an ancient forging. The spear molded into a widened point at its end. Two lengths of curved obsidian protruded from opposite sides a few inches from the fine apex, their tips swirling with a brilliant violet as if infused with amethysts. The midway point of the spear pulsed with various dark colors all at once.

The Spectator took a step forward. This time Kurtis didn’t fight to suppress his emotions.

He raised his hands in a desperate calming gesture. “Woah, no.”

He took a step back, and The Spectator vanished.

Kurtis heard a whisper behind him. “Become more.”

He turned just as the tip of the spear anticipated the position of his chest.

At first, there was no pain. All he felt was the impact. His idle arms went outward from the force, anf then his blood was boiling. A crimson light crawled down the spear until it merged with the corrupted amethysts within the short scythes.

Pain. Unimaginable pain. Pain that surpassed even the years of torture in Hell combined. Pain that transcended what even existence might comprehend.

Kurtis screamed.

The Spectator twisted his wrist and the metal appendages bearing their scythes seemed to have a mind of their own. They bent and inserted themselves into Kurtis’s chest on either side of their main body. Blood gripped the blades as it instantly coagulated upon exiting the body.

The loss of vital fluids meant nothing. It made space for his rage. Overwhelming fury quelled the pain. No more being subjected to the bullshit of Heaven and Hell’s deal. No more suffering for him.

Kurtis roared and gripped the weapon's handle.

Kill you. Kill you. Kill you. Killyoukillyoukillyoukillyou.

The Spectator leaned more weight into the spear. He took an uncertain step forward as the weapon dug deeper than intended. It didn’t take long to realize why.

Kurtis was pulling on the spear.

"Fuck you," Kurtis growled.

The Spectator’s shoulders seized for a moment before moving up with his adjusting elbows.

A cackle escaped the hood and rivaled Kurtis’s roar. The scythes continued their meal, eating through skin and tearing cartilage along the ribs as they went in a circle.

Kurtis’s face moved mere inches away from the darkness within the hood. He resumed the death chant under his breath.

The Spectator twisted some more, leaned forward and whispered, “Kill them all.”

Blood poured down the new Hell Knight’s chest despite the prompt thickness. Whatever escaped the scythes crawled outwards. It bubbled and blackened.

Kurtis’s organs throbbed frantically, especially his lungs when he said, “Including you.”

For the first time, Kurtis saw something within The Spectator’s suffocating darkness. A line of white appeared. It widened to reveal a set of sharp teeth splayed in a broad grin. The teeth parted an inch.

A normal human would have been fazed. Hell, even a demon would cower in the presence of such cruel happiness.

The escaped blood, black as a starless night, covered the Hell Knight’s body. It hardened. It sheen with no light. The elaborate blood armor poured over Kurtis’s mouth, drowning out his uproar. The terrible scars on his joints greyed, molded to the armor and flexed like an extension of limber muscles.

The glorious armor that consumed Kurtis's form existed for only a fleeting time before taking on a dull brown. The armor over his mouth lightened into a cloth. The true form of the Hell Knight buried within.

The Spectator’s grin widened at the beautiful sight.

His mouth didn’t move as he said, “So that's your potential. Good.”

He withdrew the spear.

----------------------------------------

A soft breeze caressed his face. He wanted to savor it. Opening his eyes would only dampen the gentleness.

His arms hung at his side. Fatigued legs complained under his weight.

In his hand he felt the familiarity of a weapon's leather grip. He forced his wrist upwards and awaited the cold expected steel on his cheek. It complimented the breeze in an unexpected way.

Kurtis tilted his head up and finally opened his eyes. Grey clouds obscured the sky. The sun’s rays desperately sought out openings and weaknesses in the smothering canvas. A few pierced through, only to reveal in their elegance a wasteland devoid of life. Only the clouds and scarce light moved.

The surface world...a broken, desolate Earth.

A soft female voice broke the silence, “Empty, redeemed one…”

Kurtis’s mouth fell open in reverence. “Yes. Please…”

“Thou art bound to neither life nor death.”

Kurtis tore his gaze from the sky and lost himself in the voice. A demented giggle escaped him.

"Be what thy will. Boundst by contract or thine own fealty…"

His shoulders heaved as he lost control. “Haha-hahaha...”

"'Be' through thine own will."

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”