“Even the kid’s a higher level than you,” Levi remarked, leaning casually against Betty.
They had pulled up right to the edge of the pit, and Joe had gone over to peer down, Scythe in hand.
Shadows darted back and forth in the darkness below, moving with unsettling speed.
Whatever they were, they were faster than the roaches he’d encountered before, but the shapes were too vague to identify. Rats, maybe? The drop looked to be about ten feet, and while the ever-present crimson sky cast a red glow over everything, it wasn’t quite enough to reveal the creatures’ details.
Joe took a deep breath.
It was one thing to be thrown into a fight with no choice, but stepping into danger willingly—especially into a pit filled with who-knew-what—that was another story.
Levi was right; he needed to level up. Still, he almost wished something would jump out and attack him first, forcing his hand, rather than having to make the choice himself.
Pete walked up beside him, studying the writhing shapes below.
“They don’t move like the snakes did,” he observed, squinting down.
“But they’re definitely fast.”
He picked up a rock and lobbed it into the centre of the pit. Instantly, the shapes converged on it, clawing and scratching, before scattering back to their chaotic movements.
“Looks like they’re aggressive,” Pete said, glancing up at Joe. “But hey, you can handle this! I fell into one of these pits earlier and managed to take on the snakes."
"Well… with a little help from Levi.” He grinned, trying to encourage him.
Joe nodded, taking in Pete’s words and forcing down his nerves.
“Let’s get this over with,” Levi said. “If things get too rough, we’ll come down and back you up.”
Just then, Betty gave a sharp jolt, bouncing her wheels left and right to shake Levi off her fender, clearly disapproving of his less-than-reassuring tone.
Levi muttered something, casting an annoyed glare at the car, then walked over to Joe.
"You ready?" Levi asked, giving Joe a hard pat on the back, almost knocking the air out of him.
Joe exhaled heavily, gripping his Pumpkin Scythe higher up on the handle. He closed his eyes, trying to steady himself, taking deep, deliberate breaths.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembered his supposed "Resonance" abilities—something he hadn’t figured out how to use yet. Could he tap into it now, somehow?
He squeezed his eyes shut, searching for any flicker of power.
Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.
He force-fed visions into his mind, trying to hype himself up: that near-death encounter with the fireroach; his old job, the sterile boardroom, his bosses droning on over pointless charts; the mental image of himself storming in with a sub-machine gun, letting loose in a chaotic spray of righteous fury; lying atop the meat cannon, showered in scalding bits of crab flesh.
He fed on these feelings, trying to draw power from their intensity.
His breaths grew deeper and deeper. Then, almost as if picking a lock in his mind, it opened.
He opened his eyes, feeling a surge flowing through him, right down to his fingertips. He felt power. A maniacal power that took over every thought, every doubt.
It worked.
He grinned—and jumped.
The ten-foot drop was jarring, but Joe landed with surprising force, bending his knees and gripping his Scythe like some kind of superhero. As he stood, the shadows in the pit finally took form, and he froze for a second.
They were hands. Small, pale hands—disembodied and scuttling around on their fingers like spider legs, resembling Thing from The Addams Family but far less endearing.
For a moment, he was taken aback; he’d been expecting rats or something… normal. But here he was, surrounded by an army of scurrying, unsettling hands.
No time to think. The hands had spotted him, and they were already converging, scratching and scrambling toward him in a creepy, crawling tide. Joe clenched his jaw and swung his Scythe.
He cut through the first wave, fingers scattering in all directions. He stomped on others, slashing left and right, severing knuckles and crushing palms. Achievements flickered at the top of his vision, but he barely registered them.
Achievement Unlocked: Hand meets blade! You sliced the hand that feeds. 50XP gained.
His focus was absolute; nothing existed in this moment but him and those scuttling hands.
It felt good—weirdly, exhilaratingly good. Joe was lost in the frenzy, feeding off the chaos, each slash of his Scythe spraying warm blood from the mangled hands around him.
He barely registered the sharp cracks from above, like thunder splitting the crimson sky. Whatever it was, he didn’t care to look up. Levi and Pete were somewhere up there—probably watching, maybe even rethinking what they thought of him. Surely this display would make Levi see him in a new light.
Another crack. He drove his blade through another hand, skin peeling away to reveal bony knuckles beneath.
"Joe!" a voice finally broke him away, calling down to him.
He glanced up, curious, and saw Pete leaning far over the ledge, pointing upward with a look of alarm. He followed Pete’s eyeline. A massive dark cloud loomed directly above him. And then came another crack, this time accompanied by a flash of lightning.
Joe’s initial concern turned to horror as the “rain” began to fall. At first, he didn’t quite understand what he was seeing, but soon he realised it was more hands—hundreds of them, cascading down from the dark cloud like a hailstorm, all dropping directly into the pit around him.
They landed on his shoulders, his head, even bouncing off his face, and each one hit with a surprising weight.
Panic surged as he tried to refocus, trying to find that manic energy again.
He swung his Scythe wildly, slicing through the hands as they piled up around him.
But this time, it felt different—his strength was waning, the energy flickering in and out.
The feeling that had fuelled him so intensely before now slipped from his grasp.
He glanced up for help, but Pete had disappeared from the ledge. There was no sign of Levi either. Were they in trouble too? Or had they left him to fend for himself?
Suddenly, he felt cold, damp fingers began pressing against his lips, forcing their way into his mouth. More hands clawed up his legs, digging their sharp nails into his skin.
They were relentless, prying, pulling, trying to force their way down his throat. He gagged, desperately swiping them away, but there were too many.
They scratched at his face, clawed at his arms, tearing at his clothes, and he felt dozens of tiny fingers digging into his flesh, ripping at his skin.
He was losing control, and the pit was filling with hands. His vision blurred, the edges closing in as if he were sinking into a tunnel.
Each frantic swing of his Scythe grew weaker, the blade barely grazing the hands that clawed at him. His movements were now sluggish, missing targets that were practically right on top of him.
His sight narrowed further until he was barely aware of anything beyond the swarm of pale fingers surrounding him. He didn’t know if he was passing out, slipping into unconsciousness, or worse—dying.
His knees buckled, and he felt himself begin to fall, his arms dropping limply to his sides as the Scythe slipped from his grip.
Something tightened around his waist, a firm grip that dragged him sideways toward the wall of the pit. He barely registered the sensation—he was so far gone he couldn’t tell if it was the hands pulling him apart or something else.
Then, darkness.