Arthur tumbled through a place that was both there and not there at the same time. It twisted around him like smoke, shifting in ways his eyes couldn’t follow, which, unlike before, he could now feel. He had a body again. He could sense it. Limbs, skin, breath. That would’ve been comforting, maybe even reassuring, if not for the fact that everything hurt.

  Compared to earlier when he was mere seconds away from going to heaven, right now sucked more than anything as the wind dragged against his skin with such force that it felt like someone was running knives against it. His eyes hurt even more whenever he opened them, and so, he kept them closed.

  Every breath felt like he was inhaling both ash and ice at the same time. His lungs refused to work right, spasming with each gasp, as if the air itself didn’t belong in him anymore. He tried to scream, to demand answers from whatever force had yanked him from the eternal peace he was about to get and into this bloody nightmare, but no sound came out. Instead, a pressure began to build in his chest, like something was twisting tighter and tighter around his very soul.

  It was then that he felt himself being dragged in another direction, like a fisherman dragging a fish on a line. The pressure in his chest grew worse and worse with each passing second until finally, something changed. From the darkness, light appeared once more.

  He would have felt untold relief from such a sight, but it was short-lived as he felt himself smashing into the ground at breakneck speeds. It felt as though he had jumped off a bridge and hit open water with full force. His skin stung with unbearable pain, and whatever air he thought he had in his lungs was gone in an instant. The shock paralyzed him for a moment as his eyes began to dilate. It was then that the pain, held off for a brief moment by the shock and confusion, hit in full.

  His back arched and screamed in pain. His head throbbed. His chest seized as he rolled to the side and vomited like he had never done before, retching bile and mucus onto cold, uneven stone below him. The taste of acid burned the back of his throat. Every nerve felt wrong—overloaded and raw, like he’d been skinned alive and dropped in ice water.

  As he breathed heavily and coughed up more bile onto the floor, Arthur realized something he hadn’t quite noticed before. Something was happening around him. He hadn’t registered it at first, more focused on the pain and the shock of being torn out of whatever came after death. But now that the worst of it was fading, other details began to push their way into his awareness.

  There were voices echoing through the space around him. Dozens of them, maybe more. They were loud and angry, overlapping in a way that made it impossible to understand what was being said. The words were completely foreign though they sounded familiar, like someone speaking German or French. There was a rhythm to it, but no clarity, like hearing a heated argument through a wall.

  Arthur tried to lift his head, but it felt like someone had filled it with wet cement. His body resisted every movement, muscles trembling and uncooperative. Still, he forced himself to move, even if just to see what was going on. The light in the chamber was uneven and flickering, coming from burning torches or small fires scattered across the floor. Shadows danced on the walls, distorted by the shifting light and the figures running through it.

  He blinked hard, his vision clearing just enough to make out what looked like soldiers in mismatched armor engaged in a brutal fight. Some wore layered cloth and leather, others metal plates and chainmail, though none of it looked clean. One group seemed more organized, shouting in formation and fighting as a unit, while the other was scattered and frantic, attacking with wild strikes and no clear coordination.

  For the briefest of moments, he thought it might’ve been a dream. The idea that he hadn’t died, that somehow everything from the gas station to the void had been part of some bizarre nightmare, started to take shape in his mind. Maybe he was still asleep in his apartment, sprawled across his couch after a long night, and this was all just his imagination running wild. But the thought disappeared as quickly as it had come.

  Dreams didn’t smell like this. The air around him was heavy and suffocating, thick with smoke, blood, and something older—like rotting wood and damp stone. Every breath filled his lungs with the stench of violence. As his eyes adjusted, he caught sight of one of the strangely dressed men nearby. He was older, with greying hair and a weathered face, clearly struggling to hold his ground. Before Arthur could process what was happening, a spear tore through the man’s chest.

  The weapon punched through him with brutal force, driving deep enough that its bloody point jutted out of his back. The man’s body went stiff. His mouth opened as if to scream, but no sound came. A second later, he collapsed, hitting the stone floor in a lifeless heap as the soldier who killed him turned to join another fight.

  Arthur struggled to his feet, trying to comprehend what on earth was happening before something slammed into him. The impact knocked the breath from his lungs and sent him sprawling backward. He hit the ground hard, his shoulder smashing into rough stone as a weight bore down on him. Pain shot through his side. He blinked through the haze and saw a man on top of him, cloaked in worn leathers, chainmail clinking beneath a patchwork of cloth and steel. His face was hidden behind a scarf, his eyes wide and wild with adrenaline.

  The man screamed something in the foreign language arthur had heard, the weird sounding mix between german and french.Without breaking stride, the man reached to his belt and drew a dagger. The blade was thick and uneven, its edge dulled in places and chipped in others. Blood already coated the steel, dark and dried along the fuller and without hesitation, he swung it.

  Arthur, now feeling his dose of adrenaline pumping through his veins, acted on pure instinct alone. He dropped to one side, the blade missing his head by inches as he twisted away. The edge sliced through the air where his neck had been a moment earlier, and the attacker overcommitted, stumbling forward just slightly.

  Taking the opening, Arthur lashed out with both hands, grabbing the man’s wrist before he could reset his stance. The two of them struggled, the dagger trembling between them as each fought for control. Arthur’s arms shook under the strain, his fingers tightening until his knuckles ached. The attacker growled, trying to rip his arm free, but Arthur held on, teeth clenched, panic fueling his grip.

  At some point, the two had begun to punch one another, though neither Arthur nor the man seemed to notice. Their blows were frantic and clumsy, more about desperation than precision. Fists landed wherever they could—ribs, shoulders, the sides of their heads—each strike doing little to stop the struggle for the dagger gripped tightly between them.

  Arthur felt the man’s knuckles slam into his jaw, jarring his vision and nearly breaking his focus, but he didn’t let go. He couldn’t. His grip tightened even more, his fingers locked around the attacker’s wrist like a vice. Every muscle in his body screamed in protest, but he forced himself to hold on. The dagger was still hovering inches from his face, shaking slightly with every shift in their balance.

  The attacker roared something unintelligible and threw his weight forward, driving Arthur onto his back. The blade pressed harder against his skin now, so close it scraped his forehead. Arthur could feel his arms giving out. His muscles trembled, his grip weakening with each passing second. His strength was nearly gone, and the other man still had the upper hand—until he suddenly stopped moving.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  Arthur blinked, not understanding. The man froze in place, his eyes wide with confusion. For a moment, they locked eyes, and Arthur saw something shift—pain, surprise, then nothing. An equally confused expression crossed the man's face before his eyes rolled back and his body went limp. Without a word, he slumped forward and collapsed on top of Arthur, a dead weight pressing down on his chest.

  Arthur lay there in stunned silence, too dazed to react, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. The dead weight on top of him felt heavier by the second, pinning him to the cold stone floor. Finally, with a strained grunt, he shoved the man off. The body rolled limply to the side, hitting the ground with a dull thud.

  His hands were slick with blood. It clung to his skin, warm and sticky, and for a moment, he could only stare at it, unable to process what he was looking at. Then his eyes moved to the attacker’s back—and he saw the weapon that had ended the fight. An axe had been buried deep between the man’s shoulder blades, the thick wooden haft jutting upward at an awkward angle. The blade was wide and cruel-looking, sunk in almost to the metal as it hooked around bone.

  “Holy… shit…” Arthur breathed, his voice barely more than a whisper. His limbs moved on instinct, scrambling backward across the stone floor, slick with blood and grit. He didn’t care where he was going—he just needed to get away from the corpse, the axe, the fight, all of it.

  Then he bumped into something solid. He froze dead in his tracks. Whatever it was didn’t move. Slowly, hesitantly, he looked up—and felt his heart skip a beat.

  Towering over him was a figure nearly twice his size, wrapped in tattered robes layered over battered pieces of armor. One shoulder bore a thick leather strap, the other a crude iron pauldron splashed with dried blood. The figure’s chest rose and fell in heavy, controlled breaths. In one hand, still dripping with gore, was a massive double-handed iron axe

  Arthur stared up at the man, mouth half open, but no words came out. His brain struggled to process what he was seeing, too caught between panic and exhaustion to form a coherent thought. He tried to speak, to ask who or what this man was, but his voice failed him.

  Without a word, the giant reached down and grabbed Arthur by the front of his shirt. The grip was firm but not rough, more like someone hauling a stubborn piece of luggage than trying to hurt him. Arthur let out a sharp breath as he was pulled upright in one quick motion, his feet scrambling to keep balance.

  Before Arthur could ask anything, the man turned and pointed down a side tunnel cut into the stone wall. Flickering torchlight revealed a steady stream of people rushing through it—some armed, some wounded, all moving fast. The sound of distant shouting and clashing metal echoed down the corridor. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what the man was telling him.

  Go.

  Arthur didn’t need to be told twice. Legs shaking and lungs burning, he turned and stumbled toward the tunnel. His feet slipped more than once on the blood-slick stone, and he had to brace against the wall to keep from collapsing entirely. He glanced back over his shoulder just in time to see the giant figure stride into the fray.

  The man sprinted faster than anyone Arthur had ever seen, axe in hand and roaring as he threw himself into the melee. The weapon swung in wide, brutal arcs, cutting through armor, flesh, and bone like it was nothing. Arthur had seen action scenes in movies and watched stuntmen perform carefully choreographed fights that looked brutal, but this was wholly different. This was pure, violent force in the flesh. The axe moved like a buzzsaw, clearing space around its wielder with every strike. Bodies fell. Screams rang out. And the giant kept going.

  Arthur turned away, heart hammering in his chest. He didn’t know who the man was, but in that moment, he was the only reason Arthur was still alive. The tunnel narrowed as he pushed forward, the sounds of the battle growing more distant behind him. The flickering torchlight cast long shadows across the walls, and the shouts of retreating fighters echoed ahead. Then he saw someone—another figure in the strange layered clothing, hunched over near the tunnel wall. The young man was trying to move but could barely manage a crawl. His leg dragged uselessly behind him, and Arthur quickly saw why. An arrow was embedded just above the knee, the shaft quivering with every slight movement.

  Arthur hesitated for only a second before rushing to his side. He dropped to one knee beside the injured man, who flinched and tried to push himself upright, panic flashing across his face. He shouted something in the same strange language Arthur had heard earlier—rapid, tense, defensive. The words meant nothing to Arthur, but the fear in his tone said everything.

  “I’m not trying to hurt you,” Arthur said quickly, holding up his hands. “I don’t even know what’s happening.”

  The man looked at him with wide, confused eyes, sweat plastering his dark hair to his forehead. Blood was spreading beneath his leg, pooling on the stone beneath him. The arrow had gone deep, and every time he moved, it looked like it would tear further into the muscle.

  Arthur looked around, but there was no one else nearby. The others had already moved on. They were alone in the tunnel.

  “Shit,” Arthur muttered, then shifted closer. “Alright. Okay. We’re getting out of here.”

  He reached under the man’s arms and tried to lift him. The man groaned in pain, but didn’t fight back. He seemed to understand, at least on some instinctive level, that Arthur was trying to help. The effort was clumsy and awkward—Arthur had never carried anyone like this before—but he managed to get the man’s arm over his shoulder and haul him to his feet.

  The injured man hissed through clenched teeth, staggering as weight shifted onto his bad leg. He nearly fell again, but Arthur tightened his grip and started moving, dragging them both down the tunnel one shaky step at a time.

  Behind them, the roar of the battle had begun to fade—but Arthur didn’t dare slow down. Soon, the tunnel opened into a wide clearing surrounded by dense trees, their dark trunks rising into a canopy of snow-covered branches. Arthur stumbled out into the open air, gasping as the cold hit his lungs like ice water. The injured man sagged against him, barely conscious now, but Arthur kept dragging him forward, step by awkward step.

  The ground sloped downward toward a scattering of figures gathered near the treeline. Women, children, and a few hunched elderly stood in a loose, frightened cluster, wrapped in threadbare cloaks and roughspun garments. Most looked like they hadn’t slept in days. Some held walking sticks or baskets, others nothing at all. They looked up as Arthur approached, and the moment their eyes locked on him, a wave of fear rippled through the group. A few outright screamed at his appearance.

  Arthur froze. “Wait—no, I’m not—he needs help!” He pointed to the man slumped against him, hoping someone would understand, or at least see he wasn’t the one who put an arrow in his leg.

  There was a tense pause. Then two older women broke away from the crowd and rushed forward. They didn’t look at Arthur, only the man he was supporting. They pried him gently from his grip, laying him down on the cold earth. Others came too, cautiously, tending to the wounded man with practiced hands. Whatever they thought of Arthur, they didn’t speak to him or meet his eyes.

  Arthur backed off, unsure what to do next. Before he could try asking questions, a series of loud, urgent shouts echoed from the tunnel behind them. They were too far away to understand, but the tone was unmistakable—and everyone heard it.

  The crowd stiffened. Panic set in like a switch had been flipped. People started moving, gathering whatever little they had, preparing to run.

  Arthur turned to look back at the tunnel, heart racing. “What now?” he muttered.

  Before anyone could answer, one of the elders, a woman so ancient she barely looked alive, stepped forward. Her skin was thin and leathery, her eyes pale and sunken. She moved slowly, leaning heavily on a crooked walking stick. Several people reached for her, trying to stop her, but she ignored them all. With deliberate, unshaking steps, she shuffled past Arthur toward the mouth of the tunnel.

  He watched in silence, unsure if he was supposed to follow or stop her. Around her neck hung a thick cord, and tied to it was what looked like a sharpened piece of bone. She gripped it in one hand, holding it like a blade.

  Without a word, she slashed both of her wrists.

  Arthur stepped forward instinctively, but stopped when she began to speak. No, he thought as he looked at her, she was chanting. Her voice was raspy and low, speaking words that meant nothing to him. They rolled out of her like smoke, unnatural and rhythmic. The ground beneath her feet began to glow, forming a circle etched with lines and symbols that pulsed with purple light.

  Arthur backed away, unsure if he was supposed to run or keep watching.

  The woman turned her head slightly, just enough to look back at the group behind her. Her expression didn’t change. There was no fear on her face. Only a grim purpose and a touch of sadness as she smiled. A second later, her body lit up from the inside—bones glowing a brilliant violet beneath her skin—and then she exploded.

  The shockwave slammed into the clearing. Stone and debris blasted from the tunnel mouth, followed by a thick cloud of snow and dust. The tunnel entrance collapsed in an instant, buried beneath a mass of fallen rock. The people around Arthur screamed and ducked, shielding their heads as snow and pebbles rained down.

  No one waited to see if the tunnel held as they begun to run into the forest. Arthur stood there, frozen, watching the others disappear into the forest. Snow fell around him, and the only thing he could hear was the sound of his breathing.

  He looked back at the ruined tunnel, then down at the blood on his hands, and finally at the path the others had taken

  "...What the fuck did I just witness?"