a demons den

Voices called from the trees as the path narrowed ahead. Syre felt the oppressive weight of demonic energy, thick and suffocating in the air. His eyes darted around, searching for any sign of Riak. There had to be a way out of this nightmare.

"Syre..."

"Answer me, Syre..."

"I don’t want to be here anymore..."

"This is all your fault."

The whispers twisted through the forest, a haunting chorus tugging at his mind.

"Let go of me!" A shout pierced the eerie voices—Riak’s voice. Without hesitation, Syre bolted toward it.

"Syre... turn back now."

"You’re weak, Syre... do you really think you can defeat us? You’ve just been lucky."

The voices intensified, seeping into his thoughts. His head pounded, and his body felt heavier with every step. His vision blurred as the forest closed in. Glancing down, Syre saw twisted branches coiling around his body.

With a grunt, he drew his sword and sliced through them, collapsing to his knees, gasping for air.

Suddenly, a wooden path appeared ahead, leading toward a massive tree.

Syre huffed on his knees, then crawled toward the tree, which radiated an unfamiliar, heavy energy—not entirely good, not entirely evil. He hadn’t seen this tree before, but now it seemed to beckon him.

The stench of death and decay filled the air, choking him. Before Syre could react, branches lashed onto his arms, pulling him down. The earth swallowed him whole, plunging him into darkness as he was dragged into the world underneath

Syre reached out, feeling the smooth, curved surface enclosing him. Panic flared—it felt like an egg. He pounded against the surface, his screams were swallowed by silence. A growing lethargy began pulling him under. Reaching behind him, he felt a cord attached to his back.

I’m in a siphoning egg…

The realization hit him like a blade. His energy was being drained, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. As his strength ebbed away, defeat crept in. So this is how it ends, he thought, slumping into the darkness.

A voice cut through the void, pulling him back. Light flooded the egg, and Syre blinked as the walls turned translucent. A tall figure stood outside, holding a book, their expression distant and serious.

“My name is Domino,” the figure said, calm but detached. Dark hair fell over one side of their face as they glanced up at Syre.

“According to my little book, your name is Syre, age 17. An exceptionally skilled fighter. Your blood is of great importance.” Domino scribbled something down, completely unaffected by Syre’s predicament.

"It’s your lucky day. You’ve been chosen as a candidate for the Demons’ Tournament." Domino spoke as though it were routine.

"Demons’ Tournament? What the hell are you talking about?" Syre pounded against the egg walls. "Give me my sword back!"

“My name is Domino,” the figure repeated before turning and walking away.

"You said that already!" Syre shouted. "What is this Demons' Tournament? Get me out of here!" He looked around, realizing shadowy eggs surrounded him, all hanging from thick cords. Tortured cries filled the air, coming from those trapped within.

Fatigue slammed into him again, his energy draining faster. Syre teetered on the edge of unconsciousness when a voice came from his left.

“Hey, don't fall asleep!”

Syre barely managed to turn toward the sound.

“If you fall asleep, you may never wake up,” the voice continued. He could make out the faint shape of someone moving within the egg beside him.

“My name is Falson. I’ve been here for a while…” Falson sighed, his voice thick with weariness. “That Demons’ Tournament mentioned? We’re in the nest of the demon named Aries. He makes us fight in these tournaments, draining our essence through these eggs.”

Syre’s breath quickened.

“As long as you stay awake, long enough for your body to adjust to the siphoning, you might survive. Fall asleep, and you’re done. They don’t choose weaklings for the tournament. So its already a good sign you were picked. If you win you stay alive longer... Not much of a choice, but it’s something.”

Falson’s voice faded into silence, leaving Syre alone with his thoughts.

“Stay awake and win,” Syre muttered, repeating the phrase over and over, trying to cling to it. 

Time dragged on, as he was enclaved, each moment a painful eternity. Sleep clawed at him, pulling him under. His eyes fluttered shut, and soon he was plunged into a vivid dream.