Oldred emerged from the ruined bathroom, his heavy boots stamping hard on the creaking wooden floor. The air inside the house felt suffocating, mixed with the gunpowder scent he had created, the smell of rust, and the smell of old dust.
TIG-TIG-TIG... SKRIT...
A strange, small sound, like a mouse scratching at wood, tried to sneak in through the cracks of the large wardrobe covering the window. The sound was so thin, it was almost swallowed by the panicked whispers of the cultists outside.
Oldred walked over to it. Without warning, he slammed his bionic fist into the wardrobe barricade.
KRA-BOOM!
The thick oak wood shattered, splinters flying into the room. His bionic fist shot through into the darkness outside, grabbing and pulling something small and warm that was trying to get in.
???:
"HYAGH?!!"
The voice of the woman he'd heard in the dungeon—Nu'al—sounded from behind his clenched bionic fist. Her voice was small and panicked. Oldred pulled his bionic arm back into the dimly lit room.
He opened his fist. On his stained metal palm, a small, fist-sized ball of light pulsed weakly, emitting a pale, bluish-white glow.
Nu'al:
"h-hello? w-wait don't squeeze! That's me!"
The voice came from the ball of light, panicked and distorted. As if testing, Oldred began to close his bionic hand again.
KLANG!
Deftly, the small ball of light slipped out like a slippery fish through the gaps between his bionic fingers.
Nu'al:
"Hey! You can't just do that! That's my astral form, you idiot!"
The ball of light now hovered in front of Oldred's mask, flickering anxiously.
Oldred:
"You're the one who wanted to lecture earlier?...what do you want?"
His voice was hoarse, like gravel being ground together.
Nu'al:
"l-lecture?! Have you been living in a cave? Don't you know what's going on?! Your aura of sin almost killed me, you know!"
Oldred ignored the small light. He turned and walked away, descending the creaking stairs toward the ground floor. He couldn't stay cooped up and surrounded here any longer.
The small light (Nu'al) zipped after him, hovering in front of his steel mask, darting around anxiously like an annoying fly.
Nu'al:
"Don't go yet, hey! l-listen, we need each other's help!...you might not have realized it, but we're trapped inside a dome! A giant magic dome! You won't be able to get out without me!"
Nu'al:
"h-hey, fine! I can show you the best escape route! A path that isn't guarded! How about it? Deal?"
As if feigning deafness, Oldred reached the living room. He walked to the front door, which he had barricaded with the remains of furniture. With mechanical motions, he checked the shotgun on his back, ensuring it was fully loaded. Click-clack. He was going to make them bleed.
Just as he was about to tear down his own barricade...
BRAKK!
A dull impact sound. But it wasn't from outside. It was a sound from inside his head.
Maid: "Hey, Watch out! Young Miss! Don't run on the stairs!"
The sound of a little girl bumping into someone, followed by the worried voice of a maid.
???: "Ah! Sorry! I'm sorry, Auntie!"
The smell of gunpowder and burnt flesh on Oldred's shoulder suddenly faded. The smell of the damp, dusty house vanished.
In its place, his nose caught the scent of floor wax, expensive wood varnish, and... flowers. The smell of a bright day.
The little girl ran past him, her laugh like the tinkling of a small bell. Her corn-yellow hair reflected the warm afternoon sunlight, like the bright sun itself.
Nabelia Gilsa:
"Big brother! Let's play again!"
She called out to Oldred, her tone sweet. In the blink of an eye, there was no besieged wooden house. No blood-soaked floor. Just a luxurious, classic home interior, wood-paneled walls, and several uniformed maids bustling past him, bowing respectfully.
Oldred found himself in a formal guard's uniform. The stiff wool fabric felt foreign against his skin.
Oldred:
".....what...is this?"
Oldred:
"....."
Uzha:
"w-wait!"
Called Oldred... or, Uzha? With a calm, forced pace, Uzha walked after the girl, trying not to lose sight of her. Past several bowing maids, down a long corridor, up a marble staircase, until the girl reached a large mahogany door.
Nabelia Gilsa:
"Let's go in! Father is busy, there definitely won't be any calls!"
The door closed, leaving Uzha alone in the silent corridor. His white-gloved hand reached for the brass doorknob.
KLIK!
The door opened.
The cold night wind kissed his skin. There was no one there. Just an empty room with a broken window revealing a sick, full moon.
Uzha:
"Nabelia?"
Uzha:
"Nabelia? where are you?"
There was only a small voice trying to reach him, pulling him back.
???:
"hey, hey, what's wrong with you?!"
???:
"Don't just space out!"
Nu'al:
"Oh no, W-Watch out!"
BOOOOOOOOM!
Reality slammed back into him like a sledgehammer.
Oldred found himself standing at the now-open central door. The wooden barricade had been blown to smithereens, exploding into the room by a gray blur streaking straight for his face. He saw the cultists outside, but the most fatal thing was the giant hammer flying at his face (or his mask).
With a movement that was a split-second too slow, Oldred raised both his hands—one flesh, one steel—and parried the attack.
KRA-DENTUM!!
The attack was overwhelming. He could feel the bone in his left shoulder shift and pop out of its socket with a wet POP. The blunt force sent him flying backward, sliding across the living room and slamming hard into the wall.
The Stag Head—Grog—stepped into the house, his giant figure filling the doorframe. He quickly raised his hammer high, ready to bring it down on Oldred, who was kneeling below.
Oldred, bracing against the burning pain in his shoulder, quickly raised his bionic arm.
KLAAAANG!!
The hammer's impact met his bionic arm, sending small sparks flying. The wooden floor beneath Oldred's knees cracked under the pressure. Oldred kicked the leg of the figure wearing the Stag Head. Grog only staggered slightly, like an oak tree being kicked. Oldred then grabbed the large table behind him with his bionic arm and, with a restrained roar, swung the heavy table in a spinning motion toward the large man.
KRA-BOOM!!
Grog didn't dodge. He swung his hammer, smashing the table in mid-air. The table disintegrated into pieces, sending a cloud of dust and wood splinters everywhere.
From behind the cloud, the giant hammer shot out straight—not swung, but thrust like a spear. Oldred shifted to the side, dodging the deadly stab. He then brought the shotgun he was carrying forward, aiming straight at the man's stag mask.
Grog's large, non-hammer-wielding hand shot out and gripped the end of the shotgun.
BAM!
A shot rang out, deafening in the enclosed room. A little blood trickled from Grog's leather glove, but his grip crushed the end of the double-barreled shotgun, mangling it into useless metal.
Oldred retreated a step, dropping the ruined shotgun. He quickly slammed his dislocated left shoulder against the wall. KLUNK! The joint popped back into place with a searing jolt of pain.
Grog advanced. Oldred thought Grog would attack with another swing; he prepared to parry. But Grog swung his hammer upward, gouging the floor brutally, sending wood dust and splinters flying up, creating a second cloud.
A sharp point—the spear-like end of the hammer's handle—shot forward through the cloud, aiming for his face.
Oldred ducked.
KRA-SHHHHH!!
The hammer handle smashed through the glass window behind Oldred, sending an explosion of shards everywhere. Dozens of sharp fragments pierced Oldred's back and neck.
Ignoring the stinging pain, Oldred was now inside Grog's reach. He punched with his bionic arm, slamming it into the figure's stomach.
THOOM!
The punch was like hitting a wall of meat. Grog grunted, and his grip on his hammer loosened. Oldred immediately grabbed the hammer's handle with both hands and shoved it forward, slamming the heavy hammerhead into Grog's chest.
Grog staggered back a step, surprised by his opponent's strength.