The steps led them into a hall, and the hero paused, his stomach clenching with disgust.
The ceiling was high, receding into darkness. But there, high above, hung it.
Mess.
A colossal mass of intertwined bodies, the size of a small house. Arms, legs, torsos, heads—all intertwined, fused into a single, pulsating lump of flesh. The skin was pale, almost translucent, revealing veins, entrails, and beating hearts—dozens of them. From somewhere above came a wet, rhythmic sound—slurping, gurgling, as if a giant heart were beating in time with the breathing of the dungeon itself.
And this mess glowed.
With a dim, sickly light—like a moon through clouds. A flesh moon, hanging from the ceiling, illuminating the hall with its organic radiance. The air was thick, sweetly nauseating, smelling of iron and something else—ancient, primordial.
"Gods... what is this..." Medusa whispered, the snakes on her head pressed against her skull, refusing to look.
Dolor stopped next to her, his sword gripped tighter. His face remained inscrutable, but something flickered in his eyes—disgust? Recognition?
"I've seen this," he said quietly. "Long ago. In other worlds. Flesh become god. Or god become flesh. The line is thin."
The hero wanted to answer, but heard it.
Whispering.
Quiet, multiple, in different languages—some he recognized, others alien, inhuman. The words merged into a hum, but individual phrases broke through:
Pain... father... give birth to me... mother... where is the light... hungry... lonely... father..."
"Father?" — the hero raised his head to the moon. — What was it about?
The pulsation intensified, the light grew brighter. And from the mass, something began to drip.
Not blood. Not mucus. Flesh.
Chunks of flesh fell down, hitting the stone floor with a wet slap. But they weren't dead—they were moving, gathering, forming.
The hero watched as a figure formed from the fallen flesh. Humanoid, the size of a child, but without detail. Instead of a face, a smooth surface. Instead of fingers, rounded stumps. The body was naked, pale, wet with amniotic fluid.
Hesitantly, swaying like a newborn, the creature rose to its feet. It turned its faceless head toward the hero.
It took a step. Then another.
"Father," a voice said. It was unclear from where; the creature had no mouth. But the voice was childish, thin. "Father... found you..."
The hero retreated:
"I am not your father. I am not—"
Another piece of flesh fell. And another. The moon was giving birth, drop by drop creating new creatures. They formed, rose, all turning to face the hero.
"Father..." "Daddy..." "You've returned..."
Ten of them. Twenty. Thirty. The faceless children surrounded the hero, reaching out to him with their stumpy arms.
"What should we do?" Medusa called, pressing her back against the wall.
"I don't know!"
One of the creatures touched his leg. The touch was warm, wet, disgusting. The hero flinched, throwing it away.
The creature fell. A faceless head turned to him:
"Father... it hurts... why did you... hurt me?"
The others stirred restlessly:
"Father hit..." "He doesn't love us..." "Are we bad?" The hero felt something breaking in his head. This was wrong. Everything about this scene was wrong—a perversion of parenthood, motherhood, birth.
Dolor stepped forward, raising his sword.
"Abomination." His voice was even, almost indifferent. "It must be destroyed."
One swing—and the nearest creature shattered into pieces. Flesh sprayed and fell to the floor.
The others froze. Then they began to scream—thinly, piercingly, like children:
"He killed!" "He killed my brother!" "Father! Protect me!"
They rushed toward Dolor, surrounded him, clinging to his legs and arms with their stumps, pulling him down. They didn't attack—they simply grabbed, held on, crying silently.
"Don't kill us..." "Father, tell him..."
Dolor tried to shake them off, but there were too many of them.
The hero stood, unsure what to do. Destroy them? But they looked... pitiful. Helpless.
The moon above pulsed more intensely, the light becoming blinding. The whisper grew louder, the words forming a phrase:
Everyone is looking for the sky. But who said the sky isn't made of flesh?
The voice was multiple—hundreds of voices speaking in unison. It penetrated the mind, coiling around thoughts.
You rise. Looking for a way out. Looking for the sky. But what if the sky is me? What if all you yearn for is flesh, a pulse, the warmth of the mother's womb?
"Shut up!" the hero shouted, covering his ears with his hands.
But the voice wasn't outside—it was inside the skull.
Medusa, too, clutched her head; the snakes hissed in agony.
The moonlight touched one of the faceless children. The creature trembled and began to change. Its body swelled, its limbs lengthened, becoming clawed. The faceless head split open, revealing a maw lined with rows of teeth.
A monster. The moon had transformed the child into a monster.
It lunged at Dolor. Its claws tore through his armor, leaving bloody furrows. Dolor struck with his sword, cleaving the creature in half.
The light touched two more. They, too, mutated, transforming into predatory aberrations.
"She's changing them!" Medusa cried. "The moon!"
"We must destroy her!" Dolor hacked at the monsters, but new ones continued to be born.
The hero looked up at the pulsating mass of flesh. How to reach it? It's too high.
You can't kill a mother. No one can.
"I'm not your child!" the hero cried.
All are my children. All flesh came from flesh. You are a part of me. Just like them.
The faceless children, those who hadn't mutated, clung closer to the hero. They hugged his legs, his arms:
"Don't go, Father..." "Stay with us..."
Their touches grew sticky, and the hero's skin began to itch where they touched. He looked down—on the hand where the creature held him, the skin was bubbling, changing color, becoming pale, like theirs.
Mutation. The moonlight wasn't just changing the children—it was changing everyone.
"Medusa! Dolor! Cover yourself! Don't let the light touch you!"
Medusa pressed herself against a column, hiding in the shadows. Dolor raised his sword, using the wide blade as a shield, reflecting the light.
The hero tried to shake the children off, but they held on tighter:
"No! Stay!" "Don't leave us!" Their voices became distorted, the flesh beneath his hands pulsated, fusing with him. His fingers went numb, and the skin began to change texture—it became wet and slippery.
With a jerk, the hero threw the children off him, pushing them away. They screamed, let go, and recoiled. The flesh on his hand returned to normal—without contact with the moonlight, the changes had ceased.
He had to act quickly.
"Dolor! Throw me up!"
The god lowered his sword, clasped his hands—he understood instantly. The hero took a running start. Dolor, despite his weakening, still possessed divine power. He tossed the hero upward with such force that he soared toward the ceiling.
Toward the moon.
The hero crashed into the pulsating mass of flesh. Soft, warm, wet—it enveloped him, began to pull him in. The smell intensified, becoming unbearable. He felt dozens of hearts beating around him, his entrails sliding beneath his hands.
He plunged the Bloody Dagger into the center of the mass. The blade sank deep, slicing veins, muscle, something hot and pulsing.
The moon howled—hundreds of voices at once. The flesh shuddered and began to disintegrate.
You killed your mother... killed me... killed yourself...
The hero fell with the crumbling mass. Chunks of flesh rained down, scattered, and hit the floor with wet thuds.
Dolor caught the hero. They collapsed to the floor amid the debris of the moon.
The faceless children stood motionless, watching their mother die.
Then they began to dissolve. The bodies went limp, fell, turning into puddles of formless flesh. The last child looked at the hero with a faceless head:
"Father... forgive... that we... weren't... good... enough..."
Melt away. Vanished.
Silence.
The hall was empty. Only pools of flesh, slowly soaking into the stone. And three living beings—the hero, Medusa, and Dolor.
"It was..." Medusa began, but found no words.
"A perversion of life," Dolor finished.
The hero lay on the floor, breathing heavily. His hands trembled. A lump formed in his throat—not from nausea, but from something else. They called him father. They begged him to stay. And he killed them.
Medusa sank down beside him and hugged him:
"You did the right thing. They were wrong. Unviable."
"They were alive," the hero whispered. "They asked for love."
"Love isn't always mercy," Dolor said, looking at the pools of flesh. "Sometimes mercy is liberation. You freed them."
The hero didn't answer. He simply lay there, feeling another burden of guilt added to the burden—small, but heavy, like all the others.
After a few minutes, he forced himself to stand. An archway was visible ahead.
They walked through it slowly, silently.
The dungeon continued.
But the memory of the faceless children who called him father remained in the hero's soul.
And he wasn't sure if he could ever forget their last words.