The first thing the hero sensed upon crossing the threshold of the theater was the smell of old velvet and dust. The second was that his body no longer belonged to him.
The enormous hall opened before them in all its gloomy splendor. Rows of dark red velvet seats stretched into the darkness. The gilded stucco on the walls was covered in the web of time. The massive chandelier above their heads swayed, though the air was still. And ahead, beyond the orchestra pit, loomed the stage, its curtain drawn the color of dried blood.
"What the..."
The hero didn't have time to finish. His jaw locked involuntarily, as if an invisible hand had clamped his mouth shut. He tried to turn his head toward Medusa, but his body wouldn't obey. Only his eyes moved freely, and in them he saw a reflection of his own horror. Nearby, Medusa stood frozen in an unnatural pose, one arm stretched forward, the other bent at an odd angle. The snakes on her head wriggled in panic, hissing and trying to bite something invisible. Dolor stood like a statue, only his fingers slowly tightening on the hilt of his sword.
The curtain twitched. Then, slowly, with the creaking of old mechanisms, it began to creep upward.
A figure stood on the stage.
Tall, clad in a black cloak that flowed down in folds like liquid darkness. A white mask, featureless—no eyes, no mouth, no nose. Only a smooth porcelain surface, reflecting the dim light. The figure's arms were raised, fingers gracefully curved, as if playing an invisible instrument.
Puppeteer.
The lights in the hall flared. Ghostly silhouettes materialized in the seats—hundreds of spectators, motionless, silent, expectant.
The hero's body twitched. Against his will, he stepped forward. Another step. Another. His legs carried him toward the stage, though every cell screamed, "Run! Resist!" Medusa moved alongside him, her movements fluid and graceful—like a dancer's, though her face was frozen in a grimace of rage. Dolor walked last, his heavy footsteps echoing loudly in the void.
They stepped onto the stage.
The Puppeteer bowed his head, as if in greeting. His fingers twitched—and the hero felt his arms rise, spreading out to the sides. A bow. He bowed to the audience, like an actor before a performance.
Applause rang out in the hall—dry, mechanical, echoing off the walls.
No, no, no...
The hero tried to scream, but his lips wouldn't move. He could only watch as the Puppeteer made another gesture—and the scene around them began to change. The scenery crawled out from behind the scenes of its own accord: plywood trees, a cardboard castle, a papier-mâché throne.
The performance began.
The Puppeteer's fingers twirled in the air, and Medusa's body began to move. She danced—every turn, every curve of her body was perfect, flawless. The trident in her hands spun, whistling through the air. She danced as she once danced in a club, but now it was no longer a dance of seduction—it was a dance of murder.
The Hero felt his own body assume a fighting stance. The Bloody Dagger slipped into his hand. His legs bent, preparing to spring.
No! Medusa, it wasn't me!
But his body was already moving. He lunged at her, the dagger aimed at her throat. Medusa parried with her trident—sparks flew from the clash of metal. Her face was centimeters from his, her eyes full of horror and fury. The snakes on her head rushed toward him, but froze mid-stride—even they were under control.
They fought—fast, brutal, skillful. The hero attacked again and again, his movements flawless: all the lessons learned through hundreds of deaths, all the skills honed in the dungeon. The dagger cut the air, aiming for vital points. Medusa dodged, counterattacked, but she, too, could not stop.
Dolor stood aside, forced to simply watch. For now.
Medusa's trident sank into the hero's side. He felt the points pierce skin, muscle, scrape his ribs. Pain exploded through his body—bright, sharp, real. His mouth opened in a silent scream, but his body continued to move. The dagger swung upward, slicing Medusa's arm from wrist to elbow. Blood splattered onto the white boards of the stage.
She made no sound. Only the eyes widened.
The audience applauded.
The fight went on—a minute, two, five, ten. They were forced to fight without a break, without stopping. The hero felt his muscles burning, his lungs screaming for air. Blood flowed from a dozen wounds. Medusa was also wounded: a deep cut on her thigh, a split eyebrow, a torn shoulder.
But they couldn't stop.
Finally, the Puppeteer made a sharp gesture—and the hero's body rushed forward with inhuman speed. The dagger sank right into Medusa's stomach, right up to the hilt. Her eyes met his—there was no reproach in them. Only pain and understanding: it's not your fault.
He felt the blade enter her flesh. He felt her shudder. He felt the warmth of her blood on his hands.
Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me.
His hands, involuntarily, twisted the dagger. Medusa coughed up blood. The snakes on her head went limp, hanging lifelessly.
The puppeteer released her strings.
Medusa fell to her knees, then face down. Blood pooled around her body.
The hall erupted in applause. The ghostly spectators jumped to their feet, clapping and stamping their feet.
The hero stood over her body, the dagger still clutched in his hand, dripping with blood. He wanted to scream, wanted to fall beside her, but her body remained motionless, like a statue.
The scenery changed—a rack appeared on the stage, chains hung from the ceiling, and instruments lay on a table nearby: pincers, red-hot iron, hooks.
Medusa's body twitched. She groaned and opened her eyes. She came to life. The wounds had healed—not completely, but enough for her to move. Invisible strings lifted her, pulled her toward the rack, and secured her. She realized what was happening before the hero did. Her eyes widened in horror.
"No..." she whispered. "Don't..."
Dolor was yanked forward. The enormous warrior moved like a robot, his face impassive, but a tiny spark burned deep in his eyes—the remnant of his will, struggling to break free. His hands reached for the table and grabbed the pincers.
The hero tried to close his eyes, but couldn't. His eyelids wouldn't obey. He was forced to watch.
Dolor approached Medusa. His hand—enormous, scarred—hovered over her face. The pincers opened, grabbed one of her fingers. They squeezed.
Bone crunched.
Medusa screamed. Her scream tore through the silence of the theater, echoing off the walls. Dolor didn't stop; methodically, slowly, he broke her fingers one by one. Each crunch echoed in the hero's ears like a gunshot.
"Stop!" — he wanted to scream, but his mouth wouldn't open. "Dolor, stop!"
But Dolor couldn't control himself. His face remained stony, only tears glistened in the corners of his eyes. He, too, was suffering, but he couldn't stop.
The next tool was the hooks. Dolor thrust them under Medusa's skin—into her shoulders, her sides, her hips—and pulled. The skin stretched, tore. Blood flowed down her body. She screamed, and screamed, and screamed.
The spectators watched silently. Some leaned forward, as if they didn't want to miss a single detail.
The hero felt something breaking inside him. Not his body—his soul. Every cry from Medusa was a knife in his heart. He had died hundreds of times in this dungeon, felt pain in a thousand forms, but this was the worst of all. Because he couldn't do anything. He could only stand and watch.
Finally, Medusa went limp. Her head fell onto her chest. Breathing raggedly, hoarsely.
The puppeteer clapped his hands once. Dolor stepped back, the instruments falling from his hands.
The chains released Medusa. She fell to the floor, but immediately began to rise—the threads forced her to her feet again. The wounds closed slowly, the bones knitting together with a grinding sound. Her face was streaked with tears and blood.
The audience applauded.
More puppets emerged from behind the scenes—a dozen figures, once people, adventurers, perhaps treasure hunters. Now—puppets. Their eyes were empty, their movements mechanical. They were dressed in rags, their bodies covered in old scars and wounds.
The puppeteer waved his hand.
The fight began.
The hero, Medusa, and Dolor—against a dozen puppets. But not of their own free will. They were forced to fight like gladiators in the arena.
The first puppet lunged at the hero with a rusty sword. His body dodged, and the dagger slashed open its enemy's throat. Blood gushed. The puppet fell, twitching. The second attacked from the side—he intercepted the blow, broke its arm, and plunged the dagger into its eye. Brains and blood sprayed across his face.
Medusa spun with her trident like a deadly dancer. Her weapon pierced enemies, tore flesh, and shattered bones. She pierced both eyes of one puppet with her prongs and lifted it into the air, then hurled it into the crowd. She decapitated another with a single swing—its head rolled across the stage, coming to rest at the feet of the audience in the front row.
Dolor was a killing machine. His two-handed sword cut the puppets in half. One blow, and a body would split in two, entrails spilling onto the floor. Another blow, and an arm would fly off, then a leg. He didn't stop, didn't slow down. He just hacked, and hacked, and hacked.
The scene turned into a massacre. Blood splattered the boards, slipping underfoot. Body parts lay everywhere. The hero slipped on someone's intestines, fell to his knees—he was immediately lifted by invisible threads, forced to continue.
The puppets didn't scream. Even when they were cut, they remained silent. They only wheezed, gurgling blood, but continued to attack as long as they could move.
The hero was wounded again—a blow to the side reopened an old wound. Medusa's back was cut from shoulder to hip. Dolor's leg was pierced. But they continued to fight.
The last puppet fell, its head crushed by a blow from Dolor's sword. Silence.
The three stood among the mountains of bodies, drenched in blood—their own and others'. They breathed heavily. The hero felt his lungs burning, his heart pounding so hard it threatened to burst from his chest.
The audience rose. Ovation. Shouts of delight.
The puppeteer bowed.
The scenery vanished. Only an empty stage remained, bathed in red light.
The puppeteer pointed at the hero. Then at Medusa and Dolor.
Invisible threads tugged at them. Medusa and Dolor turned to face the hero. They raised their weapons.
No. Not that.
They attacked simultaneously. Trident and sword, aimed at him. The hero blocked Medusa's blow with his dagger, but Dolor's sword entered his shoulder, cut through muscle, and lodged in bone. The pain was blinding. The hero fell to his knees.
Dolor tore the sword from his shoulder, sending flesh and blood flying. Medusa hurled her trident—it pierced the hero completely, all three prongs protruding from his back. He was pinned to the floor.
The hero choked on blood. He saw Medusa—her face distorted, tears streaming down her cheeks, but her hands continued to attack. He saw Dolor raising his sword for the final blow.
The sword fell. The hero's head flew off his body, rolled across the stage, and came to rest at the very edge.
The last thing he saw before the darkness was Medusa's face, screaming silently.
The hero came to. His body was whole. He lay on the stage, in a pool of his own blood. His head was still there. But the phantom pain was unbearable—he felt the sword severing his neck, the trident piercing his chest. Again, and again, and again.
They lifted him up. The performance continued. Now he attacked. Against Medusa and Dolor. His dagger cut, stabbed, tore. He killed them methodically, cruelly. He ripped open Medusa's belly—her intestines spilled onto the floor. He slit Dolor's throat—blood gushed.
They fell. Resurrected. And again—the battle.
The hero killed Medusa eleven times. Twelve. Thirteen. He lost count. Each death was different: strangulation, a pierced heart, a severed carotid artery, a fractured skull. He felt each one—every pain, every last breath.
Medusa killed him seventeen times. Maybe more. A trident in the eye socket. In the throat. In the groin—he bled to death, writhing. Her snakes bit into his neck, injecting venom—he died in agony, foaming at the mouth.
Dolor crushed him to death. Cut him in half. Disemboweled.
They fought for hours. Maybe days. Time lost its meaning. Resurrection, battle, death. Resurrection, battle, death. An endless cycle.
The spectators went wild.
The hero lay on his back, staring at the darkness of the ceiling. He had just been killed—how many times?—and his body was regenerating. Medusa stood above him, her trident aimed at his chest. Dolor waited to the side, his sword lowered.
Something broke in the hero's consciousness. Not his body—it was accustomed to pain. Not his mind—it was already on the edge. Something deeper.
Enough.
He realized this with absolute clarity. Immortality—his curse and his gift. The Puppeteer controlled the living. But the dead?
The hero smiled.
His body jerked—the Puppeteer forced him to stand. But the moment he rose, the hero did something no one expected.
He plunged the dagger into his throat.
Blood gushed. The world went dark.
Resurrection—three seconds.
He stood again. The Puppeteer was already pulling the strings, but the hero stabbed himself again—in the heart this time. Death. Resurrection – three seconds.
He stood up. He stabbed himself in the eye, the dagger piercing his brain.
Death. Resurrection.
He stood up. He ripped open his stomach.
Death. Resurrection.
Again. And again. And again.
The hero was dying faster than the Puppeteer could regain control. The strings tangled, tore, intertwined. The rhythm of the performance broke. The audience froze. Even the ghostly figures leaned forward in bewilderment.
The Puppeteer jerked his hands – sharply, panicked. But the hero was already plunging the dagger into his own heart again.
Death. Resurrection – one second.
Death. Resurrection.
Death.
Resurrection.
The world became blurry. The hero saw his own corpses disappearing and reappearing. Blood splattered the stage, but was immediately absorbed. Reality jerked like film in a broken projector.
And suddenly—a click. Almost inaudible, like a snapping string.
The string snapped.
The hero fell to his knees, breathing heavily. But his hands moved of their own accord. He controlled them. He raised his head and saw Medusa and Dolor, still frozen like statues.
The Puppeteer stood on the stage, his mask turned toward the hero. His fingers twitched erratically—he tried to regain control, but couldn't.
The hero stood. Staggering, bleeding from a dozen wounds, he stepped toward the Puppeteer. Another step. Another.
The Puppeteer made a sharp gesture—Medusa threw her trident. It pierced the hero's back and exited his chest. The hero stopped, coughing up blood, and looked down at the prongs protruding from his body.
Then he stepped forward. The trident fell from the wound. He continued walking.
Dolor swung his sword, cutting off the hero's hand. It fell to the floor, the dagger falling from his dead fingers. The hero didn't even pause. He picked up the dagger with his other hand. He continued.
The Puppeteer retreated—for the first time. His hands were shaking.
The hero leaped. The dagger sank into the mask, pierced the porcelain, and sank deeper—into what lay beyond. A black substance gushed from the cracks, enveloping the hero's hand. Cold, sticky, howling.
The mask shattered.
The Puppeteer collapsed, crumbling into dust and shadow.
The threads vanished.
Medusa fell to her knees, gasping for breath. Dolor lowered his sword, leaning heavily on it. The hero stood over the Puppeteer's remains, covered in blood—his own and someone else's—with one arm, a hole in his chest. Blood flowed from dozens of wounds.
The hall was empty. The spectators disappeared.
Silence.
The hero swayed, looking at the stump where his arm had been. Blood dripped onto the stage boards, a puddle spreading around his feet.
"Okay," he muttered wearily. "I'll fix it now."
Medusa nodded, wiping the blood from her face. She knew what would happen next. Dolor turned away silently.
Without hesitation, the hero plunged the dagger into his heart. A jerk, a gurgling breath—and he collapsed onto the blood-soaked boards.
Three seconds of silence.
Then the hero inhaled sharply. His body jerked, his eyes flew open. He was whole—his arm still there, his chest intact, all the wounds healed. But his face was contorted with pain.
Phantom pain crashed down on him like a wave. All the deaths of that evening—at once. A sword in the neck. A trident in the chest. A severed arm. A dagger in the heart. Twenty-seven deaths in a few hours. Each one reverberated through his body, even though he was physically healthy.
The hero groaned through clenched teeth and doubled over. Medusa sat down next to him and placed her hand on his shoulder. She didn't hug him, didn't console him—she simply sat there. Dolor stood behind him, a silent guard.
A minute. Two. The pain slowly receded, becoming bearable. The hero straightened up, wiping the sweat from his forehead.
Medusa hugged him, pressing her face to his chest. He felt her tears—warm, real.
"Forgive me," she whispered. "Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me..."
"Not your fault," he replied, stroking her hair. The snakes licked his hand, apologizing.
Dolor silently placed a heavy hand on the hero's shoulder—an anchor in the madness, a silent support.
They sat like that for a while, amid the blood-soaked stage, amid the debris of the set. Three broken, but alive.
On the floor, amid the ashes of the Puppeteer, lay a white mask—cracked but whole. Runes, ancient, pulsing with a faint light, were visible on the inside.
The hero picked it up. It was cold and smooth.
"Will you take it?" Medusa asked.
"Yes," he tucked the mask into his belt. "It will come in handy."
They moved slowly toward the exit—tired, exhausted, but alive. Medusa walked with a slight limp, phantom pains tormenting her too. Dolor carried his sword over his shoulder, each step a labored effort.
At the door, the hero turned. He looked at the stage—drenched in blood, littered with the bodies of puppets. The curtain was slowly falling.
"The worst performance of my life," he muttered. "Agreed," Medusa replied.
Dolor remained silent, but nodded.
They left the theater without looking back.
The next floor awaited.