The door swung open to the sound of music.
The carousel melody sounded cheerful, childish, yet distorted—as if it were being played on a broken music box. The notes sped up and slowed down, creating a sickening rhythm that made their insides clench.
A circus spread out before the group.
A huge tent with red and yellow stripes on its dome towered over the floor. Neon lights flickered chaotically—red, yellow, green—blinding the eyes with bright flashes. In the center of the hall rose a sand-covered arena, and around it, wooden bleachers rose in rows, all the way to the dome.
The seats were empty.
But the hero could hear an invisible audience. Whispers, laughter, the rustling of clothes came from everywhere. Someone was there. Watching. Bidded his time.
And there was blood everywhere.
The walls were covered in it—fresh and dried, layer upon layer. The arena sand had taken on a dark red hue from the ingrained blood. The seats were covered in brown stains. Clown noses, soaked to the rubber, lay scattered on the floor. Balloons floated beneath the dome, each with a face painted on it—contorted in a silent scream.
"What the..." Medusa began.
The spotlight hit her in the face with a blinding white light. She closed her eyes and recoiled, shielding them with her hand.
The speakers throughout the hall suddenly burst into life. A voice—cheerful, enthusiastic, but with a metallic edge—roared so loudly that the walls vibrated:
"YEEEEES AND GENTLEMEN!" "WELCOME TO THE BLOODIEST SHOW IN THE DUNGEON!"
The invisible audience erupted in applause. The roar was deafening, like thousands of hands slapping together in unison.
"TONIGHT WE HAVE SPECIAL GUESTS! MORTALS! FOUR BRAVE MEN WHO HAVE DECIDED TO ENTERTAIN US!"
The music sped up and grew louder, filling every corner of the space.
"Run," the hero said, turning toward the exit. "Now."
But the doors behind them slammed shut with a dull metallic clang and locked.
"NO-NO-NO! NO ESCAPE! THE SHOW HAS ALREADY BEGUN!"
The arena in the center flared with lights. Spotlights focused on the sand, illuminating the circular area with a bright light. The hero felt a tug. An invisible magical force grabbed him by the torso and hurled him forward. He flew over the rows of seats and crashed into the arena. The sand was soft, but the smell of blood and rot was so strong that he wanted to hold his breath.
Medusa, Yuki, and Dolor materialized nearby with the characteristic pop of displaced air.
"AND NOW—OUR FIRST ACTIVITY! A DANCE WITH THE CLOWNS!"
Figures ran out from behind the curtains at the edges of the arena, moving jerkily and unnaturally.
Clowns.
Ten clowns in bright costumes—red, yellow, blue—jumped into the arena. But their faces were painted not with makeup, but with blood. Their smiles were drawn from ear to ear with thick strokes of dried blood. Their eyes were white, empty, pupilless. They held knives, axes, and rusty chainsaws in their hands.
They moved jerkily, like broken puppets. Their steps were unnaturally fast and jerky, as if their bodies defied the normal laws of physics.
And they laughed.
A high, shrill, insane laughter echoed throughout the hall, bouncing off the walls and the dome.
"HEE-HEE-HEE-HA-HA-HA!"
The invisible audience took up the chant:
"BLOOD! BLOOD! BLOOD!"
The clowns attacked in a wave.
The first one lunged at the hero, swinging his axe over his head. The hero dodged, and the dagger slashed open the clown's throat almost reflexively. Blood gushed out—black, thick, smelling of rot. The clown fell to the sand, but continued to laugh, even as he died, even as gurgling wheezes erupted from his throat.
Medusa hurled her trident, pinning the second clown to the wooden wall. He twitched on the tips, his laughter growing hoarse and gurgling until it became a death rattle.
Yuki conjured illusions—three copies of herself surrounded the clowns, confusing them. Her katana flashed in the spotlight, decapitating one of the attackers. The head rolled across the sand, leaving a bloody trail, still laughing, even separated from its body.
Dolor cleaved the two clowns with one sweeping blow of his sword. Their bodies split in half, their entrails spilling onto the sand with a disgusting, squelching sound. But even the halves of the bodies continued to chuckle, convulsing.
The last three clowns pounced on the group simultaneously, coordinating their attack. One swung his chainsaw at Medusa, who petrified him with a glare at the last moment. The statue collapsed and shattered. The second plunged a knife into Yuki's side. She screamed in pain, but used her tail to hurl her attacker across the arena. The third leaped at the hero, aiming the knife straight for his throat.
The hero grabbed the hand holding the knife, broke it with a sharp tug, wrenched the weapon free, and plunged it into the clown's eye. He wheezed, convulsed, and the laughter finally died down.
Silence fell.
The bodies of the clowns lay on the sand, slowly dissolving into black smoke that rose and dissipated beneath the dome. The invisible audience burst into enthusiastic applause.
"BRAVO! BRAVO! BUT THIS IS ONLY THE BEGINNING!"
Yuki clutched the wound in her side. Blood flowed between her fingers, staining her clothes.
"I'm fine," she croaked through clenched teeth. "Just a scratch."
"NEXT ACT – THE ACROBATS OF DEATH!"
The lights suddenly went out, plunging the arena into darkness. Then they flared again, this time directed upward, toward the dome.
Ropes stretched beneath the dome, and figures glided along them, moving with inhuman grace.
Acrobats.
They were humanoid, but instead of arms, they had long, curved razors, glittering in the spotlights. They clung to the ropes, swung, and leaped from one rope to another.
And then they began to fall. The first acrobat fell on Dolor from above. The razor sliced through his shoulder, cutting through the muscle to the bone. Dolor roared in pain and lashed out with his sword, but the acrobat dodged with inhuman agility and soared back up, his razors clinging to the ropes.
The second attacked Medusa, slashing her back. She screamed and fell to her knees. The trident fell from her weakened hands and rolled across the sand.
The third and fourth attacked the hero simultaneously from different sides. He rolled to the side, but one of them's razor still slashed across his leg, slicing through his calf. The pain flared, bright and sharp. The hero fell to the sand.
The acrobats soared upward, letting out shrill laughter.
"How can we kill them?!" Yuki screamed, creating new illusions. "They're too fast!"
Dolor helped Medusa up. Her back was lacerated—three deep cuts stretched from her shoulder to her waist, blood soaking her clothes.
The acrobats attacked again and again. They fell from above, struck with their razors, and then soared back, evading capture. Time after time, they slashed, dodged, and vanished.
The hero tried to catch one with his dagger but missed. The razor slashed across his chest, ripping open the skin and flesh beneath. Blood spurted like a fountain, drenching his hands.
Yuki created an illusion—a huge net right under the dome. The acrobats became entangled in it, not recognizing the deception, and fell down into the arena.
— NOW!
Dolor swung his sword and cut two in half with a single blow. Medusa, overcoming the pain, stabbed the third with her trident. The hero finished off the fourth, plunging the dagger deep into his eye socket. The bodies dissolved into black smoke.
The group stood in the arena, breathing heavily. Everyone was wounded. Blood dripped onto the sand, leaving dark stains.
The invisible audience hooted and whistled in delight.
"WONDERFUL! BUT CAN YOU HANDLE... THE TAMER?!"
A new figure emerged from behind the curtain, and the hero felt a chill run through him.
It was enormous—three meters tall. Its body was covered in dirty leather, its face a mask of rough leather with slits for the eyes. In its massive hands, the tamer held a long chain with hooks at the ends and a whip.
Behind it, beasts emerged from behind the curtain.
Not animals. Mutants. Creatures with the bodies of wolves, but with human hands instead of front paws. Their muzzles were bared, revealing fangs the length of knives. The eyes glowed with an unhealthy red light.
The tamer swung his whip. The crack echoed off the walls of the circus and resounded throughout the hall.
The beasts pounced on the group.
The first leaped at Medusa, knocking her to the sand and sinking its fangs into her shoulder. She screamed in pain, trying to push the creature away. The second attacked Yuki—she slashed with her katana, but the beast dodged with astonishing agility, latched onto her leg, and began shaking its head, tearing at her flesh.
The third and fourth attacked the hero simultaneously. One sank its fangs into his arm, the other into his side. The hero screamed, trying to shake them off. He slashed the face of one with his dagger—it finally let go, but the second continued to tear at her flesh, penetrating ever deeper. Dolor grabbed the beast by the neck with both hands, tore it away from the hero, and hurled it across the arena. The beast hit the wall with a dull thud, fell, and never moved again.
The tamer swung the chain. The hook pierced Dolor's chest, entering between his ribs, piercing skin and muscle. The tamer yanked sharply—Dolor flew forward and collapsed at the giant's feet.
The whip wrapped around Dolor's neck. The tamer began to tug, choking him.
Dolor wheezed, clutching the whip with both hands, but it dug deeper into his skin, and blood flowed from under the noose, staining his neck.
"DOLOR!" Medusa rushed toward him, but the beast on her still gnawed at his shoulder, refusing to let go. She petrified him with a glare and threw off the petrified corpse, but it was too late.
The tamer yanked the whip one last time.
A crunch.
Dolor's neck broke with a horrific sound.
His body went limp and fell to the sand. His eyes remained open, empty and lifeless.
"NO!" Yuki lunged at the Tamer, her katana aimed straight at her throat.
The chain shot through the air, wrapping around her waist. The hooks sank into her skin, piercing her clothing. The Tamer lifted Yuki into the air and slammed her against the wall with monstrous force.
A crunch of bones. Yuki collapsed to the floor, blood pouring from her mouth. She no longer moved.
Only the hero and Medusa remained.
The three beasts were still attacking, surrounding them. The hero fought back with his dagger, but there were too many. One sank into her throat.
The fangs pierced the skin and severed an artery.
Blood gushed out like a fountain. The hero choked and fell to his knees. The world swam before his eyes, darkening at the edges.
The last thing he saw was Medusa, surrounded by beasts, collapsing under their weight.
Darkness consumed him.
Resurrection.
Three seconds passed.
The hero inhaled sharply and opened his eyes. He lay on the arena sand. Nearby were Dolor, Yuki, and Medusa. All alive. All whole, without a single wound.
But the Tamer and the beasts still stood around, ready to attack again.
"OH-OH-OH! DIED SO SOON? WELL... LET'S TRY AGAIN!"
The invisible audience laughed in unison.
The beasts attacked again.
This time, the hero was ready. He ripped the throat of the first beast with his dagger, dodging the second, anticipating its movement. Yuki created illusions—the beasts attacked nothing, oblivious to reality. Medusa pierced two with a single throw of her trident.
But the Tamer was faster than they thought. The chain wrapped around the hero's legs and yanked. He fell to the sand. The Tamer pulled him toward him and raised the whip above his head.
Strike.
The whip sliced his back, the skin bursting, revealing the flesh beneath. The pain was unbearable, blinding.
Second strike. Third. Fourth.
His back was a bloody mess. The hero screamed until his voice broke.
Medusa rushed at him, but the beast knocked her down. Its fangs sank into his throat. She petrified him with a glare, but it was too late—an artery was severed. She fell to the sand, choking on her own blood.
Yuki threw her katana at the Tamer. The blade struck her right in the eye. The giant roared in pain and clutched his face.
But the chain was already flying toward Yuki. It wrapped around her neck, the hooks digging into her flesh. The Tamer yanked with monstrous force.
Yuki's head was torn from her body.
It rolled across the sand, leaving a trail of blood, and came to a stop at the hero's feet. Her eyes were still blinking, her mouth opening soundlessly, trying to speak.
The hero screamed in horror.
The Tamer raised his whip for the final blow.
The whip wrapped around the hero's neck and tightened. Suffocation. Darkness filled his vision. Death.
Resurrection.
Again. And again. And again.
They died over and over again. The beasts tore them apart. The Tamer strangled, slashed with a whip, tore with chains. An invisible audience applauded each death, enjoying the spectacle.
On the sixth attempt, they finally killed the Tamer. Dolor distracted him, taking the brunt of the blow, and Yuki threw her katana at the unprotected spot beneath his mask. The giant collapsed and vanished into black smoke.
The group lay on the sand, breathing heavily. Everyone was battered, though their wounds had disappeared after their resurrections. But a phantom pain throbbed in every cell of their bodies, reminding them of each death.
"BRAVO! BRAVO! YOU'VE GONE THREE NUMBERS!"
"How much more?" Medusa croaked, struggling to her feet.
"OH, MORE! BUT FIRST LET'S... INTERMISSION!"
The music changed. It became slower, quieter, almost soothing.
The arena began to spin.
Slowly at first. Then faster and faster. Centrifugal force pushed him toward the edges. The hero tried to stand, but the sand beneath his feet spun, carrying him toward the edge.
And the floor began to open.
Sections of sand collapsed one after another, revealing deep pits below. Spikes jutted out of the pits—metal, rusty, covered in dried blood and some dark substance.
The hero grabbed the edge of the chasm, holding on with all his might. Nearby, Medusa clung to a trident stuck in the sand. Yuki held on to a ledge with her tails. Dolor simply drove his sword into the floor and held on to the hilt.
But the arena spun faster and faster.
The hero's fingers slipped over the edge. He fell into the pit.
Spikes pierced his body—chest, stomach, legs. The pain was blinding, unbearable. He hung, impaled on the spikes, like a piece of meat on hooks.
Blood filled his eyes, flowed down his body. Consciousness swam, fading.
Death came mercifully quickly.
Resurrection.
Back in the arena. The spinning continued.
Yuki was the first to fall, landing on the spikes. Her body was pierced in a dozen places. She screamed until death took her.
Medusa was the next to lose her grip. She fell. The spikes pierced her in a dozen places at once. The corpse hung there, lifeless.
Dolor held on the longest. But in the end, the sword was torn from the sand. He was the last to fall.
Resurrection.
All four found themselves back in the arena. The rotation stopped. The pits closed as if they had never been there.
"FUN, RIGHT? WELL... TIME FOR THE FINALE!"
The curtain at the far end of the arena opened with a theatrical flourish, and out stepped a figure whose presence made the hero feel his stomach clench.
The Circus Director towered three meters tall. His costume was made from scraps of human skin—various shades, from pale gray to dark brown, stitched together with coarse black thread that stuck out in all directions like stiff bristles. His face was painted with fresh blood: a smile stretched from ear to ear, so wide it seemed his face would split in two. His eyes were two perfectly white circles, pupil-less, empty and dead. On his head was a black top hat adorned with human bones—fingers, ribs, small skulls—all strung on wire and clanking with every movement.
In his massive hands, the Director held a hammer. No ordinary hammer, but a gigantic weapon as big as the hero himself. The handle was wrapped in leather straps, darkened by the blood it had absorbed. Bells hung all over the hammer—dozens, maybe hundreds—from tiny ones the size of a thimble to large ones the size of a fist. They jingled with every step the Director took, creating an eerie cacophony of sound.
The Director stopped in the center of the arena and raised the hammer above his head. The bells rang deafeningly.
"YEEEEES AND GENTLEMEN!" his voice boomed without speakers, echoing throughout the circus. "FINAL ACT OF THE NIGHT! THE BETS ARE OFF! WHO WILL SURVIVE—THEY OR ME?!"
The invisible audience erupted in cheers. The roar was so loud that the hero clapped his hands to his ears, but it was no use. The sound penetrated his skull, vibrating through his bones.
Figures began to materialize from the shadows around the arena. Killer clowns—the same ones they had already killed—appeared out of nowhere, their blood-painted faces melting into mad grins. Acrobats descended from the ropes beneath the dome, their razors instead of hands gleaming in the spotlights. Mutant beasts emerged from behind the curtains, snarling and snapping their fangs.
All the enemies, all the trials of this damned circus, gathered in one place.
"Oh no," Medusa whispered, taking a step back. "No, no, no..." "Get ready," Dolor raised his sword, his voice calm, but the hero could see the tension in every line of his body. "This will be hard."
"Hard?" Yuki laughed nervously, her tails fluffing out. "It's suicide!"
The director lowered his hammer to the sand. The blow was the signal.
All the enemies attacked simultaneously.
A wave of flesh, metal, and madness washed over the group. The hero didn't even have time to properly brace himself—the clown lunged at him from the left, an axe aimed at his head. The hero dodged, and the dagger ripped open the clown's stomach. Black blood splattered his face and eyes. The hero closed his eyes, wiping it with his sleeve, but at that moment the second clown stabbed him in the side. The blade sank between his ribs, piercing his lung. Pain flared, bright and sharp, and the air hissed out of his chest.
The hero grabbed the clown's knife-wielding hand and broke it with a sharp movement. The bones snapped like dry twigs. The clown laughed even louder, even with a broken arm, and tried to bite the hero's face. The hero pushed him away and plunged the dagger into his eye socket. The clown finally fell silent and collapsed.
Nearby, Medusa fought three beasts simultaneously. The trident spun in her hands, its tips cutting through the air, but the beasts were too fast. One grabbed her leg, its fangs piercing her calf. Medusa screamed, and the trident pierced the beast's side, but it wouldn't let go. The second beast leaped onto her back, its claws digging into her shoulders. The third attacked from the front, aiming for her throat.
Medusa petrified it with a glare at the last moment. The statue collapsed and shattered. But the beast on the back continued to tear at the flesh with its claws, and the one clinging to the leg shook its head, trying to tear off a chunk of flesh. Blood flowed in streams, and Medusa turned pale before his eyes.
Dolor rushed to her aid. The sword cleaved the beast's back in half—the two halves fell in opposite directions, the entrails spilling onto the sand with a disgusting squelch. The second beast released Medusa's leg and lunged at Dolor. The huge warrior met him with a sword strike—the blade entered the open mouth, passed through the skull, and exited the other side. The beast jerked and froze.
But while Dolor was occupied, the acrobat fell on top of him. Razors instead of hands slashed across Dolor's back, cutting skin and muscle from neck to waist. Dolor growled in pain, spun, and swung his sword. The acrobat dodged and soared back onto the ropes. Yuki created illusions—three copies of herself surrounded a group of clowns. The real Yuki attacked from ambush, her katana glinting in the spotlights. She severed the head of one clown, slashed the throat of a second, and ripped open the stomach of a third. Her movements were graceful and deadly—a dance with the blade.
But there were too many clowns. One threw an axe—it whistled through the air and sank into Yuki's shoulder. The blade sliced through bone and lodged itself. Yuki screamed and dropped her katana. The clown ran up, wrenched the axe from her shoulder—flesh and blood sprayed—and swung again, aiming for her neck.
Yuki tried to dodge, but it was too late. The axe came down.
The blade entered the side of her neck, slicing through her spine. Yuki's head tilted at an unnatural angle, hanging by a flap of skin. Her body staggered, took a step, then another, then collapsed. Blood spurted from her severed neck, staining the sand dark red.
"YUKI!" the hero screamed and rushed toward her, but the acrobat fell on top of her, blocking his path. The razors cut quickly, almost invisibly. One slashed across the hero's chest, slicing through the skin. The second across his arm, slicing through the muscle. The third across his face, from temple to chin. Blood filled his eye, blinding the hero on one side.
He swung his dagger blindly. It hit. The blade entered the acrobat's stomach and ripped open his intestines. The acrobat yelped, flew back, and vanished into black smoke.
But Yuki was no longer moving. She lay in a pool of her own blood, her eyes open, empty and lifeless.
And then the Director finally moved.
He wasn't running, he wasn't in a hurry. He simply walked slowly, methodically, the hammer dragging behind him, leaving a deep furrow in the sand. The bells jingled in time with his steps—ding, ding, ding.
He approached Dolor. The enormous warrior was surrounded by four beasts and two clowns. He fought fiercely, his sword slashing and slashing, but the wounds piled up. His back was cut open by an acrobat. His leg was bitten by a beast. His side was ripped open by a clown's knife.
The director raised the hammer above his head.
Dolor saw it and tried to dodge, but the beasts grabbed his legs, holding him in place.
The hammer came down.
The blow was monstrous. The weight of the hammer crashed down on Dolor's head, and the hero heard a sound he would never forget—the crunch of a skull cracking like a nut under a hammer. Dolor's head exploded. Bones, brains, and blood flew in all directions. The body remained standing for a second, two, then collapsed, decapitated.
Medusa saw this and screamed. Not from pain, but from rage and grief. Her snakes hissed and stood on end. She turned to the Director, her eyes glowing with golden light.
Gaze.
The gorgon's petrifying gaze fell upon the Director with full force.
But he wasn't petrified.
The Director laughed. Low, booming, the sound echoed throughout the hall.
"DO YOU THINK YOUR CHEAP TRICKS WORK ON ME?"
He swung his hammer at Medusa. The hammer missed her, but a wave of invisible force erupted from the weapon. It struck Medusa and hurled her across the arena. Medusa flew twenty meters and crashed into a wall. Bones cracked, the body went limp and fell.
The hero was left alone.
Dozens of enemies surrounded him. Clowns, acrobats, beasts. All approaching, encircling the circle. And behind them—the Director, huge and unstoppable.
The hero was breathing heavily. Blood flowed from a dozen wounds. His body trembled with fatigue and pain. The dagger in his hand seemed so small, so useless against this army.
But he wasn't about to give up.
With a roar, the hero lunged. The dagger cut and stabbed. He killed a clown, then a second. The beast grabbed his arm—he tore it off, forcibly unclenching its teeth, and slit the creature's throat. The acrobat attacked from above—the hero threw the dagger and struck the acrobat in the chest. The acrobat fell dead.
But there were too many.
The clown stabbed him in the back. The blade entered between his shoulder blades and tore through his lung. The hero coughed up blood. The second clown slashed at his legs—the tendons were severed, his legs buckled. The hero fell to his knees.
The beast sank into his throat.
Fangs pierced the skin and sank into an artery. Hot blood gushed like a fountain, drenching his chest, arms, and sand. The world darkened, sounds became distant and muffled.
The last thing the hero saw was the Director standing above him. The hammer was raised for the final blow.
Strike.
His skull shattered. Brains sprayed. Darkness consumed everything.
Resurrection.
Three seconds passed.
The hero inhaled sharply, gasping for air. He lay on the arena sand. Nearby—Medusa, Yuki, Dolor. All alive. All whole. Their bodies restored, their wounds healed.
But the enemies still surrounded them. The Director stood in the center, the hammer resting on his shoulder. Bells jingled. "ATTEMPT NUMBER TWO! BEGIN!"
And it all happened again.
Attack. Fight. Death after death.
On the second attempt, Medusa was torn apart by the beasts. They latched onto her from all sides, tearing at her flesh with teeth and claws. She petrified them one after another, but the last one grabbed her throat and wouldn't let go until she died of blood loss.
Yuki was decapitated by a clown. An axe severed his head with a single blow. The head rolled across the arena and came to rest at the hero's feet. Its eyes still blinked, its mouth opened soundlessly, trying to utter its last words.
Dolor was crushed by the Director. The hammer fell on his chest, breaking his ribs, crushing his heart and lungs. Dolor's body was crushed under the weight of the blow, turning into a bloody mess.
The hero died of suffocation. One of the clowns' whips wrapped around his neck, choking him until his face turned blue, his eyes bloodshot, and his tongue lolled.
Resurrection.
Third attempt.
The acrobat cut the hero in half. Razors slashed across his stomach, ripping open his intestines. His entrails spilled onto the sand. The hero fell, clutching his leaking intestines, trying to force them back in. But the blood flowed too fast. He died looking at his own entrails.
Medusa was stabbed with three knives simultaneously. The clowns attacked from different sides—one knife in the back, one in the side, one in the chest. She fell, choking on blood.
Yuki's spine was broken. The beast leaped onto her back, bit her neck, and shook its head until her vertebrae cracked. She died paralyzed, unable to move, only her eyes blinking in terror.
Dolora's skull was crushed. The director struck him with a hammer from above. The skull cracked and shattered. Brains scattered across the sand.
Resurrection.
Attempt four, five, six.
They died again and again. Each death was different, each horrific.
The hero was eaten alive. The beasts started with his legs, tearing off chunks of flesh with their teeth, chewing them before his eyes. He screamed, watching them devour him until they reached his throat and it was all over.
Medusa was crucified. The clowns pinned her to the wall with knives—through her arms, legs, stomach. They left her to die slowly, bleeding out. It took long, agonizing minutes of agony.
Yuki was drowned in blood. The clowns dipped her head in a pool of blood on the sand, holding her until she stopped twitching. She choked on someone else's blood. Dolor's heart was torn out. The Director reached into his chest, grabbed the beating heart, and ripped it out. He held it in front of Dolor's face as he watched his own heart squeeze for the last time.
On the seventh try, the hero noticed an important detail.
The top hat on the Director's head. It was more than just decoration. Music was emanating from it—quiet but distinct, cutting through the roar of the battle and the screams of the audience. The same carousel tune that had been playing since they entered the circus. The source of all magic. The heart of this nightmare.
The hero was dying again—the beast was biting his throat, blood spurting—but in the last seconds before his death, he managed to scream:
—THE CYLINDER! ON HIS HEAD! DESTROY THE CYLINDER!
Darkness consumed his consciousness.
Resurrection.
Attempt eight.
They reappeared in the arena, surrounded by enemies. But now they had a target.
"I heard!" Yuki shouted, creating illusions around herself. Three copies materialized and surrounded the clowns, distracting them. "But how do we get to him?!"
The director stood in the center of the arena, surrounded by an army of his minions. Clowns, acrobats, and beasts formed a human shield between him and the group.
"We'll clear a path," Dolor raised his sword, his gaze determined. "Medusa, Yuki—attack from the flanks. The hero and I will cover the center."
They charged, moving as one. Dolor led the way, his sword cutting through enemies like grass. He bisected a clown, decapitated a second, and pierced a third. Blood sprayed everywhere, bodies fell one after another. Behind him, the hero finished off the wounded—his dagger stabbed and slashed, preventing the enemies from rising. Medusa hurled her trident. The weapon whistled through the air and pierced two acrobats simultaneously, pinning them to the wall. She summoned the trident back with magic, and it tore free of their bodies and returned to her hands.
Yuki moved like a ghost among the illusions. The real Yuki and the copies attacked simultaneously, leaving the enemies unsure who to strike. Her katana flashed, severing heads and ripping open bellies. One clown swung his axe at an illusion—passing through nothing—and at that moment, the real Yuki slashed at his throat from behind. Blood gushed, and the clown fell.
They fought their way through, meter by meter, leaving a trail of bodies in their wake. The Director watched their progress, motionless, his hammer resting on his shoulder. He seemed to be assessing them, deciding whether they were worthy of his attention.
When they were ten meters away, the Director finally moved. He raised his hammer and slammed it into the ground with monstrous force.
A wave of magical energy erupted in all directions. Sand rose in a cloud, and the hero and his group were thrown back like splinters in the wind. The hero flew five meters, crashed into a wall, his bones cracking from the impact. He fell to the sand, coughing up blood.
Medusa collapsed next to him, one arm twisted at an unnatural angle—broken. Yuki flew the furthest, hitting her head on the wooden stand of the bleachers. Blood flowed from her broken temple. Dolor remained on his feet, but barely—his sword thrust into the sand for support, he himself was on one knee, breathing heavily.
The director laughed. The sound was low and booming, filling the entire hall.
"DID YOU THINK IT WOULD BE THIS EASY? TO RUIN MY SHOW? MY PERFORMANCE?"
He stepped toward them, his hammer dragging along the sand. The bells rang—ding, ding, ding—counting down the last seconds of their lives.
"Yuki," the hero struggled to his feet, blood pouring from his mouth. "Distract him. Even for a few seconds."
"How?!" She wiped the blood from her face, her tails fluffing with the effort.
"An illusion. The largest you can create."
Yuki nodded. She closed her eyes and concentrated. Magical energy swirled around her, her tails glowing with a faint blue light.
A huge figure materialized before the Director. A demon—five times the size of the Director himself. Horned, winged, covered in black scales, with a mouth full of fangs the size of swords. The illusion roared, the sound echoing throughout the hall.
The Director stopped. He tilted his head, studying the demon with curiosity. "INTERESTING..."
The illusionary demon lunged, its man-sized claws slashing at the Director. They passed through—an illusion, of course—but the Director instinctively recoiled. He swung his hammer, shattering the air where the demon should have been.
"Now!" the hero shouted.
Medusa grabbed the trident with her left hand—her right, broken, hung uselessly. She aimed, pouring all the pain, all the rage from so many deaths, from the sight of her dying friends, into the throw.
The trident flew from her hand and whistled through the air with the sound of cleaving metal.
It hit.
The points pierced the cylinder on the Director's head. They passed right through, shattering it into pieces. The bones decorating the cylinder rained down onto the sand. The fabric tore. And light erupted from within.
A bright, blinding white light filled the entire hall. The music roared—the carousel melody sped up, distorted, the notes blending into a cacophony. The sound was so loud that the hero clutched his ears, but it was no use. It pierced his skull, vibrated through his bones.
The director roared. He didn't laugh—he roared. The sound was inhuman, full of rage and pain.
"NO! MY SHOW! MY PERFORMANCE! YOU CAN'T! YOU HAVE NO RIGHT!"
The clowns around the arena began to crumble. Their bodies blackened, cracked, and turned to dust. The laughter died mid-sentence, replaced by silence. The acrobats beneath the dome dissolved into black smoke, which dissipated into the air. The mutant beasts fell to pieces, flesh peeling from their bones, crumbling into dust.
In a matter of seconds, the Director's entire army vanished. Only he remained.
He fell to his knees, his enormous body shaking. His hands clutched his head, where the top hat had been. The hammer fell from his weakened fingers and fell to the sand. The bells tinkled one last time, then fell silent forever.
"Heh... heh-heh..." The Director laughed weakly, hoarsely, without its former strength. "The show... never... ends... Somewhere... in another circus... it will continue... You... didn't win... You only postponed... the finale..."
His body began to disintegrate. Flakes of skin fell away, revealing the emptiness within. Beneath the mask of blood, there was no face—only darkness. He was empty inside, just a shell created by the magic of the circus.
"See you... for an encore..." A final wheeze, and the Director collapsed forward. His body crumbled into black dust, which immediately dissipated.
The music stopped suddenly and abruptly—as if someone had pulled the needle from a record. Silence fell upon the hall, so complete that the hero could hear his heartbeat, his breathing, beads of sweat falling on the sand.
The lights began to fade. The spotlights turned off one by one, plunging the hall into darkness. The neon lights flickered one last time and went out.
The invisible audience vanished. No screams, no applause, no whispers. Only emptiness and silence.
The hero stood in the arena, swaying. His body was ravaged, though the wounds had faded since his last resurrection. But phantom pain pulsed in every cell, every nerve. He remembered every death—eight times he'd died in this damned circus. Eight times he'd felt life slip away, darkness engulfing his consciousness.
Next to him, Medusa fell to her knees, clutching her broken arm. The bone still jutted through her skin at an unnatural angle. She was breathing heavily, her face wet with sweat and tears.
Yuki lay on the sand, her tails spread out. Blood still flowed from her broken temple, mixing with the sand. She stared into the darkness of the dome, her eyes empty and detached.
Dolor stood, leaning on his sword. The enormous warrior, who had endured millennia of torment, looked... old. Tired. Shoulders slumped, head bowed.
The silence lasted for an eternity.
Then, at the far end of the hall, a door opened. Simple, wooden, unremarkable. Light shone through it—not bright, just the gray light of a corridor. But after the darkness of the circus, it seemed a blessing.
Exit.
"Let's go," the hero croaked, taking a step toward the door. His legs could barely hold him up; every step sent a pain through his bones.
Medusa rose, holding her broken arm with her healthy one. Yuki stood slowly, swayed, but managed to stay on her feet. Dolor yanked his sword from the sand and followed everyone else.
They wandered across the arena, leaving bloody footprints in the sand. Past the bodies of the clowns, crumbling to dust. Past the Director's shattered hammer. Past this entire nightmare.
Right at the exit, the hero stopped and turned around. He looked at the circus for the last time. The arena was empty. The stands were empty. The dome sagged overhead, the fabric was torn, the stripes faded. Everything looked dead, abandoned, as if the circus hadn't operated for hundreds of years.
On the sand, in the very center of the arena, lay a single clown nose. Red, rubbery, stained with blood. It was no longer smiling. It simply lay there, empty and lifeless.
The hero turned away and stepped through the door.
The corridor beyond was narrow, low, gray. The walls were ordinary stone, the floor cold underfoot. No circus, no music, no blood. Just a dungeon corridor, ordinary and safe.
The group walked a few meters and stopped. They simply stopped, unable to go any further.
Medusa was the first to collapse to the floor, her back against the wall. Her broken arm lay across her lap, the bone still protruding. She looked at it vacantly, as if she didn't realize it was her hand.
"I need to die," she said quietly, almost calmly. "So my hand can heal. I need to die."
"Not now," the hero sat down next to her and hugged her with his good arm. "Rest first. Later."
Yuki fell to the floor opposite her, her tails spreading around her like dead snakes. The blood from her temple had slowed, but still trickled. She closed her eyes and breathed heavily, raggedly.
"I can still hear them," she whispered. "The clowns. Their laughter. In my head. It doesn't stop."
"Me too," the hero admitted. "I think we all can hear it."
Dolor sat last, placing his sword beside him. His enormous hands rested on his knees, his head bowed. He was silent, as always, but the hero could see that even Dolor, the God of Suffering, was exhausted by this floor.
"How many times?" Medusa asked, staring into the void. "How many times did we die there?"
The hero tried to remember. The attempts merged into one another, deaths overlapping in a bloody mosaic of horror.
"Eight attempts," Dolor said quietly. "Eight deaths each. Thirty-two in total.
Thirty-two deaths. On one floor. Thirty-two times they felt life leave their bodies. Darkness consume their consciousness. The pain become unbearable, and then... nothing.
"I remember every one," Yuki whispered, tears streaming down her cheeks. "When he cut off my head... I saw it. I saw my headless body. I saw the blood gushing from my neck. A few seconds... before everything went dark. I remember."
Medusa covered her face with her hand, her shoulders shaking. She was crying. Quietly, restrainedly, but the tears poured through her fingers, leaving wet streaks on her dirty face.
The hero hugged her tighter. He pulled Yuki closer and hugged her too. Three broken beings, huddled together in the cold dungeon corridor, sought solace in the warmth of each other's bodies.
Dolor stood, came closer, and placed a heavy hand on the hero's shoulder. Silent support. They were a team. A family, almost. Connected by hundreds of deaths and resurrections, united by shared suffering.
They sat for so long. No one knew how long—minutes or hours. Time had no meaning in this place. Only this mattered—closeness, warmth, the knowledge that they were not alone in this hell.
Finally, the hero forced himself to stand. He helped Medusa and Yuki up, supporting them.
"Come on," he said wearily. "We need to find a place to rest. Real rest."
They moved slowly down the corridor. Each limped or walked with difficulty, but they moved forward. Always forward, because there was no other way.
The bloody carnival was left behind. Another floor climbed at the cost of incredible suffering. Thirty-two more deaths added to the countless others, to the enormous tally they kept in their memories.
But they survived.
And they continued to climb.
Up. Toward the unknown end of this endless dungeon.
Or to the beginning of something new.
The carousel's melody still echoed somewhere in the depths of their minds. Quiet, distorted, never stopping. A reminder of the circus, of the clowns, of the Director.
Of how the show never ends.
Somewhere, in another circus, on another floor, it would continue.
But not today.
Today they deserved a break.
Today they were alive.
And that was enough.