He flipped himself back just as the blade passed by his head, only landing with a slight wobble as he felt the strength in his legs fading. It was a peculiar feeling; like nausea, only intensified and more unpredictable.
'It's something with his ability–it has to be. I can't focus, my mind is foggy and my body won't work properly–it's not normal,'
he deduced.
However, it hardly seemed to be the case for the pale-haired predator, who happily engaged with the nameless killer.
"You're not very talkative, are you?" Crow asked as swept his cleaver for the man's abdomen, though missed by a margin.
There was no response as the imposing figure immediately retaliated, stepping in close.
Crow morphed his body into a slender, slithering form, slipping by the brutal stabs and slashes from the sinister man.
["
Serpent Shift
"]
As though becoming almost like a liquid, devoid of a skeleton, Crow compressed his own body, slipping between the man's legs before bulking up. It wasn't just back to his usual physique, but beyond it as his body became engulfed in dark-brown fur, presenting curved horns at his head:
["
Minotaur + Orc Shift
"]
'Full strength—!'
Crow excitedly thought.
With a hand threefold as large and a bicep even more overwhelming, he swung his cleaver towards the nameless man's back—
Squelch
.
"Ah—?" Crow let out with a blank stare.
The cleaver only hit the air, in turn finding that the only one suffering wounds was Crow himself. Like bullets punching through the hunter's skin, multiple stabbings appeared across his body.
It was a worrying sight for Finn, seeing the only ally he could rely on in this moment so easily outmatched. None of it was flashy; the killing prowess of the nameless man was something in a different realm entirely–quickness, precision, aggression, violence–all perfectly honed.
Finn watched Crow drop to his knees as the dozen knife wounds spurted blood out, deciding to take action himself.
"Hey!--" He shouted out, seeing the man without an identity for a split-second.
Attempting to take the focus back onto himself proved to be a mistake as he found the knife-wielding sin dashing through the dim room, arriving right in front of him before he could do anything. That anxiousness; the nausea–all of it wore down his reflexes and ability to act so much that he barely managed to raise his own weapon before–
squelch
.
'I...'
Coming to that conclusion only made his heart thump as his blood felt as though it vibrated in his body. It was a concerning realization, one that made him question if he had begun dreaming, hoping it was that.
He pulled up his shirt, checking his stomach to attempt to certify what was real or not–
"Ah."
Across his stomach, a visceral scar revealed itself to him along with another pair of smaller scars. Seeing those emblems of past wounds resurfaced the last memories he remembered; the unsettling encounter with the nameless killer.
Down to the smell of rusted steel in that room to the sensation of having his gut torn open, he remembered it clearly–after all, it wasn't something forgotten so easily.
'Did I die? Is this Hell? For some reason, I'm not all that scared–it's just...empty,'
he thought, looking around the black desert.
He began to wander aimlessly, trudging through the dark sand as the wailing wind brushed past him. There was no correct direction to walk, it seemed. All of it seemed exactly the same, without aim, without purpose.
The temperature was humid, with the passing winds hot enough to coax a sweat. It was uncomfortable to breathe, as the air was thin and grainy. He hiked for what he could only imagine was an hour, finding himself ascending a mound of sand, reaching the top–
"Not even close, huh?" He mumbled to himself as he caught his breath.
Ahead, as far as the eye could see, the lonely desert continued on without any seeming end. The only thing he could do was continue moving one foot in front of the other, hoping it'd lead him somewhere.
Hours, perhaps a few, maybe a dozen; he moved forward through the aimless wasteland. It was all the same, every step of the way; the same, coal grains that shifted beneath his boot, the cries of agony hidden in the wind, the void looking down at him.
At a certain point, seeing the exact same, unchanging scenery after hours of hiking, he began to question it.
'Am I making any progress? Is it a loop? I can't tell,'
he thought.
After enough hiking without making any seeming progress, he came to a stop as he regained his breath. It was tiring, though not from the walking itself, but the humid wind.
"What the hell is up with this place? There's nothing here—it's just...sand," he questioned as he continued his monotonous march.
After enough dragging his feet for what could only be hours more, he tripped when descending a slope of sand.
"Nn...!"
Face-first into the downward hill, he slid down without much grace. It was another little act just to rub dirt in the wound.
The grains tasted painfully putrid, like a torment to his taste buds of spoiled meat and charcoal. He spat the sand out of his mouth, gagging as he did so.
"Nnng..." He groaned as he picked himself up, coughing out whatever pieces of sand made it past his mouth.
Straightening himself out, the groaning continued, though not from his mouth. After countless hours in the empty, vast desert, something finally sticking out to him made him alert.
"Hello—?" Finn called out, looking around.
Piles of sand to the west, more to the east, north—something stuck out. A person was sitting crisscrossed on the sand, swaying somewhat as they looked aimlessly into the distance.
It looked to be a man of a lifeless complexion with unkempt, burgundy hair.
"Hey? Hey!" Finn called out, scrambling over to the first sign of another person.
There was a delayed reaction to his words, as though there was no hurry from the individual in acknowledging he was there.
"Oh...? A fresh soul," the stranger remarked with a hoarse voice. "What foul machinations did you perform in your life to end up here, I wonder?"