Chapter 281 No Rest For The Wicked

As he raised his hand above his view, he could see the small cuts left from the rodent humanoid earlier still present on his fingers.

This wasn't the usual way things had gone, at least in recent times.

My Undying Blood...It's not working, he thought, Is it suppressed down here like my magic and system? Is it gone? Is this not my normal body? I still don't know anything. I need answers–and now.

Finally deciding to get back up, he found himself in a peculiar room, kept barely illuminated by a single candlestick on the ground, harboring a flickering, orange flame and a note beside it.

A note? He noticed.

The metallic flooring wasn't present in the roomy chamber, instead replaced by grimy, cracked stone that was left with lifeless overgrowth of a black shade.

As he knelt down by the note left in the center of the room, he found three other objects beside it: a rusty dagger, a flimsy bow, and a quiver holding a dozen arrows.

Weapons...? I don't like the implications here, he thought.

Finally picking up the note, he read the straightforward note left for him: "Kill or be killed, Dragonheart. Best of luck."

For a moment, he was left still while knelt, taken aback by the specific usage of his surname by the unknown author of the note.

"...'Kill or be killed'?" He repeated to himself, reading off the ominous note.

While in a sense it was vague, it also couldn't be much clearer than that for the young man: he knew what it meant–a fight was coming.

Though what struck him as odd were the tools to accomplish a victory in battle supplied to him: a dagger and bow. These two weapons were ones he had zero experience with, and without the assistance of magic, felt like a tall order to successfully use in battle without any training.

"Guess I'll have to make do with this," he said to himself.Fôll0w current novÊls on n/o/(v)/3l/b((in).(co/m)

Keeping the dagger and bow close to himself, he kept the quiver slung on his back before looking around the room for any potential "enemy" coming. It was a completely closed off chamber, about as large as a colosseum with multiple, differing size pillars of metal throughout its space.

There was no way out from what he could see, as the chute's exit was too high, but there were barred off exits on the sides of the chamber.

"...Come on already," he mumbled.

What made it especially frustrating for the young Dragonheart, grating his knowledgeable soul like steel wool against his pride, was the fact he knew that with his spells, he'd be able to trump such a room.

Yet, there was no benefit to dwelling on such information as he dropped down, sitting against the wall as he kept the bow resting by his side and the rusty dagger held in his right hand.

I'll just have to sit here and wait it out then...I can do that, right? He thought.

Sitting there in the mysterious temple, within the unknown realm, in concealed circumstances, he found a thousand questions swirling in his mind as he looked down at his own two hands.

I died. I'm pretty sure of that much at least, he thought, still...I don't feel dead. I feel out of place in this realm–that's the feeling I'm going to hold onto.

Hours passed by as he sat there in stagnation, awaiting the note's warning, but alas, nothing had yet to come. Those hours soon crawled into a countless amount of time, imperceivable without the concept of night and day to guide him–perhaps only a few more hours had traversed his existence, or perhaps an entire day had leapt.

It was impossible to know, however, what he did know is that he was becoming maddened by the boredom: there was nothing to inspect in the minimalistic chamber, nothing to do, and nothing to occupy himself with besides the countless theories he had of his own circumstances in the mysterious realm.

Somehow, despite being so on edge, he managed to nod off against his better judgment, slipping into a state of unconsciousness.

A buzzing met his ears, like a fly circling his head, growing close to his ears, becoming blaring at some point.

What...is this? He questioned.

It was nothing like normal slumber; he found himself entrenched in a thick darkness, as if trapped in a swamp of accursed waters, clung onto by leaves that gripped onto him like hands. Suffocating it was; air was replaced by smoke, filling his lungs as he struggled, having to choose to drown in the abyssal waters or choke on the void of smoke.

Yet, spending what felt like torturous hours in this nightmarish space, constantly flailing his limbs as disembodied hands reached from the dark lakes to pull him down, he didn't die.

It was a constant state of "dying"; there wasn't a second where he could properly breath, constantly hyperventilating for hours on end.

Eventually, he woke up–

"Huuuu–!"

He startled awake, covered in sweat as he immediately sucked a deep breath into his lungs, having to calm himself after realizing it truly was a dream.

His lungs burned, as if he truly had been straining them during the duration of his sleep, having to take calming breaths as he realized his hands were quivering.

What was that...? It was terrible, he questioned.

A bitter cold was left on his body in the aftermath of the horrid dream, forcing him to forgo sleep as he sat there, gathering himself as he attempted to place those experiences in the back of his mind.