Unmade Chapter 7: Chapter 7: don't bullshit me

Read chapter 7 of Unmade by churro on NovelPedia.

Vale stood before the masked man. The swords pierced through his back rang with a faint, metallic chime every time they touched, filling the air with an unsettling atmosphere. The chained man raised his bone-like blade and pointed it directly at Vale, staring at him, or at least, staring where his eyes should have been behind the mask. A small smile tugged at the corner of Vale’s mouth as he realized exactly what kind of situation he’d stumbled into. 'So… I really can’t leave this dream just by dying, huh.' he thought, reaching down into the bloody sea to retrieve his blade once more. “Well, since I can’t die, I guess I’ll fight you to pass the time,” Vale said out loud. He grasped the bone-like sword with both hands, tightening his grip as he stepped forward toward the chained man, toward the enemy before him. The chained man rushed forward as well, and in the blink of an eye their blades collided. The clash echoed like thunder through the silent world. -unknown POV In a vast sea of blood, far beyond the reach of any known realm, a man hung suspended by countless chains. Blades jutted from his back like jagged wings, each movement sending fresh ripples across the crimson expanse beneath him. Though he dangled in the sky as if crucified, he did not struggle. He had long since exhausted the meaning of struggle. An obsidian mask clung to his face it was smooth, cold, and carved with the expression of a past he no longer wished to claim. Above him hovered five suns composed not of light, but of pure darkness. They circled him with deliberate slowness, silent sentinels whose only purpose was to keep him bound within this unfathomable abyss. The sea below was his blood, an ocean born from wounds that refused to close. His lifeblood dripped endlessly, turning the void into a landscape of red without horizon or mercy. At the distant edge of that ocean rose mountains of obsidian. From where he hung, they seemed almost small, no larger than ordinary peaks. But this was an illusion. Each mountain towered thousand's of kilometers high, monolithic guardians carved from darkness itself. They weren’t built to keep the chained man trapped. They were built to keep something else out. “Are you going to keep narrating my prison,” the man growled, “or are you finally going to tell me what you want me to do?” Though his mask concealed his expression, his tone carried the weight of eternity, impatience forged by endless suffering. He wasn’t looking in any direction, not truly. It didn’t matter where his eyes turned; he knew that no matter where he looked, he would see me. “Very well,” He said. “If you’re so eager, I’ll come to you. I don’t need my powers to reach you anyway.” He did not move. Instead, the world around him shifted. The blood ocean, the chains, the dark suns, the mountains, all of it evaporated like a breath on glass. In their place bloomed an endless white void. His wounds remained. His blood still leaked. He entered this realm exactly as he had been moments before, as if his suffering refused to be left behind. But here, he no longer had to strain to move. In this place, the laws of existence bent around him, not the other way around. His torn black armor, tangled hair, and obsidian mask were the only shadows in the boundless whiteness. His blood became the sole color, vivid and violent against the void. Only two beings could enter this realm freely. Only two had ever existed here. For this place lay beyond creation, beyond destruction, and beyond the comprehension of anything that could be called ‘alive.’ But the man standing before me was anything but ordinary. He was Kealix von Eskarion, the second mistake of reality, and my most cherished creation. An anchor so absolute that his mere existence kept an entire reality from collapsing. “Don’t bullshit me,” he rasped. “I’m standing right in front of you, Writer. Now tell me, what do you want me to do?” His voice was ruined, hoarse from agony, cracked from eternity, heavy with a we