Unmade Chapter 10: Chapter 10: A red stain

Read chapter 10 of Unmade by churro on NovelPedia.

It was a grim day. if one could even call it a day. Time did not exist within this realm, at least not in any way it was meant to. The pale sky never dimmed, the black suns never shifted in their frozen orbits, and the endless ocean of blood lay still, unmoving, except when its master allowed it. Only the faint ripples born of battle disturbed the surface now, spreading like dying echoes through the crimson sea. At the center of it all, two figures clashed. One was a boy, no older than seventeen, fighting desperately, hopelessly, to land a single meaningful strike. His opponent was a man impaled by countless weapons, their broken blades jutting from his flesh like thorns. His armor hung in tatters, and in the center of his chest gaped a hollow void where his heart should have been. a heart long since torn from his body and used to forge the very weapon the boy now wielded. And yet, despite the grotesque state of his body, the chained man fought as if untouched by pain. He overpowered the boy with terrifying ease, their “battles” ending in mere seconds before beginning anew. For this was a loop without end. a cycle of death and rebirth, broken only by victory. Vale lunged forward, his movements fueled by desperation rather than strength. The chained man moved to meet him he was fluid, precise and inevitable. Their blades met for an instant that stretched into eternity. Then it was over. The man’s sword pierced straight through Vale’s chest, its tip bursting from his back, dripping with fresh blood. The boy gasped, crimson spilling from his mouth as he stared down at the blade impaled within him. Then, slowly, he lifted his gaze to the man before him. He could not see his face, only the obsidian mask that concealed it. Upon its surface glowed a single golden eye, radiant and cold like a false sun. Vale’s breathing grew shallow. His fingers twitched against the hilt of his sword. A faint, almost playful smile tugged at his lips. “Almost… gotcha,” he managed to whisper. Then his legs gave out. He fell to his knees, blood cascading from his wound and mouth alike. His body slumped forward, still and lifeless once more. But peace, even in death, was a luxury this realm refused to grant him. The blood that had spilled from his body began to flow backward, defying gravity, obeying some cruel rule of this place. His flesh knitted itself together. Breath returned to his lungs. Within moments, the boy’s eyes opened once again, pale, unblinking and unyielding. Vale exhaled softly. “I died again, huh?” he muttered to himself, pushing his hand against the surface of the blood to rise. The liquid rippled beneath his touch as he stood, soaked and trembling but not broken. He reached down, retrieving the sword forged from his enemy’s heart. The weapon pulsed faintly in his grip, as if mocking his weakness. “Well,” Vale said with a small, determined grin, “each time I die, I get one step closer to beating you… even if it doesn’t seem that way.” The chained man said nothing. He tilted his head slightly, a silent acknowledgment. Vale chuckled dryly, though exhaustion weighed heavy on his voice. “What’s the longest I’ve lasted in these fifty attempts?” he asked, almost to himself. “Ten seconds, right?” The man gave a small shrug, neither confirming nor denying. And so, without another word, Vale lifted his blade once more, stepping forward into the blood that mirrored the sky. The next battle began. The fifty-first death awaited. “Tels og aniga,” the man said beneath his black mask, lifting his long, bone-like blade and pointing it toward Vale. “Took the words right out of my mouth,” Vale replied, shifting into a combat stance. He didn’t actually understand the pale man’s language, but the intent behind his movements was clear enough. Even without words, their bodies spoke, a language of battle and instinct. In the blink of an eye, they moved. Vale lunged forward with reckless speed, driving his sword in a heavy thrust aimed straight for the man’s