Warlock of War: My Ares System

Chapter 539 Breaking

The sense of touch was equally overwhelming. The cold, unyielding floor beneath me felt like a bed of scalding coals, and the rough texture of the stone was excruciatingly sharp. The fabric of my clothes against my skin was a torment, and I could feel every fiber digging into my flesh.

As for smell and taste, they bombarded me with a rush of odors and flavors I had long forgotten. The musty, damp air was cloying and oppressive, and I could taste the staleness of the dungeon in the back of my throat. Every breath was a struggle, every inhalation choking my senses.

The relentless onslaught of sensory input was an unbearable assault on my fragile, reawakening mind. I felt like I was being torn apart from the inside, and my consciousness teetered on the brink of collapse. I cried out in agony, a guttural, primal scream that was barely recognizable as my own voice.

Somebody help me…

Creeeeeeeeeek

As I struggled to regain my composure in the midst of the overwhelming sensory onslaught, I suddenly became aware of a chilling presence in the dungeon. The dim torchlight played eerie tricks on the shadows as a man dressed in a dark red apron and a bone-white demon mask emerged from the darkness. His slow, deliberate steps echoed ominously on the cold, damp stone floor.

The red apron hung like a shroud, its dark fabric hinting at a gruesome purpose. It was stained in places, and I couldn't help but wonder if those stains were the marks of past torments inflicted on hapless prisoners. The figure's silhouette was eerie, and his masked visage was an unsettling contrast against the dimly lit, gloomy surroundings.

The demon mask he wore sent shivers down my spine. It was a grotesque, bone-white visage with hollow eye sockets and a twisted, malevolent grin that seemed to mock the suffering of those in its presence. The mask exuded an aura of dread, its hollow eyes seeming to bore into my very soul.

The man moved with a deliberate, unnatural grace, and his approach was accompanied by a silence that was in stark contrast to the cacophony of sensations that had overwhelmed me just moments ago. As he drew closer to my cell, I felt an inexplicable sense of foreboding, a gut-wrenching dread that this sinister figure held dominion over my fate in this dreadful place.

I was unable to move, to react, or to make sense of what was happening. The world around me had shifted from the void of sensory deprivation to a realm of torment and terror. The man in the red apron and demon mask represented an unknown malevolence, and I could only pray that whatever awaited me at his hands would not plunge me deeper into this waking nightmare.

"You're the first to not faint from the sudden overload… I applaud you," The man clearly grinned from beneath his mask. I couldn't see it, but I could sense it. Feel it. Smell it. Hear it. Taste it. 

Every word that escaped his lips was laced with a chilling detachment, devoid of any human warmth or empathy. It had a disconcerting, otherworldly quality that made it seem as though it didn't belong in the realm of the living. His tone was cold and emotionless, an unsettling contrast to the fear and desperation that consumed me.

The words he spoke were cryptic, veiled in a shroud of secrecy that only added to the sense of impending doom. Each syllable seemed to hang in the air like an unshakeable curse, and I could do nothing but listen, trapped in the cage of my own fear as his voice echoed through the dungeon cell.

It was a voice that could haunt nightmares, a voice that seemed to transcend the boundaries of the mortal world, and it left me with an indelible sense that I was in the presence of something far darker and more malevolent than anything I had ever encountered.

"But can you still keep your mind intact with this next event?" 

As he uttered his final words, the atmosphere in the cell grew even more oppressive, and the very air seemed to thicken with malevolence. With a sudden, unnatural flourish of his right hand, he conjured a black machete out of thin air.

The blade appeared as though it had materialized from the very darkness that surrounded us. It was long and wickedly sharp, gleaming with an ominous luster, a stark contrast to the gloom of the dungeon. The handle was adorned with strange, otherworldly markings, etched in a sinister, glowing crimson.

The black machete seemed to pulse with a dark energy, as if it held the power to rend the fabric of reality itself. It was a weapon of nightmares, and as it materialized, a sense of foreboding filled the cell. I was left in a state of paralyzed terror, unable to tear my gaze away from the malevolent weapon that had suddenly come into existence.

But in his other hand, the left one, he held a source of stark contrast: a small, radiant red light. It emanated a soft, warm glow that seemed to defy the cold, oppressive darkness of the dungeon.

The crimson light was like a beacon of comfort, a soothing oasis amidst the chaos. Its gentle illumination painted the cell in a delicate, flickering hue of red, casting strange, dancing shadows on the damp stone walls. The foreign sense of warmth and reassurance it brought was unlike anything I had felt since my descent into this wretched place.

As the masked figure held the red light aloft, it bathed the surroundings in an almost ethereal radiance. The stark juxtaposition of this comforting glow against the malevolence of the black machete and the sinister mask created an eerie tableau that sent shivers down my spine.

I couldn't help but be drawn to the warm light as if it held the promise of salvation in this abyss of torment. It was a paradox, an enigmatic symbol of hope in the midst of despair, and my heart yearned for its comforting embrace even as I remained trapped in the clutches of the unknown horrors that loomed before me. 

And then it started. I don't know how long it lasted because I think my mind broke by the time my right arm was chopped off for the seventh time. Yes, for the seventh time. The reason for this strange phenomenon is that the red light that brought me comfort was a form of dark magic. 

Unlike regular healing magic which soothes you as it attempts to regrow whatever you lost, sometimes hurting just a bit, but not to an unbearable degree… this healing magic. No, this form of demonic magic instantly regrew whatever you were missing at the cost of so much pain that it was the only thing you could feel. And due to my sudden reimbursement of senses, that feeling was doubled- no, tripled to a threatening degree. 

…

I'm lost. I'm not sure where I am or who I am anymore. It's as if my mind has been shattered into a million fragmented pieces, and I can't seem to make sense of anything around me.

The dungeon cell, the masked figure, the black machete, and the warm red light—all of it swirls together in a chaotic jumble of images and sensations. There's no order, no logic. It's like a nightmare from which I can't wake up.

My own body feels distant and unfamiliar, as though I'm floating in a hazy, disjointed dream. I can't tell if I'm breathing or if my heart is still beating. My limbs feel heavy and unresponsive as if they belong to someone else. There's an eerie sensation that I'm observing all of this from outside my own body, an eerie disconnection that deepens my confusion.

Time has lost all meaning. The seconds, minutes, and hours blend together into an indistinguishable mass. I can't tell if I've been here for moments or an eternity. It's all a ceaseless, disorienting blur, and my attempts to discern any semblance of chronology are futile.

The voices—those of the masked figure, my fellow prisoners, and the distant echoes—merge into an unintelligible cacophony. I can hear them, but their words are gibberish. They hold no meaning, no connection to reality. It's as if they speak in a language I've never heard before, and my attempts to grasp their significance only result in more confusion.

The fear that once gripped me has been replaced by a numbing emptiness. I'm adrift in a sea of confusion, unable to grasp onto a single thought or emotion. My memories, if I ever had any, are a foggy mirage. It's as if the past has been erased, leaving me suspended in an eternal present that holds no context.

I can't comprehend what's happening. I can't remember who I was or what led me to this nightmarish place. All that remains is a profound and unending sense of disconnection and chaos. The world is a bewildering puzzle, and my mind is incapable of assembling its shattered pieces. I've become a specter in my own existence, trapped in a relentless, unforgiving darkness from which there seems to be no escape.

And then, out of the blue, a voice pierced through my haze of nightmares. "Subject-1009 has been shattered. He had potential, but after the second phase his mind completely broke… toss him in the jar. He might be of use to us if he survives in there."