Chapter 5 : Moonlight and Blood
Pain was the first thing he remembered. Not a scream or a cry—just the raw, iron-hot pulse of pain beating through his side like a war drum.
The scent of blood—his and something far fouler—hung heavy in the air.
He stirred.
A wet cough burst from his throat, and his hand instinctively shot to his side. Sticky. Warm. Blood. Still wet.
> MINOR REGENERATION ACQUIRED
The system window hovered beside him like a ghost. His wounds were still open, but the bleeding had slowed, if only just. The pulsing ache in his abdomen screamed that he wasn’t out of danger.
He blinked through the sweat dripping into his eyes and reached into his backpack. His fingers closed around plastic—he yanked a water bottle free and drained it in one breath. It did nothing for the metallic taste in his mouth.
All that was left inside was the scarf.
The old scarf his grandmother had knitted.
His bloodied hands trembled as he pulled it out.
His fingers fumbled with the old scarf, the one grandma had knitted back when life was simpler—when monsters were only the ones in storybooks.
He looked at it, guilt twisting his gut even more than the bleeding did.
“Sorry, gran,” he mumbled. Then, with no better option, he wrapped it around his stomach. Sloppy. Loose. Useless, almost.
But it clutched it and felt the pain subside for but a few moments.
Blood soaked through it in seconds. Still, he pulled it tight and stood—on shaking legs, teeth clenched.
The cuts on his arms weren’t deep, but they stung like hell. He needed to move. The thing he killed might have been a scout. Which meant more could come.
He crept toward the beast—toward the one place he’d avoided since the fight began.
Its maw.
He grit his teeth and reached into the creature’s gaping mouth. Hot, foul blood dripped between his fingers. Its insides were sticky, viscous, like old syrup mixed with rot. He gagged, but didn’t stop.
squelch.
The blade slid free.
A gush of dark, tar-like blood sprayed out, catching him in the face and chest. It smelled like meat left to rot in the sun.
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Disgusting. But necessary.
He shoved the blade into his belt and leaned against the nearest wall, chest heaving.
It had been hours.
He was that late. His aunt could be… No. He didn’t want to think about that.
He limped out of the warehouse. A few blocks in, the pain flared. The scarf had loosened. A sharp throb lanced through his side. He staggered.
Then fell.
He collapsed onto the cracked pavement, panting. The world spun. Fresh blood soaked his shirt. Again.
"Is this it?” he whispered, the cracked pavement cold against his cheek. Can't... can't even stand. How am I supposed to save her?"
He clenched the concrete, dragging himself up the nearest wall. His palms left smears of red.
Groaning, he pushed forward.
Then he heard it.
Clunk. Clunk.
Boots. Heavy. Metallic.
Close.
Conner’s heart stopped. He ducked behind a wall, panting through his teeth. If it turned the corner, it would see him.
Clunk. Clunk.
The sound of a single knight. Alone. But terrifying.
Conner drew his blade and held his breath. His hands were shaking.
He peeked.
Full plate. Polished. Clean. Not a speck of grime or blood. The armor shimmered under the moonlight like something sacred. Its helm was sleek, angular—inhuman. And its sword? It gleamed. Still sharp. Still hungry.
He ducked back.
This one wasn’t like the rest. It didn’t move like a corpse.
It moved like a *man*.
Huff. Huff.
Conner tightened his grip on the blade. Every instinct screamed to run, but there was nowhere to go. The knight was almost there.
He counted the steps.
Clunk.
He was at the corner.
Clunk.
One more step and—
THUNK!
Conner lunged. A blur of steel. His blade plunged straight through the knight’s helm, into the face beneath.
His blade surged forward in a desperate burst, punching through the visor slit with a sickening crksh!
The steel split bone. Warm blood jetted out, splashing his face
A spurt of crimson.
Blood trickled down his face.
Some of it—his.
Some of it—not.
He tasted it.
It was sweet.
But not right. Not like fruit or sugar.
Like syrup brewed over rot.
Like honey fermented in a corpse.
Something trying to trick his body into liking it.
The knight dropped.
So did Conner.
Pain flared white in his gut. The wound had torn again. His vision blurred.
He gasped, clutching his side, but the knight wasn’t done.
Klunk… klunk…
The armor still moved.
He turned to see it—hands twitching, reaching.
Trying to pull the blade free.
The knight didn’t scream.
It choked.
A rasp of breath and—
CRACK.
The body folded like meat around steel.
One final twitch.
And it was still.
And the all of a sudden. Nothing..
> DING!
> TARGET SLAIN: KNIGHT CAPTAIN ×1
> POINTS GAINED: 35
“Goddammit,” Conner spat.
Everything hurt.
He crawled toward a shattered building—glass all around, a hollow lobby open to the night. He stumbled inside, stepping over shards.
He planted his blade into the ground like a crutch and dragged himself upright.
But the screen was still there.
Glowing.
It hadn’t disappeared like usual.
And something… *wrong* filled the air.
A pressure.
Not heat. Not cold.
Just *presence*.
The kind that makes your skin crawl and your lungs tighten.
He turned toward it.
> OBSERVERS ACTIVE: 1
> [YIGGVAATH] — GOD OF LUNACY AND SUFFERING
Conner stared in disbelief. The name resonated with a sudden, icy dread that clenched his heart. Yiggvaath?
An inexplicable chill rushed down his spine
A pressure, like feeling someone's gaze on your neck..
Suddenly, He wasn't alone.
