Cyn regained consciousness, only to find himself swallowed by pitch-black darkness—a place utterly unlike the space he had been in before.
For a mont, he thought he had returned to that Space, that he would see his reflection cast upon a glass-like surface beneath twin skies.
But then, light was cast upon him.
A lamp illuminated the entire place—yet its light was strange, fractured, riddled with countless fissures.
Cyn tried to move, but the ground felt like mire.
When he looked toward the crimson glow pouring down from the distant source above him, he froze.
It was not a lamp.
It was a moon.
A bloody moon.
Not just any blood moon—faint rays leaked from it, rays unlike the warmth of sunlight. They were chaotic, as though they wished to tear him apart. They had no pattern, no order—wild, uncontrolled. And yet, they fed him energy, elevating his vitality, filling him with strength.
What truly shocked him, however, was the sound echoing across the horizon.
The bloody moon was bleeding.
It was hard to discern the color of that blood—but it was black. And judging by the mire he was wading through, Cyn knew exactly what it was.
A blood swamp—unmistakably so.
The scene resembled a painting: a fusion of Gothic beauty, surreal dark strangeness, and the philosophical gloom of macabre art.
Cyn crouched and touched the blood with his hand. It was not deep—thick, sticky, coagulated, pitch-black.
For the first ti, his senses fully awakened.
Then realization struck.
The stench was unbearable.
So vile that one would rather live among rotting corpses—and feed on them—than endure it. A sll that made your heart feel as though it might stop and burst out of your chest, your guts twisting violently in revolt.
Cyn realized this and tried to breathe only through his mouth.
It was useless.
The stench still found its way into his nose.
As if that were not enough, he slipped.
He fell.
Straight into the blood swamp.
Sothing inside him recoiled violently—he hated this place. Hated it with every fiber of his being. He wanted out.
"Damn it! Where am I again?! This Scar will—"
His voice ca out hoarse. His body was completely drenched in blood, reeking with the sa stench as the place itself. What were these places the Scar kept dragging him into?
He tried to call out to it.
No response.
Instead, a faint sound shook his ears.
It was not the Scar.
It was emptiness.
A starving void—echoing through nothingness, panting as if searching for a pulse to steal, just to feel alive.
"You are the one who keeps bringing yourself here. This is the price of your desire to abandon your humanity. Dealing with things like this... accept them. Beco one with them."
A wave of dizziness struck Cyn. He clutched his head, feeling as though his soul were being torn from his body—sothing was trying to steal his life.
He covered his ears.
It was pointless.
The voice echoed inside him.
He was not alone.
Hours passed—or days—or re seconds. Cyn could no longer perceive ti at all. Blood flowed around him as he lay atop it, drifting as if riding a wave upon a vast sea.
The difference was that this sea appeared utterly still to the naked eye.
Yet Cyn knew—it was moving.
"Accept it? How am I supposed to accept this place? Do I have to drink the blood? I’ve been swimming in this ocean of blood for so long! I’m already accepting it! I breathe its stench, I observe it closely—what more do I have to do?!"
The voice returned, shattering his balance, dragging him beneath the blood once more, suffocating him, tearing him away from his soul.
"Think. You must think carefully. Return to the depths of your mory. Think of sothing identical—your true nature. Sothing harsher than this. You will find the aning there."
Cyn sank.
Blood seeped into him, staining him from within. Suffering. Thoughts. mories.
He resurfaced, staring at the bloody moon and the waterfall of blood pouring from it. It seed impossibly distant—unreachable. The center of that crimson basin lay far beyond him.
His eyes were empty of light, as though the place itself was devouring them.
This was a terrifying place—one that preyed on the psyche, capable of paralyzing you, inducing irreversible trauma. To lose yourself here, without a path back... even if you returned to the real world, your mind would never be whole again.
This place was created to make humanity atone for its sins.
Created to terrify them.
Created so that no one could ever accept it.
So how was Cyn supposed to accept it?
mories?
Think of sothing.
An event.
As Cyn floated, a sense of familiarity crept over him.
His mory did not fail him—even in his unstable state.
He sank deeper.
And deeper.
Then he realized it.
He had been here before.
Without realizing it, he plunged into the blood again—and this ti, his subconscious rembered.
Instead of a desolate realm...
A white room.
A swimming pool dripping with blood.
Everything snapped back into place.
Cyn burst from the blood swamp, gasping violently.
"Ghh... hah... hff... hff... What was that—hff... damn it... I rember now... but—"
Sothing cut him off.
A voice he knew all too well.
The Scar.
As if urgently explaining what he must do.
"Quickly! The blood! Use your Scar—heal it! Return it to where it belongs—!"
Cyn realized it instantly.
He looked up at the moon.
"Damn it... what is that? Were those cracks always that large?!"
Then—
"Wait... what is that?!"
In a mont of clarity, everything collapsed.
Chaos overtook the realm—nothing followed a plan, nothing adhered to any pattern. Unrestrained. Lawless.
Cyn looked down at his chest—at the crimson Scar, resting where it always had been.
Then he looked back up.
Black shapes.
The cracks.
They ford a pattern.
Sothing identical to what lay on his chest.
His Scar was reflected upon the bloody moon—etched by those black fissures.
The Scar’s voice scread in his head.
"What are you waiting for?! Do it!"
Cyn snapped back to reality. He focused.
He knew what he had to do.
The cracks. The blood. The inverted Scar.
All of it was a reflection of himself.
He had to stop the moon’s bleeding.
As he acted, sothing grabbed him from below.
The surrounding blood clung to him, grasping from every direction.
He tried to stop the bleeding—
But sothing strange happened.
The black blood was drawn toward his chest.
Toward his Scar.
It began absorbing it.
The pain was indescribable.
His screams echoed endlessly.
"ARRGH! ARRRGHHH—AAAGH! DAMN IT! STOP! I ORDER YOU—STOOOOP!"
Sothing forced its way into his body against his will.
Agony without depth.
Consequences without end.
Yet he gritted his teeth and used his Scar to halt the bleeding.
He stared at the cracks on the bloody moon.
At the reflection of his Scar.
They began to fade—until they were gone.
Silence followed.
The waterfall of blood slowed... then stopped.
The bleeding ceased.
But the swamp did not.
All the blood crawled toward him, climbing his body like rcury. His Scar devoured it, sealing it within itself—as nourishnt. As reserves.
Cyn tried to stop it.
It was futile.
The blood wrapped around him from every side, spinning, enclosing him—like an insect trapped in a cocoon of blood, awaiting rebirth.
He lost consciousness.
One final detail escaped him.
A detail enough to make your skin crawl.
A sorrowful smile slowly ford upon the bloody moon—drawn in black ink.
A slanted line curving downward, like a grieving grin.
Two hollow black dots for eyes.
And a single black tear falling from the left eye, rging with the smile.
It was like a horror film scene—where a smile is drawn on a mirror in the dead of night.
Only this ti, the mirror was the bloody moon.
And the black ink was blood, replacing mist.
Silence reigned once more.
A silence destined to shatter—sooner or later.
—
Elsewhere.
When Cyn finally awoke, he was in a state no one would envy.
His entire body was bound to a tal table.
He could not move at all.
No matter how hard he struggled, the restraints did not budge.
They were ropes he himself used in the laboratory—strong, reliable.
His field of vision was locked, staring at a single section of the ceiling.
He was completely immobilized.
Blinding light flooded his eyes.
A blade entered his view.
A large white pair of scissors.
Hands wrapped in bandages held them.
Cyn understood instantly.
"...What kind of hellish luck is this?"
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