The room reeked of death and burnt flesh, the air thick with an acrid stench that clung to the skin like a second layer. The chessboard had become a graveyard, the once grand battlefield now littered with the remnants of his fallen comrades. Smoke curled from the scorched square where Elara had been just moments ago, her final screams still echoing in Denwen's ears. The oppressive silence that followed was far worse.
The Queen finally moved.
A slow, deliberate step. The clicking of her obsidian heels against the checkered floor resonated like the tolling of a funeral bell. She rose from her throne, her towering nine-foot frame cutting through the dim light, her elongated limbs moving with an unnatural grace. She wasn't just a piece in this game—she was something more, something wrong.
"You know," she mused, her voice silk laced with steel, "I didn't expect to find a Bearer in such a backwater civilization."
Denwen's breath hitched, his battered body stiffening in the throne that no longer felt like a place of power, but a cage. Bearer? The word meant nothing to him, yet something in his bones recoiled at the sound.
The Queen moved closer, her eerie, pupil-less eyes narrowing as she inspected him like a rare artifact. With a flick of her wrist, a wave of invisible force rippled through the air. Denwen barely had time to react before his mask shuddered, sparks flying as the small device crackled and twisted unnaturally. The static noise clawed at his ears, the distortion warping the edges of his vision. The masking device on his face burnt out, a thin tendril of smoke curling into the air as it disintegrated.
"There," the Queen said, satisfaction dripping from her voice. "Now we can talk properly."
Denwen swallowed, his throat dry as sandpaper. His mind was screaming at him to move, to run—but his body refused to obey. Every muscle was locked in place, frozen under the weight of an unnatural presence that wasn't supposed to exist here.
The Queen leaned in, her towering form blotting out what little light remained. The sheer scale of her made Denwen feel small, like a mere insect before a predator that had long since perfected the art of hunting.
"What's with the poor disguise, or the fear?" she mused, tapping a clawed finger against his cheek, her nail cold against his skin. "Come now, you should know that my power at this level wouldn't work on a Bearer like yourself."
She tilted her head, curiosity gleaming in her empty eyes. Then, she spoke again, but—
"What is the ability of your !@#@@"
The world glitched.
Denwen felt it rather than heard it—reality itself bending, twisting, fighting against her words. The sound came out distorted, garbled, as if the very fabric of existence refused to allow the information to be known.
The Queen staggered back. Her expression contorted into a mixture of surprise and irritation.
"…What?" Her voice lost its silkiness, turning sharp and demanding.
Denwen's breathing came in rapid, shallow gasps. He didn't understand. He didn't understand any of this. But what terrified him the most was that she didn't seem to either.
"Wait… I don't understand what you're saying," he rasped. His voice was barely above a whisper, his mind scrambling for answers that simply weren't there.
He had heard stories of intelligent Disasters, monsters that could speak, that could reason—but they weren't supposed to appear in gates of this level. She wasn't supposed to be here.
And yet, here she was.
The Queen's gaze darkened, her lips pressing into a thin line. "Hmm…" she hummed, before shaking her head. "Let's try this again."
She turned to one of the remaining pieces—the White Bishop, whose burning gaze flickered with unwavering obedience.
"What I am saying," she continued, her tone measured, "is that you could use your @#@$@#! to help restart my @#@#$$%$^%&—"
Static. Garbled noise. A hollow, echoing silence.
She snapped her head back in fury, her face twisting into something monstrous, something barely human.
"FUCK." The single word boomed through the dungeon, a tremor running through the checkered floor. Pieces of the board cracked beneath the weight of her aura, fractures spreading like veins through the tiles.
Denwen winced as an invisible pressure slammed against him, crushing him deeper into the throne. He gasped, his lungs barely able to expand under the suffocating force.
The Queen's rage was palpable, her entire form seething with barely contained violence. She turned on her heel, kicking a pawn so hard that the piece shattered, its fragments scattering across the board. The other pieces flinched, shuffling back in instinctive fear.
She exhaled sharply, forcing herself to regain composure.
Calmly—almost too calmly—she stepped toward Denwen once more. Her fingers were cold as she lifted his chin, her grip unyielding yet deceptively gentle, like a predator toying with its meal.
"I have my theory," she murmured, her voice dropping into something far more intimate. "Let's test it."
Before he could react, she raised her thumb and scratched his chin, drawing a thin line of blood.
Denwen's entire body locked up as she licked it from her fingertip.
Then—
Her pupils dilated, her body shuddering violently as if she had just tasted the rarest delicacy in existence.
A slow, twisted grin crept across her face.
"…After so many eons of searching," she whispered, the realization sinking in like a blade. "It's finally here. The @@$@!# has been found."
She laughed.
A laughter so unhinged, so filled with glee and madness that the entire dungeon seemed to tremble in response.
"I've been stuck in this backwater planet, feeding on disgusting disasters to stay sane, and then—you. A Bearer of the @#@$$@. Just strolling into my hands. And you don't even know it."
Her laughter abruptly cut off.
The mirth vanished, replaced by something far darker.
"No," she muttered. "I won't take you to them."
Denwen's breath stilled.
She turned, her expression sharp with determination. "I'll break you down. I'll absorb every last piece of you and use it to elevate my existence beyond anything those bastards who trapped me here could ever imagine."
The dungeon shook.
The throne beneath Denwen vanished, dropping him onto the cold checkered floor.
A Knight loomed over him, using the blunt end of his scythe to slam him forward.
The goblin pawns surged in, their sharp claws digging into his flesh as they beat him down. His ribs cracked, pain blossoming in brutal, sharp bursts.
Above them, the Queen smiled, blowing him a mocking kiss as his body was pulverized.
Denwen's mind splintered.
"I can't die here."
Then—
A glint of silver.
A ring tumbled from his torn clothing, landing beside him. The pieces ignored it, focused only on breaking him further.
Denwen's fingers twitched.
With the last dregs of his strength, he touched the ring, channeling every ounce of essence he had left.
The ring glowed.
"NO! CUT OFF HIS HAND—NOW!" The Queen's voice was filled with panic.
Space bent.
The Knight swung—but Denwen vanished.
A scream of pure rage filled the collapsing dungeon.
"NOOOOOO! MY TICKET—DENWENNNNNN!"
Then—
Silence.
----
Outside the dungeon, the gate continued to warp violently and began to twist threatening to collapse, the captain outside taking out his cigar: "Looks like a collapse was inevitable, guess we were lucky" as he was talking a spatial light shone as a mutilated body with bones twisted in unnatural positions appeared outside the dungeon:
"Medics, get the Medics here now" he shouted dishing out commands.