The Last Circle-Chapter 21: Treading a Measure with the Damned

Nameless found himself breaking a sweat as he rushed to the unoccupied side of the behemoths' territory. He prayed that he was not being chased, for the pitter-patter of his rapid steps, hurtling over groin-high rock obstacles, and the occasional shifting of rock fragments under his feet caused a lot of noise.

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Even worse than that would be if even one behemoth rushed over from the very direction he was running in. A single confrontation, he feared, would be enough to spell an eternity of fighting against the behemoths. Despite having counted about eleven of them, he was certain that more hid within the deepest recesses of the Vagrant's Pass, ready to devour—if they even killed to satiate hunger—and brutally kill.

About thirty seconds of constant running would pass, until he'd bring himself to a halt, holding his knees and taking deep but quiet breaths. His lungs burned with each one, tainted by the scorched land that reeked of soot. The stench echoed the eternities he spent rotting and burning in the depths of Hell, which were, ironically, a chilling memory.

At the very least, he was able to make it out in one piece, and he had God to thank for that, for his ears were tortured with the terrifying screeches the behemoths let out upon finding nothing to kill.

'Had I been any slower,' he said inwardly, wiping away beads of sweat off his face as his head hung low, 'I probably would've been chased here...'

The question that lingered on his mind, however, still remained unsolved. Were the behemoths creatures of darkness? Did they simply investigate because he was running?

It seemed like there was no answer in sight. At least, not yet.

He rested his back against the jagged pillars, continuing to draw the deep breaths that burned his lungs. His heavy pulse, signalling that his heart had been working overtime for far too often recently, shook his lanky frame, and his feet burned as well, callused and filled with blisters.

It turned out that walking in a pebble littered environment wasn't a very fun experience.

Nevertheless, he pushed off the pillar, reminded by the echoing footsteps—heralding death's grasp—that he needed to finish what he set out for:

'Now... time to find out who's screaming in this place...'

He pushed back his sweaty hair that stuck to his forehead and began with the search. His crimson-fiery eyes scrutinized every nook and cranny that potentially housed anyone in the shadows.

Nameless didn't know whether to consider it fortunate or unfortunate, but he found no one—not even a trail of blood, nor the veils that the jinn elegantly covered themselves with.

It was fortunate because that meant no one would attack him, or worse, start screaming.

But it was also unfortunate because that meant he didn't have anything to loot. No artifacts and no clothes... just another day of casually wandering the Ninth Circle of Hell in his indestructible loincloth.

'Curses,' he remembered to say this time. 'How can there be not a single person or jinn here? Who's screaming then? Then it has to be a controlled environment, right?'

Perhaps, but he still had many other corners to check. The Vagrant's Pass was not merely a small piece of land, it was a world of its own, with whatever "chickens", "monkeys", "behemoths", and hellbound beasts creating their own little... violent society.

For that reason alone, he continued searching. Even if there wasn't another Hell-dweller, the possibility of stumbling about an artifact still remained, and so he sought to it whilst not remembering to keep to his original goal: reaching the black structure.

The resonating footsteps also told him that the behemoths were still on the search for him, and they were only drawing nearer with each off-beat step, forcing him to pick up the pace and even forgo searching some spots.

No reward seemed worth fighting several creatures at once, even if they may be of the Sinner variety, and even then, that wasn't a guarantee with these behemoths.

He sighed inwardly, pursing his lips as he studied the scorched land, disappointed by his unfruitful search. At the very least, the voices had stopped, so perhaps he was simply overthinking things.

Still, the sounds of more behemoths from further up dragged his morale down, burying it along with his already dwindling hopes of finding an artifact.

Unfortunately, with no voices to distract the behemoths, his trek through their territory only became more difficult. At this rate, he was certain that they would hear his heartbeat, as though he were walking around with a bass drum strapped to his chest, smacking away to his heart's content.

These were the times where he wished he was on the surface instead. He couldn't do so now because, from prior experience, the pillars fragmented easily. If he messed up on one rock, that alone would have him inviting death with open arms, stuck on the rocks while the behemoths rushed over to him like a fly caught in a spider's nest.

A pair of footsteps grew louder around the corner, pulling at his heart, while the seeds of despair sprouted in his mind. Finally, after enough nurturing, they were ready to plague him in their darkness.

Another set echoed on the other side of the pillar, walking away from him, but there was no way he could slip past the patrol without being spotted. He drew his blade, but the noise its fiery arrival created was more than enough to cause the footsteps to stop.

This was it. His stealthy exploration was finally coming to an end, and he'd have to fight off a horde of these fiendish creatures. He could only hope they were Sinner variants, for the inevitable fight finally arrived, but before he tried anything, he said internally:

'O God, forgive me for my language.'

The bell rung, but he didn't want to look. Worst-case scenario, he was deemed insincere, and he still had to fight—or the enhanced effect of being forgiven and having the Shard of Sin meant nothing, assuming the behemoths weren't creatures of darkness.

Best-case scenario... well, was there truly a best case? Assuming they were creatures of darkness, he might have a chance at escaping this set of behemoths, but then he'd still have to sneak around many, many more.

Unlike the usual rush of their footsteps, however, the behemoths slowly made their way over, as if they knew that whoever was hiding from them had no chance of escape. Whatever Hell-dweller decided to enter their playground, a vast land of unrelenting and unforgiving nature, they were foolish do so without an army.

Nameless raised the Rift of Flame to his arm, but he waited just in case he didn't have to use it. Those seeds of despair might've sprouted, but he still clung onto the last stretch of hope. Time moved slow, with each resonating step making him wish that they simply got it over with, rather than feasting on the stench of fear that he exuded.

And then, after what felt like several minutes—but had only been a mere ten seconds—he watched as the rigid, angular bones that lined the devilish faces, appeared on both sides, bearing their fixed rictuses.

Slowly, they latched their claws onto the pillar—as though they were the ones to carefully peer around the corner—and turned their gaze towards Nameless.