The world Anthony trudged through was not a world at all—it was a wound, raw and festering, that stretched endlessly in every direction. The ground beneath his feet was jagged and uneven, cutting into his boots as if the earth itself sought to devour him. The air was thick, suffocating, and carried the faint, metallic tang of blood. There was no horizon, no sky, no stars—only a vast, oppressive void that pressed down on him like the weight of a thousand lifetimes.
Anthony's body moved on instinct, his legs dragging him forward even as his mind screamed for him to stop. Every step was agony, his muscles burning with exhaustion, his lungs heaving against the toxic air. He didn't know where he was going—there was no destination, no end to this torment. He only knew that stopping meant surrender, and surrender meant being consumed by the darkness that clawed at the edges of his vision.
The memories came in waves, unbidden and relentless. Mark's lifeless eyes stared back at him, accusing and empty. The girl's laughter echoed in his ears, sharp and cruel, as she forced his hand against his own throat. He could still feel the blade, cold and unyielding, as it bit into his flesh. The pain was distant now, dulled by time, but the shame burned as brightly as ever. He had faked his death to escape her, but there was no escaping the weight of what he had done.
The landscape around him shifted, as if responding to his thoughts. The jagged rocks grew sharper, the air colder, the darkness deeper. The ground beneath him cracked and groaned, glowing faintly with an otherworldly light that seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat. He stumbled, his knees hitting the ground with a sickening thud. Sparks flickered uselessly around his fingers as he tried to summon the strength to rise. But his body refused to obey, and for a moment, he lay there, broken and defeated.
The whispers began softly, barely audible over the sound of his ragged breathing. They came from everywhere and nowhere, a cacophony of voices that spoke in a language he couldn't understand. They grew louder, more insistent, until they drowned out everything else. He clamped his hands over his ears, but it was no use—the voices were inside him, clawing at his mind, tearing at his sanity.
*"You are nothing,"* they hissed. *"You are a failure. A coward. A liar."*
He screamed, the sound raw and guttural, but the voices only laughed in response. They showed him images—visions of the people he had failed, the lives he had destroyed. He saw the faces of the bounty hunters he had killed, their expressions frozen in shock and pain. He saw the adventurers who had fallen by his hand, their bodies broken and lifeless. He saw the girl, her eyes filled with triumph as she watched him bleed.
*"This is your legacy,"* the voices said. *"This is who you are."*
Anthony clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms until they drew blood. He forced himself to his feet, his legs trembling under the weight of his own body. The whispers faded, but their words lingered, etched into his mind like scars. He took a step forward, then another, each one a defiance of the darkness that sought to consume him.
The ground beneath him shifted again, and he found himself standing at the edge of a vast chasm. The void stretched out before him, endless and impenetrable, its depths swallowing the faint light that emanated from the cracks in the earth. He stared into it, his reflection distorted and fragmented in the shifting shadows. For a moment, he considered letting himself fall—letting the void take him, end his suffering, and erase his existence.
But something stopped him. A flicker of movement in the corner of his eye. He turned, his heart pounding, to see a figure standing in the distance. They were shrouded in shadow, their features obscured, but their presence was undeniable. They didn't move, didn't speak—just watched, their gaze heavy and unrelenting.
Anthony's breath caught in his throat. He didn't know who they were or what they wanted, but he felt their judgment as surely as if they had spoken it aloud. He turned away, unable to meet their gaze, and took a step back from the edge. The figure remained, a silent reminder of the path he had chosen and the price he would pay for it.
He walked on, the chasm at his back and the figure's gaze burning into his soul. The whispers returned, softer this time, but no less cruel. They spoke of his failures, his regrets, his fears. They showed him the faces of the people he had loved and lost, their eyes filled with disappointment and sorrow. They reminded him of the life he had left behind, the life he could never return to.
*"You are alone,"* they said. *"You will always be alone."*
Anthony clenched his jaw, his fists trembling at his sides. He wanted to scream, to fight, to prove them wrong. But he knew the truth. He was alone. He had always been alone. And no matter how far he walked, no matter how many battles he fought, he would never escape the endless torrent of suffering that was his life.
The ground beneath him cracked again, and he stumbled, his knees buckling under the weight of his own despair. He fell to the ground, his hands scraping against the jagged rocks. Blood dripped from his palms, staining the earth beneath him. He stared at it, his vision blurring as tears filled his eyes.
*"Why?"* he whispered, his voice barely audible. *"Why do I keep going?"*
The void offered no answer. The whispers fell silent. The figure in the distance remained still.
Anthony closed his eyes, his body trembling with exhaustion and pain. He wanted to give up, to let the darkness take him. But something deep within him refused to yield. A spark, faint and fragile, but unyielding. It was not hope—it was defiance. A refusal to let the darkness win.
He opened his eyes, his vision clearing as he forced himself to his feet. His legs shook, his body screamed in protest, but he stood. He took a step forward, then another, each one a battle against the weight of his own despair. The whispers returned, louder and more insistent, but he ignored them. The figure in the distance watched, their gaze heavy with judgment, but he didn't look back.
He walked on, his path uncertain, his destination unknown. The ground beneath him cracked and groaned, the air around him thick with the scent of blood and ash. But he kept moving, because stopping meant surrender, and surrender meant being consumed by the darkness.
And Anthony Lamberg refused to be consumed.