Valthor found himself trapped within Daniel's mind, a shadowed realm teeming with the weight of countless curses.
The air was not air but a viscous miasma, thick with the stench of decay and something far worse, an unnamable rot that clawed at his lungs with every breath.
His boots sank into the ground, a pulsating, fleshy expanse that writhed beneath him, slick with ichor that burned like acid where it touched his skin.
The landscape stretched endlessly, a grotesque parody of existence, its horizon jagged with twisted spires of bone and sinew that wept black sludge, each drop sizzling as it ate through the quivering earth.
This was no mere prison; it was a living, hungering nightmare, a place that made the Rogue God's maggot-ridden form seem like a child's idle fancy, a fleeting shadow in the face of this obscene abyss.
The sky above churned, a roiling vortex of crimson and violet, split by veins of pulsating light that throbbed like infected wounds.
Faces formed in the clouds, thousands of them, eyeless and screaming, their mouths stretching into voids that spewed writhing tendrils of shadow.
These were the curses, not mere spells but entities, each a shard of malice born from gods, demons, and things older than both.
They slithered through the air, their forms defying reason: serpentine coils of barbed flesh, dripping with pus that hissed and smoked; humanoid torsos with too many limbs, their joints bending backward, skin peeling to reveal oozing muscle beneath; and orbs of gelatinous muck, studded with teeth that gnashed and wept blood.
Their presence pressed against Valthor's mind, a suffocating weight that whispered of despair, promising to unmake him.
He staggered forward, his staff-sword raised, its runes flickering feebly in the oppressive darkness. The ground pulsed beneath him, a heartbeat that shook his bones, and the curses surged closer, their forms shifting, melding, birthing new horrors.
A creature lunged, its body a mass of writhing tongues, each tipped with an eye that stared into his soul. Valthor swung his weapon, the blade slicing through its flesh, but the wound sprayed a torrent of black bile that burned his arm, melting skin to expose raw muscle.
He screamed, the pain a white-hot brand, but the creature reformed, its tongues lashing out, wrapping around his wrist. They burrowed into his flesh, sucking greedily, and he felt his strength drain, his mana flickering like a dying flame.
"Fuck this place," he gasped, wrenching his arm free, blood and pus dripping from the wounds. His voice echoed, swallowed by the cacophony of the curses' wails, a symphony of agony that clawed at his sanity.
He stumbled, his boots sinking deeper into the fleshy ground, which now sprouted hands, skeletal and clawed, grasping at his legs. They tore at his cloak, shredding it, their nails raking his skin, drawing blood that the ground drank eagerly, its surface rippling with grotesque delight.
The curses closed in, their forms growing obscener. One was a towering mass of fused corpses, their faces locked in eternal screams, limbs twitching as if still alive.
It vomited a swarm of insects, their bodies glistening with venom, each bite injecting a searing pain that made Valthor's vision blur.
He swung his staff-sword, the blade cutting through the swarm, but the insects reformed, crawling into his wounds, burrowing beneath his skin.
He clawed at his arm, tearing flesh, but they multiplied, their chittering laughter filling his skull.
Another curse slithered forward, a serpent of molten bone, its scales glowing with a sickly green light. Its maw opened, revealing a throat lined with spinning teeth that dripped with a viscous, glowing slime.
It struck, its fangs sinking into Valthor's thigh, the venom burning through muscle, turning his blood to fire. He roared, hacking at the creature, but its body dissolved into a cloud of ash that reformed behind him, coiling around his chest.
The ash hardened, crushing his ribs, each crack a thunderbolt of pain, and he coughed blood, the taste metallic and bitter.
The realm pulsed, its heartbeat quickening, and the curses multiplied, their forms defying comprehension. A humanoid figure approached, its body a patchwork of flayed skin, stitched with veins that pulsed with black light.
Its face was a blank void, but when it opened its mouth, a thousand voices screamed, each one a curse's vow to devour him. It reached out, its fingers elongating into needles that pierced Valthor's chest, injecting a cold, writhing darkness that spread through his veins.
His heart stuttered, his mana draining faster, and he felt his soul fray, threads of it unraveling into the void.
"Get the fuck away!" Valthor snarled, his voice cracking, desperation seeping through.
He unleashed Phase Lash, the whip-like arc of mana slicing through the air, but the curses absorbed it, their bodies swelling with his stolen power. The humanoid's needles dug deeper, and Valthor's knees buckled, blood pouring from his mouth.
He swung his staff-sword, the blade sparking, but the weapon grew heavy, its runes dimming as the curses fed on its mana.
The ground split, a gaping maw lined with jagged bone, and from it rose a colossus of flesh, its body a mountain of oozing sores and writhing tentacles.
Each sore burst, spewing clouds of spores that burrowed into Valthor's skin, sprouting barbs that tore his flesh from within. He screamed, his voice raw, and clawed at his chest, ripping skin, but the spores spread, his body becoming a breeding ground for their filth.
The colossus's tentacles lashed out, one wrapping around his waist, its suckers lined with hooks that sank into his flesh, tearing muscle. Blood gushed, and he felt his organs shift, the pain so intense his vision went white.
Valthor's mind splintered, the curses' whispers growing louder, a chorus of damnation. You are nothing. You will be unmade. Your soul is ours.
He tried Voidstep Assault, flickering a few meters away, but the realm warped, space folding, and he reappeared in the same spot, the curses laughing, their voices a knife in his skull.
His mana was nearly gone, his body a ruin of blood and torn flesh, but he swung his staff-sword, a futile act of defiance. The blade struck a curse, a spider-like mass of bleeding eyes, but it exploded into a shower of acid that melted his arm, bone gleaming through charred muscle.
He fell to his knees, the ground sucking at his legs, pulling him deeper. The curses swarmed, their forms merging into a single, incomprehensible horror: a writhing sea of flesh, eyes, and teeth, its surface studded with screaming mouths that vomited blood and bile.
It enveloped him, its weight crushing, its tendrils burrowing into his chest, his eyes, his mouth. He gagged, the taste of rot overwhelming, as the curses began to bind to him, their essence fusing with his body and soul.
His skin split, black veins spreading like cracks in glass, each one pulsing with a curse's malice. His bones twisted, snapping and reforming, his body no longer his own.
A curse burrowed into his heart, its claws sinking deep, and he felt his soul tear, fragments devoured by the ravenous void.
His screams became gurgles, blood and ichor spilling from his mouth, his eyes bulging as they filled with writhing shadows.
The curses ate him, not just his flesh but his essence, his memories, his rage, until Valthor Vayren was a fading echo in their hunger.
"Damn you," he choked, his voice a whisper, swallowed by the realm's roar.
His staff-sword fell, sinking into the fleshy ground, its runes extinguished. The curses tightened their grip, his body dissolving, flesh sloughing off in wet chunks, bones crumbling to ash.
His soul unraveled, a final scream silenced as the curses consumed him entirely, leaving nothing but a ripple in the seething, grotesque abyss.
The realm pulsed, satisfied, its hunger sated for now. The curses retreated, their forms slinking back into the shadows, waiting for the next soul to claim.
The ground closed, the air grew still, and the nightmare realm of Daniel's mind stood empty, a testament to the horrors that lurked within his cursed soul.