….
He felt no pain. He fought for his life, so what was the meaning of succumbing to such weaknesses as pain? But it seemed like he felt too little pain. Almost if….
He was already dead.
But that can't be—He can still feel the sting of the enemy's sword pierce his skin—or can he?
Suddenly, all is clear to him. Why he couldn't feel the pain of simply excisting, why the hot, humid air that had left him screaming for this hell to be over a minute ago no longer bothered him, why death seemed like the only way out.
It was a dream.
Very rarely in dreams do you realize you are in a dream, but even he knew that there had to be some explanation behind the pain no longer hindering him, the way he felt like he had to die. Because dying is the only way out of a dream, unless you awaken before that.
He almost laughed as he let the blade that had been trying to put an end to him for the last hour slit his throat. Come, he seemed to say.
Come and release me from this dream.
His eyes widened in shock as the blade sunk deeper into his throat and blood as black as night spewed out of his body. He collapsed to the floor and lay there, quivering, when all the pain came flooding back to him, as if he had been asleep as he fought. How could he have not felt the agony he was being forced through? He longed for the bliss of unfeeling, the touch of a dream on reality.
Because, oh, if anything, this is not a dream.
This isn't even a nightmare.
This is reality. Cold, harsh reality, that someone had put a veil of unfeeling over to dull the pain.
And it had worked.
Why had he given up so soon? If he had known what pain await him here, on the brink of death, he would have gladly kept on taking blind hits, living in a dream.
But now is now, and at this point he can't change the past. At least now he can feel the pain. He can suffer. He can….
Live.
It wasn't living before, it was worse than death. He would rather be dead than suffer like that forever, and suddenly, out of nowhere, he pities them. They are forced to inflict others with the agonizing pain, instead of death. Oh, yes, he was glad for death. For this suffering, this torture, is better than not feeling anything at all. Not feeling. Maybe, had he died by that ailment, he would have become one of them. Yes, death had always been the better option. Sacrifice? No. He was not a sacrifice. He was not a victim. He was dead. And all the pain had gone, but he could still feel. This time, it was ok. Before it had dulled his senses, made him believe he was invincible. This time, he had never felt more mortal. Dead, yet still mortal.
But last time, he wasn't alive. He was in hell. He was under..
….
The Wither Effect.