Five Arabian Nights Chapter 3: The Second Day - Fruitless, a rwby fanfic

Five Arabian Nights

Then, filled with the bliss of his past

The god ventured to the darker side

Of the memories and emotions he held

That had left others aghast.

He confronted his sorrow

And it believed in no tomorrow

For as long as it remained

It cannot be contained.

The god then wondered what he could do

To find a cure that can make his sadness a cure

To all the bad and good things that made him careless

And to all the hopeless thoughts that had once plagued him.

Chapter 3

The Second Day

Jaune walked down the puffy clouds, Bell floating next to him.

After walking down the endless clouds for what he felt could be several hours, he found that the clouds had begun to fade, transitioning into a completely pitch-white area. As his feet approached the area, he felt the ground to finally feel like a solid terrain. Bell pointed at the house and began to mindlessly run towards it. Jaune managed to stop her by simply raising a hand in front of her face.

The girl bumped into it, letting out a gentle jingle of a bell as she staggered a bit. Her confused expression made Jaune explain,

"I'll go in first."

He did not know whether Bell understood, but she let out a jingle once more as she made an open smile.

The child of light followed Jaune a bit more before coming to a halt. She floated in place, watching Jaune ventured into the large house.

The house looked like a mansion on the verge of breaking apart. Though he could not put a finger on it, something about the structure of the old mansion seemed… dreamless. Unlike the many clouds he passed by, the mansion held only a silent air, unlike the quiet serenity the clouds had.

Jaune gulped and took a small flight of stairs to the entrance. He turned to see if Bell was still nearby.

His body stiffened as he noticed his surroundings changed in an instant.

No longer were there the peaceful clouds far away from him. Behind him were dozens of tombstones, each and every one of them with no owner. A couple of bare trees stood by where he had once walked through.

There was a dark sky above him. No sun gazed to his direction, yet there was a bit of light for him to see throughout the dark fields. Just a bit. The only bright thing in the mansion was Bell, who floated in front of a closed gate.

The child of light smiled and waved at him, letting out a couple of consecutive jingles.

Jaune gulped as he turned to the mansion's direction again.

After a minute's worth of hesitation, he walked into the mansion.

Though he left the door open on purpose, it closed itself on its own. Jaune found a single lit candle sitting on a small table placed against a wall. A painting was placed above the candle, showing a family of nine. A father, a mother, and six happy children smiled at the painting. But only one child did not smile. A small frown and a tiny lilum candidum was all she brought to the painting.

Jaune stood still for a brief moment before walking over to the candle. He reached out to pick it up, only to knock something he had not noticed earlier. The blond blinked and picked the small mirror he had knocked over.

He raised it to take a look at himself, only to find the door behind him being reflected instead.

Weirded out by the thing he just picked up, Jaune looked down and made sure his body was still intact. Strange; the mirror did not seem to show his body.

He decided to pick it up anyway.

With a mirror and candle in his hands, Jaune looked left and right. There was a door to his left and a staircase on his right.

Jaune decided to go up the stairs.

Mirror, mirror in Jaune's hands, who did he think he was to invade a house? Alas, this was the afterlife. Jaune knew he had little to lose if he truly was dead. Step-by-step, he approached the next floor of the mansion.

Above the first floor was a very wide room- much wider than the first, actually. In fact, it was so vast, Jaune questioned whether the size of the interior matched the mansion's outer appearance. The blond looked back to see the staircase, and he suddenly realized that the stairs behind him had become endlessly long. Strange.

Strange, considering how short the stairs seemed, at first.

A small table sat in the middle of the room, a black phone resting on top of it. Next to the phone lay a poorly drawn picture of the family from the painting. It looked like the work of a child.

Jaune walked over to the phone, looking around the strangely large room. The sound of wood creaking underneath his feet made him tenser and tenser as he approached the black phone. It seemed to be… an old device from an old generation.

A step closer to the phone. Jaune jumped when it suddenly rang.

The phone rang.

And rang.

And sighed.

The phone… sighed? Jaune took one more step closer to the small table, only to find it ringing like usual again.

The blond knight reached out for the phone. Slowly picking the device up, Jaune took a deep breath and held it by his head. There had to be a reason why a phone would be able to ring, and seeing how he could not go back to anywhere other than the mansion, he decided to see where the afterlife would bring him to.

"…"

Jaune waited for something to come out of the phone.

"…"

…

The sound of liquid dripping froze the knight.

Drip, drip, drip. Something dripped from somewhere, but it was definitely not within the room itself. Jaune's eyes darted around the walls surrounding him. His efforts to discover the source of the noise were in vain, as he found nothing but walls and walls and walls and walls.

The sound of liquid dripping continued to emit from the phone.

Something was in the room, and Jaune did not know what it was.

Now that he thought about it, the phone did not have a cord; it seemed to work on its own. Jaune glanced at the picture on the table to see if there was some sort of message he could get from the dripping liquid noises, but nothing appeared.

Then he noticed the air near his ear felt moist. And that ear happened to be the one with a phone hovering right next to it.

Jaune slowly pulled the phone away from his ear as he took a good look at the object he just held.

He certainly was carrying a phone. And now that he took another look at the phone, it certainly made sense as to why he heard liquid dripping- no, pouring from the phone.

Red liquids poured out of several holes from the phone. And as Jaune squinted out of both disgust and curiosity, his eyes widened when he found an eye staring at him behind one of the holes. It stared at him, its bloodshot texture failing to deceive Jaune that he was looking at a real human's eye.

Jaune dropped the phone, and a small trickle of blood briefly spewed into the air before residing. The blond knight turned to the poorly picture, which now had every family members crying towards the skies, as if asking their makers about some sort of tragedy that fell upon them. All but one girl cried to the skies.

The girl- the smallest of them all- looked at Jaune's direction, staring at him with the two gaping holes she had. For it seemed that her eyes were all but a part of her.

Frightened, Jaune turned and ran to the stairs' direction. The sound of a blast of liquids boomed behind him. The blond knight turned to where he dropped the phone, only to find a flood of blood roaring towards him. Eight figures completely covered in blood crawled towards him, their eyes bloodshot and filled with nothing but sorrow. Jaune screamed as he ran down the stairs.

The stairs. The stairs won't end. The stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. These stairs. Th̴e̢se ̧s͝t͜a͘i͢r̛s. ̀T̕hes͜e̛ s̶t̸a̶įŗs͠. Tḩe̶s͢e͏ ͘st͠ai̶rs. The͞se͟ ͝s̶ta͝irs̕. ̧The̴śe͜ s͝t̛airş. These stai̶rs. T̛h̡e͢s͡e ̛stai̡rs. ͢T̴h́e̛se ̕st͝ai͠rs͢. Th͠es̵e ̛st҉a͝i͢r̢s. Ţhes̵e s̴tài͜r̕s̕.͠ The̛se̢ ̧sta͘i̴r̵s.͞ ̡T͘h͏ese̶ ̸s̛tairs̢.͝ ͝Th̨es̶e st͢a̴i̶rs̛. ̢These ̀s͜ta̕ir̛s҉.͠ Th͠ese̢ st́a͏ir̀s. ҉Th̵ese stair̴s͢.͠ T҉h̢e͜se s̸t̶ai͏r̶s.̵ Th҉es͞e stai̧rs͘.̢ ̀These͠ stai̢r̛s̕.̢ ͟T͡he͏s͞e͡ s͞tąiŕs.͘ ͞The̴s͝e s̡tair̛s.̸ ̧T͞he̷s̀e ̸s̷ta̛i͏r͏s͘. ̶T̢he҉se st̕a͟i̡rs. ̵T͢hes̵e sta͡i͟rs.͠ Ţhese̛ sta̶i͘r͞s. T̵hese stai͘rs. T͡he͡se̵ ̷sta̸i͟rs͏. ͘Thes̸e͠ ͜st́airs.͠ ̡T͟h͡e̵s͟e̡ şt̛airs͞.́ T͢he̷s̸e͝ ̶s̛t҉a̷i̷ŗs.̡ Thęse̷ ̷s̵ta̴įrs. The͜sę ̸sta̡ir҉s҉.͝ ͟The͡şe̶ ̕s͡t̛ai͢ŕs͏. ͝T́he͡s̵e̡ ̨st̷a̢i̢rs.͜ These ͏s̢t̨airs̀. T̸h͘ęs͟ę stair̶s͡.̴ T̛hes͡e stąi̧rs͞.̵ Th̕esę s̢tai͝rs͟.́ ̛T͏heśe sta͟irs. Th̢ese stairs.̀ ̸T͘h̨esȩ ͠s͡ta̶ir̷s̨.̢ ̸T̷he͟se͝ stairs͡. ́T͜h̨ese s͏t̛aįr͝s.̶ ͢T͠he̴sę ͢s̢t̨air̷s̶. ͜T҉hese ̶şt̕a͏i̸ŕs̵. ̛Thes̷e̶ ͝s̕t̨ai̛r͠s̶.͜ Thes͡e͠ ̨stair̛s.̶ ̴T̷h͡es͝e͝ s̸ta̷i̧r͟s͡. T͟h́ese͏ s҉tairś. Thes͜e̛ ́s̕t̸airs̵.̀ T́h̕e͏se stai͞r҉s. T͟he͘se͜ ̛s̀ta͢irs.͡ Th͡e̕s͏e͢ ̷stąirs.͡ The͏se̢ ͏stąi̧rs.͜ ҉Th͞es͜e͡ ̵st̡a҉i̶r͠s̕. ̨Ţhès̡ę s͏tairs.̧ ̧Th͡e͟se sta̕i҉rs. ͏These ͠stai̴r̷s.͠ ̵Th̛e͞se̡ s̨t̵ąirs.̀ Th͡e̛s̨e͟ ̀s͟t͟a͡irş. ͏The̕se st͞ai͏r̛ś.̡ ͏Ţh̕e͞s̨e s͟t҉ai͜r͘s. ͜Thes̸e s͘t̡ai͡r̸s. ͟T́h͜e҉sé s̡ta͝ir̶s. ̀Thes̢e sta͘irś.͠ T̡h̨es͞e ̷stai̛r͟ś.̷ T͜he̕se̕ ̕s͜tai͡r̷s͘.̨ Th͘es̸e ́s̨tai͜rs. T͞h̷es͠e͘ sta͘i͏rs̛.͏ ̵Th҉e͞se ͞stair̛s. T͠he͜se stai̕rs.͘ T̨h͡es͏e s̕t̛a͢ir̢s.̢ ̀T͜h̛e̵se ́s̛t̵air̵s. T́h͢e̡se ͡sta͡ír̨ś. Th̀e͞s̸e͏ ͠st҉áirs.͝ Th̕ese̡ stair̶s͟.͜ ̵Theśę s̴tai͟ŗs. ͝Th̨ese śţa͜ir͘s.̴ Th͢e͟se ̴s͝t̛a̛irs. ҉The͝şe͝ ̨s̨tair҉s.̛ ̀These s͞t͟a̡ir͏s̛. ̛T͜h̵ȩse̴ s̕ta͠i͟r͘s̴. ́T̡h͏e͠se sta̡ir̨s̷.͠ T͟ḩe͢s҉e͞ sta̷ir̷s. T͢hese̴ s̕t̕airs͞.͏ ̸T̀h̛e̢se ̛stąir̕s. Th̷és҉e stai̶rs̵.̴ ͏T͝he̶s̕e st͘ąir͘s͘.͡ ̀Th̸e͟śe ͢s͘t͘airs. ͜T͡he̡se ͝st͜ai̴rs͜. Thes̛e sta͘ìŕs. T̕͏h̛͞ęś̛͏è͝ ̛s҉t̢́̕ai͡r̶̢s͟͡.͞ ̨͠The̵̶ś̷̛e s͞t̵̡a͘͟ir̶̷͟s̛͞.҉ ̸͝T̴̕͜h̴e̛s̸e͏ ͟s̕҉͢t̕a͞ir͟ś̶. T̴̕͢h͜è͘śe ͘͜͠s͏͡t̷aí̧̀r̢҉s̛.̧ ͢͝T̸̴h́e̶͢s̷è ̨́s̴ţa͜҉̕í̡͞r̛͘s̶̕͟.҉ ͞͝Th̢͜͏e̸s̛͞e ̧́͘s̸͠t̶͜a̴i̕͜r͠s̴̛. T͜҉h͡e̵̕͝s̡̢è͟ ̀st͝a͢irş̡̛.̧̧̛ ̵̸͡Th͝e̸sè͠ ̷̴̀st̸͏́a̸i̵͟͜r̷s͟.̛ ͏͟T̷̀h҉e̕҉s͟e͟ ̵̧s̷͜ta̵̷i͠͏́r̴s̴̸̛.̴̕ ̴̀T̵͠h̸͠e҉s͢҉e̴҉҉ s̛t͏̸͟ai̸̴͢r̸̕s.̀҉ ̵͟T̢h̶͟e͞s̕e̡ ́͟s͠tài͟͢ŗ͝s͝͏.̵̧ ̛͡͞Ţhȩs͜e͘ ̛ş͞ta҉i͡rs̀͞. ̴̛́T̡h̸̕͞ȩ́̕se̷̷ ͏s̨̀t͞ai͏̧r̵ś̕.͘͝ ͝͝T̡͜͢h̢͡ę͏se̷̕͞ ̡̨͠s͟tài҉̛rs̷̀.͏̴ T̀͜h̡̛͠e͟se̴ ̕͏s̵̛̛t̸a͘͡í͟͢ŗ͘s͞.̴ T̵́h҉̕e̢se҉ ̴̶stài̢͏ŕ҉s̵. ́͜T́͠h̵̢͠ę̸͡s͏̕͟ȩ͞ st̵̸á̶̡i̛͠͏rs̴͡͡.͞͏͘ ̵͘T͠h́es̨e s̷t҉a̢͠i͏̴r̵̢s̶. ̸T̴͢h̸̛͞e͟s̵e͏̨͠ ̨͝s͜t҉͡a̸i̢rs͟.̶ ҉Th̢e̡͟͟s҉̀͝ę ̶͜staiŕ̶s̢. Th̢e̕͝s͢͡e͏͜ ̧́͡s̴̵t̴̢̕a͞ìr̡̡s̛.́ T͜he̶sé̢͢ s̶͢t̛͞͡ai̷̡͞r̢s̀̕.̛̛͜ T̡h̢̕e̶s̴͢͠e̢͟ ̛s̨͞ta͘ir҉s҉̵.̸ Ţ̸͡h̡́é̸͝se̢͢͡ ̵̶s̀͏̀t͞a͟͏i̴͟͞r̷s̵.͜ ̨T́h̶e̷͏s̡͜e̶̵̵ ̡s͢taì̵͢r͠s̨. ̷͞T͠h̀e̷͏ś̸̛e̸ ́s͟͟t̛͜͜a̴͘į͠r͢͡s̢͞.͏͢ T̴h̶͠e̛͢͡s̶e͏͏͠ ҉̵́stąi̵r̴̨s͘. ͝T͘h̨e̛͘s̵e̡ ͠͝st̶͠a̧̧iŕ̀s͏.҉͝ ̧҉T͟͞he҉̧͝s̶͢e ̕ş̷t̀á̵̷i͡r҉s.̷̸͠ ̛͘Ţhes͏e͟ s̢͘t̨̧͢à҉͡irś.́҉́ ̀͝T̷ḩ͜e̴͟͢s̵̡̡e ͜s̨͝t̵̶͜a͘͞i̶̶rs͠.͞ ̵̸Ţ͝h̢è̴s҉̢ȩ̨ ̢s͠t̴̀ai̴̢r̵̴̨s̷͡.҉́ T͟͞h̛́͝e̸̵sè̡҉ s҉҉t̴͜a͏҉͠i̢͝rs̷.̸͟ ͜͢T̢h̕҉e̛s̛͟e͢ ͘stąi͘͞r̸͢͜s̡̀͠.͟ T̵͜͡h̀͜ȩ̕s̢ę͞ ͝sta̶̸į͘r҉̸͘s̕͠.̧͏ ̸Th͏e̷s͞e҉̴͠ ̕s̸͘ţ͝ą͟i̸̢̡ŕs̷͟.̡ ҉́̕T͡h͟è͡se̷̕͝ ̵̸̨s͞t͠҉̕a͝i̢͟r͘s̶̕͢. ̷̛͢T̶h̸è͝s̵̴ę̵ ̸̨͞s̕ta͢i̶̧r͜s̛̕͡. ̷͢T̢̀̀h̡̀e͡s̨͠͠e̢ ̕s҉tą̷̛i̷͡r̶s̕. ̶́Ţh̕͢͟è̛͞s͡e ̨̕͡s̀t͏a̶ì̴̴r͝s҉̷.̀ ̷͢͝Th́͝e̷̸͢s̸̕̕e ̵͡͞s̸͜tà̢į͘r͝͡s͟.͘ ̡́T͟͠h̵͠e͞͝s̵e͏͜ ́stą̀i͝r̴s͝. ̴̢T̶h̕e͝s̕͜͜e̴ ̢̨s͝t͞a̧̕i̸͟͠r̡s҉.̛͞ ͢͏Th҉̷̡es͏̸e̷̴̕ ͠s͟t̵̛̀a͠ir̢s.̢̡̛ ̨̧͢T̸͞h̢͝ę̶͠s͏è͡ ̶̴̧ş̨͏t͝ai҉̡́r̢͏s̨.̀ T̷̷h͘e̛ś͡e̷ ̵̧͞ś̢̕ţa̸͠i̡͜r͘͜s̛̕. T͟͝h̨es̴̸͝è ̵́͝s͞t́ą̛͘ir̴̸҉s̢͝.͏̵ T̷͏h̶́eşe͝ ҉́s̛t̨a̕̕͜į͜ŕs͠.̵͠͏ ̕͡T̸h̷͏es̛͡e̴̵̢ ̷̕s̕͢t̶̨̛ài̴r͠s̕͡.̸̨͠ ̵T҉h͏e̴͡s͠͏ę ̶̢̕st̢ai͘҉r̵s̶͝͝. ̶̵͜T̢he̵s̸e ̧s̡͏͏t͞a̢irs̵.́͏̨ ͝T͡h̀͟͝e̷͢͜s͜͠e s̢̨͞t͢͝a̧i̢r͏҉s.̧̢́ T̕͡he͝s̸̀e̕ s͜ta̵͠i҉r͘͢s͝.̧́ ́T̛h̴̀e͟͠s̷̢e҉̡́ ̡͡st̶̢̡a̶̶̛i̢̕rs̸̀͘.̧͟҉ T̛͟͜h̵͞e̶s͠ę̸̡ ͢͜sţ̛aì͠͡r̴s̶.͜ ̕T̵he͢͞s͟e̡͘ ş͡t̕͞a͟͠ir̵̀s̵͘.҉̀͡ T̸h̷͟e͘͠͠s̶e s̛̕͠t̢a̡̛ír̶͟͝ś̸́. ̵Ţ͜h̀ęse̴̴ ̨st̡̢͞a̡i͘r̸s̶̨͝.̧́ ̵͟Th̸ȩs̷e ̷̶s̶t̸a͏̛͝ir͡ś͟.̵͠ ͟T͝he̢͞s̡̨e ̷s̀t̛́a͏i͝҉́r̀͟ş͜͡. ̴̡̕T́̕̕h̢͜ese͝ ͝sta̴i͠͏҉ŕś̛.͜͜͢ ͟T̴͞h́e͠͏s̷̡̢e̸҉ ͠s̴̀ţ̡a̴̧͢i̡͟r͘s̸̀͟.̵ ̸̧͟T̸҉̀h̶̕͞e̴͢͟ş́e͘ ̴s̨tai͞rs.͞ ͝͡Ţh͏e̢s̵͝͝e̵̡ ̷͡s͡҉t̡͡͏a̧̕ì̷͡r̡s̕͠͞.̡͜ ̵T҉̕h́͘͡e̡͟s͜͏͠e̴ ͡s͘tai͡r̷̢s̸͠.͟͝ ͝T̢͘he̛̕ş̶ę̵͝ s̴t͏́a̢̛͏í͜r̢s. ͢Ţ͟h̡͜e̵̡se̷ ͟͡͠st̨a͡í̷͘rs.̶̴͜ ̨T̵̕h̡̀è̢̢s̛҉e̴͜ ̷͝s̵̢ta̵i͘͞r͘͘̕s͘. ̴̧͝T́͝h͞e̸͢͡ś̷e̷̡ ̶͟s҉t͢ai͢r̴҉̷s̢͢.̵͟͝ ̴̢̧T҉̡h̵͞eş͡e҉͞ s͞ţ̸aìr͠͠s̡͜.̶̛ ̛̀͠T̨͏̷h̕ęsȩ͟ ̶͜st̴̴a̧i̢r̷͟s̨͏. T̨̨́he̴͝s̡e̢ ̴͞s҉̕t̴̕͞a̵̕i͜͝rś̸.͢͏ ̷̢͜T̷̕ḩ͝e͘͢s̶̴e͢ ̸͜s̵̷t̡á̵įr̶̡s̶̕.̵͝ T̢h̶͢ese̵ s͏͟͏t҉̸a̢͞i̡ŕs͢҉. ̧́͡Th̴́͢eś̕e͡ ̀s͏͞ta̵ir͞s̵͢.̶ ̢͡Th̴e͠s̡̀ȩ͡ ̀ś͢ta̸i̷̧r͟s͞.̛͠ T͏̡hȩ͢s̷̸̵e̶̕ ͘͡s̴͡taì̕͡r̴s҉̀.̨ ҉T̛hésȩ ͜͠s̴͞͝ta͘ir̶̛ş.̴҉ ̷T̢hȩ̶s̢̕e ͞st͢ai̷̵̶ŕ̷s.̢̨ ̢͢T͜͟͠h͘é͞ş̨҉e͟ ͞͏st́͠҉á͠i͏̵r̢s̕͏.̸͜͠ Ţh̶e̡̛͡s̕e̛͘͡ ͠s͢ţ͘͜á̢̧i̛͢r͞s̷.̨̡ ̴T͘h̵e̶s̢ȩ̛ ́s͏t̨̡à̧į̵rs.͠͏ ̨͢͠Ţ̴͘h͞͝e̷̷͝śe͡ st̢a̷̛͠į͢r̛҉s̶.͘ ̡͝T҉̧h̛̀e̵s͘҉͝è s͜t͜͡a̸҉̶įr̀s̷̨͜.͟ ̨͝Th͡͠e͢͝s͘e̶ ̡͟s͡t͜a̵͜͞i͜͝͞ŗ̨s͠.̸͠ ̢̀T͟he͏̵́se ̕͠s̵͘tą̸̸i̶͟͡r̕s̴̢.̴̕͝ T̶͜h̛͢e̸s̡͟͞ȩ̨ ҉s̴t͢a͝ir̡s̡.͜͡ ͞T̛͞͡h̢͡e̢͢s͏e ̷́s̵̀ta̸ir̸͝s̷̡.̢͝ T̸̡he̵͢se ͞s̵̀t͠҉a̷̵i̶ŕ̴̕s̸̶.̷̕͝ ̵́́Th͏e̛͠s͞ę ̴s͟t̨͢͟ą́͝ír͘͜s. ͡T̨͘ḩ̢͡e̷s͝e͝ ̵͢s̡͜t̶a̢͜i͟r̶̢͞s̀.̷͜ ̷͠T͞h̵̷e͜͡s͘é ͠s̕t̵̵a͜i̴̸r̷̵s.͠ ͘T̴̢̛h͜ę̕s̀e s̷ta̴̧̧i͜͞rs̨.̨̢ ̀T̡͘he̛͞s̶é͝ ̧͞st́͏a͏̴́ìŗ̨͞s͠.̧ ̢͘͞T҉h̴e͏̶͟ş̕e͝ ̨͟s͢҉t͟a͘͜i͡rs̕.̧̢ ̛̛T̕h̸͜͟e̕s͢e̵ ̴͡sta̵i̴̸r͠s͞͝.̛ ̷T̀ḩè̷͢se͠ ҉st͜͡à̴irs̸͠.̢͟ ̨͟T̨͟h̶e̷s̴̨e̶ ̵̢͠s͏͏̢t̸a̸̴̸i̴̕͞r͜͞͝ş́.̴̛͠ ̀̕T̛͡he̛̕͝ş́e͠ ͠s͞tai͝r̶̕s̨.̶͜ ̡̢T̵̛h̷̵͝e̸͡s̸e͝ ͠s͜͟t̢͘҉a̸͟͏įrs̡͘.͘ T͢he͜͟sȩ̧ s͘͜t̸̶a̸҉ì͝r̵͠s̨.̧ ̴̴T̛h̶e҉̷s̛͢͢e̷ ͞st͘a͏į͠ŗ͘s̷̸̕.̡ ͠Th̨͠͏ȩ͘s̸ȩ̛ ̶̵̢st̕ai͢͏r̡͡s̀͟͞.͝͝ ̛͘͞T̶͢h̕͝é͞s̵̨e̴̕͠ ̵̷s͘t̴a͡͞ir͝s̵͢.̡ ̴͟T̕͞͠h͏́eś͡ȩ̕ ̷s͢͜t̸̛ą҉͝i͢r̵͠s̷.͏ ̷̧T̸̶h̸́e̛͟se̵͡͞ ̧͡st̴͜á̷̢į͝r̵s. ̡T̶͞hès̸̸̛e̡͘ s̶t̡a̵̶̢ir̵̀s̸͟͟.̴͜ ́T̛͜h̛́es̵̨̛e ͏s̵̸ta̢i͡͡҉r̢s̶̶.͏̵͢ ̵͘T͡h̢͡e̸͟s͠e̢͏ s҉́͠t͜ai͟͡r̛͜s. ͞T̷̡h͟͢e҉҉śè ̀͡s҉̀t̷̴a̕i̧͡r͢s̸͡. ͠Th̡͡͞e͝s̸e̴ ̶́s̢t̶ąir̶s. ̴T̀h̶̶̢e͞s҉̨̢e͟ ̶̨͟s̵̡͢t̶̕͞aì͡͡ŕs͠.̕ ̴͏̴T̷h̸́e̵̕͟s̕͢e̶̛̕ ̸͡͞st̵͝ái̵r̷̷s͝.͞͝ ̸͢T҉h͞e̵͞sé͢ ̴s͡ta̷͘͠i̵̡̕r̷̛̀s. ̨́Th̨͝e͜sę̴̕ s͟͞t̷͡a͟͞į̢r̶̡͢s.̡͘͝ ̨͘T͜h̛es̸e͞ ̸s̢͘ta̶i̕r̀s̀̀͠.̵̵ T̴ḩ̴͠e͢͝se ́s̡̡t̕͢a͢i̧r̵̵̛s̶̨.͜ ̀T͝h̢̛͝ę̵͟s҉̸è̡ ̢͟s̢̕t̢͠a̵į́r̀͠ş͘͏.̶́ ̸̨̕T҉҉h̢͟e͠s̡̛e ͜s̕ta̷͘ir̕̕s͞. ҉̨̀T͟͜͝h̶e͟͜s͢͡ę ̨s͜t̢͜a̴̛iŗ̛͡ś̢.͜͟ ̢̀̕T͜͞h̢̀e̸̶͢s̢e҉͠ ̷̢s͠t͏air̨s. T̸̢h̴e͝͞s̵̕e͡ ͠s͠͡t̢ài̸͘͡r̢͠s͢͏͢. ̢͜T̴̀́h͝e͠s̛e̢ ̢s̢̡t͡a̛͝ìr͢s͢.̵ ͘͜T̴͞h̨͜͡e͘s͜͞e ̸s͠ţ̷͞à͡i̵̴͢r̸̕s̴͝. ͟͝T͟h҉e̵͏͡s̀e͢ ̀͘s̵t̵̛̀a̴ì̷rs.̡͞ ̡́͢T̴h̀̕͠e̡̢͡s҉e͢ ̸̴̛s̢͏̛t͞ai̧̛r͘͡s̡̕. ͟͞T͝h͏es̨͠e ̶̶̧s҉҉ta͠i͏r͠s̡. ҉T́͡h͘҉es͟e̷ ̷́͜s͘t̵͝a̸i͏̷ŕ̷̀ş̕. ͘͞T̀͡͡h̡e͢s̶̀͟e̸͞ ̷̧́s̷͟t̡̧͏à҉i̶̧r̴s̴.́͝ ̵̕T̀̕h̶͡͠e̶s̨͘e̶̛͢ ́s͝t̡ai̡͜r̶̡s. ̵T͡h͝ęs̀͟e͝ s͞͏t͠҉͡a̷i̷͜rs̸̛.̶ ̸Ţ̧h̴҉è͢ś̴͢è̡ ̵͠st͠͞a̵į͜͏ŗs̸.̶ ͘͝T̸͞h͞é̢͜s͟͞e̢̧ ̴̷s̨҉t̸̷a̶i҉r̸̢͟s̴̛͟.͞ Th͡e̶͠s̢e s̸ta͏̀i̶͟r̛͘͡s͜͝͝.͘͘͞ ̕T̵͜h̕e҉s͝ȩ ͘s̷̡ta̷̸í͞r̡̢s̕͟.̛̛ T͘ḩ̀e͘͢͡s͠e s͏͘t͘͝a̧̢͡i̵͝rş.̢͞ ̸̸̨Th̷̷͠e͝͞s̸̢e̛͟ s͟t̢ài̡̕r̵ş. ̶T̶h̡҉͞e̸͜se̸͜͞ ҉s҉t̀a͟͡i̢rs.̷ ͡͡T̸͟͏h҉e͝͏s͢e st̴̶͏ą̷i͏r̷͘҉s͡͞.̶̧͝ T̴̡̕h̴͡e̷̛s̛̕e̷ ̵͡s̕t͢air͟͢s. ͘Th҉e҉́s̕͡è̵͜ ҉͏͠s̷ta̵͢į͢r̴s̨.͘ ҉T̴͝h̸̢͠e҉͞s͏͟e͜͜ ̴s͏tai̢͡r̵ś̨. ̸T͏h̴͘͠ę̛̛s͟e̴ ́͞śt̷́͞a͘͝i͠r̡͡ş͡. ͜͠͝T҉͡h̨e̶̕s͘͟e s͝t͝ą̕ir̴̡͠s. ̡T̡͘h͞͡e̡͠s̢̢e͠ ͢͞s̵̀t̸́ai̧r̵s͜͞.͟͝ ̛͞T̷̛͘h̡̨es͘͘͡e ͡s̸t̛͘̕a͘iŗs҉.͏̸ ͏̴T́͠h͞é͜͝s͢͝e̴ ̡s̵͏t҉͝air̡̕s̷͘͜.͢ T̀͜h̡e̡s̡é͡ s̷̀͠t͜a̵iŗ́͝s҉̸̢.̷ Ţ̀͝he̷͢s͟e͡͏ ̵s̵ţai͝͞͞rs̛̀͡. T̛h̶͢e̢͘҉s̷ę͘͝ ̧͝͏s͘҉t͘a̢҉ir̶̛͟ś̸̢.̵ ̶͞T͝h҉͜e͝͡ş̶̴e ́st̴̵a̢͟ir̵͜͡s̴͝.̴ ̸̧͡T͏ḩe̕҉ş̛̕e ̵͜s̨ţ͠ai̵̧r̴̨s. ̶̡Thé́ş͜e ̵́̀s̵͜t̵á̴͜ir͠s̶.̴̕ ̷͠Ţ͠he̛s̨̧e̡ s̶̶͞tąi̶̕r͜s.̡ ̷̴Th̢eş͜͝e̕ s̷t͞͡a͘i̶r͢҉͡s̀͡.͢ Th̨̧ę̶̕ś̸e͠ ś̷t̕a͘҉͞i̧͟r̴͠s͟.̢͟ ͢T̶͜h̴e̡͠s̷͡e̷ ̧st̷̢ai͟rs͏.́ ͏T̴̕h͘͢e͠śe ̷́st̸a̶͡i̵r̢̀̀ś̨. ̡T̸̛͘h̢e͞s̷̢̡e̡ ̴̢͏ś̕tá̡i͘ŗ̨͝s̢͠.́ T̶̡h͟e͘͟s̕҉e ͏s̸͟҉ta̛i̢r̵s͏.̶ ̡T҉̴h̷es͏e҉ ̧s̵̶̀ţ͜a̧i͢ŗs̢͟.͟͠͡ ͞T̴̷̢h̡̧̧e͠se̵ ̴s͠ta̴̕i͡r͟͞ś̴.͝ ̀Th̶͜é̸s̛e ̴́s͜҉t͏͘a̸i̸r̷̶s.̷҉ ̴͢T̨h̴́ȩse̷͡ ͟͟s̶͘t̨̀͝a͘͘͢i̶r҉̛́ş̶.̸̸̸ ̡̢Ţ͡h҉e̸ş҉e s̴̨t̶͜aì̷͘r̵s̵̨.̧́͝

These awfully long stairs.

The screaming. The screaming would not stop. Those screams. The screams that echoed out of pain, agony, and devoid of hope and joy. Everything wrong- he felt everything wrong about their pain, yet he did not know what it was. And he could not help them because they wanted to share their tragedy.

The stairs would not stop. The screams would not stop. The pain-filled screams. The agonizingly endless stairs. They just. Would. Not. Stop.

The screaming of the eight blood-drenched horrors would not stop. The screams, the stairs, the sorrow. They all convoluted Jaune's mind with nothing but sadness.

They kept on coming, and his hopes in living in peace plummeted. He was filled with dread. Nothing but sorrow over his apparent fate killed all the joy he had.

But did it?

Joy. Joy was waiting for him outside of this damned house! He needed to break out of the hellhole of a house!

At last, as hope gathered up in his heart, the end of the stairs of despair appeared before him. Without a second thought, Jaune ran towards the door on the entrance's left. He took a glimpse at the large painting, but he noticed how only one child stood, alone. The flower in her hands had all of its beautiful petals torn off, each of them floating in where the rest of her family once stood.

With all of his might, the blond tore the door open before slamming it shut. He did everything he could to make sure he locked it, even if he was unfamiliar with how the doors worked. He took deep breaths rapidly, his eyes shut as he pressed his back against the door as hard as he could.

Much to his surprise, nothing slammed against the door.

Wondering if the beings of blood had disappeared, Jaune opened his eyes and looked at the room he was in.

He paled.

His skin turned a deathly pale as he realized the afterlife may not only contain mindless joy and bliss.

…

The Second Day -END-