Death: The Fall of Endsville

Chapter Thirteen: Skipping to the End

The hall was silent as a tomb, every flicker of torchlight casting uneasy shadows across stone walls. And then, he appeared.

The King of Endsville entered like a wraith, cloaked in black that seemed woven from shadows. His face—or what should have been a face—was a stark, bleached skull. Hollow eye sockets glinted faintly in the dim light, as if lit by the coldest ember. He raised a skeletal hand, and with a casual wave, ancient stone cracked and crumbled into dust, leaving gaping wounds in the hall's architecture.

In his other hand, he wielded a scythe—a long, smooth handle of dark wood, worn and polished with age, holding a crescent blade forged from metal that absorbed light rather than reflected it. The scythe wasn't ornate or ceremonial; it was a weapon, plain and terrible, a tool meant only to sever life from flesh.

Each step he took drained warmth from the room, sending a chill that settled into the bones of everyone present. The air thickened with a faint scent of decay, making the King of Hearts' chest tighten, his heart pounding in his ears, his instincts screaming to flee. And yet, he stood frozen, his fingers gripping his sword as if it were the last lifeline against something inevitable.

The King of Endsville halted, his hollow eyes fixed on the King of Hearts, and with a voice as hollow as a grave, he spoke. "I have come for what is mine."

The words, though quiet, rippled through the hall, cutting through the silence like a blade. The King of Hearts felt his pulse race, his breaths quickening as he struggled against the primal terror gripping him. He had faced wars and seen kingdoms fall, but this... this was something beyond life, beyond death—a force older than flesh.

The King of Hearts, his pulse pounding and mind reeling, forced himself to move, to act. Summoning every ounce of courage, he raised his sword high—a weapon that had symbolized his authority, his strength, his unwavering duty. The steel gleamed faintly in the trembling torchlight, a reminder of countless battles won, countless enemies defeated. But as he brandished it against the figure before him, the confidence he'd always felt in its weight faltered.

The King of Endsville tilted his skull ever so slightly, his hollow gaze settling on the raised blade. With a casual wave of his skeletal hand, a dark fog unfurled from his form, spilling forth like tendrils of living shadow. The mist slithered through the air, reaching out toward the sword with an almost deliberate slowness, as if savoring the moment.

In an instant, the fog engulfed the blade, curling around it in tendrils of darkness. The steel shuddered, groaned, and then began to disintegrate, crumbling into fine particles. Each fragment floated for a heartbeat, suspended in the air, before dissolving into nothingness. The weapon, the symbol of his reign, was erased from existence in a matter of seconds, leaving only a faint shimmer of dust that drifted to the floor.

"That won't help you," the King of Endsville said, his voice calm and almost bored, carrying a weight that rendered the torchlight dimmer still. "Nor will any blade forged in this world."

The King of Hearts felt his breath hitch, a cold sweat breaking across his brow. He took a step back, the weight of helplessness pressing into him with a force that felt suffocating. His eyes darted to his family—his daughter, Note, clinging tightly to her mother, the Queen, both of them wide-eyed, paralyzed with fear. He looked at them, his heart aching with the realization that he was powerless, that he could do nothing to protect them from the force standing before him.

He was alone.

The King of Endsville's dark fog seemed to pulse, spreading throughout the hall, casting long shadows that twisted and swayed as if alive. Each tendril carried with it a sense of impending doom, a suffocating pressure that pressed into every chest, choked every breath. The dark energy radiated from him, filling the room with a silent promise of finality, a weight that settled over each person as though their fates were already sealed.