The door opened into silence.
Not absolute silence—the hero heard sounds. Quiet, distant, eerie. Creaking. A constant, monotonous creak, as if hundreds of old swings were swinging on rusty chains. And wheezing. Wet, gurgling sounds, like someone trying to breathe through a broken throat.
The smell hit first. Rot—sweet, cloying, clinging to the nostrils. Mixed with the scent of hemp rope, old and damp. And something else... urine? Excrement? Whatever the body excretes at the moment of death.
The hero clamped his hand over his nose, but it was of little help. The smell penetrated deeper, settling on his tongue, in his throat.
A forest stretched before them. But not made of trees.
Made of ropes. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of ropes hung from the ceiling somewhere high above—twenty meters, maybe more; the ceiling was lost in the darkness. The ropes were of varying thicknesses—from finger-thin to arm-thick—and hung at varying heights. Some touched the floor, coiled in coils. Others dangled in the air, swaying slowly, though there wasn't the slightest movement of air.
Many of the ropes had loops at the ends. And from many of these loops hung bodies.
The hero swallowed, feeling his stomach tighten into a tight knot. There were... many bodies. Too many. They hung everywhere—near and far, at different heights, in various stages of decomposition.
Some were fresh, so fresh that it seemed the person had hanged themselves only a few hours ago. The skin was still pale, not blue, the eyes bulged, the tongue lolling from the mouth. Others were older—the skin had blackened, swollen, and begun to peel off in chunks. Still others had turned into skeletons, clad in shreds of rotting flesh, with sagging skin and empty eye sockets.
And some... were moving.
The hero saw this and went cold. One of the bodies—a middle-aged man, judging by his clothes, once a merchant—was twitching on the noose. Weakly, spasmodically. His hands clawed at his neck, trying to loosen the noose. His legs twitched, searching for support that wasn't there.
A wheeze escaped his throat—wet, gurgling.
"H-help..." the body croaked. Bloodshot eyes turned to the hero. "P-please... help..."
Medusa grabbed the hero's arm, holding him back.
"Don't come any closer," she whispered. "It's a trap. It has to be." "But he's still alive," the hero looked at the twitching body. "Maybe if we…" "No," Dolor placed a heavy hand on the hero's shoulder. "Medusa's right. Too suspicious."
Yuki circled the group, her tails twitching nervously, her eyes glowing in the dim light. She created a small illusion—a stone—and threw it toward the hanging man.
The illusionary stone flew past the man's head. At that moment, the man spun around, his hands darting forward with inhuman speed, grabbing the empty space where the thrower should have been.
"Join us…" the man croaked, his voice changing. It deepened, echoing off invisible walls. His eyes flashed a dim green. "The noose awaits everyone…"
"Zombies," Yuki took a step back. "Hanged zombies. Excellent. Simply Excellent." The group moved forward cautiously, avoiding the hanging bodies. Ropes surrounded them on all sides, creating a labyrinth. It was impossible to walk straight—they had to weave between them, dodge swinging nooses, and step over ropes on the floor.
The light was dim, gray, coming from somewhere above, but the source was invisible. Everything was shades of gray—the dark gray ropes, the light gray floor, the gray dust in the air.
The air grew heavier with each breath. The Hero felt his lungs filling with difficulty, as if the air had become thicker, denser. Each breath required effort.
"Does anyone else feel it?" Medusa croaked, clutching her throat. "It's like... suffocating..."
"Yes," Yuki coughed. "The air feels somehow... wrong."
Dolor nodded silently. Even his mighty chest rose and fell heavily. They walked further, and the rope forest grew denser. More and more bodies hung around them—men, women, children, old people. All in nooses. All with twisted necks and bulging eyes.
Some were whispering.
Quietly, barely audible, but the words reached the hero's ears.
— Stay with us...
— Everyone stays here...
— The noose doesn't hurt...
— Quickly... you barely feel it...
The hero tried not to listen, but the voices penetrated his consciousness, settled there, and repeated in his head.
Ahead, a rope twitched.
The hero stopped, peering into the dim light. The rope—thick, as long as his arm—slid slowly across the floor. Like a snake. Silently, smoothly, the noose at the end opened wider.
"They're alive," Yuki whispered, retreating. "The ropes are alive."
The rope darted.
Fast, too fast for such a thick, unwieldy thing. It wrapped around Yuki's ankle and tightened. Yuki screamed and tried to break free, but the rope yanked her off her feet. She fell backward, the air wheezing from her lungs.
The rope tugged at her. Dragging her across the floor toward one of the hanging bodies, the noose swinging in anticipation. Dolor rushed forward, his sword flashing in the air. The blade severed the rope around Yuki's ankle. The two ends fell to the floor, twitching like a severed snake, then went still.
Yuki jumped to her feet, breathing heavily, her tails fluffed with fear and rage.
"Thank you," she croaked, rubbing her ankle. A red streak remained where the rope had been—a burn? Or a tourniquet mark?
"Be careful," Dolor said. "Ropes are dangerous."
They continued on, but now they took every step with caution. They looked down, watching the ropes around them. Some were indeed moving—slowly, barely noticeably, but they snaked across the floor, drawing closer.
The hero was stepping over one such rope when it suddenly shot upward. It wrapped around his neck and tightened into a noose. A suffocating grip tightened around his throat, cutting off his air instantly.
The hero grabbed the rope and tried to loosen the noose, but it was too tight. His fingers slid along the rough hemp, finding no hold.
The rope began to rise.
His feet lifted off the floor. The hero hung in midair, the noose squeezing his neck ever tighter. His face was flushed, his vision darkened. His lungs burned, screaming for air.
He saw Medusa running toward him, trident raised, aiming at the rope. He saw Dolor swinging his sword. He saw Yuki creating illusions, trying to distract the other ropes crawling toward them.
But he couldn't breathe anymore. His consciousness was swimming. Darkness was closing in on the edges of his vision.
Medusa threw her trident. The points pierced the rope above the hero's head, cutting it. The rope snapped, and the hero collapsed to the floor. The noose still squeezed his neck, but he could breathe—hoarsely, whistling, but still.
His fingers found the knot, untied the noose. The rope fell to the floor, coiled, and went silent.
The hero coughed, gasping for air. His throat burned, and a bruise was already forming on his neck.
"Are you okay?" Medusa dropped down beside him, helping him up.
"Yes," the hero croaked, his voice hoarse, as if someone had run sandpaper over his vocal cords. "Just... give me a second..."
They hadn't had time to catch their breath when a creaking sound came from all sides. Louder than before. Almost deafening in the silence of this place.
The hanged bodies began to move.
All at once. Dozens, hundreds of bodies jerked on their nooses. Arms that had hung lifelessly rose. Heads, bowed at unnatural angles, straightened. Eyes, empty or rotting, flashed a dull green light.
And they began to speak. Not one by one, but all together. A chorus of dead voices, hoarse and distorted.
— Join... us...
— The noose... awaits... each...
— You... too... will stay...
— Here... everyone... remains...
The nearest body—a woman in a torn dress, her neck twisted—stretched out her hands toward the hero. Her fingers were blackened, her nails had fallen off, but the movement was purposeful.
— Come... here... It doesn't hurt... It... doesn't hurt at all...
The hero retreated, but stumbled over the rope behind him. It immediately wrapped around his ankle and began to tighten.
"Run!" he shouted, trying to break free. He cut the rope around his leg with his dagger, wrenching himself free.
The group rushed forward, breaking through the forest of ropes. The hanged men reached out to them, trying to grab them. Cold, dead fingers clung to clothes, hair, skin.
Medusa slashed with her trident, severing the arm of one zombie. The arm fell to the floor, its fingers still moving, clawing at the ground.
Yuki was creating illusions—copies of herself running in different directions, distracting the dead. The real Yuki slipped past two hanging bodies, her katana flashing, decapitating both.
Dolor simply charged forward. The sword cut through ropes, bodies, everything in its path. Dead fingers grabbed him by the shoulders, arms, legs, but he didn't stop, he simply broke free and moved on.
The hero ran after him, a dagger in one hand, pushing away the clinging hands with the other. One body—a man with half his face missing—grabbed his wrist. The hero jerked, but the grip was iron.
"Stay..." the man croaked, pulling the hero closer. The stench of rot from his torn mouth was unbearable. "We... are all... here... together..."
The hero plunged the dagger into the man's eye socket. The blade pierced the eye, into the brain. The man jerked, the grip loosened. The hero broke free and ran on.
But the ropes kept coming. They hung so tightly that he had to squeeze sideways between them. Some wrapped around his body, trying to hold him back. The hero cut them with his dagger, broke free, and kept running.
And suddenly, ahead, through the curtain of ropes, he saw a figure.
Enormous. Three meters tall, maybe more. Dressed in a black robe with a hood that completely concealed his face, the figure held an axe—a gigantic one, with a blade the size of a door, a handle as thick as a log.
The Executioner.
The figure stood motionless, like a statue. But as the hero ran past, the Executioner's head turned, following the movement. His face was invisible beneath the hood—only darkness.
The Executioner took a step. Slow, heavy, his robe dragging along the floor. Then another. And another.
He followed them.
Not running, not hurrying. Just walking. Leisurely, inexorably, like death itself.
"He's coming for us!" Yuki shouted, looking over her shoulder.
"Don't stop!" the hero replied. "Just run!" They ran through a forest of ropes, dodging nooses, fighting off hanging zombies, and all the while they heard the Executioner's heavy footsteps behind them. Slow. Measured. Approaching.
The hero glanced over his shoulder. The Executioner was closer than a moment ago. His steps seemed slow, but each one covered an enormous distance. He wasn't running, but moving faster than he should have.
"He's gaining!" the hero shouted.
Yuki ran slightly ahead, her tails fluttering behind her. She created illusions as she ran—copies of herself scattered in all directions, confusing the hanging zombies. But she didn't notice the rope above her head.
The noose descended from above, silently. It wrapped around Yuki's neck and tightened instantly.
Yuki didn't even have time to scream. The rope yanked her upward with such force that her feet left the ground. She hung in midair, her hands darting toward her neck, trying to loosen the noose.
"YUKI!" Medusa stopped and spun around.
Yuki twitched on the noose, her legs kicking the air, searching for purchase. Her face was flushed, the veins bulging on her forehead. Her mouth opened, trying to breathe, but no air came out. Only a wet, gurgling wheeze.
Her tails wrapped around the rope above her head, trying to pull her body up, relieving the pressure on her neck. But the rope was too tight.
The hero rushed toward her, dagger in hand. He jumped, trying to reach the rope, but Yuki was hanging too high—three meters above the floor.
Medusa threw her trident. She aimed for the rope above Yuki's head, but missed by an inch—the tips whistled past. The trident sank into the ceiling somewhere in the darkness.
Yuki stopped twitching. Her body went limp, hanging lifeless. Her arms fell to her sides. Her tails sagged, hanging like dead snakes. Her face turned blue, her tongue lolling from her mouth. Her eyes were wide open, empty.
"No, no, NO!" Medusa screamed, trying to jump, to reach, but she couldn't.
A heavy footstep sounded very close.
The hero turned. The Executioner was three meters away. Enormous, implacable, with his axe raised. Under his hood—darkness, absolute and consuming.
"Run!" Dolor grabbed Medusa's hand and pulled. "She will rise again! Run!"
Medusa struggled, trying to break free, but Dolor was stronger. He dragged her along with him. The hero ran after him, taking one last look back at Yuki's body hanging from the noose.
The executioner approached the hanging body. He stopped beneath it. He raised his axe.
Swing.
The blade split Yuki's body in half, from head to groin. The two halves fell to the floor with a wet slap. Blood and entrails spilled out, drenching the stones.
The hero turned away, his stomach churning, but he kept running.
The executioner turned and followed them. Their footsteps thundered, echoing off invisible walls.
They ran through the maze of ropes, not knowing where they were going. The hero simply chose a direction at random—where there were fewer ropes, where he could run faster.
A sound came from behind—light, almost inaudible. The slap of bare feet on stone.
The hero glanced back as he ran.
Yuki was running after them. There was a deep red groove on her neck—the mark of the noose. She was breathing heavily, her face contorted with pain, but she ran.
Resurrected.
"Yuki!" Medusa shouted.
Yuki caught up with them and joined the group. Their tails dragged along the floor; they had no strength to lift them.
"It hurts," she croaked. "It hurts so much... My neck... I can feel it breaking... over and over..."
Phantom pain. The memory of death by strangulation.
They ran on, now four of them. The executioner pursued inexorably. His footsteps grew louder, closer.
Dolor stopped abruptly. "I'll hold him off," he said, turning. "Run. Find a way out."
"Dolor, no!" Medusa grabbed his arm. "He'll kill you!"
"I will rise again," Dolor broke free. "As always. Run."
He moved toward the Executioner. A huge warrior against an even more enormous figure of death.
The Executioner stopped. He raised his axe. Dolor raised his sword.
A second of silence.
Then the Executioner struck.
The axe fell with monstrous speed—too fast for such a huge weapon. Dolor tried to block with his sword, but the force of the blow was incredible. The sword flew out of his hands, flew to the side, and lodged itself in the ground, ten meters away.
A second strike.
The axe sank into Dolor's shoulder, cut through his collarbone, and slashed across his chest and down to his stomach. Blood gushed like a fountain. Dolor fell to his knees, clutching the gaping wound. The executioner raised his axe for the final blow.
Dolor raised his head and looked at him. His eyes were calm, accepting.
The axe descended. It split Dolor's head in half. Brains sprayed, and his body collapsed.
The hero, Medusa, and Yuki ran. They heard blows behind them, heard Dolor fall, but they didn't stop.
Ahead, a gap appeared. Not an exit—just an open space with fewer ropes.
They ran out into it and stopped.
In the center stood a pillar. Tall, stone, reaching into the darkness of the ceiling. And on the pillar was an inscription, carved in crude letters:
"EVERYONE RECEIVES THEIR ROPE. SOONER OR LATER."
And next to the pillar was a door. A simple wooden door, set right into the stone of the pillar.
The exit.
"OVER THERE!" the hero shouted, pointing.
They rushed to the door. Heavy footsteps sounded behind them. The Executioner was entering the open space.
The Hero grabbed the door handle and tugged. Locked.
"Damn it!" He tugged again, harder. It wouldn't budge.
Medusa slammed her trident against the door. The wood cracked, but the door didn't open.
Yuki created the illusion of a huge wall between them and the Executioner. The figure of death paused, studying the barrier. Then it simply passed through—the illusion dissipated like smoke.
The Executioner was five meters away.
The Hero slammed his shoulder into the door. Pain flared, but the door didn't budge.
Four meters.
Medusa slashed her trident at the lock. The metal clanged, and the lock cracked.
Three meters.
The Hero kicked. The door swung, but still held.
Two meters.
The Executioner raised his axe.
Dolor crashed into him from the side.
A huge warrior, freshly resurrected, covered in blood, rammed the Executioner with his entire body. The figure of death staggered, the axe missing, striking the stone next to the door. Sparks flew.
"RUN!" Dolor roared, holding the Executioner back.
The hero struck the door one last time. It flew off its hinges and fell inward.
Light poured from the doorway—bright, warm, alive.
"Dolor, follow us!" the hero shouted.
But the Executioner had already broken free. The axe swung up and down, slicing Dolor from shoulder to hip. His body split in two.
The hero grabbed Medusa and Yuki and shoved them through the door. He jumped after them. He fell to the floor of the corridor beyond.
The Executioner stepped toward the doorway. He raised his axe. But as soon as he tried to cross the threshold, an invisible force stopped him. He froze on the threshold, unable to enter.
He stood there, motionless, his axe raised. The darkness beneath his hood looked at them.
Then he slowly retreated. Turned around. He walked back into the labyrinth of ropes.
The hero lay on the corridor floor, breathing heavily. Medusa and Yuki were nearby, both covered in blood and dirt.
A few seconds later, Dolor materialized next to him. Resurrected. His body was whole, his wounds had disappeared. But his eyes were heavy, tired.
He sat silently against the wall.
Silence. Only their heavy breathing.
"Are we... out?" Yuki whispered.
The hero looked back. The door to the hanged floor was still open. Through it, a forest of ropes, hanging bodies, and a gray light could be seen.
And somewhere in the depths, a barely discernible figure. A man with a rope around his neck, standing to the side. Observer.
He nodded slowly. Once. Then he retreated into the shadows and disappeared.
"Yes," the hero replied, turning away. "We're out."
The metal door slammed shut with a dull thud. The click of the lock echoed down the hallway. The floor of the hanged men was behind them, but its presence still weighed on their consciousness, like an invisible noose around their throat.
The group sat on the cold stone floor, exhausted and broken. The silence of the hallway seemed deafening after the creaking of ropes and the wheezing of the hanged.
Yuki clutched her neck with both hands, her fingers sliding convulsively along the red furrow left by the noose. A deep stripe encircled her throat like a bloody necklace. Her tails lay lifeless around her, unable to even move.
"I remember," she whispered, her voice trembling and breaking. "How I died." How she couldn't breathe. Not a drop of air. How everything darkened at the edges, slowly, painfully. And then... the axe.
She closed her eyes, tears streaming down her cheeks.
"Cut me in half. I felt it. A whole second, before I died completely. I felt the blade entering... passing through..."
Her voice broke off, turning into quiet sobs.
Medusa silently approached, knelt down next to her, and hugged her. Tightly, keeping her from falling apart. Yuki pressed herself against her, burying her face in the gorgon's shoulder, and her tails instinctively curled around them both, seeking warmth and comfort.
"I'm sorry," Medusa whispered, stroking the kitsune's white hair. "I'm sorry I couldn't save you." I tried, but I missed...
"It's not your fault," Yuki shook her head weakly, still holding her shoulder. "No one is to blame. It's just... this dungeon. It takes everything."
The snakes on Medusa's head hissed softly, soothingly, leaning toward the kitsune, gently touching her cheeks with their scaly heads. A strange gesture of comfort from creatures that could bring death with a single glance.
Dolor sat alone, his back against the opposite wall. He stared into space before him, his eyes heavy and detached. His enormous hands lay lifeless in his lap, his sword lying on the floor nearby—for the first time in his life, he wasn't holding it.
He had been killed twice in one floor. Twice the Executioner's axe had cleaved his body, turning his flesh into a bloody mess. And he remembered every moment.
The hero struggled to his feet, his muscles aching with every movement. He walked over to Dolor and sat down next to him, sighing heavily. He placed his hand on the warrior's broad shoulder, feeling the muscles tense beneath his skin.
"Thank you," he said simply, putting everything he felt into those two words. "You saved us. You sacrificed yourself twice so we could get out. Without you, we wouldn't have..."
"I know," Dolor interrupted quietly, his voice hoarse and tired. "No need for words."
He nodded slowly, still staring into space. Then he turned his head, looked at the hero, and something flickered in his dark eyes—gratitude? Recognition? Pain?
The hero squeezed his shoulder tighter, silently conveying his support. Dolor covered his hand with hers—the gesture was unexpectedly gentle for such a huge warrior.
Yuki raised her head, looking at them through tears.
"We all died there," she whispered. "Everyone felt it. You..." she looked at Dolor, "twice. It... it's not fair."
"There is no justice in the dungeon," Dolor shook his head. "There is only survival. And death."
Medusa finally released Yuki, but remained seated next to him. Her hand rested on the kitsune's shoulder—an odd gesture for two creatures who usually competed for the hero's attention. But now, the rivalry didn't matter. Now, there was only the pain they shared.
The hero stood, walked toward them, and sank to the floor between Medusa and Yuki. He hugged them both—the gorgon with one arm, the kitsune with the other. He pulled them close.
"Listen to me," he said quietly but firmly. "We've been through this. Yes, it was painful. Yes, it was scary. Yes, we died. But we're here. All four of us. Alive."
"Alive," Yuki echoed, clinging to him. "But for how long? Until the next floor? Until the next death?"
"Until we get out of here," the hero replied. "We don't give up. Never."
Medusa rested her head on his shoulder, her snakes curled wearily around her head.
"You say that after every floor," she whispered. "And each time I believe you a little less." "Then I'll repeat it until you believe again," the hero kissed the top of her head, then turned and touched his lips to Yuki's forehead. "We're a team. Family. And we don't abandon our own."
Yuki sobbed, her tails curling around his waist.
"Idiot," she whispered through her tears. "Don't say such things... You make me hope..."
"Okay," he hugged her tighter. "Hope. Hold on to that hope. It's all we have."
Dolor watched them from afar. A shadow flickered across his stern face... not a smile, no. But something close to it. Something warm and long forgotten.
"The hero is right," he said quietly. "As long as we're together, there's a chance."
They sat in the silent hallway for a long time. The minutes passed slowly, unnoticed. No one kept track of the time. All that mattered was this moment of peace, warmth, and closeness.
Another floor cleared. Three more deaths added to the tally—Yuki hanged and chopped up, Dolor killed twice by the Executioner's axe. Three deaths, each leaving invisible scars on their souls.
But they survived. Again.
And they continued to climb.
Up. Always up. Even when every step was difficult, even when they just wanted to lie down and never get up.
Toward the unknown end of this endless nightmare.