The coolness of the stone was a relief after the heat of the village. The hero sat with his back against the wall, feeling his ability to think clearly gradually return. The burning within him receded slowly, like embers that smolder for a long time before finally dying out. Each breath was slightly easier than the last.
The seraph's cry still echoed somewhere deep in his skull, a ghostly pain reminding him of its presence. With each death, something within him grew thinner—not the body, which returned whole, but something else. The soul, perhaps. If there was even one left after all those resurrections.
The hero ran his palms over his face, wiping away sweat and grime. His fingers trembled less than before. This was progress. Or perhaps acclimation to the horror. The line between them blurred with each new floor.
The corridor ahead was long, receding into darkness. The black stone walls absorbed the light, making the space oppressive and crushing. But there was no choice—only forward. Always forward.
Bare feet stomped on the cold floor as the hero rose and moved deeper into the passage. His footsteps echoed muffled by the blackness of the stone.
The corridor stretched on for a long time. Minutes ticked by, but there was no end in sight. Only black stone to the sides and ahead, only silence broken by one's own breathing and footsteps.
Then the light appeared.
Faint, flickering, like candlelight. Orange reflections danced across the black walls, creating the illusion of movement where none existed. The air changed—it became heavier, richer. The scent of incense, wax, something musty and ancient.
The corridor widened, turning into a high, arched passage. And beyond him, a space opened up, the sight of which involuntarily slowed the hero's pace.
The Cathedral.
A vast Gothic cathedral stretched before him, so vast that the ceiling was lost in the darkness high above. The black stone of the walls was covered in carvings—artful, detailed, depicting scenes that, upon closer inspection, revealed themselves to be perversions of everything sacred. Angels with torn wings. Saints with gouged-out eyes. Crucifixes where the figures writhed in agony, not from the pain of salvation, but from something else, darker.
Stained-glass windows lined the walls, tall and narrow, but instead of outside light, they emitted their own deathly glow—dull, greenish, sickly. The images on them were simultaneously familiar and alien—religious motifs, but distorted, inverted. A Madonna and Child, only her face was a skull, and the child a skeleton. Saint George slaying the dragon, but his spear was aimed at his own chest.
Rows of wooden pews, darkened by time, lined the aisle to the altar. And on these pews sat they.
Parishioners.
Zombies in decayed clothing, their flesh hanging in tatters from their bones. Ghouls with elongated snouts and long claws, hunched and emaciated. Vampires in ancient vestments and dresses, pale as shrouds, with eyes the color of dried blood. Ghosts, translucent and misty. Skeletons in varying states of preservation. Chimeras—creatures composed of parts of different bodies, stitched together with crude stitches.
Hundreds of them. Maybe thousands. All sat facing the altar, motionless, silent. Some held prayer books, decayed and crumbling. Others folded their hands in prayer. Still others simply stared ahead with empty sockets or clouded eyes.
A skeleton in luxurious clerical vestments stood at the altar. The cassock was black, embroidered with gold thread in the shape of inverted crosses and strange runes. The mitre on the skull shimmered with a dull glow in the candlelight. In its skeletal hands, the skeleton held a book—an enormous leather-bound tome.
Service.
They were conducting the service.
The hero stood in the shadow of the doorway, hesitating to enter fully. Instinct screamed of danger, causing his muscles to tense, preparing for flight or battle.
The skeletal priest raised his hand, and his voice rang out—dry, rasping, yet surprisingly loud, echoing throughout the cathedral:
"We pray to the Lords of Darkness." We pray for the return of our flesh. We pray for blood in our veins. We pray for breath in our lungs.
The parishioners responded in chorus—voices varied, from groans to hisses, from wheezes to howls, but all blending into a single, somber melody:
— Give us back our flesh. Give us back our life. Give us back what was taken from us.
—We, rejected by the light, turn to darkness," the priest continued, turning the page of the book. "We, deprived of grace, pray for damnation. For it is better to be a living sinner than a dead saint."
— "Give us back our flesh," the parishioners echoed. "Give us back our life."
The service continued, and the hero realized they were sincere. There was genuine pleading in those voices, genuine desperation. They wanted to return. To be alive again. To feel the warmth of blood, the beating of a heart, the taste of food. Everything that makes existence life, not just existence.
The hero looked around, searching for an exit. The cathedral was enormous, but the layout was simple—the central nave led to the altar, and beyond that, judging by the architecture, there should have been another passage. An exit to the next floor. He had to walk through the entire cathedral. Past hundreds of undead. Without attracting attention.
He took a cautious step inside, pressing himself against the wall. The stone floor beneath his feet was covered in dust and something like ash. The trail remained clear, visible. He had to walk as quietly as possible.
The parishioners remained motionless, completely absorbed in the service. The hero moved along the wall, slowly, step by step.
"Accept our sacrifices," the priest's voice echoed throughout the cathedral. "Accept our pain. Accept our loyalty."
Smoke rose from the altar—thick, black, smelling of sulfur and burnt flesh. The candles flared brighter, casting strange shadows.
The hero continued to move. Halfway there. The parishioners were still motionless. Perhaps he could go unnoticed—
His foot brushed against something on the floor. A small stone, broken off from the wall. It rolled, softly clattering against the stone.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
In the absolute silence between prayers, the sound resounded like thunder.
The nearest ghoul twitched. Its head turned, its muzzle, its jaws extended, toward the hero. Yellow eyes stared, narrowed. Its nostrils flared, sucking in air. "Alive..." the ghoul hissed, his voice full of hunger.
The bench creaked as he began to rise.
"Quiet!" the priest's voice rang out, harsh and commanding. "The service is not over!"
The ghoul froze, frozen in a half-bent position. He looked at the hero, drool dripping from his fangs, but did not move.
The hero also froze, holding his breath. His heart beat so loudly it seemed the entire cathedral could hear him.
A second stretched into an eternity. Two. Three.
The ghoul slowly sank back onto the bench. But his gaze remained fixed, continuing to watch, to observe.
The service resumed:
"We pray for the flesh..."
"Return our flesh..." the parishioners chimed in.
The hero waited for the moment when the chorus of voices reached a crescendo, drowning out all sound, and then continued moving. Faster now, without looking back at the ghoul, who continued to watch him with a hungry gaze.
The altar was very close. The skeletal priest stood with his back to him, continuing the service. Beyond the altar, a passageway was visible—narrow, dark, but leading onward.
A few more meters.
To the right, on a bench, sat a vampire. Pale, in an ancient doublet, with long black hair. He slowly turned his head as the hero passed. Red eyes met his. The vampire smiled, baring his fangs.
"After the service," he whispered quietly, barely audible. "After the service, you are mine."
The hero quickened his pace, trying not to break into a run. The altar. The passageway was right behind him.
"We bow before the Lords," the priest proclaimed, raising his hands to the ceiling. "We bow before the Darkness." We bow—
The hero's foot stepped on the edge of the decayed carpet near the altar. The fabric gave way and tore with a soft crack.
The priest turned around.
The skull's empty eye sockets stared at the hero. A moment of silence. Then the jaw slowly parted, and a voice rang out, filled with fury:
— DEFINITOR!
The cathedral erupted in movement.
The congregation leaped from their seats, all at once, with howls, growls, and screams. Pews toppled and broke. The undead rushed forward, toward the hero, an avalanche of rotting flesh, bones, and claws.
The hero dashed toward the aisle. Without turning, without thinking—just running. His bare feet slipped on the stone floor, his hands clutched the edge of the altar, helping him turn.
Something grabbed his ankle. The ghoul, who had managed to reach him first. Claws sank into his skin, jerking him backward. The hero fell, hitting his chin on the stone.
The ghoul was pulling him back toward the crowd. Its mouth opened, aiming for his leg. The hero rolled onto his back, his other foot slamming into the ghoul's face. Once. Twice. Three times. The grip loosened for a moment—long enough for him to break free.
The hero stood and rushed toward the passage. Behind him, he could hear the roar of pursuit, growls, the stomping of many feet, the bone-crackling of skeletons.
The passage was narrow, barely wide enough to fit through. The hero squeezed through, the stone scraping against his shoulders and back. Squeezing until the space widened into a small room.
Behind him, in the passage, the vanguard of the undead was stuck. The ghoul rushed forward, but his body wouldn't fit through the narrow space. Behind him, the others pressed, pushing, creating a traffic jam.
"COME BACK!" the priest roared from somewhere in the depths of the cathedral. "COME BACK AND BE PUNISHED!"
The hero wasn't listening. He looked around the room—small, square, with a door in the opposite wall. But it wasn't a simple door—heavy, wooden, carved. And on it, in burnt letters, was a sign:
CONFESSIONAL
There were no other exits. Only the door.
Behind him, the ghoul began to squeeze through, his skin tearing against the stone, but he stubbornly pushed on.
The hero approached the door and pushed. It gave way easily, almost without resistance, opening inward. Behind it lay a small booth, wooden walls, a narrow, barred window leading into the next room. A classic confessional, like those found in churches.
Going in was the last thing he wanted to do. But he had no choice.
The hero stepped inside, closing the door behind him. The bolt clicked, locking him in.
It was dark inside, smelling of old wood and dust. Cramped. It was stuffy. The hero sat down on a bench, pressing his back against the wall, trying to catch his breath.
A ghoul's roar came from outside, then pounding on the door. The wood creaked, but held. The pounding continued—boom, boom, boom—steady, insistent.
Then they died down.
The undead's voices faded, growing quieter. Apparently, they realized the door couldn't be broken down quickly. Or they decided to wait outside until their prey came out.
The hero exhaled, closing his eyes. Okay. A little respite. Now I can think about what to do next—
A voice came from behind the bars. Quiet but clear:
—Confess, my child.
The hero jerked, opening his eyes. Behind the bars, in the adjacent confessional, a silhouette was dimly visible. A priest? But not a skeleton. Something else. "Confess," the voice repeated, more insistently. "The confessional demands sins."
"I... I don't want to confess," the hero forced out.
"Everyone who enters is obligated," the voice grew harsher. "The confessional will draw out sins. By free will or by force."
The walls began to move. Slowly, barely noticeably, they contracted, drawing closer. The space grew smaller.
"Speak," the voice commanded. "Or the confessional will take you."
The hero tried to stand and push the door. It was locked. The bolt wouldn't budge. The walls continued to compress, the wood creaking under the pressure.
"What do you want to hear?!" he shouted.
"Sins. Your sins. All of them."
"I... I don't remember! I don't remember who I was before!"
It was the truth. The memory of his past life was hazy, blurred. The faces of loved ones, if they had ever existed, were erased. Their names forgotten. All that remained was this—the dungeon, the deaths, the pain.
"Then remember," the voice hissed, and something reached out from behind the bars.
Thin black threads, like a spider's web, but alive, writhing. They reached toward the hero, touched his chest.
Pain.
Not physical. Deeper. As if someone had thrust their hands inside, where they shouldn't be touched, and began rummaging, searching, pulling.
Memories surfaced, forcibly torn from the depths of memory.
A lie. He had lied to someone close, looked into their eyes and lied. Betrayal. He betrayed trust, sold out someone who considered him a friend.
Greed. He took more than he needed, without sharing, without caring for others.
Every sin materialized, drawn like threads from his chest. A physical sensation—they were coming out, reaching for the bars, where the silhouette greedily sucked them in.
"More," the voice demanded. "More sins."
The memories continued to surface, one after another. Small offenses, big mistakes, moments of weakness. Everything he had ever done wrong, everything he was ashamed of or had never thought about.
The hero screamed, trying to push away the threads, but they held fast, digging into his soul, refusing to let go.
The walls closed in tighter. The space became even narrower, barely the size of a coffin. The threads pulled the last shreds of memories, the last sins, from his chest.
And suddenly—they snapped. The threads retracted behind the bars. The walls stopped, froze. Silence.
"Enough," came the voice, now satisfied, almost sated. "Sins accepted. You may go."
Click. The bolt on the door slid open.
The hero lay on the confessional floor, breathing heavily, feeling an emptiness inside. As if a part of him had been ripped out, leaving a hole.
He forced himself to rise, pushing the door. It opened easily.
The room outside was empty. The undead had gone. Only further on, in the depths, another passageway was visible—the exit from here.
The hero staggered toward it, holding onto the wall. His soul ached, exhausted by confession. But he kept going. Because stopping meant giving up.
And he wasn't about to give up.
999,996 floors.
Another one behind him.