Guts entered the gaping maw of the Whale like a living projectile, a blade hurled by his own fury. The jaws snapped shut behind him with a muffled clap, smothered by the thick, viscous air. He didn't look back. He was already somewhere else. More than a battle — this was a passage. A penetration. A return into the night.
The tunnel was dark, clammy, strangely warm. Every step sank his boots into squelching flesh that groaned beneath him. Thick strands of saliva, like ropes, clung to his arms and face. The stench was abominable — a sickly blend of iron, rot, and ancient humors.
The walls pulsed, vomiting black blood and groans of pain. Guts struck. A first blow — a splash of hot entrails against his armor. Then another. He slashed like cutting through the sea, seeking an exit his eyes could no longer see. His sword was no longer just a weapon — it was a compass, an extension of raw will.
The Whale screamed, its colossal body convulsing with uncontrollable spasms. It had never been wounded like this. Never invaded. Each cut was a wound to the monster's pride — a blasphemy against its supposed immortality.
Guts kept going. He walked — or swam, it was hard to tell as the ground gave way. His body was a machine, but his mind began to falter. Each step grew heavier. The blood clung to his arms, to his eyelids, to his thoughts. The sounds were muffled, swallowed by living meat.
His brand throbbed. A sharp, rhythmic pain — each pulse like a fist in his neck. A warning. An alarm. He gritted his teeth, ignoring the vertigo gnawing at his balance.
Then something broke.
He was no longer in the Whale. He was somewhere else.
A place where flesh gave way to memory. Where the walls breathed the past.
Casca. Judeau. Corkus. Pippin.
Their faces. Their wounds. Their final cries suspended in the putrid air.
Guts took a step back, nearly slipping on the slick floor. His hand clenched his sword's hilt. His breath was short. Too short.
Clawed hands burst from the walls — trembling, hungry. They judged him, tested him.
He struck. Once. Then again. But this time, each blow was an echo. A fight against the unseen. He wasn't cutting through flesh — he was cutting through memories.
And the Berserker in him stirred again. Not to survive. To find. To unearth the core of hatred where he'd been thrown.
The brand pulsed harder. Each throb screamed: "You're not done. You've never been done. You should have died."
His shoulder gave. His knees wavered. A black vertigo swallowed him.
And in that abyss…
Griffith. Or rather, Femto.
His voice seeped straight into his veins — a toxic essence.
"You're finished." "You're the shadow of a failed dream."
He wanted to scream. To strike. But his limbs were heavy, inert. He wanted to flee. But there was no elsewhere. Just this rotting heart of the world, where each beat nailed him deeper down.
And the dead watched. Always.
Then, through the void — a spark. A flicker. An image.
Rem. Emilia. Ram.
Faces. Steady. Alive. Anchored. Stubborn.
A breath. A whisper of will.
And suddenly, a hand.
Not an illusion. Not a memory's voice. A solid arm. Rough. Alive.
Wilhelm.
He said nothing. He didn't need to. His gesture was enough: "Not this time. Not alone."
Guts felt his sword slip. Not abandoned — released.
The blood still fell. The nightmare was still there.
But he was rising.
Not a hero. Not a survivor. Just a man.
And the hand held firm.