The Chosen Pervert

Chapter 13: Months in Darkness

The first three days were the worst.

I called for Aldric until my voice gave out. I screamed his name into the ash-choked air until my throat bled. I searched the scorched earth around where I'd woken, looking for any sign of him—a scrap of his robes, a footprint, anything.

Nothing.

He was gone.

And I was alone.

Truly, completely alone.

The realization didn't hit all at once. It came in waves, each one worse than the last.

Aldric might be dead.

Rue might be dead.

Mom might be dead.

Dad might be dead.

I might be the only one who survived.

That thought—that horrible, suffocating thought—nearly broke me.

I spent the first night huddled behind a jagged outcropping of black rock, my knees pulled to my chest, my hands shaking so badly I could barely cast a simple light spell to keep the darkness at bay.

The sky above me was blood red. Not sunset red. Not the warm, comforting red of a campfire.

Blood red.

Like the sky itself was bleeding.

And it never changed.

No sun rose. No moon appeared. Just that constant, eerie red glow that made everything look wrong. Alien. Evil.

The air was thick with ash and sulfur, burning my lungs with every breath. My eyes watered constantly. My throat felt raw and scraped, like I'd been swallowing glass.

The ground beneath me was scorched and cracked, radiating heat that burned through the soles of my boots. In the distance, jagged black mountains loomed like broken teeth, their peaks wreathed in fire. Rivers of molten lava carved through the earth, glowing like veins of blood, hissing and spitting as they flowed.

This place wasn't just hostile.

It was alive with malevolence.

The land itself wanted me dead.

I survived the first week on instinct and desperation.

I hunted what I could—small, twisted creatures that scurried through the rocks, their flesh bitter and foul-tasting but edible. I found water in shallow streams that ran between the lava flows, checking them carefully for demons before I drank. The water tasted like metal and ash, but it kept me alive.

I used magic constantly. Light spells to see in the darkness. Barrier spells to protect myself while I slept. Fire spells to cook the meat I scavenged.

And offensive spells.

So many offensive spells.

Because the creatures here didn't stop.

Demons of all shapes and sizes prowled the landscape. Some were towering monstrosities with horns like spears and claws that could rend stone. Others were small and vicious, darting through the shadows with teeth like razors.

Goblins roamed in packs, their eyes glowing in the red light, their laughter high-pitched and manic.

Orcs moved in warbands, brutal and powerful, their weapons crude but effective.

And there were other things. Things I didn't have names for. Things that defied description.

They were always hunting.

And I was always running.

The first time I saw what they did to people, I vomited until there was nothing left in my stomach.

It was the second week. Maybe the third. Time was already starting to blur.

I'd been moving through a valley between two mountains when I heard the screaming.

High-pitched. Desperate. Human.

I should have run the other way.

I should have hidden.

But I didn't.

I crept closer, my heart pounding, my hands trembling as I cast a concealment spell to hide myself.

And I saw them.

A group of refugees—maybe a dozen people—huddled together in a makeshift camp. They looked like they'd been scattered by the Calamity, just like me. Men, women, children. All of them filthy and terrified.

And surrounding them were orcs.

I watched, frozen, as the orcs dragged a woman from the group. She screamed and fought, but they were too strong. They threw her to the ground, and—

I looked away.

But I couldn't block out the sounds.

The screaming. The laughter. The wet sounds that followed.

I pressed my hands over my ears, my eyes squeezed shut, my whole body shaking.

Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.

But it didn't stop.

When I finally looked again, the woman was dead. Her body broken and discarded like trash.

And the orcs had moved on to the next victim.

I stayed hidden until they were done. Until they'd killed everyone in the camp and moved on, dragging a few survivors with them—captives, probably, for whatever horrors awaited them later.

When the orcs were gone, I stumbled into the camp.

Bodies everywhere.

Men with their throats slit. Children with their skulls crushed. Women—

I couldn't look at the women.

I fell to my knees and vomited again, my stomach heaving even though there was nothing left to bring up.

This is hell, I thought. This is actual hell.

And I was trapped here.

The weeks bled together after that.

I lost count of the days. Lost track of time entirely.

I moved constantly, never staying in one place for long. I learned to recognize the signs of danger—the distant roar of demons, the smell of burning flesh, the sound of screaming carried on the wind.

I learned to move like Rue had taught me. Quietly. Carefully. Observing everything, trusting nothing.

I learned to kill without hesitation.

A goblin that got too close? Dead.

A demon that spotted me? Dead.

An orc that wandered into my path? Dead.

I didn't feel guilty about it. I didn't feel anything about it.

I was just... numb.

The horrors I witnessed became routine.

I saw villages of refugees massacred, their bodies piled high and left to rot in the red light.

I saw demons torturing captives, their screams echoing across the wasteland.

I saw goblins feasting on human flesh, their faces smeared with blood.

I saw things I couldn't even process. Things my brain refused to fully comprehend because if I did, I'd break.

And I kept moving.

Because if I stopped, I'd die.

My body was failing.

I was losing weight despite the meat I scavenged. My ribs were visible through my torn shirt. My arms were skeletal. My face was gaunt, my cheeks hollow.

My clothes were in tatters, barely holding together. My boots had holes in them, and the scorched ground burned my feet with every step.

My skin was covered in burns from the harsh red light. Blisters formed and popped and formed again, leaving raw, weeping sores that never fully healed.

I was sick. Constantly. The contaminated air and water were poisoning me slowly. I coughed up blood sometimes. My vision blurred. My hands shook.

I was covered in cuts and bruises and burns. Minor wounds that never had time to heal before new ones appeared.

I was dying.

Slowly, painfully, inevitably.

But I kept moving.

Because I had to.

Because if I stopped, I'd never see Rue again.

I talked to her sometimes.

Not out loud. Not at first.

But in my head, I'd have conversations with her.

"Rue, I found water today. It tasted like s**t, but it's better than nothing."

"Rue, I killed three goblins. You would've been proud. I used the move you taught me—the one where you go for the throat."

"Rue, I'm so tired. I don't know how much longer I can do this."

Sometimes, I'd imagine her responses.

"You're doing great, Wyatt. Just keep going."

"I'm proud of you."

"Don't give up. I'm waiting for you."

But as the weeks turned into months, the conversations became darker.

"Rue, are you even alive?"

"Rue, what if you didn't make it?"

"Rue, what if I never see you again?"

And eventually:

"Rue, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

The flashbacks started around the third month.

I'd be walking, and suddenly I'd be back in the village, watching the sky tear open.

I'd be hiding from a demon, and suddenly I'd see my mother's face as she was pulled into the portal.

I'd be trying to sleep, and suddenly I'd hear Rue screaming my name.

"Wyatt!"

Her voice, raw with terror, echoed in my mind constantly.

I replayed that moment over and over. Our eyes meeting across the chaos. Her running toward me. The portal opening between us.

I should have run to her.

I should have grabbed her.

I should have done something.

But I didn't.

And now she was gone.

If she's even alive.

The thought haunted me.

What if she was dead? What if she'd been killed in the Calamity, or captured by demons, or—

I couldn't finish the thought.

Because if Rue was dead, then what was the point of surviving?

By the sixth month, I was barely holding on.

I'd stopped talking to imaginary Rue. Stopped having conversations in my head.

I just... existed.

I moved. I hunted. I hid. I killed.

I didn't think. I didn't feel.

I was a ghost, drifting through a nightmare world, waiting for it to end.

Dark thoughts crept in.

What if I just stopped?

What if I let the next demon catch me?

What if I just... gave up?

It would be easy. So easy.

One moment of weakness. One mistake. And it would all be over.

No more pain. No more fear. No more this.

But every time the thought surfaced, I'd see Rue's face.

Her golden eyes. Her fierce expression. Her voice saying my name.

"Wyatt."

And I'd keep moving.

Because if there was even a chance she was alive, I had to survive.

I had to find her.

It happened on what I think was the seventh month.

I'd lost track of time completely by then. Days blurred into weeks, weeks into months. The blood-red sky never changed. The ash never stopped falling.

I was moving through a narrow canyon, my body weak and trembling, when I heard them.

Goblins.

Hundreds of them.

Their high-pitched laughter echoed off the canyon walls, growing louder, closer.

I turned to run, but they were already there.

Pouring into the canyon from both sides, their eyes glowing, their weapons raised.

Fuck.

I raised my hands and cast the first spell that came to mind.

"Ignis Tempestas!"

A storm of fire erupted from my palms, incinerating the goblins in the front ranks.

But more kept coming.

I cast again. And again. And again.

Lightning. Ice. Fire. Barriers.

I threw everything I had at them, my mana burning through my reserves at a terrifying rate.

Dozens of goblins fell. Then hundreds.

But there were too many.

They swarmed me, their claws tearing at my clothes, their teeth snapping at my skin.

I felt pain explode across my arm as one of them bit down. Another slashed at my leg, and I stumbled.

No. No, no, no.

I cast a barrier spell, throwing them back, but my mana was almost gone.

My vision blurred. My legs gave out.

I collapsed to my knees, blood pouring from a dozen wounds.

The goblins closed in, their laughter deafening.

This is it.

This is how I die.

Not heroic. Not meaningful.

Just... consumed by goblins on a nightmare world.

I raised my hand, trying to cast one more spell, but my mana was gone.

My vision tunneled. The world faded to grey.

And all I could think was:

I didn't get to see Rue one last time.

I didn't get to tell her I loved her.

I didn't get to hold her one more time.

I didn't get to say goodbye.

I'm sorry, Rue.

I'm sorry I couldn't get back to you.

The goblins lunged.

And then—

BOOM.

A massive blast of magic erupted through the canyon, obliterating the goblins in an instant.

The shockwave threw me backward, and I hit the ground hard, my vision swimming.

Through the haze, I saw a figure.

Tall. Robed. Bleeding.

Aldric.

He moved with ruthless efficiency, his magic tearing through the remaining goblins like they were nothing. Fire. Lightning. Ice. Death.

Within seconds, the canyon was silent.

Aldric turned toward me, his face pale and drawn, his robes torn and bloodstained.

"Wyatt," he said, his voice hoarse.

I tried to speak, but no words came out.

He crossed the distance between us in three strides and dropped to his knees beside me.

"Wyatt, can you hear me?"

I nodded weakly.

Relief flooded his face. "Thank the Gods. I thought—" He stopped, his jaw tightening. "I've been searching for you for months. I came for you. I promised I would."

Tears blurred my vision.

He came for me.

He's alive.

I'm not alone.

Aldric pulled me into his arms, and I broke.

Sobs tore from my chest, raw and desperate. I clung to him like a lifeline, my whole body shaking.

"It's okay," he said quietly, his hand on the back of my head. "You're safe now. I've got you."

But I wasn't safe.

Not really.

Because Rue was still out there.

And I didn't know if she was alive.

Aldric patched me up as best he could, using healing spells to close the worst of my wounds. He gave me water—clean water, not the poisoned streams I'd been drinking from—and food that didn't taste like ash.

"We need to move," he said after a while. "This place isn't safe."

I nodded, my throat too tight to speak.

"Can you walk?"

I forced myself to my feet, my legs trembling. "I can walk."

Aldric studied me for a long moment, his expression grim.

He looked as bad as I felt. His face was gaunt, his eyes hollow. His robes were torn and burned, and I could see bandages beneath them, stained with blood.

He'd been fighting his way across this continent to find me.

And he'd succeeded.

"Let's go," he said quietly.

We began walking, leaving the canyon—and the bodies—behind.

The blood-red sky stretched endlessly above us.

But for the first time in months, I wasn't alone.

And that was enough.

For now.