The Gray

Chapter 5

The Gray floated through the grimy alleyways of Vain City. The gas lamps casted long, distorted shadows that mirrored his current twisted form.

He was no longer Gray Anderson, the sardonic content creator. He was something else, something colder, fueled by righteous fury.

His target: Dean Harold, a greasy tick on the city's underbelly.

Dean, Gray knew, was predictable. Every night, the man made his rounds, visiting his harem of wives in his opulent mansion. It was a grotesque ritual of self-indulgence. Gray decided to make Dean's nightly routine a living hell.

Night one. Dean, reeking of cheap cologne and self-importance, entered the room of his fourth wife, a woman named Milly. She was young, barely out of her teens, her eyes hollow with a quiet despair that Gray could practically taste.

Dean began with his usual droning about his business successes, his voice thick with arrogance.

This was Gray's cue.

He focused, reaching out with his newfound powers. [Nightmare Shapeshift] crackled to life. The room began to subtly warp.

The ornate wallpaper seemed to writhe, the portraits on the wall morphing into grotesque caricatures of Dean himself, each one leering with predatory hunger.

Milly didn't seem to notice, lost in her own internal world. Gray had learned how to control his power. There would be no more collateral damage on his watch.

Dean, however, paused mid-sentence. A flicker of unease appeared in his eyes. "What in the blazes...?"

Then came [Banshee's Requiem]. Gray amplified the subtle unease. He turned it into a symphony of dread.

A high-pitched whine, inaudible to other human's ears, resonated deep within Dean's skull. The air grew heavy, thick with the stench of decay and fear.

The portraits on the wall began to whisper. Their voices were a chorus of Dean's darkest thoughts and insecurities.

"An ant... worthless... a pig... they all hate you..."

Dean clutched his head. His face contorted in confusion and terror. "Stop it! What is happening?"

Gray intensified the nightmare. He wished he could turn the scent of roses in the room into acrid, rotting flesh smell. But he didn't have that power.

Instead, he conjured the image of Milly's dead father. His face was gaunt and accusing, towering over Dean.

"You took her, you stole her life," the phantom snarled. Its voice was laced with centuries of grief.

Dean screamed, stumbling backward. "Get away from me! Guards!"

But the bodyguards outside came, but they heard nothing, saw nothing. They were untouched by Gray's spectral torment. They only saw their employer babbling incoherently, sweating profusely, his face pale with terror.

One of the bodyguards was someone Gray was wearied of. It was because there was a slight aura of supernatural in him. But this person could not detect him at all.

This continued for days. And it got worse and worse as Gray got bolder and more unrestraint.

Every night, Gray would visit Dean and tortured him. He started in a different wife's room. He continued the next day in a different place, never in the same place.

Each time, he was tailoring the nightmare to Dean's specific fears and vulnerabilities. He made him relive his worst business deals. He reversed the moments where he cheated and exploited others.

He showed him the faces of those he had wronged. Their eyes were burning him with hatred.

The power of Gray's nightmarish torture increased with the accumulation of fear in Dean's heart. It even affected his body.

The burning phantom of his dead enemy strangled him. And burned mark truly appeared in his neck.

Slowly, Dean unraveled. His once-booming voice became a trembling whisper. His opulent clothes hung loosely on his obese, yet somehow looked gaunt, frame.

He stopped eating, stopped sleeping. The once-powerful tyrant was reduced to a whimpering wreck. He was haunted by phantoms only he could see and hear.

His doctors diagnosed him with a nervous condition. They prescribed useless tonics and sedatives.

His business partners whispered behind his back, questioning his sanity. His wives, initially relieved by his erratic behavior, now regarded him with a mixture of fear and disgust.

He tried asking the Church of Purity for help. The deacon, one who dabbled in mysticism, came.

But, to Gray's surprise and relief, he could not even detect Gray. And his prayers and rituals could only make Gray felt a slight discomfort.

Gray made an invisible grin. The Essence attribute of 99 was indeed 'mythical'. He no longer felt afraid with those possessing slight supernatural aura.

He decided to end the torture. Ironically, he decided to end it with the nightmare originated from the curse that started this vengeance.

Gray brought Dean a nightmare of being attacked by the same curse. He made him imagine purplish flaming creatures entered his body.

They moved around under his skin like something was crawling there, pulsing across his body. Creepy sound effects of inhuman shriek and devilish murmurs accompanied the vision.

The nightmare sent Dean on the floor, convulsing, spitting up blood. After a while, he choked, gasped, and then went still. Dead.

Gray watched it all, a cold satisfaction settling within his ethereal core. Justice, however twisted and spectral, was being served.

But Dean was just the appetizer. Sean Barack was next.

Barack, the witchdoctor, resided in his luxurious mansion on the outskirts of the city. It was a place of magnificent beauty from the outside. But, it was reeking of sulfur and decay in the inside.

Gray found him two days later in the midst of a ritual, chanting in a guttural tongue, surrounded by bubbling cauldrons and grotesque fetishes. He was summoning something. Something nasty.

A swirling vortex of black smoke filled the center of the room. From within the darkness, a pair of crimson eyes ignited, followed by a roar that shook the very foundations of the hut.

A demonic creature, wreathed in flames, began to materialize. It was a hulking monstrosity of muscle and bone, its teeth like jagged knives, its skin scarred and burned.

Barack, his eyes gleaming with dark triumph, raised his hands, preparing to bind the creature to his will.

'Not today,' Gray whispered, his voice a chilling echo.

This time, he didn't just want to scare his target to death. He wanted to obliterate him with his own craft. He wanted to give warning to anyone else trying to play with demonic power.

Gray focused all his spectral energy, channeling [Nightmare Shapeshift] and [Banshee's Requiem] into a single, devastating surge.

He flooded Barack's mind with images of his own demise.

The witchdoctor saw himself torn apart by the demon he sought to control. He saw his bones shattered, his flesh devoured.

He heard the creature's mocking laughter. It was mixed with the screams of his victims, and the maddening whispers of the demonic entities he had enslaved.

The full force of Gray's focused power didn't just affect Barack. The hut vibrated with a cacophony of horrifying sounds: the grinding of bones, the tearing of flesh, the wails of tormented souls. The air was filled with dark mist, twisting and distorting the very fabric of reality.

Every servant Barack had in his mansion experienced the impact. Some fainted directly while the others trembled with crippling fear. Only a few managed to escape from the mansion.

In the summoning chamber, the situation was even more terrible. The demon, still half-formed, recoiled. Its crimson eyes widened in confusion and terror. Barack's chant faltered. His grip on the creature weakened significantly... and broke down completely.

The demon was now free from Barack's control. It turned its burning gaze upon the witchdoctor. It seemed to understand, instinctively, that Barack was the source of its torment. A slow, predatory grin spread across its monstrous face.

Barack realized the gravity of his situation. He overcame his fear and tried to regain control, chanting frantically. But it was too late. The demon lunged, its claws tearing through the air.

Gray watched, a detached observer, as the demon savaged Barack. The witchdoctor's screams were mingled with the creature's savage roars. They echoed through the night. It was a brutal, merciless end. It was even more gruesome than anything Gray could have conjured himself.

Just a few minutes later, the witchdoctor was nothing more than a mangled heap of flesh and bone.

The demon turned towards Gray. Its crimson eyes burned with a strange, almost respectful light. Then, with a final roar, it dissolved back into smoke. It vanished, returning back into the demonic realm. It left only the stench of sulfur and death behind.

Gray floated away from the ruined chamber. The silence was now deafening. He had done it. He had punished the guilty.

He felt the satisfaction of delivering punishment. But, it was not the satisfaction of doing a good thing. He didn't think he did a good thing either. He was a ghost, a creature of vengeance. He just did what he wanted to do.

Suddenly, a new window opened in Gray's vision. A blue glow. Another notification.

[LEVEL UP!]

[AVAILABLE NEW ABILITY] CHOOSE ONE:

[POLTERGEIST'S TELEKINESIS]

[TUYUL'S THEFT MASTERY]

[TIYANAK'S CRY]

It was another level up. Another power to gain.