Trapped In Elysium: A Virtual Reality Nightmare-Chapter 120: Go to Hell

Liam remained frozen, surrounded by a sea of nothingness. The darkness was so complete it pressed on his skin like damp cloth. No light. No shape. No sound—except one.

A distant shriek.

It wasn’t human. It couldn’t be. The sound cut through the silence like claws scraping bone, sending a pulse of dread through Liam’s chest. It echoed across the stone walls like it came from every direction. But Liam didn’t flinch. His hand moved on its own, reaching toward his side.

And there it was.

The familiar touch of his sword’s hilt.

His fingers wrapped around it like it was the only real thing left in this black world. He gripped it tight and unsheathed it with a swift pull, the metallic slide echoing like a whisper in the dark.

And then—whoomph.

As he focused, fire burst along the length of the blade. The flaming edge hissed and crackled, spitting sparks as the Blazing Sword skill ignited in his grasp. It was like someone struck a torch to the abyss. The flames danced wildly, casting flickering shadows across the rough stone walls.

Liam exhaled, his breath visible in the sudden heat. His arm throbbed from the earlier fall, but he ignored it.

He was in a room. A square one, cold stone floors beneath his boots and cracked walls surrounding him. There was nothing but stone and the feeling of being buried alive... and the door.

He stepped forward slowly, the sword’s fire lighting his way. The wooden door was massive—twice his height and built from thick, iron-bound timber. No handle. No keyhole. Just solid, unmoving wood.

He frowned. The shriek echoed again, closer this time. He didn’t know who it was after—Sera? Borik? Someone else? Whoever it was... they were in trouble.

He had no time to waste.

Liam stepped up to the door and raised his sword. The flames coiled around the blade like a living serpent, waiting for release. He pressed the fiery edge against the wood. It hissed loudly as it made contact, smoke rising in thick, choking swirls.

The wood was stubborn. Ancient. The sword sizzled against it, sparks flying—but the door didn’t give at first. He gritted his teeth and pushed harder. Sweat rolled down his temple. The flames licked higher, burning hotter. The blade began to slowly sink into the timber.

Crack.

The first split ran down the center of the door. The fire had found a weakness.

Liam didn’t stop.

He dragged the sword down like a hot knife through flesh, carving a glowing seam in the door. Smoke curled around him, and the smell of burning wood filled the room. The flames hissed louder, catching in the door’s dry grain.

The door groaned.

He pressed again, harder, leaning into the heat, determined to break through.

He didn’t know what was on the other side—but staying here wasn’t an option.

_______

Marcus was pacing now. Back and forth in the tight stone passageway, the darkness around him felt alive—like it was breathing, listening, waiting. He gripped his axe tighter, knuckles white against the worn wooden handle, and muttered curses under his breath to keep his fear at bay.

"Fuck this place... fuck Nexus Corp... fuck this whole cursed mission..." he growled.

He’d already shouted himself hoarse calling out to the others. Nothing. Not even an echo. Only the sound of his own voice being swallowed by the void. And that damn screech. That horrible, inhuman cry that had echoed not long ago—it still rang in his skull. He didn’t know who it got to, but someone was in serious trouble.

He pressed his back against the cold stone wall and slid down to the floor, frustrated and helpless. His heart was hammering in his chest, and not because he was scared for himself—but for the others. Especially Sophia. And Mariel. And... Liam. He hated how much he relied on Liam sometimes. But right now? He prayed to every god he didn’t believe in that Liam was still breathing.

Then he saw it.

A flicker.

He jerked up, eyes wide.

Another flicker—this time clearer. A glow... orange, flickering, pulsing.

Fire.

He scrambled to his feet and sprinted down the narrow passage. The faint glow grew stronger, brighter. His heart leapt.

That’s him. That’s fucking Liam.

He recognized the pattern of the flames—the way they danced and hissed. It wasn’t just any fire. That was the Blazing Sword. He’d seen it before to know it anywhere.

Marcus didn’t even think. He started pounding on the wall with his fist.

"Liam!" he shouted, voice echoing. "I see your damn fire! You better not be dead, you bastard!"

He didn’t get a reply, but he didn’t need one. That flame—that meant Liam was alive. And if Liam was alive, there was hope. And if there was hope, Marcus was going to fight like hell to make sure they all got out of this cursed place.

He exhaled a shaky breath, wiping the sweat off his brow.

Somewhere in the darkness, that shriek echoed again—closer, angrier. It made his stomach twist.

"Shit," he muttered. "Someone’s being hunted."

He turned toward the door at the end of his passageway and slammed his axe into it.

"C’mon, Liam," he growled, "get to me... or I’ll tear this fuckin’ door down myself."

_______

Borik’s eyes widened as the possessed Sera shrieked again, the sound vibrating through the narrow stone chamber like a blade raking metal. The moment she lunged—dark hair wild, blackened eyes gleaming with murderous glee—he dove to the left with every ounce of strength his battered body had left.

He hit the floor hard, rolling against the uneven stones, his shoulder grazing the wall. The wind was knocked out of him, but he scrambled up, teeth gritted, chest heaving.

He couldn’t fight her.

Not like this.

She wasn’t Sera anymore.

The thing wearing her body laughed—a twisted, echoing sound that didn’t belong in the world of the living. It floated inches above the ground, nails like spears, eyes glowing like dying embers.

Borik tried to crawl away, dragging himself across the floor. But he wasn’t fast enough.

The claws came down.

A flash of sharp pain tore through his right calf as one of the spirit’s claw ripped across his leg. He screamed, trying to turn, but the agony froze him in place. Blood soaked through the leather of his trousers, thick and hot. His leg refused to move.

He was grounded.

Trapped.

The spirit hovered above him, its grin stretched unnaturally wide, teeth like broken glass.

"Sera!" he shouted, voice cracking. "Fight it! You’re stronger than this, dammit! Come on—fight!"

But there was no response. Not even a twitch of the girl he once knew. Only that grin grew wider, hungrier.

"I’ll wear your skin," the spirit hissed in a voice that came from too many mouths. "Slowly. Piece by piece."

Borik’s eyes flashed with fury and defiance—but before he could speak, its blackened hand snapped forward and grabbed him by the ankle. With unnatural force, the thing yanked him upward, and Borik’s world spun.

He was upside down now, dangling in midair, blood rushing to his head, leg still pouring crimson down his side. His axe had fallen from his grip somewhere during the scuffle. His arms flailed, reaching for anything, but there was nothing to grab.

"Put me down and fight me like a warrior, you cursed filth!" he growled, spitting blood from his mouth.

It just laughed again.

Then, without warning, it hurled him like a ragdoll across the chamber.

Borik’s body hit the wall with a sickening crack. His vision blurred from the impact, and pain exploded through his spine. But before he could slump to the floor, four jagged claws shot through the air—one after another.

Shhhunk.

One tore through his right shoulder. He cried out, the sound guttural, raw.

Another slammed through his wrist—pinning it like a nailed plank to the stone.

Then the next—through his left thigh.

And finally, the last through his other hand.

Borik screamed. His voice echoed off the chamber walls, mixing with the spirit’s gleeful screech. He was nailed to the wall, upside down, arms and legs spread in agony, blood dripping in steady streams onto the floor below.

He gasped, pain lighting every nerve in his body. His vision pulsed red.

But still, he didn’t scream for mercy.

"Go to hell," he spat through bloodied teeth.

The spirit hovered back, admiring its work like a painter who had just finished their favorite piece.

And Borik hung there, refusing to pass out.