Blood Berserker - [ A Litrpg Apocalypse]

Peace was what Nathan felt, like he hadn't just tried to take on a lord's army in his own stronghold, like he hadn't died trying to brute force his way to getting what he wanted from Sparrow. No, what he felt was soul-lifting peace, the kind he only got to experience when a cool breeze would hit him on his face when he stood underneath the hot sun spinning Mr. Wong's sign. If Nathan was truly awake, he would've let out a sigh of relief, but he wasn't, and the feeling was nothing but his subconsciousness wishing for some sort of calmness in the turmoil that he'd unfortunately found himself in. But at the moment, he'd revel in the made-up lie.

The imagined cool breeze made his heart flutter, and once again he could feel his soul stirring like it was trying to tell him something, but his subconscious was not able to piece it together. Soon enough, it was too late to try again as the breeze had moved on. It didn't just feel like a cool breeze though; it felt like an old friend trying to say hi and Nathan wasn't responding. It felt like a part of his soul was calling on him and he was denying it, it felt like—

Thwack!

A stinging pain on his cheek snapped Nathan out of his musings and back into full consciousness, and the first thing that hit him was the smell. The place smelled of an unholy mixture of piss, blood, feces, and decayed flesh. If Nathan wasn't so tired and terribly beaten, he would've thrown up. The berserker would've hoped that that was the end of his woes, but it wasn't. A torch that was held up close to his face made him squint. The place was dark, underground dark, which meant he was in Sparrow's dungeon.

"Rise and shine, joker," the guard said. Nathan could barely make out the faint outline of the guard's face, but the grin that was on it was unmistakable.

Nathan stayed quiet, not only because he wanted to let his eyes adjust to the lighting from the torch, but also because he knew that the guard was taunting him and trying to get a rabid response out of him, so he kept shut. Plus, he was confident in the fact that if Sparrow had wanted him dead, they'd have killed him by now, so the lord of the stronghold most likely needed something from him. Parts of his limbs felt cold, and it didn't take much brain power for him to realize that he was locked in chains, his legs chained to the floor and his wrists to the wall above, leaving him on his knees. He kept his head to the floor, letting his eyes trace their way to the chains that bound him, the faint light of the torch barely illuminating them, but he confirmed his suspicion, and just as he thought, the chains were runed.

Nathan was flattered that Sparrow felt the need to hold him down with runed chains. He resisted the urge to shrug at the possibility that all the chains in his dungeons were runed. The berserker kept his eyes to the floor, opting to let his mind do all the work this time. The chains were thick, but that wasn't the part that concerned him; the runes were. He had no idea what the runes did, and as much as he wanted to find out, he held himself back, because on the off chance he was able to break the chains, he was still weak, bloodied, and beaten. His entire being screamed even though he wasn't moving, so breaking the chains wouldn't do him any good at the moment. At most, he'd be able to kill a couple of guards in the state he was in before he was subdued and shackled again, and the next time, the security would double or triple, leaving him in a worse condition for when he'd actually recover. No, his best option was for him to wait and recover as best as he could. For now, it was best to keep shut.

"Not much of a talker, I see," the guard said, annoyance starting to creep into his voice. "That's not much of a problem. Let's see you remain quiet as I shove these flames up your—"

"Utaru, shut up and get the Lord, you dolt," another guard yelled from outside his cell. "My ears are starting to bleed from listening to that threat."

"Fuck off, Darren," the guard yelled back before kicking Nathan in the ribs, which didn't faze the berserker, who acted like he hadn't been kicked in the ribs, much to the disappointment of the guard, who grunted in annoyance before walking out of his cell, taking with him the faint light from the torch.

Plunged into darkness in what was most definitely the most vile-smelling place he'd ever been, Nathan was left alone with his thoughts, his fears, and his doubts. For the first time in a long time, he was alone. Truly alone, and while it wasn't the situation that he'd have loved to have found himself in, he analyzed how far he'd come from spinning signs outside the street to somehow becoming a lord and unfortunately ending back up in Sparrow's clutches, in need of the devil's incarnate's help.

Nathan didn't get to think for too long before the sound of footsteps began to reach his ears. With a pained grunt, he raised his head, eager to see if Sparrow would grace him with his presence or if truly Sparrow was going to send the other guy, the one who'd promised to torture him once he was in the dungeon. Once the footsteps stopped and the figures arranged themselves in front of him, he was left realizing that his two assumptions were close but off the mark. In front of him was Sparrow and the guy who'd knocked him out. The guard Utaru was holding the torch behind them.

"Nathan, Nathan, Nathan... Always one with a rebellious spirit," Sparrow started. "Hand the torch to Brian and leave us," he said to Utaru, and then he was gone.

"Yes, boss," Utaru said.

The torch seemed to be brighter once it exchanged hands, meaning that Brian most likely had a fire-related skill or something like that. The enhanced flames illuminated his underground cell a lot, just as if he was in a well-lit room. More than that, it helped him see the face of his former mentor. Sparrow had his arms behind his back as he paced back and forth in Nathan's small cell. Brian stood close to the cell doors, the torch burning bright in his hands, but it was his eyes that caught Nathan's attention. In those orbs, he could see uncertainty and, most of all, unadulterated hate.

Nathan hoped that the hate was aimed at Sparrow rather than him, and if it was, that might be something that he might've been able to work with, a chink in Sparrow's armor that might help him overpower the crafty old fox. Tearing his eyes away from the stoic face of Brian, he returned them back to the biggest threat in the cell, Sparrow or Lord Sparrow as it was now.

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"My boy," Sparrow purred, his calculating gaze dissecting Nathan's battered form, "I see this new reality has been good to you." A hint of genuine admiration tinged his voice. "Not surprising. You've always proven to be a resourceful person." His tone hardened. "It's quite unfortunate that you decided to rebel against my hospitality instead wasting your talents... spinning signs for that fool's restaurant." Disappointment dripped from every syllable. "Too bad, my boy. If you would have stayed, then you would be the heir to all that I have built."

The berserker bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted copper, focusing on that self-inflicted pain rather than responding to Sparrow's provocations. His hands curled into fists above him, chains clinking softly with the subtle movement. Nathan wasn't alone in his reaction; Brian's knuckles whitened around the torch handle, the veins in his forearm standing prominent against tanned skin. Either Sparrow remained oblivious to Brian's reaction, or—more likely—this was another calculated performance in their ongoing psychological game. With Sparrow, certainty remained elusive.

"Well, giving me the silent treatment, boy?" Sparrow quirked an eyebrow, the scar above it catching the light. "That's hurtful, you know, but seeing as you hurt me first, it is only fair I repay the favor, don't you think?"

Nathan's muscles coiled tight as bowstrings at the rhetorical question. Cold sweat beaded along his spine. If Sparrow decided on physical retribution, maintaining his mask of indifference would become impossible. The man could inflict damage beyond anything a common guard might imagine. But as seconds stretched into a minute, it became apparent that Sparrow preferred psychological warfare to physical assault. He simply stood there, studying Nathan with the detached interest of a scientist observing a specimen, utterly composed while Nathan's composure began to crack. This was Sparrow's true mastery—not violence, but the subtle art of mental combat. With barely a handful of carefully chosen words, he had already begun dismantling Nathan's defenses.

"Well," Sparrow sighed theatrically, "I honestly didn't want to tell you this, but..." He paused for effect. "You remember that man who gave you a job, letting you, the prince of the underground, spin signs in the middle of a street like a complete nobody despite my constant threats for him to sack you?" He tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Remind me again, boy, what was his name? Wing, Wang, Weng..."

"Mr. Wong," Nathan whispered, the name escaping before he could stop it. His heart plummeted as the last remnants of his defiant facade crumbled. A cold dread settled in his stomach as he braced himself for whatever cruelty would follow.

"Oh yes, Wong..." Sparrow nodded slowly, savoring the moment of recognition. He crouched, bringing his face uncomfortably close to Nathan's bloodied visage. The scent of expensive cologne mingled with the dungeon's stench as he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I suppose it doesn't matter anymore, seeing as I broke his legs and let the goblins in that silly tutorial tower have their way with him."

"Nooooo!" The denial tore from Nathan's throat, raw and primal.

He thrashed wildly against his restraints, chains rattling in cacophonous protest as he lunged toward Sparrow's smug face. The distance between them—mere inches—might as well have been miles. No matter how desperately he strained, the chains held fast, the runes flaring to brilliant life with each violent movement. Then came the pain—electricity arcing up the metal links, blue-white and merciless, searing through flesh and bone to shock him to his very marrow. Only when he ceased struggling did the current relent, leaving him twitching and gasping, the acrid smell of singed hair adding to the dungeon's foul atmosphere.

"Those chains are quite nasty, aren't they?" Sparrow remarked conversationally, as if discussing the weather. He hadn't moved an inch during Nathan's outburst. "It's a pity. I was thinking of a more befitting welcome for you, but I fear that there was no other way." He straightened his already immaculate sleeve. "Now, where were we before you so rudely interrupted my storytelling? Oh yes."

His voice dropped an octave, becoming almost reverent in its cruelty. "I let the goblins in the tower have their way with Mr. Wong. They first beat him to near death before tearing him apart limb by limb." His fingers pantomimed a rending motion. "To be honest, I wasn't quite sure when he died, as it was all quite a bit gruesome to watch." A faint smile played at the corners of his mouth. "But life really is funny, putting me in the same tower as the same man that took you off the streets and away from me..."

His composure slipped, just for an instant. "AWAY FROM YOUR DESTINY!"

Brian flinched—a barely perceptible movement, but in this tension-filled cell, it spoke volumes. Clearly, such outbursts from Sparrow were rare enough to shock even his hardened enforcer. The mafia boss recovered quickly, his momentary lapse sealed behind the facade of a cunning smile as he rose to his full height. His purple cashmere robes caught the torchlight, the expensive fabric seeming to absorb and reflect the glow. Yet, it was his face that truly shone—radiating the unmistakable satisfaction of a victory claimed without raising a hand.

"Fortunately for those of us still alive," Sparrow continued, his resonant voice filling the cramped space, "the heavens have blessed us with a second chance, a do-over if you will." He spread his hands in a magnanimous gesture. "And I am here to offer you a choice: Join up with me and reclaim your rightful position as my heir, or be subject to a fate worse than death."

The offer hung in the air between them. "Take your time to think things through, Nathan," he advised with false benevolence. "Because if you refuse my generous offer, then be rest assured that you will be given to a demon as a sacrifice, and a very profitable one at that."

Nathan's head snapped up, eyes blazing despite his weakened state. "I'd rather die than serve you, Sparrow!" The words exploded from him, each syllable dripping with hatred and defiance.

"Hmm," Sparrow mused, appearing genuinely thoughtful. He turned to Brian, whose stoic expression revealed nothing. "Do you think he really means it?"

"No, boss," Brian replied, the words hollow.

"Hear that, Nathan? You're not convincing enough." Sparrow sighed. "You know what, I'll give you twenty-four hours to think about my offer. If you still prefer to die, then I'd oblige."

"Noooo, kill me nowww!" Nathan yelled.

"No need to be in a hurry to die, boy.After all, death comes for us all," Sparrow said. "Remember, twenty-four hours."

The first tear broke the dam. Soon, silent sobs wracked his chained body as grief overwhelmed him. In the solitude of his cell, Nathan mourned not just for Mr. Wong, but for the terrible truth he couldn't escape—in his attempt to flee Sparrow's influence, he had inadvertently sentenced his benefactor to death. The weight of this realization crushed down upon him, heavier than any chains.

In a twisted, ironic way, Mr. Wong had rescued him from the underground, only to forfeit his life for Nathan's choice. The equation was brutally simple: Nathan's freedom had cost Mr. Wong's life. In effect—in ways that mattered—he had killed Mr. Wong as surely as if he'd wielded the weapon himself.

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