Project:Imagine

The air thickened with tension as both Eliza and Pinocchio froze, eyes wide with fear, watching the man descend from the sky. His presence was suffocating, casting a shadow over the flickering lights in the trembling hallway. The ground itself seemed to recoil at his arrival, cracks forming beneath their feet as the weight of his power pressed down on them.

“Sir… w-why are you here?” Pinocchio’s voice wavered, a rare crack in their usually calculated tone. “There's no need to concern yourself with this one—I can handle it,” they added, desperation leaking into their plea.

The Boogeyman’s gaze snapped to Pinocchio with an icy intensity, and in an instant, he vanished from the air. A rush of wind was all the warning they received before he appeared before them. His movements were almost too fast to comprehend, and before Pinocchio could react, his hand wrapped around their damaged arm.

Without a word, he tore it from their body. It came off with the ease of tearing a sheet of paper, wires, and circuits snapping like brittle twine. Sparks flew, casting a brief, chaotic light around the room, while the sound of metal screeching and cracking filled the air.

“While you're still in a condition to be fixed… retreat,” he ordered, his voice cold but laced with a smoldering anger. “This one is mine.”

“Y-yes, of course… I'll escape now,” Pinocchio stammered, before turning and running without hesitation, sparks from their severed arm trailing behind.

The Boogeyman watched them disappear down the corridor, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Maybe I should kill them… no, it’s fine. I’ve got a good deal with that Russian bastard. No need to ruin things,” he muttered, almost as if weighing the pros and cons in his mind. His voice carried a casual cruelty, indifferent to the chaos he had just inflicted.

His eyes shifted to Eliza, scanning her from head to toe. His gaze lingered on the sword at her waist and the horns protruding from her head. In an instant, he vanished from his spot and appeared directly in front of her, gripping one of her horns with unnatural strength, his fingers digging into the ridged surface.

“That’s Excalibur, right? Right?” he demanded, his voice cracking with a sudden, uncharacteristic desperation.

Eliza’s breath hitched, her heart pounding as she fought to remain composed. “Y-yes, it is. My signature artifact,” she managed, swallowing her fear, though it trembled at the edges of her voice.

The Boogeyman leaned closer, his eyes narrowing with a gleam of obsession. “Tell me… are these horns from a dragon?”

“They are,” she spat, anger rising despite the terror gripping her chest. “Why is a bastard like you so interested?”

His grip tightened, a dark thrill evident in his tone. “One last question, and answer me now, what type of dragon are you?”

Eliza blinked, confusion briefly clouding her mind. “What… what do you mean?”

“When you use your breath attack,” he hissed, his voice rising with impatience, “what element comes out?”

Eliza hesitated, her throat dry. “F-fire.”

Without warning, his grip turned vicious, and with a sickening crunch, her horn shattered in his hand. Shards of bone and scale scattered to the floor, each one a piece of her power, her pride. Eliza gasped, her eyes widening in shock as the realization hit her.

“Good. That’s good,” the Boogeyman murmured, more to himself than to her, his gaze distant as if piecing together some puzzle only he could see. “If a light dragonoid wielding Excalibur had shown up, I might’ve actually vomited.” His lips curled into a twisted smirk. “You’re close, very close, but you’re not him. Good news for you, though… you get to die painlessly.”

He paused, his smile growing crueler. “Well, to a degree.”

In a split second, driven by raw desperation, Eliza swung Excalibur with all her might. The blade ignited with a brilliant, blinding light, its edge cutting through the air like a streak of lightning. The sword cleaved through the Boogeyman’s neck effortlessly, his head severed in a flash of divine radiance. For a brief, suspended moment, the head flew upward, spiraling into the air, before the body crumpled to the ground with a lifeless thud.

Eliza’s chest heaved as she watched in disbelief, her fingers tightening around the hilt of Excalibur. Her eyes flicked between the fallen body and the severed head, still airborne. Relief was just within reach when the grotesque reality set in.

Before the head could land, it disintegrated—turning into a writhing mass of maggots midair. The maggots slithered, crawling toward the body in a grotesque dance of rebirth. They converged on the neck, squirming and fusing together, reforming the Boogeyman’s head in an unnatural, sickening display. His body twitched, and in moments, he was whole again.

From the ground, he began to laugh, deep, vicious, and chilling. It was the sound of something inhuman, reveling in his own monstrosity.

“Oh, that’s rich!” he cackled, his voice echoing through the trembling hallway. “Hilarious, even!” His eyes gleamed with a sinister light as he rose to his feet, the smile on his face widening into something manic. “Do you know what the first thing that bastard did to me was?” he growled, taking a step toward her, his tone growing darker. “He cut my head off.”

He chuckled again, the sound growing increasingly deranged. “Funny how history repeats itself, isn’t it?” His lips curled into a sneer as he wiped a hand across his newly reformed neck. “Except, back then, he didn’t have Excalibur. But you—you wield it, and yet… you’re still nothing like him.” His eyes flared with malice, his laughter growing more menacing with each passing second. “I’m growing to hate you more and more.”

The ground seemed to shudder beneath Eliza’s feet as the weight of his presence bore down on her once again. Any semblance of triumph she had felt evaporated, replaced by a cold, sinking dread. The Boogeyman’s laughter echoed in her ears, mocking her futile attempt to resist him.

“Come on,” the Boogeyman taunted, his voice dripping with sadistic anticipation. “I want to see you struggle. Show me if you possess any other traits like that damn bastard.”

Eliza’s blood boiled at his words, her body trembling not with fear, but with the rage she had kept at bay. She let out a low growl, feeling the familiar heat rise within her. In an instant, the crimson aura of her Berserker ability flared to life around her, wrapping her in an intense, burning light. The aura twisted and flickered like living flames, its energy surging through her muscles, amplifying her strength, her speed, and her very will to fight.

Without hesitation, she lunged at the Boogeyman, Excalibur blazing in her hand. Her first strike was a blur of motion as the blade sliced through his chest, cleaving him in two from shoulder to hip. His body split apart, but no blood flowed—only writhing, twisting shadows that churned within him. Before his body even hit the ground, it began to stitch itself back together, the shadows pulling the torn flesh into place.

“Not bad,” the Boogeyman hissed, his eyes gleaming with twisted delight as his body reformed. “But you're going to have to try harder.”

Eliza’s eyes burned with fury. She didn't wait for him to fully regenerate—before his limbs could reassemble, she swung again, this time aiming for his legs. The crimson energy around her surged, and Excalibur howled as it cleaved through his knees, severing them cleanly. His legs fell to the floor, twitching grotesquely, but before they were even still, they were already wriggling back toward his body, reforming with a sickening squelch.

Her breath came out in ragged bursts, but she wasn’t done. Flames began to gather in her chest, rising through her throat like a furnace. With a roar, she unleashed a torrent of fire from her mouth, the searing heat engulfing the Boogeyman. The flames consumed him, turning the hallway into an inferno, the walls buckling under the intensity of the heat. His skin blistered and peeled away, revealing charred bone beneath, but even as his flesh burned, he laughed.

“Yes… that's it!” he howled through the flames, his voice giddy with madness. “Burn me! Tear me apart! It won't stop me.”

His body was nothing but ash and bones, but the remnants of his form writhed with life. Slowly, impossibly, the bones reassembled, muscle and sinew crawling back over them like worms. His skin stretched back into place, blackened and cracked, but whole once again.

Eliza didn’t hesitate, her aura flaring brighter as her rage fueled her movements. She dashed forward, swinging Excalibur again, cutting him in half at the waist. His torso collapsed to the ground, but his upper half began to drag itself forward, reforming with every pull. She gritted her teeth, slashing again, and again, cutting him apart over and over, but each time his body reformed, more grotesque, more monstrous.

The hallway echoed with the sickening sounds of his regeneration, each attack feeding the Boogeyman’s twisted amusement.

“Your fighting style is so… inelegant,” the Boogeyman sneered, his voice dripping with disdain. “It's even more unrefined than when I first met that bastard. Shouldn’t that damn blade of yours have taught you how to fight?” His gaze flicked toward Excalibur, his lips curling into a twisted smirk. “What do you think, Mordred? This is a disappointment compared to him, right?”

Eliza’s brow furrowed as she steadied herself, trying to process his words. “Mordred… who are you talking to?” she questioned, but something in her gut warned her not to linger on the thought. There was no time to unravel his cryptic taunts. Her grip tightened on Excalibur, and with a fierce cry, she rushed at him once more, determined to break through his maddening regeneration. Even if it took hours, even if it took everything she had, he would eventually fall.

But before she could close the distance, the Boogeyman’s voice rose, booming with dark, ritualistic power, stopping her mid-stride.

“Oh slayer of kings,” he intoned, his voice like a death knell reverberating through the air. “I beckon your power. Let your night consume the heavens. Let your darkness engulf the stars. From father’s corpse to my hand, I call your name.”

Eliza froze, her heart pounding as she watched a strange energy gather around him. His eyes blazed with a terrifying, dark light, and he reached out as though seizing something from the void itself.

“By your ancient oath, arise from slumber,” he roared, his voice shaking the very walls around them. His hand gripped the air, and from nothingness, a blade began to take shape—no, not just a blade, but an abyss in the form of a weapon. “And once more, cleave the skies with blood and darkness.”

The Boogeyman’s laughter rang out, his eyes glowing with the black light of malevolence as he whispered the final words.

“Awaken, Mordred.”

A blade of pure darkness materialized, its form devouring all light that dared come near it. It was as though the sword was made of the night itself, swallowing the glow of Excalibur and everything else around them. The very air grew heavier, as if the world was holding its breath.

The sword was an inverse of Excalibur, where Eliza’s weapon gleamed with brilliant, golden light, this new blade radiated only shadow and despair. It felt wrong, a distortion of everything Excalibur stood for.

Eliza gritted her teeth, forcing herself to push forward, even as the blade’s oppressive aura made her blood run cold. She couldn’t let it intimidate her. Whatever this “Mordred” was, whatever power the Boogeyman had called forth, she knew one thing: she had to keep fighting.

Forcing the chill from her bones, she raised Excalibur once more, the light of her sword flickering defiantly against the encroaching darkness.

“Damn it, part of me actually misses that bastard,” The Boogeyman muttered, his grip tightening around Mordred, the sword’s dark energy pulsating faintly. He turned the blade slightly, as though expecting it to respond. “Right, Mordred? In this era, all we have are trashy disappointments.”

Eliza watched in disgust as he hugged the blade to his chest like a long-lost lover. The sight was unnerving, the way he cradled the weapon as though it were alive, something he cherished above all else. His face twisted into a grotesque grin, his voice slipping into something disturbingly tender.

“I wish you had a real body,” The Boogeyman hummed, his fingers stroking the blade. “It would be so much fun to be with you, Mordred. Think of all the things we could do…”

Eliza gritted her teeth, a shiver running down her spine. *This man is batshit crazy… Is he really the strongest known monster?*

The Boogeyman’s head suddenly snapped toward her, as if he’d heard her thoughts. “Excuse me,” he said, his voice cutting through the air with a sharp edge. “You know, I really hate that stupid name you humans gave me—‘The Boogeyman.’ How dull. My name is Faker.” His eyes narrowed with disdain. “Honestly, I might just spare you so you can update your damn records.”

Faker. Eliza held onto the name, the weight of it sinking in. But before she could react, she blurted out the question that had been gnawing at her since the fight began. “I’ve been meaning to ask—you’ve been going on and on about some dragonoid who wielded Excalibur, someone you clearly despise. What kind of person could invoke so much wrath from you?”

At the mention of the dragonoid, Faker's smile faltered, darkening into something far more sinister. His eyes gleamed with malice as he glanced at Mordred. “Oh, that bastard?” He chuckled, but it wasn’t out of amusement, it was bitterness. “Yeah, him. Hey, Mordred, how many times did he kill me, huh? Really chopped me up good, didn’t he?” His fingers drummed on the hilt of the sword as though recalling some sick nostalgia. “I regenerated so many times. He almost did it—almost. But not quite.”

Faker turned away, talking to the sword like it was his only confidant. “I wish I could have another swing at him…”

Eliza saw her opening. As Faker’s back was turned, she called forth her Berserker aura, crimson flames enveloping her form like a blood-soaked storm. Her body surged with energy, the very air around her vibrating with the intensity of her will. This was her moment.

She lunged, Excalibur blazing with radiant light, the blade glowing so fiercely it was as though the sun itself had descended into her hands. All her strength, all her power, concentrated into one single, devastating blow. She would obliterate him. She had to.

But just as she moved, a memory flashed in her mind.

“I want you to wield this artifact, 0-12 Excalibur. It feeds off the willpower of its user,” Alexander Jones, the leader of A.E.G.I.S, had said, standing before a younger Eliza. In his hands, he held the legendary blade, its golden scabbard shimmering in the dim light.

The weight of his words had filled the room. “The stronger the will, the stronger the energy. I know you can use it to its full power.”

Eliza had hesitated, her heart pounding in her chest. “But, sir, I’ve only been on one mission. Are you sure it’s alright to give me something this powerful?”

Alexander had smiled, a confident gleam in his eyes. “On your first mission, you greatly assisted me in slaying a dragon. That is why I gave you the codename ‘Slayer.’ Even the strongest of monsters will fall at your hands. I knew it from the day I met you.” His voice had softened, but the belief in his tone was unshakable. “I believe in your potential, Eliza.”

The memory ignited her spirit. As her blade descended on Faker, she channeled every ounce of her willpower into the strike. The surrounding aura flared, red flames dancing with the brilliance of Excalibur’s light. This wasn’t just her fight, it was the culmination of everything she had been trained for.

As Eliza rushed forward, Excalibur raised high for a strike, an eye—a bloodshot, grotesque thing, suddenly opened on the back of Faker’s neck. It swiveled toward her, unblinking, tracking her every movement. Before her blade could connect, Faker spun with unnatural speed, raising Mordred to meet her strike. The two blades clashed, light and darkness colliding with a force that sent sparks flying through the air.

“How rude,” Faker sneered, his eyes narrowing. “I’m trying to have a conversation with my dear Mordred, and you decide to interrupt.” His voice was laced with anger, but there was something deeper, a possessive, almost fanatical edge. “I’d appreciate it if you’d mind your manners.”

Eliza gritted her teeth, her anger boiling over. “You’re one crazy bastard, talking to a sword like it’s a real person!” she spat, her voice filled with frustration. She shifted her stance, moving with lightning speed as she aimed another strike at his side, her body a blur of motion as her Berserker aura flared brighter.

But Faker parried her attack with ease, Mordred's dark blade absorbing the energy of each of her strikes. He barely moved, his form eerily still as he blocked every swing with maddening precision. The surrounding air seemed to ripple with his aura, like a shadow devouring the light.

“I’ll have you know,” Faker said, his voice almost teasing, “my lovely Mordred is real. You just can’t hear her voice, but I can.” His eyes gleamed with obsession as he spoke, as though the sword was whispering secrets only he could understand. “She and I are bound. She tells me everything.”

With a sharp movement, Eliza finally landed a hit, her blade slicing clean through his legs. Faker crumpled to the ground, his severed limbs hitting the floor with a sickening thud. For a moment, she thought she had the upper hand. But just as she prepared to deliver the final blow, something shifted.

As Faker’s body hit the ground, it didn’t stay. His form dissolved into the shadows, sinking into the darkness beneath him. Eliza’s strike came down hard, but her sword met nothing but stone. The blade cracked the floor, sending shards of debris flying, but Faker was gone.

She barely had a moment to react before the shadows slithered across the ground, creeping up the walls, snaking their way through the cracks in the floor. Her eyes darted around the room, scanning for any sign of movement. Then, like a phantom, Faker reappeared, stepping out of the shadows at the far end of the room, whole again, standing tall with Mordred in hand.

“Did you really think it would be that easy?” Faker’s voice was taunting, echoing through the chamber like a dark wind. “I’ve survived worse than this. Your little tricks won’t be enough to kill me.”

“Use your breath attack next. It’s been a while since I’ve faced one,” Faker taunted, a sinister gleam in his eyes as dark energy began to coalesce in his throat. The atmosphere shifted, the room growing colder, the shadows around him thickening and pulsing as if alive. His voice dripped with anticipation, eager for what was to come.

Eliza's heart pounded in her chest. She recognized the threat instantly, the unmistakable aura of a dragon's power brewing within him. There was no time to hesitate. Flames gathered in her throat, burning hotter and hotter until the heat threatened to consume her from the inside. She let it out in a fierce roar, a torrent of searing fire blazing from her mouth, a stream of raw elemental fury.

“Shadow Dragon… roar!” Faker's voice boomed, his mouth opening wide as an abyss of pure darkness erupted from within him.

The two forces collided, Eliza’s fiery breath against Faker’s shadowy torrent. The clash was deafening, the heat of her flames clashing violently with the icy void of his dark breath. For a moment, they were evenly matched, light and darkness battling for dominance in a storm of energy that shook the surrounding walls. Sparks and embers filled the air, the ground cracking beneath the pressure of their power.

But then the balance shifted.

Faker's darkness surged forward, consuming her flames with terrifying speed. The fire that had once roared with life was snuffed out, swallowed by the black void like a candle in a storm. The wave of darkness crashed into Eliza, knocking her off her feet and sending her flying across the room. She hit the ground hard, her body skidding along the floor as the thick, malevolent miasma surrounded her, clinging to her like a deathly shroud.

She gasped for air, coughing violently as the darkness seemed to sap the life from her very being. It felt as though her strength was being drained, her energy slipping away with each breath she took. The miasma was suffocating, thick, and poisonous as if it were trying to devour her soul. Her vision blurred, her body trembling under the weight of the attack.

“Oops,” Faker said, his tone mocking, his grin wide and malicious. “Did I forget to mention? I’m also part Shadow Dragon.” He chuckled, stepping forward, the surrounding shadows swirling like a living entity. “Though, to be fair, I’m part of all things. I can transform into most creatures.” His eyes gleamed with a sick sort of pride, his body shifting slightly, as if the shadows themselves were a part of him.

“But the Shadow Dragon? That one’s my favorite.” His voice lowered, becoming almost reverent. “It’s the absolute opposite of the wretched bastard I’ve been telling you about.”

Eliza struggled to rise, the weight of his miasma still bearing down on her. Every muscle in her body screamed in pain, but her resolve burned brighter than ever. She couldn't let him win. Not like this.

Faker watched her struggle with a smug grin, his twisted amusement growing. “Oh, come now, Slayer. Surely you can do better than that. After all, you’re wielding Excalibur, aren’t you? Let’s see if that damn blade has any real bite left.”

The room was a battlefield of light and darkness, the air thick with the remnants of their earlier clash. Eliza, her breathing labored, slowly pulled herself to her feet, her resolve hardening despite the darkness that clung to her. Faker’s mocking laughter echoed around her, a chilling reminder of the twisted game he was playing.

“Come on, Slayer,” Faker taunted, his voice dripping with cruel amusement. “You’re still standing? I’m impressed. Most would have crumbled by now.”

Eliza gritted her teeth, ignoring the pain and the lingering effects of the shadowy miasma. She raised Excalibur once more, its light flickering defiantly against the encroaching darkness. Her crimson aura flared around her, burning brighter with every ounce of her willpower. The fire in her eyes reflected the flames of her determination.

Without warning, Faker lunged forward, Mordred sweeping through the air with a dark, sinuous grace. Eliza met his attack head-on, their blades clashing in a fierce exchange of light and shadow. Sparks flew as Excalibur met Mordred, each strike reverberating through the room with an almost tangible force.

Faker’s movements were fluid, almost unnatural, as he anticipated her every strike. His dark blade seemed to consume the very light of Excalibur, the shadows around him twisting and writhing with each parry. He grinned as he effortlessly blocked her blows, his voice a mocking melody in the chaos of their combat.

“Is that all you’ve got?” he jeered. “Come on, show me your true power! Or are you just another disappointment?”

Eliza’s heart pounded with each clash, her determination unwavering. She could feel the strain on her body, the fatigue setting in, but she pushed through, channeling every ounce of her strength into her attacks. Each swing of Excalibur was a testament to her will, every block and parry a fight for her survival.

In a swift, brutal maneuver, Faker spun around, his blade cutting through the air with deadly precision. Eliza barely had time to react. His dark blade struck Excalibur with a force that resonated through her entire being. There was a shattering sound, a crack like thunder, as the once-unbreakable blade of Excalibur splintered under the force of Mordred’s relentless assault.

“No!” Eliza cried out, her voice a mixture of shock and anguish as she saw the legendary blade crack and fragment. The pieces of Excalibur fell to the ground, a cascade of shattered light and metal. Her grip faltered, the loss of the blade’s strength leaving her vulnerable.

Faker’s eyes gleamed with triumph. With a sudden, brutal swing, Mordred cleaved through the air, aiming directly at Eliza’s right arm. The blade connected with a sickening crunch, slicing through flesh and bone with terrifying ease. Eliza gasped, a sharp cry of pain escaping her lips as her arm was severed from her body. The pain was blinding, a fiery, searing agony that left her disoriented.

She fell to the ground, clutching the bloody stump where her arm had been, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Faker stood over her, his expression a mix of satisfaction and cruelty. The shattered remains of Excalibur lay scattered around them, the once-glorious blade now reduced to broken shards.

“Well, well,” Faker said, his voice dripping with malice. “Looks like I’ve made my point. You fought bravely, but in the end, you’re just another disappointment.”

Eliza’s vision blurred, the edges of her consciousness growing dark as the pain threatened to overwhelm her. But even in her agony, her spirit remained unbroken. She glared up at Faker, her eyes blazing with defiance, refusing to let him see her surrender.

“No, no, I won’t let it end here,” Eliza gasped, her voice a strained whisper against the cacophony of her own pain. With trembling fingers, she clutched the jagged remnants of Excalibur's hilt, as blood oozed from her severed arm. Her gaze, fierce and unyielding, locked onto Faker’s figure, a fire of defiance igniting in her eyes despite the darkness closing in around her. “I will see this fight through to the end… no matter the cost.”