Emil and Hortensia ran across the halls like wild chickens with a wave of bugs squirming behind them. They covered the floor, walls, and even the ceiling in a black, brown mess, swallowing the whole hallway. While Hortensia could go on for another marathon, Emil was already falling behind with the bugs only a few steps behind.

"Any bright ideas, Emil?" Hortensia checked behind her with a pale expression. "Those bugs sure are fast for their size!"

Emil looked back at the card in his hand with silent terror. "Do you trust me?"

Hortensia saw the expression on Emil's face. Ever so panicked, yet with a decisive glint behind it all. When they first met she would have simply dismissed it, but now she knew more. That was when he was at his best. Thus, she nodded.

"Go ahead," Emil stopped. "I will catch up."

"You better will!" She yelled back at him. "Or I'll kill you!"

"Just keep running!" Emil shouted his lungs out. "Get as far as possible!"

Griffon's round mask emerged from the pile of insects as he observed the lone standing man. Noticing the card in his hand, he made sure to keep his distance and a shield of bugs ready. In case the last spell was still active, he made sure to not rush him with the venomous ones again.

"Lucky Draw number 13..." Emil took out the card with shivering hands.

"I won't let you. Buzzkill: Mite Gatling," He chanted and raised his long sleeve. From within a stream of small insects shot out in a spiral. Remembering how long it took for the spell to take effect, Griffon chose his fastest attack. He chose a short burst in case the damage would reflect again. The mana mites would pierce right into Emil and start draining his mana, incapacitating him enough to finish him.

"Death!" Emil shut his eyes and turned the card as far out of his hand as his arm could reach. A black card depicting the grim reaper itself over the number of misfortune revealed itself to Griffon's eyes. Though he could not understand the meaning behind it, the reaction he observed from Emil made his skin pucker.

The lights flickered, and the card was gone. A figure wrapped in dark robes was in front of Emil, looming ominously just above the ground. Bearing a long scythe in its skeletal hand, it watched with the empty eye sockets of its skull from underneath the hood. The mites passed through the rugged black cloth with ease, yet dropped dead on the ground below the skeleton's feet. Every fiber of Griffon's being shouted for him to run, yet he couldn't. It was too late. The reaper revealed a silver coin of unknown currency from its other hand. Without a word, it flung it high into the air, almost hitting the high ceiling itself. Griffon's brain overflowed with new information that surged forcefully into his mind.

1. You are not allowed to move from your spot.

2. You cannot say anything else than "heads" or "tails".

3. The prize of winning is life.

4. Punishment is death.

Emil was awfully aware of the card, though the game itself came to him as a surprise. Death was one of the riskiest cards in the deck, but if he did not activate it he would have had to use the next drawn card. Risking his life was one thing, but he would not endanger others because of his selfishness. That did not make it any easier to accept the dangerous situation.

The two watched as the coin started to drop and realized their time was running short. Spins of the glimmering silver counted down the few seconds they had left. Griffon deduced that they were both under limitations and thus the effects would be both real and potent. While his brain simply tickled to think about how Emil could use such a spell, he remained concentrated on the task at hand. His best bet was to be the first and secure his options, which he did with no hesitation.

"Heads!" He shouted with his quick wits.

Time seemed to slow down as the coin fell closer to the skeletal hand. Emil watched as the two faces of the coin turned and tilted, the final moment drawing close. He thought and thought with nail-biting intensity. He ran through the rules trying to find the best solution. They were upfront and straight, yet with holes he had no time to think of. They only allowed heads or tails, which means they could both say heads, but that would go against the usual rules of coin flipping. He did not make the rules yet he was forced to follow them by participating. If he could, he would have cursed Bacmon on the spot, which he had no time. The coin landed on the reaper's hand.

The silver embossing of a skull gleamed under the ceiling lights, revealing the truth.

"Heads," The reaper raised its head and chanted words that wriggled into the ears like manic worms that burrowed right into the brain.

A relieved smile emerged under Griffon's mask as his swarm clattered their mandibles in celebration. Emil stayed silent as the grim reaper turned to him. He looked straight down to not impose upon it, looking as much away from its gaze as possible. Holding his breath he waited for what seemed like forever. His life was up for taking and the taker was right in front of him. He had no one to blame than himself for his failings and his cowardice, yet a bitter feeling lingered. Even if he did not deserve it, he would have wanted to talk to Orel some more.

"Take this to your next life. Do not gamble if you are afraid of losing," Griffon imparted wisdom as his final form of courtesy.

A harsh wind blew past and into Griffon's mask through the many small holes. He could only wonder about it for a moment as his ears filled again with worms.

"Game over," The reaper's scythe flashed with cold light.

A sounding clang, then a splat and a pool of blood. The body fell backward to the embrace of his fading summoned insects as his long black hair opened from the confines of his helmet. In just a flicker, the hallway was back, the reaper gone, and Griffon dead on the floor. Emil felt no joy or sense of victory, only the relief of survival. Seeing the body gave him no enjoyment at all, only a small turn in his stomach. Griffon's face was forever frozen with surprise, never realizing his quick demise.

"Why am I like this?" He asked with a runny nose. "We both could have won, yet only this scaredy-cat lives. It doesn't feel fair, does it? Only the strong survive, yet I still feel weak. I don't deserve to be this lucky, even though I don't feel lucky at all."

He walked off to where Hortensia ran but not without giving a final glance back at his opponent. With no dirty tricks and a proper final sendoff, Emil understood that Griffon was merely a just man in an unjust system. He had no hate for him, yet he could not be as sure of his opponent. A man of no respect cannot afford to give it to another. The shame weighed his head low as he left the body in its abrupt resting place. There was no justice, no proper duel. He never even learned his name. In the end, the victor was left with less than nothing, not even blood on his hands.

A set of eyes opened into a blurry mess. Orel coughed relentlessly with only one hand to lean to. He crawled around aimlessly, only to find something warm that he could not recognize. As his sight returned, he came to a horrible realization that it was a body, and none other than Ándras'. Backing up frantically to a wall, or what he thought was one, he came to realize his surroundings just as a book fell on his head. A dusty library of every shade of brown excluding the interesting ones under dim yet warm lights hummed in silence. The marble floor and private study spaces waited eagerly for Orel to splat against them, stopped only by the low railing next to him.

His head turned to the suffering nearby. He found Diarmuid rubbing the back of his neck and complaining in swears he couldn't understand.

"Di-Diarmuid," Orel wheezed.

"Don't use up your voice, Diarmuid said, trying to rise to a sit.

"But Ándras," He pointed. "He's not waking up."

Diarmuid looked over to the pale body with a gaping hole in its chest. His attention turned to Orel's hand hanging loosely from his shoulder.

"Let me fix that. Bite into this." He offered a book.

A crunch followed by a muffled scream filled the silent library for a moment.

"There, but I wouldn't be doing much with it."

Orel twisted and bent his arm like before, though every movement was accompanied by a sharp aching feeling and his grip was weak and twitchy.

"Thanks..."

"Onto the next patient," Diarmuid said, patting his hands.

Ándras was still warm, but his body was as if in suspended animation. There was no breathing, pulse, or heartbeat, though the two were hard to accomplish without a heart.

"I don't know if there is anything I can do."

"you got to," Orel coughed. "Help him."

"What am I supposed to do? Give CPR?" Diarmuid snapped.

Orel's sad, confused face melted his anger.

"I mean, he has gone down before, right? Maybe he'll do just that?" Diarmuid changed his tone.

Orel looked at the large hole in the chest with understandable doubt.

"Anyways, how did we get here?" Diarmuid noticed the walls full of books. "My head went dark for a while there."

"Catori...or whoever he is took us here."

"He sure saved our asses," Diarmuid cracked his neck. "That magic hand is a hassle to deal with."

"What should we do?"

"Let's use this time to recover, but we can't linger for long. I'll search for a way out. You keep tabs on Ándras."

"Sure," Orel cleared his throat.

"What tablets?" Ándras rose like a Halloween prop.

Orel's dry scream alerted Diarmuid from the other side. Ándras yelled back in confusion.

"Why are we yelling?" He asked.

"So he did come back," Diarmuid returned.

"But how?" Orel looked at the perfectly normal chest with no hint of injury.

Ándras patted himself with similar wonder. "Don't know."

"Is there anything that you won't survive?" Diarmuid thought.

"I do feel a bit chilly," Ándras fumbled as he stood up. His skin was pale and his head was wobbly with no sense of direction. With his legs weak and shuffling, he fell back to the ground like a large log.

Diarmuid's eyes traced his fall with round surprise. "Spoke too soon."

"Are you alright?" Orel squatted next to him.

"Guess that blue guy took more out of me than I thought."

With the strongest fighter still out of commission, Diarmuid pondered their options.

"There was a door to a staircase back there," He gestured toward it. "Orel, could you watch over Ándras while I investigate?"

"Okay."

The two sat along the many bookshelves against the wall. They had little to say to each other, even in such a hectic situation.

"Hey, Orel," Ándras said with his head in his lap.

"Yeah?"

"We sure got handed our asses back there."

"We did," Orel had to agree.

"Another close call."

"Uh-uh."

Ándras let out a laugh. "Norman would be pissed."

A somber smile grew on Orel's face. "Yeah."

"So we better get him back." Ándras smiled back and let out a long sigh. He rose against the wall with heavy breaths. Watching him walk toward the door with the support of the shelves filled Orel with concern. Ándras' brave front fell to pieces much like the trail of fallen books he left behind. The brave smile wavered with sweat running down his face as he forced his legs to move and his back to keep him up.

"Are you alright?" Orel asked, following shortly behind.

"Just fine," Ándras said with a forced smile. "I only need a little sunlight, that's all."

"But we're underground."

"Then I'll just blast the roof off."

"Oh, you're already coming?" Diarmuid appeared at the door.

The two exchanged a glance.

"Yeah," Orel nodded.

"Alright," Diarmuid caught a whiff of the weird air around them. "Let's go find that gamemaster, shall we?"

"Let's go," Orel stepped into the spiral staircase, going past Diarmuid.

The iron staircase led both up and down, where the exit pointed up to the next floor. Ándras followed shortly behind, taking a tight grip on the railing.

"Need a hand?" Diarmuid reached for him.

"I'm fine, thanks," He waved off the gesture.

"A half-dead soldier is no use for anyone. Remember that."

"I'm not dead yet," Ándras took another step up the staircase.

Diarmuid stopped him with a tight grip on his shoulder. His bushy brow furrowed against his stern eyes. "That's not the mindset of a survivor. You aren't going to leave him alone, are you?"

Ándras' sunken eyes looked up blankly at him. "Of course not."

"Good," Diarmuid let go. "I will go see where Orel went. Don't get left behind."

"Sure," Ándras nodded. He listened as the steps faded until only his breaths remained. "Even if I fall, he won't be alone by then. If I could last at least until then. No, I need to."

He dragged himself to the end of the stairs where the two waited, scouting from the slip of a door held ajar. Orel watched intently from the gap, not even noticing his arrival. His ashen eyes glistened again with the fiery wonder they used to. The sight made a smile stretch on his weary face. It gave him newfound strength to carry on. Such a bright future was worth protecting. His past had been lost a long ago, something he could no longer recover or save. He had found a new purpose, something to keep him going. For that future, one single body was nothing. Deep inside his heart, he knew that from his sacrifice would rise something greater and though it wouldn't cleanse his sins, he would happily face damnation afterward.