The Summoner of Legends

Everything in the city seemed to be in its usual state. The everyday sounds echoed through the streets: the hum of distant vehicles, the faint murmur of people talking on street corners, and the hurried footsteps of those brave—or foolish—enough to walk the streets at night. Food joints, still open despite the hour, served tired customers looking for a final meal before retreating home. In the alleys, indistinct shadows moved to the rhythm of shady deals or whispered conversations. Meanwhile, police officers conducted their routine patrols, making their rounds through the streets with little enthusiasm.

At first glance, everything seemed normal. But in Gotham, that tranquility was deceptive. Everyone knew that this calm was only temporary, a fragile veil that would soon unravel into chaos.

It was a cycle the people of the city knew all too well. It was always the same: some lunatic trying to make a name for themselves, a gang war between rival mafias, a prison break, or a catastrophic clash between supervillains and heroes. The people of Gotham had learned to treasure moments of peace, no matter how fleeting they were, because in this city, peace was a rare and fragile commodity.

But tonight, something different had escaped. Something that was neither human nor part of the normal world. Something unlike anything else. It wasn't just dangerous—it was pure evil.

While most people spent their evening in relative tranquility, in a dark and secluded part of the city, a man was running. His footsteps were quick and clumsy, almost desperate, echoing against the ground as his breathing grew more frantic with every passing second.

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That man was nothing special. He wasn't a hero, nor a villain, not even someone anyone would remember. He was a nobody, a disposable cog in the machine of the city. And he knew it—he had always known it. In Gotham, the lives of people like him held no value.

However, he had been lucky enough to avoid any serious trouble. He had never been caught in the middle of a turf war, never found himself in the line of fire during a shootout, and despite working in a dangerous world, he had always managed to stay on the sidelines of the worst situations. For him, that was enough.

His life was simple, monotonous, but functional. His job didn't pay much, but it was enough to cover his needs. He had no grand ambitions, and he liked it that way. The tranquility of his routine, though modest, was the only thing he truly valued.

But luck doesn't last forever.

That night had started like any other. His job was straightforward: oversee a transaction at an abandoned warehouse. He had done it dozens of times before. The buyers would show up with the money, the product would be exchanged, and everything would be resolved quickly and quietly. The police rarely came near that part of the city, and as long as everyone kept a low profile, there were no problems.

The warehouse was large, cold, and desolate, filled with randomly stacked crates. The fluorescent lights flickered occasionally, and the sound of the wind seeping through cracks in the walls filled the place with a constant echo. Everything was going smoothly… until it appeared.

It arrived without warning, making no sound until it was too late. First, there was a blur of motion, something they barely had time to perceive. Then came the screams. That thing had burst into the warehouse and started killing everyone.

—Shoot it! Shoot it! —someone had yelled amidst the chaos, but bullets were useless. Some bounced harmlessly off the helmet that covered its head, while others passed through its body as if it weren't solid. Fear spread quickly among the men who had thought they were safe.

And then, the real horror began.

The creature's first move was to incapacitate everyone. It cut the legs off the men closest to it, ensuring they couldn't escape. Some also lost their arms in the process, their screams of pain echoing through the warehouse. The floor was soon covered in blood, and the metallic stench of iron mixed with the cold air of the room.

One of the men—perhaps the luckiest of them all—died quickly. A single clean slash had severed his head from his body, ending his suffering instantly. The others weren't so fortunate.

One man, the same one now running desperately through the streets, had managed to hide among a stack of crates. His body trembled as he listened to the screams and the sound of blades tearing through flesh. He held his breath as he curled up in the darkness, praying that thing wouldn't find him.

When the screams momentarily subsided, he mustered the courage to peek out. What he saw would haunt him forever.

The creature stood in the center of the warehouse, and now he could see it clearly. Blades extended from its forearms, long and razor-sharp, as if they were a natural extension of its body. Its torso was encased in a black armor that gleamed faintly under the flickering lights, and its head was covered by a dark helmet that completely concealed its face. The most unsettling feature of all was its lack of legs—beneath its torso, a cloud of dark smoke floated, allowing it to move without ever touching the ground.

It wasn't human. It couldn't be.

The man couldn't tear his eyes away as the creature moved with an eerie calm. It seemed to relish what it was doing. It went from one victim to the next, ensuring they were injured enough to prevent escape. The cuts on their bodies were precise, designed to cause maximum pain without killing them outright.

Some screamed, others begged for help, but no one came to their aid. One by one, they began to lose consciousness, either from the pain or the blood loss. And then, the creature would ignore them. It seemed to lose interest in those who were no longer conscious, as if they were no longer useful for its entertainment.

The man shuddered. "It's not just a monster… it's something worse. It's a demon."

He tried to remain still, convincing himself that if he stayed hidden, that thing wouldn't find him. But he knew he couldn't stay there forever. The fear was consuming him, and if he didn't run soon, his luck would run out—just like everyone else's had.

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If by some miracle you managed to endure the pain of the initial cuts, that thing would proceed to something far worse: it would carve entire chunks of flesh from your body as if you were nothing more than livestock in a slaughterhouse. But unlike a common butcher, it didn't bother to kill you first. No. It made sure you were alive as it tore your skin apart.

From his hiding spot, the man watched as some of the injured tried to crawl away from the monster. Their mutilated, blood-soaked bodies twisted in a desperate effort to escape. But the creature seemed to enjoy their futile attempts. It let them advance a few meters, as if granting them false hope, before calmly approaching and severing their heads with chilling precision.

Each scream echoed through the warehouse like an endless nightmare, pounding in the man's ears as he cowered behind the crates. It was a living hell—a gruesome symphony of flesh, blood, and despair. Every time he heard one of those agonized cries, his body shuddered, unable to stop itself.

"This can't be happening," he thought, struggling to steady himself. No one knew how it had all begun. One moment, the warehouse was quiet, and the next, that thing had appeared. It had emerged from the shadows as if it were part of them—a demon that took form in the darkness. And then, chaos erupted.

The man knew he couldn't stay hidden much longer. If he remained where he was, sooner or later, it would find him, and his luck would run out. He had to move. He had to run.

Cautiously, he peeked out from his hiding spot, trying to calculate the best way to escape. All he needed was a small window of opportunity, just a few seconds to make a break for it before that thing noticed him.

But then, he saw him. His friend.

There he was, lying on the floor, legless. Blood trickled from his mouth, mixing with the tears and sweat that drenched his face. He seemed to have lost consciousness during the creature's torture, but now he was awake. His eyes, wide with terror, darted around the room as he tried to make sense of the situation. When he saw the state of the others, panic overtook him again. Desperate, he began to drag himself with whatever strength he had left, leaving a trail of blood in his wake.

The man couldn't look away. "No, no, no… why did you have to wake up?" he thought, feeling a wave of anguish rise within him.

For a moment, he thought his friend might actually make it. He was moving faster than the others had. But then their eyes met. His friend saw him, crouched behind the crates. The terror in his eyes seemed to shift, replaced by a glimmer of hope.

The expression on his face changed. A spark of strength, of determination, ignited within him. With a will that seemed to come from some deep corner of his soul, he started dragging himself toward him.

The man felt his heart tighten. His friend was coming to him. "I can't leave him like this," he thought. This wasn't just a friend; he was a brother. The only one who had ever helped him when everyone else turned their backs. "I don't want to be a hero, but I can't let him die here. Not after everything he's done for me."

He took a deep breath, his nerves fraying to the breaking point, and glanced back toward the creature. To his surprise, the demon was at the far end of the warehouse, more than fifty meters away. It was torturing another one of the men, taking its time with its victim.

"This is my chance." The distance was enough. If he moved quickly and quietly, he could reach his friend and drag him back to safety before the creature noticed.

Gathering every ounce of courage he had, he slipped out of his hiding spot. His movements were swift and silent, his steps barely brushing against the floor. When he reached his friend, he grabbed him by the hands and began dragging him back toward the crates. His entire body trembled with every second spent outside the safety of his hiding spot, but he forced himself to keep going. "Just a little further… just a little further…"

When they were finally back behind the crates, the man let out a strangled sigh, allowing himself a brief moment of relief. His heart pounded so loudly in his chest that he feared it might give them away. But there was no time to rest.

He lifted his gaze, desperately searching for a way out. In the corner of the warehouse, just beyond a cluster of metal shelves, he spotted an emergency exit. It was partially hidden, but the path leading to it seemed clear. "That's our way out," he thought, a faint flicker of hope lighting up inside him.

—We can make it… —he whispered, more to himself than to his friend.

He looked back toward the creature. He couldn't afford to be careless now. He had to make sure that monster was occupied before attempting to move toward the exit. Slowly, he began to turn his head to locate it, but before he could, a chilling sensation shot through his body.

It was as if the air had grown heavier, denser. A low, guttural sound filled the room, and then he heard a voice.

—Where do you think you're going, little rats?

The voice was deep and distorted, as if it came from the depths of some abyss. The man felt his blood turn to ice as the words echoed in his mind. For a moment, every fiber of his being screamed at him to run, to get out of there as fast as he could. But with almost superhuman effort, he resisted the impulse.

Slowly, he turned his head upward, and then he saw it.

Just as he had feared, there it was. The monster stood atop the very crates that had served as a hiding spot for both of them. Its presence, so close now, froze him completely. It was as if the air had been sucked out of his lungs. "There's no escape," he thought, as his mind desperately searched for a solution that didn't exist.

He couldn't fight that thing. Not after what he'd seen. The mutilated bodies scattered across the warehouse floor were proof enough that any attempt at resistance was futile. This wasn't an enemy you could fight. This wasn't something human.

Suddenly, he felt a squeeze on his hand. The unexpected force briefly pulled him out of his paralysis. He looked down and saw his friend. His face was pale, drenched in sweat and blood, but his eyes still held a glimmer of determination. With his free hand, his friend pointed toward the emergency door. He didn't need to say anything more, but still, his lips moved, and his voice, barely a whisper, reached his ears:

—Go.

"Go."

The word stabbed into his mind like a knife. How could he just leave him? How could he abandon him there to face that monster alone? But his legs, driven purely by instinct, started to move before he could process what he was doing.

With tears in his eyes and his heart crushed under the weight of guilt, he obeyed. He sprang to his feet and ran, his muscles moving as if they had a will of their own. His body pushed past its own limits, fueled by a mixture of adrenaline and sheer terror. His steps were fast, almost clumsy, and the sound of his boots echoed through the empty warehouse.

He was barely aware of what he was doing when a deep, distorted voice rang out behind him, cutting through the air like a whip:

—Run faster.

The echo of those words was accompanied by an unmistakable sound: the sickening noise of flesh being torn apart.

It was the last thing he heard before bursting through the emergency door.

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He ran. He ran like never before in his life. He wasn't thinking, he didn't look back. He just kept moving forward, his legs propelling him at full speed as the cold night air whipped against his face. He couldn't stop running.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry," he thought over and over again. Tears streamed down his cheeks, mixing with the sweat soaking his skin. "Forgive me… I had to do it. There was no other choice."

He couldn't stop to mourn his friend's death—not now. His survival was the only thing that mattered. "When I'm safe, I can think about everything else. But not now."

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Unbeknownst to him, the creature was flying above him, gliding through the air with an unnerving grace. From the heights, it watched as the man ran with every ounce of strength he had, desperate to escape.

The fear.

That pure, desperate fear was a feast for the creature. "Delicious," it thought, savoring every drop of terror radiating from its prey. It had been so long since it had tasted fear so raw, so unfiltered.

Its very existence was tied to that emotion. It had been born in the midst of a war, when fear filled every corner, when the hearts of men beat in rhythm with despair. Fear was its sustenance, its delicacy, its reason for being.

And it always savored this moment: the instant when its prey believed they had a chance to escape. Watching them cling to hope, even for the briefest second, only to snatch it away after—that was its favorite part.

"Perhaps I ended things too quickly with the others," it thought as it watched the man run. But it didn't matter. The world was full of prey, full of fear waiting to be harvested. It was no longer trapped. It was no longer confined.

As long as the summoner had nightmares, it would have control. It could manifest in this world whenever it wanted. No one knew of its existence yet, but it needed to make the most of its anonymity before the others became aware.

While it enjoyed dragging out the chase, it knew it couldn't let this human escape. "I can't risk someone else seeing him," it thought. After all, the greatest fear always comes from the unknown.

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The man could see the exit. Just a few meters ahead, the main avenue stretched out before him. The streetlights illuminated the road, and though there weren't many people at this hour, he could still see a few cars passing by. "Just a little farther," he thought. "If I can make it there, maybe… maybe it'll get distracted by someone else. Maybe it'll let me go."

His body was at its limit. His legs burned, his lungs felt like they were about to burst, and every step sent a jolt of pain through his entire body. But he couldn't stop. Not now. "I'm so close…"

With the last drops of energy he had left, he forced his body to move faster. His speed increased, and for one brief moment, he thought he might actually make it.

And then, it happened.

It appeared in front of him.

The creature materialized out of nowhere, blocking his path as if it had emerged from the darkness itself. Its imposing figure floated a few inches above the ground, completely cutting off his escape.

The man skidded to a stop, his eyes wide with terror. Fear froze him in place, but only for a moment. With a desperate effort, he tried to keep running, convinced he could somehow dodge the creature. "I've always been lucky," he thought. "Luck has always helped me… it has to help me now."

But there were two flaws in his thinking.

The first was believing that luck was something he could control, as if wishing for it were enough to make it real. And the second… the second was thinking that an ordinary human could outrun a monster.

Driven by fear, he ignored these truths and decided to act. But he didn't get far.

Everything changed in an instant.

The world around him warped. The streetlights on the avenue twisted, spinning as if they were being sucked into an invisible vortex. The shadows stretched and writhed, and the ground beneath his feet seemed to vanish. Suddenly, everything was upside down.

The man stumbled, his legs faltering as they failed to find solid footing. His eyes filled with confusion and terror as his surroundings transformed into incomprehensible chaos.

"What's happening?" was the last thought he managed before he fell.

Too late, he realized the truth. He wasn't in another dimension, nor had the world changed around him. The chaos he saw was nothing more than an illusion—his own senses deceiving him.

It had been the creature's final joke before ending him.

With one clean, precise motion, his head was severed from his body. For a brief moment, his mind still tried to comprehend what had happened. The pain was almost imperceptible, replaced by a sensation of emptiness as everything faded. His vision darkened little by little, as if the entire world were dissolving into an endless shadow.

And the last thing he saw before the darkness claimed him completely was the face of that demon: that lifeless mask, those white, hollow eyes that seemed to pierce through him—devoid of compassion but filled with an indescribable power.

"Is this how it ends?" he thought faintly, before everything went black forever.

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The monster slowly descended to the man's decapitated body, floating like a silent shadow. For a moment, it gazed at its handiwork with a palpable sense of satisfaction, though its face, hidden behind the helmet, betrayed no emotion.

—There's no better feeling than this —it said, its deep voice resonating in the air, dripping with gratification.

With calm movements, it leaned closer to the lifeless body, as if inspecting it more closely. Then, it spoke again, this time in a tone almost friendly, though no less chilling:

—Thank you. Your fear was delicious.

With those words, it turned away, leaving the corpse behind. It had no further use for it. It had already harvested what it wanted.

Rising once again, the creature began to float into the sky, moving with an unnatural elegance, as if carried by the wind itself. Its dark silhouette blurred against the city's lights, becoming a faint shadow that disappeared into the night.

When it reached a few hundred meters above the ground, it paused for a moment and looked down.

Gotham stretched out beneath it like a living map, full of flickering lights, distant sounds, and subtle movements that only it could perceive from this height. It observed the city in silence, like a predator studying its prey.

—One more meal wouldn't hurt before I leave —it murmured, as if speaking to itself.

Its voice dragged out the words, each syllable lingering in an echo that only it could hear. A low, guttural laugh rumbled from its throat as it began to move again, gliding through the night sky like a living shadow.

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From below, the streets of Gotham seemed indifferent to what had just happened. Vehicles continued to move along the avenues, their headlights reflecting off the wet asphalt. People walked hurriedly, eager to reach their destinations, oblivious to the horror that floated above them.

But something had changed.

Something dark, something primal, something that had been buried in the human psyche for centuries was stirring once more.

The most basic and ancient instinct of all—the one that had driven the first humans to run, to hide, to survive.

Fear was back.

And with it, something even worse had arrived.

The creature vanished into the clouds, disappearing into the noise and chaos of the city. But its presence, though unseen, lingered.

After all, we all have fear.