Chapter 174: The Crimson Cycle

Chapter 174: The Crimson Cycle

First time awkward, second time smooth.

Before the eighth metal door, Researcher A deftly tossed a portion of human tissue into the alchemical troughs lining the room.

Tendrils of crimson immediately spread through the water, the flesh lurching and rolling on the surface before sinking into the lightless depths of the trough.

The troughs in these rooms seemed interconnected—the further he progressed, the murkier the water became, shimmering under the light with an unmistakable blood-hue.

Clotted foam clung to the edges of the trough, mixed with tiny fragments of organs and even a few shards of fingernails floating among them.

Researcher A tugged at the hem of his coat, wiping the blood off his scalpel, and thought with relief:

*Thankfully, I always carry a knife out of habit. Otherwise, dealing with that offering would have been inconvenient.*

The once-gleaming blade, despite repeated wiping and rinsing, still bore a stubborn reddish stain—and when it reflected Researcher A’s face, his eyes seemed to glow with an infernal red light.

At first, the demands of the first two doors were relatively lenient.

The first door had asked for one day’s memories or a little finger.

Fearing that future doors might demand something like "a complete hand," Researcher A chose to sacrifice a day of his own memory.

Then he realized—he couldn’t remember anything from the previous day at all. It was as if that day had been excised completely, leaving no trace in his life!

This made Researcher A wonder: *What if the doors start demanding a year’s worth of memories? Or ten years’ worth?*

*If he kept stripping away and discarding parts of himself, what would remain in the end? Would he still be the same person?*

*Even if he escaped this hellish place, he might become an aging newborn with no knowledge—how could he possibly maintain his position in the organization and the Carnival?*

Researcher A grew increasingly aware of the game’s cruelty and became even more reluctant to offer sacrifices from himself.

So, when the second door demanded half of his accumulated points or three fingernails from his companion…

Researcher A barely paused before raising his knife against the companion trussed in the straitjacket.

As he worked, he quickly slipped back into his usual role in the lab, treating the other as nothing more than a lab rat—stripped of humanity and undeserving of pity.

To prevent the offering from breaking free of the straitjacket and complicating their "cooperation," Researcher A didn’t loosen any of the restraints. Instead, he only made surgical incisions where needed, skillfully slicing, peeling, and extracting.

The moment he pulled out the nails, Researcher A locked eyes with the offering—the only part of the other’s face still visible. Those eyes were veined with red, dulled with pain and numbness.

It was a look Researcher A knew well.

But unlike usual, there wasn’t much hatred in those eyes—just bottomless grief and despair.

As if Researcher A wasn’t the one holding the knife, but rather someone in the same abyss as the offering.

A ripple of disquiet passed through Researcher A’s mind. He paused, staring into those eyes, suddenly pierced by déjà vu—as if he’d faced them countless times before…

After a moment of hesitation, Researcher A shook his head and thought:

*Is this sense of familiarity because his eyes are the same cerulean as mine?*

*Or is he one of the many test subjects I’ve handled?*

There had been too many subjects passing through his hands. It was understandable if he felt a half-remembered recognition but couldn’t place it.

Shaking his head, Researcher A quickly dismissed these thoughts.

Once he’d crossed that line, he found it even easier to sacrifice his companion in the rooms that followed.

Before the third door, Researcher A excised the other’s tongue.

Before the fourth, he scooped the sockets clean of those cerulean eyes.

Then the fifth, the sixth, the seventh…

One by one, the offerings were tossed into the trough, sinking into the lightless gullet.

By now, the water in the trough had turned a deep, clotted scarlet—like spilled paint, thick and murky as it churned.

Beyond the bloodied water, the eighth metal door silently swung open, revealing a curved passageway.

Dragging the gasping wreck like livestock to slaughter, Researcher A hauled the figure to the end of the passage, where another identical square room awaited.

The companion was now on the verge of death, gaping orbits staring blankly ahead.

His limbs had all been sacrificed—he couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. His torso, wrapped in thick fabric, made the straitjacket appear deflated.

Perhaps this room held some unnatural power, keeping him alive despite his condition. His mouth hung slack, crimson spittle dripping down his chin, staining the once-white straitjacket with splotches of red.

In the ninth room, the witch’s voice crooned again.

This time, the offering demanded was—a head.

Without hesitation, Researcher A ended the companion’s faltering pulse. To avoid dirtying his hands, he simply lifted the head, still wrapped in cloth, and tossed it into the trough.

The head lolled and spun in the water twice before the sound of the metal door sliding open reached his ears. Researcher A could barely contain his excitement, his lips curling into a rictus of victory—he was about to escape the Witch’s Box.

But then, the loosely wrapped cloth around the head was pushed aside by the water’s movement, peeling away on the surface and revealing the face beneath.

Researcher A’s smile froze instantly, as if he’d frozen mid-breath.

That face…

Even with its cratered sockets and gore-crusted features, he recognized it at once—

That face… was his own!

The face, identical to his, swayed in the water, cadaverous, before sinking deeper into the trough like the offerings before it.

His breath quickened. Researcher A’s skull throbbed from the shock.

With a *clang*, the scalpel slipped from his fingers. Staggering back, he looked down in a daze at the blood caking his cuticles.

Red. Everything was red.

After working in the lab for so long, he’d eroded all compassion for life—his atrophied conscience could no longer see the crimson of blood or feel its warmth.

But now, the blood on his hands branded his flesh like fire, searing and stinging.

The red drowned his sight, swirling and blurring until his head spun with a tidal vertigo.

…How could this be?

Who—who had he just methodically dismantled? Had the butchered man been himself all along?

Was that... himself?

"No... impossible..."

Researcher A let out an incredulous shout, then suddenly thought of something, his pupils contracting to needle points. He crouched down and, using the blood on his fingertips, began to scratch markings into the ground.

Struggling to suppress the pounding agony in his head, he carefully recalled the curved corridors behind each door, then attempted to sketch and reconstruct their outlines.

His trembling fingers finished the drawing, leaving behind a crooked, bright, blood-red infinity symbol on the ground—like a pair of eyes staring at Researcher A’s frightened, disheveled state.

Infinity... a loop! It’s a loop!

In a sudden realization of a horrifying truth, Researcher A jerked his head up to look at the metal door. Now, it no longer seemed to lead to freedom, but rather a one-way ticket to earthly hell.

Unhinged by the terrifying visions in his mind and overwhelming emotions, he clutched his hair, letting out incoherent, hysterical screams—just like those of trapped animals.

Moving forward would lead to nothing good—Researcher A understood this with absolute clarity.

But what about going back?

The doors behind him had already closed. There was no retreat left.

Slumped where he stood for a long time, Researcher A shook violently, too afraid to step through the final door before him, into what was theoretically the tenth room.

Yet the walls warped and constricted, as if by the witch's silent urging. The yawning doorway slowly advanced, consuming what little space remained in the room, eagerly closing in on Researcher A.

Before long, the entire room was crushed into a sliver. Researcher A’s back was pressed tightly against the rear wall, but the door was now right in front of him—like the gaping black gullet of a beast—and swallowed him whole.

In an instant, he lost consciousness.

When he came to groggily again, Researcher A found his limbs tightly bound, his body encased in thick canvas, paralyzing him.

He tried to struggle, but the specially designed straitjacket made even moving a finger nearly impossible. The garment formed an unyielding, mute cell—just as it had for the mocked and tormented "sacrificial subjects" before, so too did it now for Researcher A himself.

Trapped in this inescapable cage, Researcher A finally realized:

He was no better than those test subjects.

He was not superior. He was of the same kind, cut from the same cloth. They all felt pain, they all bled...

So why had he treated those lives with such contempt before?

Only his eyes were exposed beyond the fabric. With tremendous strain, Researcher A opened them and saw another version of himself standing in the square metal room, scanning the room bewildered.

"Welcome to the Witch’s Box."

Just like in the previous cycle, the familiar, amused, terrifying female voice chimed in as before.

At this moment, Researcher A finally understood the true rule of the Witch’s Box:

"As you treat others, so shall you be treated."

For the wicked, this was an inescapable vortex of death, a crimson cycle of slow self-torment.

Trapped in the straitjacket, Researcher A stared hopelessly at his other self. No one knew better than him what choices he would make.

Sure enough, after a brief hesitation, the other him tentatively asked the same question:

"...But my companion seems unable to move or speak?"

The hope in Researcher A’s eyes dimmed. Outside the box, the witch observed the cycle with amusement, her voice tinged with mockery cutting through the straitjacket and reaching his ears, laced with derision.

"That is a matter between the two of you."

Elius answered just as before.

Cupping the box in her palms, her gaze penetrated the ebony barrier, seeing the nightmare chambers forming an endless ∞ shape—and within them, one after another, people trapped by their own malice.

Would they choose freedom or hell? How deep into hell would they go?

The power of choice lay entirely in the hands of those who sought to escape.

But those who'd lost all conscience would always push themselves into the deepest abyss of hell.