The Gore #2 – Knife of Dawn - 1653 - The iron gates clanged open, and hell’s breath slammed into him like a thousand damn knives. Free, they said. Free from hell’s prison. But hell damn sure still clung to him, clawing like a shadow no damn light could burn away. Hell was everywhere—hell in the salty air, hell in the crooked streets, hell in the damned faces of every poor soul walking like they’d already been dragged through hell’s fire. He stepped onto the cobblestones, hell crawling beneath his skin, a cold knife biting like hell’s own damn fire. The cursed blade, hidden beneath his ragged coat, was hell’s goddamn promise — sharp, hungry, thirsty for hell-blood. “Hell outside these walls ain’t no better,” he muttered, voice rough as hell’s own damn throat. His wife waited by the canal, eyes burning with hell’s sorrow and bloody fury. At dinner, hell exploded between them like a wildfire ripped straight from hell’s blackest depths. Voices low, voices sharp, words dripping with hell’s damn venom. “You ain’t the man you were,” she spat, gaze bloody, eyes soaked in hell’s goddamn tears and rage. “Hell,” he spat back, “I’m worse — and it’s this cursed knife that’s got hell crawling beneath my damn flesh.” Her hand trembled, blood slicking the table like hell’s own damn stain. “You’ll drag us all into hell if you don’t stop.” Hell was already rising between them — a flame fed by hell’s damn fury that would swallow everything whole. He stepped outside, hell’s damn chill biting at his bones like a thousand frozen daggers. The night reeked of death and decay — the kind of hell that seeps into your damn soul and never lets go. There, half-buried in the dirt by the crumbling fountain, lay the knife — hell’s own damn blade, wicked and thirsty, its edge shimmering like the fires of hell itself. He reached down, fingers trembling, and took it up. The cold metal felt alive — hell humming through the blade’s veins, whispering bloody promises of power and pain. His mind twisted, hell rising in a goddamn dark storm behind his eyes. He didn’t want her anymore. That hell-born knife made that damn clear. Back inside, her eyes met his — hope and fear tangled in hell’s cruel grip. But he was done. With a growl like hell’s own damn fury, he turned away, gripping the blade tight, feeling hell’s goddamn hunger pulsing through him. The night outside screamed with hell’s fury as he left her behind — his love swallowed by hell’s blackest damn void. He slipped back inside like nothing had changed, the knife still cold and heavy in his hand. The house was silent, shadows crawling along the walls like hell itself was watching. He didn’t say a word, didn’t look back. He crawled into bed with stains of heavy, maroon blood on his clothes, pretending everything was normal — as if hell hadn’t just cracked wide open in that goddamn room. Hours passed, ticking slow as hell’s own damn clock, until the world outside blacked out. At 4AM, when the city was swallowed in darkness and silence, hell truly began. At the cruel break of dawn, he stepped out into the cold streets of Venice, the cursed knife heavy in his hand — like a piece of hell itself. The city was too damn quiet, like the calm before hell’s storm. His eyes burned with hell’s goddamn fire as he moved through shadowed alleys, the knife glinting with a sinister promise. One by one, he struck — swift, cold, relentless. The air filled with muffled cries, faint whispers of bloody chaos trailing him like a damn curse. The dawn light revealed the aftermath — pale faces, crumpled bodies, and the unmistakable stain of something bloody and dark, the mark of hell itself. The spirits of those lost rose silently, joining the curse, dragging their torment through the hellish night. Venice was waking to a new kind of hell — one painted with shadows, fear, and the echo of a bloody damn knife. The first light crept over cracked stones as the man stepped into the silent streets, the cursed knife tight in his grip — a piece of hell’s damn own heart. Ahead stood Sergeant Brando — the guard who’d spent seven long years breaking him with cruel hands and harsher words. His eyes burned with the same ruthless hellfire. “Well, hell’s fire,” Brando roared, voice echoing through the empty alley. “You think you’re free? I’ll see you dragged down to hell before the damn sun’s high!” He lunged forward, swinging with brutal force, voice tearing through the dawn like a damn curse. The man met him without hesitation, movements sharp and cold as hell’s own damn chill, blood everywhere — around both Brando and Bruno. No screams filled the street — only the clash of wills, the echo of a bitter reckoning born in hell’s goddamn grip. As the first sunray broke through the gloom, the city held its breath — knowing the cursed dawn had only just begun. The goddamn knife carved through hell’s thick silence, slicing through flesh and bone with the hunger of a thousand damned souls. Every strike was a prayer to hell, every bloody mark a testament to goddamn fury unleashed. Brando’s voice sliced the air again — a goddamn war cry. “You think you’re the only one cursed? Hell’s got a damn army, and you’re standing in the middle of hell’s battlefield.” Around them, the streets whispered with hell’s damn secrets — the ghosts of those lost to bloody revenge rising to join the fight. The cursed blade drank deep, hungry for the bloody proof of hell’s wrath. The man’s breath was ragged, each step heavier than the last — but hell’s fire roared in his veins, burning damn hot, unstoppable as hell itself. Hell’s clock ticked loud as the sun climbed higher, shadows fleeing from the bloody path he carved. The city’s pulse quickened, caught between fear and the goddamn terror of hell unleashed. Every corner held hell’s promise — a whispered warning, a bloody stain, a hell-bound soul dragged screaming into damnation. The knife’s hunger never dulled — slicing through hell’s chaos with goddamn precision. Venice was a city drowning in hell — and hell had claimed its damn champion. The dawn dragged itself across the sky like a slow, damn curse. Hell’s own breath still hung thick in the air, heavy and suffocating as the man moved through the streets that whispered with forgotten cries and bloody memories. His steps were silent but sure, the cursed knife resting cold and heavy in his hand, its edge kissed with the residue of past sins. Hell had marked him, tied him to this path of damnation and blood—no turning back now. The city around him was a ghost town, but hell was alive everywhere—in the cracked stones beneath his feet, in the hollow eyes of shuttered windows, in the faint rustle of torn fabric and whispered prayers gone wrong. Every breath he took was thick with the taste of iron and despair, every damn sound a reminder that hell was waiting, watching. He paused beneath a flickering lantern, the light casting bloody shadows that danced like the damned on cracked walls. A faint sound—a cough, a whimper—pulled him like a goddamn curse, drawing him closer to the edge of sanity and hell. The figure he found was trembling, soaked in sweat and stained with old, bloody wounds that glistened like hellfire in the dawn. Their eyes met his—wide, terrified, begging for salvation that hell would never grant. He didn’t speak. Words were useless in the goddamn quiet between life and death. The knife gleamed, a silent promise, a warning as old as hell itself. Time slowed, stretched thin as the weight of all those damned years pressed down on him. The knife moved, not with haste but with the cruel precision of hell’s own justice, each motion a damn echo of pain and release. The world seemed to shatter around them—the heavy scent of blood thickening the air, the soft sound of ragged breaths mingling with the distant toll of bells that marked the passing of hellish time. He stepped back, watching the figure slump into the cold stones, the life ebbing away like a slow damn river. No triumph, no mercy—just the dark silence of hell settling in. The dawn was fully broken now, the city waking, but hell never sleeps. It waited, patient and bloody, ready to claim what was promised. He sheathed the knife and disappeared into the growing light, a damn shadow in a city full of ghosts, where hell had come to stay. Bruno’s breath came ragged, each inhale tasting like the hellfire burning just beneath his skin. The dawn’s light spilled weak and bloody over Venice’s crooked rooftops, but hell still ruled the streets, thick and heavy, like a damn fog that wouldn’t lift. Hell’s damn weight was crushing, and Bruno wore it like a second skin, colder and heavier than the chain shackles that had bound him for seven hellish years. His steps echoed in the empty alleys, sharp as hell’s own knife. Every shadow seemed alive with whispers—hellish murmurs of past sins and damned souls, crawling just beyond sight. The cursed blade, hidden beneath his coat, pulsed with hell’s hunger. It whispered bloody promises that made damnation sound like mercy. A faint noise — a cough, a tremble — pulled him into a narrow lane where the last remnants of night clung like hell’s own breath. There, trembling beneath a broken archway, a figure cowered. Their eyes wide and wet, reflecting hell’s cruel light. “You damn fools never learn,” Bruno hissed, voice rough as hell’s gravel. “You think hell’s fire only burns me? No. It’s a goddamn blaze that’ll scorch every last one of you.” The figure whimpered, but hell’s judgment was already written in Bruno’s grim glare. He didn’t need to raise the knife—hell had already carved the sentence into the silence between them. The damn blade glinted in the pale light, hungry, thirsty, the weight of every goddamn year he’d spent in hell itself. The figure tried to plead, but hell’s shadows swallowed the words before they could reach Bruno’s ears. His grip tightened on the damn handle, cold and unforgiving as hell’s damn stone. The air thickened, heavy with the scent of iron and old blood — hell’s lingering stain on a city already damned beyond hope. Behind him, Venice held its breath, silent except for the distant toll of bells—hell’s own clock counting down the minutes to more damnation. Bruno moved on before the figure could fade into the dark, each step a promise of hell unleashed. As the sun climbed, burning weakly through hell’s heavy veil, Bruno’s path carved a bloody damn trail. Faces watched from shuttered windows, eyes wide with hell’s fear and haunted by the goddamn knowledge that hell’s fury was coming for them all. He paused at the edge of the square where the market once thrived — now a ghostly hellscape of shattered stalls and cracked stones. A woman stood trembling by the fountain, her hands bloody, face pale as hell’s own ash. “You think this hell will spare you?” Bruno growled, voice a low damn rumble that shook the air. “You’re all goddamn sinners in my eyes.” She screamed, but hell had already claimed her voice. The blade sang a silent hymn of damnation as it kissed the morning light. Bruno didn’t look back — hell’s hunger drove him forward, relentless as the tides dragging souls to hell’s deep damnation. By noon, the streets were soaked in hell’s silence. No screams, only the damn whispers of those left behind—ghosts of hell’s wrath. Bruno’s shadow stretched long and bloody against the cracked stones, a dark reminder that hell was here to stay. And as the goddamn sun dipped low, bleeding red and bloody like the city’s own damn heart, Bruno vanished into the hellish maze of Venice’s alleys, the cursed knife glinting like the final goddamn promise of hell’s unyielding fury. The grand hall of King Vittore Malvagio’s fortress reeked of cold stone and hell’s own damn silence. Flickering torchlight cast bloody shadows on tapestries stained by time and goddamn cruelty. Bruno was dragged before the throne, his cursed knife hidden beneath ragged clothes, his eyes burning with hell’s fury. King Vittore sat tall, a crown heavy with gold and damn deceit pressing down on his brow. His voice rolled like hellfire over cracked stone. “Bruno... the hellspawn who crawled out of that goddamn prison. You wear hell like a cloak, and your hands are stained with bloody vengeance.” Bruno’s voice was rough as hell’s own throat, dripping with goddamn defiance. “King Vittore, I’m the storm you summoned, the hell that no throne can hold back. My knife is hell’s own justice, and I don’t bow to crowns or gods.” The king’s dark eyes narrowed like hell’s black pits. “You spill blood like a damn plague, carving a path of hell through my lands. Tell me, hell-cursed one—what goddamn madness fuels this bloody spree?” Bruno stepped forward, the knife catching the torchlight, a wicked glint like hell’s own grin. “Madness? Hell no. It’s justice, pure and damn clear. Every soul who sent me to rot in hell’s prison will bleed for their sins. Hell’s fire burns hotter than any crown.” Vittore’s lips twisted in a cruel smirk. “You defy me, the king of this damned realm, and you drag us all closer to hell’s pit. What hellish fate do you seek, Bruno? Redemption? Or damnation?” Bruno spat, the taste of hell bitter on his tongue. “Redemption died in that hellhole. Damnation is all that’s left—and I’ll burn this goddamn kingdom to hell before I’m done.” A slow, hellish silence filled the hall, thick as death’s own breath. The king’s voice dropped, cold and sharp as a blade. “Then you’ve chosen hell’s path fully. Walk it alone, Bruno, for no army or ally will stand with a damn cursed man.” Bruno’s grip tightened on the knife, hell pulsing through his veins. “I don’t need allies. Hell is my army, damnation my shield. I’ll drag you and your goddamn kingdom screaming into hell’s fire.” King Vittore rose, his shadow stretching long and bloody across the floor. “So be it, hellspawn. I’ll send my best after you—hunters soaked in goddamn steel and hellish resolve. We’ll see if your bloody knife can cut through the hell of my wrath.” Bruno’s eyes burned brighter, a hellish flame no damn king could quench. “Let them come. I’ll carve their bloody souls from hell’s grip and add them to the damn pile.” The king’s cruel laugh echoed, a goddamn curse upon the air. “Then prepare, Bruno. The hell you’ve unleashed is about to consume us all.” The heavy iron doors slammed shut behind Bruno with a goddamn finality that swallowed the echo in a pit of hell. King Vittore Malvagio’s voice had been cold as hell’s own winter wind when he spoke. “So, Bruno,” the king hissed, eyes glittering with a goddamn cruel fire, “you think your knife and bloody spree make you free? Hell no. You belong in the dark now, back where hell’s claws can keep tearing at you.” Bruno spat on the cold stone floor, lips cracked and voice raw. “I’m hell’s damn curse, King. You lock me up, but I’ll burn your kingdom from hell’s damn shadows.” Vittore laughed, a dark, terrible sound full of goddamn menace. “You think your damn threats scare me? Hell’s grip will break you like it broke the last poor soul who tried.” They stood in the cold throne room, walls stained with centuries of damn history and shadowed with the weight of hell’s own judgment. Vittore leaned close, voice low and filled with bloody venom. “Three years, Bruno. Three years in hell’s darkest cell. That’s how long it takes to damn a man’s soul beyond repair.” Bruno’s eyes burned with hell’s fire. “Hell’s damn fire can never be snuffed out. It’ll burn until hell swallows us all.” The prison was a goddamn nightmare — damp, dark, and cold as hell’s breath on a winter night. The air was thick with the stench of sweat and damn misery. Rats scurried like hell’s own messengers through the cracks, and the screams of the damned echoed endlessly through the stone halls. Bruno was thrown into a narrow cell, chains biting into his bloody wrists, the cold seeping into his bones like hell’s frost. Days blended into nights, each one a goddamn eternity. “Hell’s damn darkness is your only goddamn friend here,” a voice rasped from the shadows. Bruno squinted through the gloom. “You’re just another damned soul waiting to be swallowed by hell.” The man in the corner coughed, bloody and broken. “Hell’s fire inside you still burns, but hell’s chains will drag you down.” Weeks turned to months, months into years. Bruno’s skin grew pale, his frame gaunt, but the damn fire in his eyes never dimmed. Each day, the guards brought him scraps and hellish taunts. “Keep your damn spirits up,” one sneered. “Hell’s waiting for you, but you’ll be late to your own damn funeral.” Bruno’s voice was a dry whisper. “I’ll see hell long before you see the dawn.” King Vittore visited rarely, but when he did, the goddamn chill in the air grew thick with dread. “You’re nothing but a bloody shadow now, Bruno,” the king said, stepping into the hellish gloom of the cell. “A reminder of hell’s failures.” Bruno’s smile was bitter, a bloody thing stained with hell’s own sorrow. “I’m the goddamn nightmare that haunts your kingdom. Hell’s reckoning waiting to be unleashed.” Vittore’s eyes narrowed. “We’ll see if hell’s damn chains can hold you till your final breath.” The years wore on, Bruno’s body breaking while hell’s fire in his soul grew hotter, fueled by goddamn vengeance and bloody memories. The prison was a tomb of damnation, but hell’s spirit within him remained alive — a whisper in the shadows, a promise of damnation yet to come. Bruno lay on the cold stone floor of his hellish cell, breath shallow, body worn thin by years of hell’s relentless grip. The flickering torchlight cast hell-shaped shadows on the walls—twisting, writhing like the damned souls that filled the city beyond. Hell had been his prison, his curse, his only companion for too long. Now, as the last flicker of life slipped from his eyes, hell opened its mouth wide to swallow him whole. “Hell...” he whispered, voice barely more than a ghost caught in the damn cold. “Hell’s fire never dies.” The silence that followed was thick with hell’s own weight—an eternal pause before the fall into hell’s dark embrace. Outside, Venice breathed and bled, its crooked alleys soaked in centuries of hell’s sorrow and damnation. The city’s heartbeat was slow but steady, its stones warm with hell’s bloody history. But on the night Bruno died, hell’s breath grew colder, the air thick with whispers and restless shadows. The hellish spirit of the man who had carved his fury into Venice’s bones stirred from the depths. From the depths of hell’s shadow, Bruno’s ghost rose—an eternal flame of hell’s wrath, burning with the same hellfire that had driven his blade. His eyes, once dimmed by hell’s toll, now glowed with hell’s terrible light. Hell was no longer a prison. It was his kingdom. He haunted the twisting canals and narrow streets, a specter bound by hell’s endless thirst for vengeance. The damned whispers of hell followed him—echoes of pain and rage that never found peace. “Venice,” his ghostly voice echoed like hell’s wind through the night, “hell’s fury will never rest.” The citizens spoke in hushed tones of the hell-spirit—of shadows moving with hell’s purpose, of a ghost whose presence made hell’s cold seep beneath their skin. Hell’s chains had broken, but hell’s curse remained. Bruno was no longer a man trapped in hell’s darkness—he was the living hell that haunted the city itself, a bloody reminder that hell never truly lets go. In every whisper of the wind, in every flicker of shadow, hell’s spirit lingered—an eternal warning written in the blood and stones of Venice. The night swallowed him as he disappeared into the hellish mist, but the city knew. Hell was home now, and hell was waiting.