A slow, aching pain blossoms in his head, waking him from his restless slumber. He clutches his temple with aching fingers, rolling off a stiff shoulder. He feels another ache in his stomach at the movement.

Why am I so sore...

Lloyd shoves himself into a sitting position, grunting at the effort. His fingers scratch roughly against stone.

Stone? Why am I on the floor?

And finally, his eyes adjust to the darkness around him. What he'd originally believed to be the cabin of the bounty emerged itself to be a cold, dusty room.

Scratch that- where am I?

The room he found himself in was almost regal, fit for a king. It was unlike anything he'd ever seen in ninjago. Or, more unlike anything he'd ever seen in his lifetime. Only the grand halls of Shintaro could compare to this.

As he explored the room with his eyes, he took in the dusted scenery.

In front of the flaxen-haired boy stood a stone table, flared at the base and carved with intricate designs laced with gold, almost resembling veins. Various shapes lined the surface, things and trinkets Lloyd could not recognise, other than what he recognised to be an early sextant.

Above the table, a tapestry hung. It was scuffed, dirty, and stagnant in the unmoving air. The designs that had originally covered the cloth were sure to be beautiful, but were now unrecognisable.

A final scan of the room revealed an arched door frame, tall and lustrous. An omnipotent hallway stretched beyond the door, dark and gloomy.

That didn't answer his questions, however. He still didn't know where he was, however, he knew one thing for certain: This place hadn't been used in years. Perhaps decades. Maybe even centuries.

But as he prepares to stand and have his questions answered, he notices something

His stomach is very cold

He looks down, and his vision is filled with the sickening sight: blood. So much blood.

It coated his Gi, draped across his pants, splatted against his boots. It crusted at the edge of the wispy hole in the front of his Gi, and as his jaw dropped in shock he felt it crust at his lips.

Bruised knuckles flexed as he pushed himself further from the ground, wanting desperately to run, to escape this stagnant cave, to yell, and scream for help. But the floor is worse than him.

Red pooled on the ground, as if at been poured from its owner like a teapot onto the dirty floor. What he hoped was rocks and dirt gathered in clumps around the blood.

Despite the thick amounts of blood, the air smelt of nothing but dirt.

Lloyd swallows a retch.

Why is there so much blood? He pleaded to no one in particular. What happened? Where am I?

Lloyd tries to retrace his steps.

The last thing he remembered was...

Yes, the last thing he remembered was returning to the bounty. When he attempted to think any further, a piercing ache would wrack his head.

He rubs his temple in small, circular motions, trying to calm his spiking pain.

He looks down to his stomach.

And he sees the spear, gold-tainted red, piercing through his abdomen. He tried to move, get rid of the spear, do anything, but all he got in return was the sickening ache of gold rubbing against his spine.

He snaps from the thought with a shuddering breath.

No, not thought. Memory.

The idea of the spear piercing his abdomen made him shudder again, bile rising up the back of his throat.

But something wasn't right.

He can remember now. He can clearly remember being attacked, and stabbed, but...

Where was the wound?

His stomach, bare and covered in blood, was woundless. Spare for a couple of scars from old battles, he was completely uninjured.

Maybe I'm dead, Lloyd ponders. He quickly disperses the thought.

To distract himself from his strange situation, he decides on a whim to step through the arched doorway and explore whatever was beyond the stone room. If he was lucky, he would find an escape. If his luck was as usual, he would at least find refuge.

As he stepped limpidly into the hallway, a cold rush of hair embodied him.

It was stagnant, smelling faintly of rain, dirt, and a familiar metallic.

The rooms lining the long hall were grand, at first glance. Well-sized, gold-encrusted stone pillars stand tall in each corner.

He passed them by, more interested in the large arched door that mirrored the room he'd just left.

The archway stood grandly, far at the other end of the hallway. Beads and crystals hung in curtains over the frame, half pulled away by a string.

The door seemed to call for him.

As he treads closer, a noise began to echo through the dense halls to his ears. Lloyd wasn't sure what it was exactly. It sounded muffled, far away, but persistent.

The further he lurked towards the door, the louder the noise got.

Even further, and the noise became louder still.

And then it began to sound human.

And then it sounded like screaming.

Lloyd ran as soon as he realised.

Passed the last rows of doors, passed branching hallways and collapsed pillars, passed dangling tapestries and spider webs. He charged through the beaded curtain, coming to a sudden halt in the unfamiliar room.

It was octagonal, with doors branching off nearly every wall.

A slap lay in the centre of the room.

And behind that lay two people.

He could barely see their figures behind the centrepiece.

But he could hear them.

Desperate, gut-wrenching screams, muffled by the hand of his aggressor. Sobs of pure terror and suffering, unintelligible cries for help.

Sick, wet crunching, the splatter of liquid, and the crushing of bones.

And then he saw the source.

A man, hunched over another, hands and teeth ripping into the body below him, gouging and tearing out organs and flesh wherever he could. Strings of red spewed from bite marks, something thick and yellowy dripped from orifices, staining what remained of a tattered shirt in pools of expirated blood.

And the man- as soon as the bloodied hand peeled from his mouth- he screamed, blood curdling and choked.

The aggressor- no, the cannibal stopped suddenly.

His chest paused in its enraged heaving as he glared through his brow at Lloyd, jaw dangling and dripping with another man's blood.

Lloyd feels scared. Genuine, raw horror, purely at the sight of the man's face. He looked guiltless- proud, even. Almost determined.

He's frozen.

The man sees this as he lunges at him.

A splitting pain buds in his throat as the cannibal clamped his teeth down, but lucky for Lloyd, he knew better than to panic.

His fear left him as he calmed his heart, the insistent urge to survive kicking in. He pried the man's jaw from his throat, shoving him away.

He doesn't go far, however, as he lunges again, clutching at Lloyds' torso and shoving. His efforts pay off as Lloyd trips.

Not a second passed between Lloyd thudding against the ground and the cannibal attempting to bite him again. He snaps his jaw wherever he can reach, biting with such aggression and force that made him seem inhuman.

For a second, Lloyd saw a wild animal, rabid and hungry.

His heart pounded against his ribs once more.

He can't lie to himself.

He's so utterly terrified.

A bloodied palm clenches at his jaw, fingers dangling too close to Lloyd's eyes. His vision is blocked, all he can do is shove the aggressor away with blind efforts, hoping and praying that he won't do the unspeakable.

Suddenly, the man's voice bombards over his ringing ears, hoarse and desperate.

"You did this!" He gurgled, "My son- I need to save my son!"

The hand on his face flies to yank at his collar, pulling Lloyd up to face him.

The man spits globs of blood and saliva as he yells in his face, they splatter against Lloyd like rain.

He screams threats of bloody murder, cries of apologies, he yells about vengeance for his son.

And Lloyd- he can only sit and listen.

He's an experienced ninja, who has faced death and lived to tell the tale, who has fought hundreds of battles and defeated many foes, so why- why couldn't he fight? Shove the man off of him, strike him down with a trained fist, or a kick, or anything.

So why was he petrified?

A piercing pain erupts in his stomach as the man rips at his flesh for the second time.

Lloyd screams.

With a shove of his arm, thudding painfully at the man's chest, a flash of green blinds them both. A searing smell bursts into his senses, the weight of the man above him launches away.

He hears him hit something with a crunch, and a pained screech follows. Then, just as quickly as he started, he quieted.

For the second time that day, Lloyd's hands scrape against stone as he pushes himself up.

He feels the steady trickle of blood roll down his throat, and from his stomach, but he has no time to worry for himself.

He rushes to the aid of the second man, who still lay writhing in pain on the ground, no longer screaming.

He falls to his knees beside the man, and as he takes a good look at his face, Lloyd comes to a sickening realisation.

He was no man. He was just a boy.

No face that young should be contorted in such a way, eyes blown wide and blinded by blood trickling into his pupils, teeth bared in a gurgling cry, stained red.

It was horrific.

Thick red coated every inch of the young man, deep bite marks and exposed tissue littered his torso, a hole in his stomach revealing parts of organs. Lloyd is sure he saw his ribs through the layer of blood.

The boy rolled painfully onto his side, coughing a bloodied clot from his mouth. He reaches his hand, deeply wounded and most likely broken, towards the heaving corpse of his aggressor.

"Dad-" He sobs, "Dad!"

Another cough, and blood begins to pool from his mouth, thick and yellowy. The boy tries desperately to wheeze breath into his punctured lungs, but instead chokes painfully on his own blood. No matter how hard the boy tried, air wouldn't get past his lips, and eventually, he stops trying.

The boy stops crying, the tears stop rolling, and his chest stops heaving.

Thick red pools spread silently around the boy, like a cruel blooming flower.

His eyes remain open, a thousand yards stare gazing foggily into the afterlife.

The boy was dead.

Lloyd stumbles away from the mangled body.

He couldn't believe it.

His vision snapped to the corpse of the boy's father and killer. His son's blood coated his front, already crusting at his chin.

He couldn't believe it.

His feet move on his own as he stumbles away, backwards, back to the hallway, anywhere to get away from the shame, from the smell.

Something collides with his back as he stumbles further. Not a wall, as he'd assume, no. This was a person.

He whips around defensively, preparing to fight, to defend himself again, but is met with the familiar sight of black robes.

Gloved hands clutch his shoulders, and it's a consolation Lloyd won't admit he needed.

His father regards the disembowelled corpse of the boy, and the seared body of the man. His gaze returns to his own son, sympathy lacing his features.

Lloyd wastes no time, wrapping his arms around his father like it's the last hug he will ever receive. Arms wrap comfortingly over his back, rubbing small circles. It grounds Lloyd's thudding heart, calming his erratic breathing, and eventually his hands stop shaking.

Lloyd couldn't find it in him to care how or why his father was here, he was just glad that he wouldn't be alone after he-

He finally acknowledges it.

-He was just glad he wouldn't be alone after he ended a life.

He won't cry.

He clutches at his father tightly for a moment, before quietly, hoarsely whispering the admission.

"Dad, I just killed someone."

The wound on his throat flares up as he speaks, another bead drawing a trail down his neck.

Garmadon holds him tighter.

"It's okay, Son. You did what you had to."

"Or did you do what you wanted to do?"

His breath hitches at the silent interruption.

The unwelcome yet all-too-familiar voice chimed up, distracting his senses from the outside world. It seemed so close, now- that disembodied voice that sounded so vaguely recognisable. It was like a person, its breath almost tickling the back of his neck.

And now, after months and months of dealing with its silent pestering, its intrusive comments, he knew better than to respond, to egg it on.

But the voice persists.

"It's nothing like you'd imagined it to be, is it?"

Lloyd doesn't respond.

His senses are still numb. He can hardly see an inch in front of him, his ears rung like tinnitus, and no scent reaches his nose. His arms, what were once around his father, now dangled numbly on either side of him.

He felt like he was going insane.

And the voice just doesn't give up.

It persists and persists, whispering charming lies that Lloyd would almost like to believe, but couldn't. He knew the consequences of such an action.

But it just keeps going and going until Lloyd has no choice but to listen, to engage.

"In all the years I've been with you, you've never killed before, have you?"

He feels his lips move, his throat hum as he says something but he cannot hear himself.

"What?"

A bellowing chuckle reverberates in spirals around his head, as if the voice was circling, like a vulture. "You imagined death to be far different. Maybe you thought it would be sad, or peaceful. Or maybe-" it pauses to laugh again. "-Maybe you thought it would be exciting. Perhaps more personalised."

A shiver wracks his spine as the voice travels so close to his ear he swears he can feel its breath. In his mind, the voice smiles as it speaks.

"Perhaps you didn't realise it would be so beautiful."

Lloyds mouth moves again in a silent response.

"What do you mean?"

"You thought you'd find death unpleasant, or gruesome, or perhaps depressing. To witness one's eyes go foggy as it stares into the eyes of the departed realm. But that man's death- the one you killed with your gift -it was so utterly boring. Killed instantly. It was no fun for a first kill."

Lloyd breathes out his pent-up air, only to shudder a breath in and hold it once more. He can feel his voice croak as he speaks.

"I don't understand-"

"Oh, but you do, Lloyd, because the boy! Oh, the boy. Such a morbid sense of beauty, of artistry, of design! You'd have to be blind not to recognise such a display: Killed by his own father's insanity and hunger, drawing his last breath at the foot of the man who just killed the man that raised him- oh, a death written by cloud kingdom itself!"

Lloyd feels his breathing ever quicken at the implications.

"How do you feel- to witness such a gorgeous atrocity, how does it make you feel?"

He mumbles a stuttering response that the voice laughs in delight to. What he had said, Lloyd has no idea, but he knows he was honest.

He tries to mumble to the voice again, to demand its reasoning, or at least answers, but he can feel its presence fade as his sense slam back into him.

First, his hearing.

His father yells for him, telling him to breathe, asking him if he can hear him, asking who he's talking to. He hears a persistent thrumming noise all around him, quiet but far away. He hears the drip of a leaking ceiling somewhere to his left.

Then, his sight and feeling.

He sees his father, crouching down in front of his son. He sees the dark hallway in front of him. He doesn't want to see what's behind him

He feels his knees digging into the hard, cold floor. He can feel his father's hands clutching his shoulders gently in an attempt to ground him. It almost works.

Finally, his smell.

He's bombarded with the smell of sickening metallic blood, old and new. It's in the air, on the floor, on his hands, his face, his throat, stomach, legs, it's everywhere and he can smell it.

It makes him retch, as he shoves himself away from his father to dry-heave on his knees.

He heaves, and heaves, and heaves, hands painfully grabbing the floor in front of him, but nothing comes out. Nothing but thick globs of saliva.

A rough hand pulls his sticky hair away from his face, gently. A second hand lay softly against his back, hardly touching but still an action that says 'I'm here'.

After what feels like hours of nausea, when really it had hardly been minutes, he feels a wave of euphoria wash over him. Bial no longer sits in the bottom of his throat, his head no longer pounds, and he sits back.

For a second, Lloyd is at peace.

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