Unholy Player Chapter 513 The Scarlet Sea

"Am I dead?" Rhys muttered, his eyes fluttering open as he scanned his surroundings with confusion. His vision shifted, almost expecting the sterile walls of the laboratory to materialize around him once more.

The final memory he held was of himself lying on an operating table, trapped amidst a swarm of machines that beeped in erratic, jarring rhythms. A relentless agony had consumed both his mind and body, flooding every breath he took with unbearable pain.

Then, in a sudden flash, he had been transported. He was now in a realm he had never witnessed or imagined. There had been no transition—no doorway to walk through, no sensation of falling. He had simply arrived.

Looking down, he noticed a crimson liquid submerging his feet up to the ankles. The substance was viscous, clinging to his skin and rippling lazily around his legs whenever he moved.

He raised his head to find the source of the fluid, only to realize with a jolt that this was no mere puddle or pool.

It was a vast ocean.

This sea of red—more accurately, an endless expanse of blood-colored liquid—stretched toward the horizon in every direction, swallowing everything in sight. The surface was perfectly flat, disturbed only by sluggish, rhythmic waves that rose and fell like a slow, steady heartbeat.

Above him, the sky reflected the sea like a mirror, bathed in the same haunting reddish tint. A solitary crimson moon hung in the firmament, sharp and observant, presiding over an eerie silence that felt perfectly natural in this infinite red void.

Rhys had never been a man of faith. Yet, like any person, he had experienced quiet, unspoken moments where he wondered if heaven or hell truly existed.

Standing in this place, the question became unavoidable. The environment made him feel as though he had truly perished and descended into the depths of hell.

"So? Where are the devils supposed to judge my sins?"

Accepting his fate, he scanned the horizon for any sign of another living soul. There was nothing—only the vacant stretch of red and the unreachable line where the sea merged with the sky.

The agonizing whispers that had once hammered against the inside of his skull were gone. Along with them, the physical pain that had ravaged his body had completely vanished.

Instinctively, he tested his limbs. He felt no ache, no lingering weakness. He felt entirely whole.

And so, he began to walk.

His slow steps pushed through the heavy red liquid. With every movement, the syrupy fluid tugged at his ankles before reluctantly letting go.

With no landmarks to guide him, he chose the only thing that broke the monotony. He fixed his gaze on the crimson moon, treating it as a beacon just as a lost traveler might follow a single star.

One step followed another, and then another.

Initially, he tried to count his strides, but he eventually gave up as the numbers grew too large to track.

As he trekked, he sensed a subtle shift. Wading through the thick liquid became easier; his steps grew lighter and his pace quickened. It was as if the sea was losing its density, or perhaps his body was simply forgetting the concept of resistance.

The moon never drew closer, not even by a fraction. Nevertheless, the newfound lightness in his movement provided a spark of hope, convincing him that his journey wasn't in vain.

Gradually, his mind began to drift, and his internal tension started to unwind. He cast aside all worldly concerns. His past, his ambitions, and the faces of those he loved all faded away until a single directive remained.

Walk, and reach the crimson moon...

There was no cycle of day and night here, no sun to cast shadows, and no way to track the passage of time. It felt as though time itself was a non-existent concept, yet he knew he had been traveling for an immense duration. His body moved on autopilot while his consciousness receded into the background.

Had it been days? Weeks? Perhaps even years? He didn't know, and he found he didn't care. To him, this felt like the most peaceful period of his entire life.

Suddenly, something appeared. It was distant yet strangely close. It possessed no color and no definite shape, appearing as if nothingness itself had taken a physical form.

Yet, it felt oddly familiar—like a half-remembered thought or a name on the tip of one's tongue that remains just out of reach.

Rhys’s awareness began to return piece by piece. He halted his march and stared, his body frozen in place, terrified that the slightest twitch might cause the phenomenon to vanish.

Then, the world started to disintegrate.

The crimson sea blinked out of existence. The reddish sky buckled and collapsed under the sheer weight of the Absence.

The crimson moon lost its grip on him, as if it had never truly been there. Everything was consumed by a force that could neither be seen nor felt, leaving behind no edges, no landmarks, and no sense of direction.

Whatever that formless entity was, it pulled at him—not with violence, but with an absolute certainty that made resistance impossible.

Suddenly, he was somewhere else. He was drifting in a profound, shapeless void, weightless and suspended without any sense of up or down.

In this realm of absolute nothingness, his memories came flooding back.

They crashed into him like chaotic waves—faces, voices, commands, agony, and laughter. The torrent was almost too fast to process, but as each fragment returned, a sense of relief washed over him, bringing warmth back to his numbed mind.

Only then did he realize the danger he had been in and what that silent crimson moon had been siphoning away with every step. He had nearly

lost himself.

Death did not frighten him, but the idea of disappearing—of being erased from existence—was a different matter entirely. It was a terrifying realization, especially when the process was so gradual that you could feel your identity being scraped away bit by bit.

"Where am I now?" He tried to speak, but no sound reached his ears; the void seemed to swallow his voice whole.

His eyes saw nothing. His ears heard nothing. His body felt

nothing.

Despite this, he did not fall into despair. His thoughts remained sharp and within his control.

As long as he maintained his self-awareness, he believed a path back from this surreal experience must exist, even if he couldn't see it yet.

Meanwhile, as Rhys endured these trials and fought to keep his mind conscious, the laboratory was a scene of tense observation.

Researchers crowded around the table, their eyes darting between their monitors and the motionless figure lying before them. They scrutinized every physical change, terrified of missing a single data point. Under the influence of Grace’s healing light, Rhys’s body appeared nearly fully mended. Only a few dark patches remained on his skin like fading bruises—remnants of his brush with death—and even those were slowly

vanishing.

Yet, despite his physical recovery, he showed no signs of regaining consciousness. As the minutes turned into hours, the researchers began to fear they were merely looking at a healed shell whose mind had already shattered.