Unholy Player Chapter 513 The Scarlet Sea

"Am I dead?" Rhys muttered, his eyes fluttering open as he scanned his surroundings in a daze. He half-expected the sterile, familiar walls of the laboratory to materialize back into view.

The last memory he held was of himself stretched out on a table, engulfed by a swarm of machines that beeped in erratic, jagged rhythms. His consciousness and physical form had been consumed by an agonizing pain, a sensation so thick it saturated every breath he drew.

Then, in a heartbeat, he had been transported. He was now within a realm he had never witnessed or felt before. There was no transition to speak of—no gateway passed, no sense of falling. It was simply a sudden, jarring arrival.

Looking down, he noticed a crimson fluid bathing his feet up to his ankles. It was viscous enough to adhere to his skin, rippling sluggishly around his legs whenever he shifted his weight.

He tilted his head back, searching for the source of the liquid, only to realize that this was no mere puddle or stagnant pool.

It was a vast ocean.

This scarlet liquid—more accurately, a crimson sea—expanded to the very edge of the world, consuming the horizon and trapping him on all sides. The surface was perfectly level, disturbed only by faint, heavy waves that surged and receded with a rhythmic, slow pulse.

Above, the sky was stained with the same bloody tint, reflecting the waters below like a polished mirror. A solitary crimson moon hung in the firmament, sharp and observant, presiding over an eerie silence that made it seem perfectly suited for this infinite red void.

Rhys had never been a man of faith. Yet, like any human, he had endured quiet intervals where he pondered the existence of heaven and hell—private thoughts he had never shared aloud.

Standing in this place, those questions returned to haunt him. The environment was so surreal it made him believe he might truly have perished and descended into hell.

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

Accepting his fate, he scanned the area, hunting for any sign of life other than himself. He found nothing but the desolate red expanse and the unreachable boundary where the sea met the sky.

The earlier whispers—those voices that had clawed painfully against the interior of his skull—had vanished. Along with them, the agony that had once riddled his body had completely evaporated.

Instinctively, he tested his limbs and found no lingering ache or frailty. He felt entirely whole.

And so, he began to walk.

His slow strides cut through the dense red liquid. Each step required a tug against his ankles before the syrupy substance released him with a faint pull.

With the horizon appearing identical in every direction, there was no clear destination. He decided to focus on the only landmark available. Fixing his gaze upon the red moon, he used it as a beacon, much like a stranded traveler might follow a single star.

One step followed another, and then another.

Initially, he tried to keep count, but he eventually gave up as the tally of steps became too vast to manage.

During his trek, he sensed a subtle shift. Navigating the thick fluid became less taxing; his stride grew lighter as his speed increased. It felt as though the sea was losing its density beneath him, or perhaps his body was simply forgetting the concept of resistance.

The moon never drew any closer, not even by a hair’s breadth. Nevertheless, the newfound buoyancy in his steps provided a flicker of courage. He pressed on, letting that minor progress convince him that his journey wasn't in vain.

Gradually, his mind began to drift, and his internal tension started to unravel. He cast aside every worldly concern. His history, his ambitions, and the faces of those he loved—everything dissolved until a singular focus remained.

Walk, and reach the crimson moon...

Time had no meaning here; there was no cycle of day and night, no sun to cast shadows, and no way to track the passing hours. It felt as if time itself was non-existent, yet he was aware he had been traveling for an immense duration. His legs moved with a life of their own while his consciousness faded into the background.

Had it been days? Weeks? Perhaps even years? He didn't know, nor did he care. He felt as though he was experiencing the most effortless period of his entire life.

The target was simultaneously distant and incredibly close. It appeared as nothingness—devoid of color or shape—as if this was the physical manifestation of a void.

Yet, it felt oddly familiar, like a thought left unfinished or a name on the tip of one's tongue; something recognizable but impossible to grasp.

Rhys’s focus returned in fragments. He halted his march and stared, his body freezing in place out of fear that any further movement might cause the phenomenon to vanish.

Suddenly, the world began to disintegrate.

The crimson sea was wiped from his vision. The blood-red sky buckled under the sheer weight of the Absence.

The crimson moon lost its magnetic pull, vanishing as if it had been an illusion all along. Everything was consumed by a force that could neither be felt nor seen, leaving behind no landmarks, no edges, and no sense of direction.

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

Then, he was elsewhere. He found himself suspended in a profound, shapeless void, weightless and drifting without a sense of up or down.

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

They crashed into him like chaotic waves—faces, commands, agony, and laughter—moving too quickly to process at first. But as each piece clicked back into place, a sense of relief washed over him, and warmth returned to his numbed mind.

Only then did he realize the danger he had just escaped and what that silent crimson moon had been siphoning from him with every step. He had nearly

lost himself.

The prospect of death didn't terrify him, but the idea of being erased—of simply ceasing to exist—was different. It was a chilling realization, particularly when the process was so gradual that you could feel your very identity being peeled away layer by layer.

"Where am I now?" He spoke the words, but no sound reached his ears, as if the void had swallowed the vibration itself.

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

nothing.

Despite this, he did not fall into despair. His thoughts remained intact, sharp enough for him to

cling to.

As long as he maintained his self-awareness, he believed a path back from this bizarre ordeal must exist, even if he couldn't yet fathom what it was.

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

The researchers huddled around the table, their eyes darting between the digital monitors and the motionless figure lying before them. They scrutinized every metabolic shift in his physical form, terrified of overlooking a single detail. Under the influence of Grace’s healing light, Rhys’s body appeared nearly fully mended. Only a few dark blemishes remained on his skin like fading bruises—lingering marks of how close he had come to the grave—and even those were

vanishing.

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