The night was a fragile thing, fragile as the bones in my leg that had snapped like dry twigs under the rock's weight. I lay in the dugout, the air thick with the reek of unwashed flesh and the metallic tang of my own blood. The swelling had turned the limb into a grotesque balloon, the skin stretched so taut it wept pus from every crack. Maggots had made their home in the open wound, their ceaseless wriggling a constant reminder that my body was already a feast for the lowliest of creatures. Pain was no longer a visitor; it had become the air I breathed, the ground I lay on, the darkness that pressed against my remaining eye.
The camp was asleep, or as asleep as a place like this ever got. Snores mingled with the occasional moan of a man reliving his own nightmares. The guards patrolled outside, their footsteps a distant thud against the earth. The horn for dawn was still hours away. No one expected death to come in the dark.
It started with a scream.
A single, guttural cry from the outer perimeter, cut short in a wet gurgle that sounded like a throat being torn open. The sound sliced through the night like a blade, jolting the dugout awake.
Men scrambled from their pallets, grabbing clubs and spears, eyes wide with confusion and the first stir of fear.
Rulf was up first, his scar twisting in the dim light as he barked orders.
"What the fuck was that?"
Grinder was already at the entrance, the cane-sword unsheathed in his hand, the blade glinting with a cold promise.
"Move, you dogs! To arms!"
I tried to rise, but the broken leg betrayed me. Pain lanced through me like a hot iron, and I collapsed back to the floor. The others rushed past, leaving me in the shadows. I gritted my teeth and dragged myself forward, my one good arm pulling my body across the dirt. The spear I had clutched through the night was still in my grip, its weight a familiar anchor.
Outside, the camp was a chaos of flickering torches and shouting men. Shadows danced on the walls as prisoners armed themselves with whatever they could find. The screams multiplied—short, sharp cries of terror cut off in crunches of bone and rips of flesh. The guards at the perimeter were the first to die. I heard their final gurgles, saw their silhouettes crumple as something massive and dark moved among them.
Then I saw it.
The monster.
It was no natural beast.
This was a hybrid abomination, a twisted fusion of wolf and nightmare, its origins a mystery that no one in the camp could fathom.
Its body was a hulking mass of blue-gray fur rippling over muscular limbs, but its mane was a writhing nest of white tendrils, living tentacles that lashed out like serpents seeking blood.
Curved horns spiraled from its skull, sharp as daggers, and its maw was a horror of jagged fangs, dripping with saliva and shreds of flesh. Its eyes glowed with an unnatural blue light, cold and hungry, promising a death that was not quick or clean.
It moved like a shadow made flesh, fast and silent despite its size.
The first guard it reached was torn open from throat to groin, his entrails spilling into the mud in a steaming heap. The man had time for one choked scream before the tendrils wrapped around his limbs and pulled, ripping him apart with the casual ease of a child tearing paper. The second guard hesitated, his spear trembling in his hands, eyes wide with raw fear—the kind of fear that freezes a man in place, that makes him realize he is not a soldier but a sacrifice. The monster's claws sliced through his armor like it was cloth, leaving him to clutch at his spilling guts, gasping as he fell to his knees.
The camp erupted. Men shouted, weapons raised, but the monster was relentless. It barreled through the barracks, its tendrils lashing out to grab and tear. One trainee, a young boy no older than sixteen, was caught by a tendril around the neck. The monster lifted him high, shaking him like a rag doll, his legs kicking uselessly as his face turned purple. The boy's eyes bulged with terror, his hands clawing at the tendril, nails breaking against the tough flesh. The monster pulled him close and bit down, the boy's head disappearing in a spray of blood and bone. The body dropped to the ground, twitching, while the monster chewed, the crunch of skull echoing in the night.
The soldiers—guards and trainees alike—hesitated then, their faces pale in the torchlight. They had seen death before, but not like this. Not a thing that moved with such deliberate cruelty, that seemed to savor the fear as much as the flesh. One guard dropped his spear, hands shaking as he backed away, his eyes locked on the mangled corpses. "What is that thing?" he whispered, voice cracking with horror. Another vomited, the sight of the boy's headless body too much for his stomach.
The monster ate two more alive before the commander arrived.
Moloch stormed into the fray, his greatsword drawn, his voice booming over the chaos like a thunderclap. "Form up! Spears forward! Hold the line!"
The survivors scrambled into a rough formation, spears pointed at the beast. The monster paused, its head tilting as if amused. Black blood dripped from its maw, and its tendrils writhed in anticipation.
Moloch charged, his sword glowing with a faint mana aura. He was no ordinary soldier; his technique was deadly, a family art passed down through generations. He swung the blade in a wide arc, a wave of force rippling through the air. The monster leaped back, but the strike clipped its side, drawing a line of black ichor that sizzled on the ground.
The beast roared, a sound that shook the earth and sent a wave of primal fear through the camp. Men hesitated, spears trembling in their hands, eyes wide with the kind of terror that turned bowels to water. The monster regenerated, the wound bubbling with new flesh, closing with a wet sucking sound. It countered with a ferocious swipe, its claws raking across Moloch's armor, leaving deep gouges that drew blood.
Moloch grunted, staggering but holding his ground. He pressed the attack, his blade a blur as he slashed at the tendrils. One fell, severed, writhing on the ground like a dying snake. The monster howled, its claws swiping again. Moloch dodged, but the blow grazed his arm, tearing flesh and muscle. Blood poured from the wound, but he didn't stop. With a final, deadly technique, he channeled mana into his sword, a burst of destructive force that hit the monster square in the chest, opening a gaping wound.
Black ichor gushed, and the beast staggered, its tendrils flailing wildly. For a moment, it seemed done, the camp's survivors breathing a collective sigh of relief mixed with lingering fear. But then the wound closed, flesh knitting together with horrifying speed. The monster roared and pounced, its claws pinning Moloch to the ground. It beat him with savage fury, claws raking his face and chest. Moloch's sword fell from his hand, clattering to the mud. The monster's tendrils wrapped around him, squeezing until bones cracked. Moloch screamed, his body twisting in agony, his eyes wide with the realization that death was not quick or honorable.
The monster tossed him aside like a broken toy, Moloch's body landing in a heap, still alive but barely. The beast turned, its eyes scanning the camp for more prey. The survivors hesitated, their faces pale with terror, spears dropping from numb hands. One guard backed away, tripping over a corpse, his eyes locked on the mangled remains of his comrades, the fear so thick it choked him.
The monster's chest heaved, the wound from Moloch's strike still oozing despite the regeneration. It lumbered toward the forest, its mission of destruction complete, the camp in ruins. Thirty men lay dead or dying, their bodies mangled and scattered. The monster had killed everything in its path, eating three alive, their screams echoing in the night as their bodies were torn apart and consumed.
I couldn't let it go.
From my position on the ground, I dragged myself forward, the broken leg trailing behind me. Pain was a distant roar, overshadowed by a burning rage. The monster was a test, a weapon to break us, and I would not let it escape.
I grabbed a fallen knife, its blade slick with blood. The monster was limping now, fast but slowed by the commander's strike. I crawled faster, my one good arm pulling me through the mud. The monster sensed me. It turned, its glowing eyes locking on mine.
That eye contact was a moment of pure, primal terror.
Its eyes were voids, cold and ancient, holding no emotion but an endless hunger. They bore into me, stripping away the last illusions of safety, of survival. Fear gripped me, a cold hand around my heart, squeezing until my breath came in short gasps. This was no beast; this was something that had crawled from the deepest abyss, a thing that devoured not just flesh but souls.
The monster charged, its claws extended, tendrils whipping forward. I rolled to the side, the claws missing me by inches. I lashed out with the knife, cutting deep into its leg. The monster howled, staggering. It swiped at me, its claws raking my abdomen, opening a deep gash. Blood poured from the wound, but I didn't stop.
The monster grabbed me, its fingers digging into my chest, piercing flesh. Pain exploded, but I twisted, bringing the knife up. I stabbed it in the eye, the blade sinking deep. The monster screamed, releasing me.
I fell to the ground, blood filling my mouth. The monster flailed, blind in one eye, its tendrils whipping wildly. I grabbed its leg, pulling myself up. With a final effort, I drove the knife into its chest, cutting deep. My hand plunged into the wound, fingers closing around the beating heart.
The monster thrashed, but I held on, pulling with all my strength. The heart came free in a spray of black blood. The beast let out a final, gurgling roar and collapsed, dead.
The camp was silent, the survivors staring in shock. I stood there, heart in hand, blood dripping from my wounds. The rage was a fire in my veins, burning away the pain.
I had killed it.
But the cost was high.
The abdomen wound was deep, and the fingers had pierced my chest.
I collapsed, the world fading to black.
The shittiest day of my life was not over.
It had only just begun.