Jack's boots echoed through the manor's corridors as he made his way toward his chambers.
His body ached from the day's violence—the spatial jumps that left his muscles trembling, the transformation's toll on his flesh, the visceral act of tearing men apart with his own claws.
Blood had long since dried under his fingernails despite washing.
The guards he passed saluted with crisp efficiency, their eyes tracking him with newfound respect that bordered on reverence.
Word had spread fast. Fifteen thousand mercenaries died to one man. A portal to unknown dimensions.
House Kaiser's heir standing in a field of corpses, laughing.
Jack barely acknowledged the salutes. His mind churned with plans, with possibilities.
The war was over, but the real work was beginning.
He reached his door, pushed it open without looking, and stepped inside.
Then he froze.
Chickens. Everywhere.
At least two dozen of them perched on his bed, his desk, his windowsill, his chairs.
