Knives flashed through the air.
But the man moved like a specter.
The first attacker slashed straight for his neck. The man tilted his head at the last second and caught the attacker's wrist, twisting it brutally.
Bone broke with a dry crack, and before the mercenary could scream, the knife plunged into his throat, sliding in with the smoothness of a scalpel.
Blood sprayed in a crimson arc.
The second enemy tried to stab him from behind.
The man spun, using the first corpse as a shield. The blade sank into the wrong flesh.
The man took advantage of the confusion and slid his knife along the attacker's arm.
Just a small cut.
But the effect was immediate.
The mercenary's skin began to boil, as if his own blood had turned into acid.
—"Gods…! IT HURTS!"—
His veins turned black. His eyes bulged as the corrosion devoured his body from the inside.
He dropped to his knees, tearing at his own flesh in a desperate attempt to stop the pain.
The rest of the mercenaries stepped back.
—"He's not human…" —one of them murmured.
But it was too late.
The man charged at them.
He cut, stabbed, and destroyed.
Weapons clattered to the floor as bodies collapsed, some still alive, moaning in agony as the corrupted blood ate through their organs.
One tried to run.
The man caught him in two steps and drove his knife into his side.
The flesh melted.
The spine was exposed.
The mercenary fell with a scream that turned into a gurgle.
One by one, they fell.
When the last survivor, covered in his own melted skin, begged for his life, the man simply shoved him aside.
He had no time for mercy.
The merchant was upstairs with the girl.
And he would not be late.
The man climbed the stairs, his breathing heavy but controlled. One of the dying mercenaries had pointed out the merchant's location before expiring.
—"Door at the end of the hallway."—
They were his last words.
Without hesitation, he lifted his foot and kicked the door with all his strength.
The wood splintered.
And inside the room…
The merchant.
Naked. Trembling.
The girl sat in a corner, still clothed.
The merchant dropped to his knees the moment he saw the man.
—"How is it possible you're still alive?"—
Intense fear was etched across his face, as if he were staring at death itself.
—"Please! Please, I didn't do it! I didn't get to do anything!"—
Tears and mucus streamed down his distorted face.
—"Take her! She's yours! Just let me live!"—
The man did not listen.
He walked over to the girl and knelt in front of her.
Carefully, he placed his hand on her small shoulder.
—"Are you okay?"—
She lifted her gaze.
Empty eyes.
There was no fear.
No relief.
Only a bottomless abyss.
—"Did he hurt you?"—
She did not answer.
The merchant swallowed hard.
—"Everything will be okay."—
Nothing.
Nothing in her expression.
How much damage must a child suffer to have that look…
That same look…
In that moment, the man remembered something.
The past struck him like a hammer.
A dark barracks.
The smell of iron and sweat.
Whispers of terror among the new recruits.
The superiors did not rule only with weapons.
They ruled with fear.
With pain.
They took advantage of the youngest.
He had learned that far too early.
And so had his friend.
The friend who had offered himself in his place, who had taken his punishment more times than he could remember.
Abuse echoed through the quarters.
His friend had believed that sacrificing himself would mean something.
In the end, it meant nothing.
Because the man had fallen too.
The superiors could not resist breaking in a recruit so young.
Because the powerful do not care who they destroy, as long as they can.
The man returned to the present.
His jaw tightened.
His gaze hardened.
He stood and slowly turned toward the merchant, who was still crawling on his knees.
—"Mercy!" —he sobbed—. "Please…!"—
But the man no longer listened.
The merchant was going to pay.
The man took a deep breath.
Blood still dripped from his knife, splashing onto the carpet of the luxurious room.
The merchant, still naked, writhed on the floor, sobbing in spasms of fear.
He was no longer the arrogant man he had been before.
He no longer smiled with contempt.
He no longer mocked anyone.
Now he only trembled, curled up like an insect that knows it is about to be crushed.
The man said nothing.
He simply advanced, grabbed him by the neck with inhuman strength, and dragged him across the room, ignoring his gut-wrenching screams.
—"No, please! Please, no!"—
His nails tried to dig into the man's skin, but it was useless.
When he threw him onto the bed, the merchant tried to crawl backward, but his body shook so violently he could barely move.
—"We'll do this the hard way," —the man murmured coldly.
He grabbed the bed sheets and, with unsettling skill, tore the fabric into strips.
In seconds, he tied the merchant's wrists and ankles to the bedposts, leaving him completely immobilized.
The merchant breathed with difficulty, his skin slick with sweat.
—"W-what are you going to do to me?"—
The man did not respond.
He brought a finger to his mouth and, with a quick movement of his teeth, made a small cut.
A simple wound.
A drop of acidic blood formed at the tip of his finger.
—"No…"—
The merchant stared with bulging eyes.
The drop fell onto his wrist.
A nauseating sound filled the room.
—"Ssssshhh…"—
The merchant screamed as his skin bubbled and melted instantly, exposing red, steaming flesh.
—"GODS! AAAAAHHHHH!"—
The man ignored him and let another drop fall onto his other arm.
—"P-PLEASE! NO MORE!"—
The blood burned like hellfire.
It was pain beyond comparison.
The merchant struggled, but the restraints held him in place.
His flesh was slowly consumed.
Bones were left exposed, blackened, and smoking.
His screams grew sharper, like the howls of a dying animal.
But the man was not finished.
He let one final drop fall.
Onto his genitals.
The scream that tore from the merchant's throat was inhuman.
His face twisted into an expression of indescribable agony, veins bulging in his neck as if they were about to burst.
His body convulsed uncontrollably.
The flesh melted in seconds.
The stench of burned meat filled the room.
And then, the merchant passed out.
The man left him unconscious for a while.
He waited patiently.
When the merchant woke up, he could not speak. He was disoriented and could barely breathe.
—"Where do you hide your money?"—
The merchant tried to move, but he no longer had wrists.
Only charred stumps.
His eyes were swollen from crying, but he understood one thing:
If he didn't speak, he would suffer more.
With a thin, trembling voice, he stammered the answer.
He told him where his riches were, the chests hidden on the lower floor, the key in the drawer of his desk.
The man nodded and let him pass out again.
When he woke up, the process repeated.
—"Who else works with you?"—
The merchant babbled names, betraying his own allies just to stop the pain.
But the man had no compassion.
Each time he woke, the torture grew worse.
Drops of blood fell on what remained of his limbs.
Little by little, he lost his feet.
Then his legs.
Then his arms.