The cocoon pulsed. Flesh split and cracked open, thick strands tearing with wet, sick sounds.
Desan's breath hitched. No time. No time at all.
He raised the crossbow, aimed at its head and fired.
Missed. Bolt slammed into its shoulder. A shriek followed.
Didn't wait. Snapped the string back, another bolt loaded with shaking fingers.
The thing lunged—arms wide, mouth splitting open mid-air.
Desan fired again.
The bolt flew.
Right through one of its eyes. A wet pop—black fluid sprayed out like burst ink.
The thing screamed, twisted in the air, but its momentum still carried it forward.
Desan rolled. Fast. Out of the way. Boots skidding over blood-slick stone.
It slammed where he'd been, claws gouging deep furrows into the floor.
Breath ragged, Desan scrambled up.
Another bolt in. Snap the string. Load.
The thing flailed, one eye ruined, but it wasn't down. Not even close. It turned on him again.
The creature charged at him. Wings flared wide—clearly trying that same intimidation tactic again.
Desan didn't buy it.
He hung the crossbow back to his side, yanked out his sword.
In the blink of an eye, it was on him.
Velcrith hissed in his skull. "Look out!"
Its swing came down fast and brutal. Desan dodged—ducked inward, trying to drive the point of his sword right into its side.
But it sensed him. Closed its wings in a snap—air displacement alone knocked him off balance.
Desan stumbled, face way too close to that thing's reeking body.
It almost smiled. That stench of sulfur and rotting meat punched straight into his throat. He gagged—felt bile rise—but forced it down, burning like acid the whole way. No time to puke.
Being this close was hell. Even Velcrith was cursing under his breath, feeling the same wave of disgust through their shared mind.
Then Velcrith focused. "Gap between the ribs—looks weak."
Desan saw it too. But he was trapped.
The thing had him pinned under its armpits, claws raising high—about to rake him to shreds.
He knew the move. No choice.
Shifted all his weight onto his damaged leg, biting down on the pain. Used the better leg, reinforced with that makeshift armor, to slam a brutal kick into the creature's knee. Over and over.
Once. Twice. Three times.
With a sickening crack, its leg buckled.
It fell, lost balance—just enough for Desan to roll free.
He hit the ground hard, coughing, sword still in hand.
"Never doing that again," he spat.
Velcrith's voice came sharp. "I'm beginning to think you've got a thing for armpits."
Desan didn't waste a breath to reply. He stepped back, raised the crossbow, and fired straight at its neck.
The creature shrieked—high, guttural—and launched off the ground, wings flaring wide. It flew at him in a blur of muscle and bone.
Desan turned and sprinted. Didn't dare look back.
He slid under the table, boots skidding through the dust.
THUD.
The whole room seemed to shudder. Dust filled the air, choking. The creature came crashing down right on top of the table, its claws punching through the wood.
Pain shot through Desan's legs. One was pinned.
For a heartbeat, panic flared. But luck, that fickle bastard, gave him a chance—only the better-armored leg was caught. The broken table shielded most of his body.
He gritted his teeth.
The creature's hand clawed toward him, blindly smashing through the wood.
Desan saw an opening. Rage boiling, he kicked out with his nailed-up shoe—again and again—driving it into the flesh of its hand.
Thick, wet thunks. Tearing skin. Snapping bone.
Blood poured. The creature howled, jerking back instinctively.
Desan didn't stop. Kicked until strips of flesh tore free and its grip loosened enough for him to twist out.
He took in the chaos around him—no time to think, just move.
Desan darted in, unleashing a barrage of piercing thrusts. Quick, sharp strikes, each one finding new wounds, deepening old ones. Blood splattered, slick under his feet.
He tried to circle right, creating space. But one beat of those mangled wings sent him flying.
Instinct took over. Mid-air, he grabbed one of the long purple curtains lining the room. One-handed, hanging for dear life.
Below, the dust clouded the floor. Good. The thing's sight was already garbage.
He caught his breath. Watched. Waited.
The creature prowled below, agitated, eyes scanning the haze.
Desan didn't hesitate. He swung himself down, aiming the tip of his blade straight for its back.
Impact. The blade punched through its left wing.
Desan hit hard, nearly lost his grip—but he stayed on, bracing, driving his fist against the hilt over and over, forcing the sword deeper.
The creature shrieked, thrashed, then jumped—rolled, desperately trying to shake him off.
It slammed its back against the floor. Bone-jarring impact.
Desan's vision flashed white. His toes bent at sickening angles, blackening from crushed blood vessels. Pain exploded up his legs.
But he held on. No way he was letting go now.
One more slam. One more twist.
With a wet rip, the wing tore free. Flesh and sinew snapped.
Velcrith, voice thin and strained. "Tear the bastard apart."
Desan flew off, slammed hard against the floor. Bones screaming, breath gone.
But he stood.
Barely. Sword in one hand. Legs shaking, feet fucked, but standing.
Then he saw it—those same sick, twitching movements in the thing's mouth.
Acid. Shit.
No time. No choice.
Desan sprinted. Every step was hell. He didn't care.
He kept running. Snatched the hanging curtain in both hands.
At the last second, he jumped.
Body weight, gravity, all of it—he came down on its head, wrapped the curtain around its jaw and yanked with every last drop of strength he had.
The thing fought. It thrashed. Wings beating the floor.
Its jaw strained against the grip, then locked shut.
Too late.
Acid leaked out anyway.
But trapped—now it burned through its own flesh. Through its mouth. Down its throat. Out through shredded lung.
The scream came out as a wet gurgle. Choking. Dying.
Desan held on. Arms on fire. Shoulders tearing.
"Come on, you fuck—"
The acid hissed louder. The whole jaw quivered. Flesh sloughing off.
With a brutal yank, skin and muscle came with it.
The thing collapsed forward, choking on its own rot.
Desan fell back, chest heaving, hands shaking, fingers burned raw.
Velcrith's voice echoed faint, almost stunned:"…that… worked."
It thrashed, trying to force its ruined mouth open—acid boiling inside.
One wide, feral swing.
Desan didn't dodge fast enough.
The hit caught him full-on, sent him flying across the room. His sword clattered off somewhere—gone.
He slammed into the base of one of the massive statues. The stone cracked under the impact.
And so did Desan.
His back bent wrong. Air blasted from his lungs. Vision swam, red and black, bleeding into one another.
"Fuck—" Velcrith hissed, pain spiking in Desan's skull.
Then he felt it.
Velcrith moving—crawling deeper into his mind. Into his body.
A cold, burning sensation flooded his skull. Like worms writhing through brain matter.
Flesh replacing flesh. Cells fusing. Neurons stitching with something wrong.
Velcrith's voice, low and sharp: "Stay with me. I'm not letting you black out here."
Desan grit his teeth. Blood poured from his nose. His eyes flicked open—barely.
"Move," Velcrith whispered. "NOW."
As soon as his vision snapped back, the creature was on him—in its full, ruined glory. Its mouth split in half, burned all the way down to the neck. A gaping, blackened hole.
Before Desan could react, the thing swung, slamming into him and driving him hard into the base of the statue.
CRACK.
Stone groaned. Deep creaks spread through the monument.
Desan grit his teeth and held his breath. His back pressed harder and harder into cold stone.
It didn't stop. It kept pushing—he could feel the ancient base starting to give. The cracks grew louder, wider.
His makeshift armor screamed. The flesh-padding inside squelched as it took the brunt of the impact.
But it wouldn't last. Not much longer.
And neither would he.
His eyes locked, forced wide, waiting. Waiting for the perfect timing. Whatever Velcrith had done in his skull, it worked—Desan's mind cut through the pain like a knife through rot.
Focus. Move. Survive.
With a growl deep in his throat, he slammed his fist into the bolt lodged in the creature's shoulder.
CRACK.
The thing jolted upright, an awful, twisted screech ripping from its ruined throat.
Desan didn't waste the movement.
He drove the nails of his makeshift shoes into its leg, metal biting deep into flesh, anchoring him. Using the grip, he twisted his body and slammed a jointed kick into its torn-open neck. Something crunched. The windpipe collapsed with a wet, wheezing snap.
Before it could recoil, he shifted his weight, grabbed the bolt jutting from its eye, and with a savage twist of his whole body.
shoved it deeper.
The bolt sank in with a sickening crack, disappearing halfway into the thing's skull. Blood, bile, and acid sprayed across Desan's face.
It shrieked. A wet, hollow sound—more gargle than scream. Its body spasmed, arms flailing wide in blind agony.
The swing came fast—too fast—aimed to crush Desan's skull like rotten fruit.
But his reflexes were sharper now. Pain, fear, rage—they'd forged a sharper edge.
He threw up his arm just in time.
The impact ground against his forearm, bones shrieking under the force. The blow launched him, body twisting midair. He crashed hard, skidding across blood-slick stone.
When he looked, his left hand was black. Dead. Nerves screaming then silent. Useless now.
Didn't matter.
The creature turned, dragging its mangled body toward him. Fury burning in its broken sockets.
Then—
A thunderous CRACK.
The cracked statue behind them finally gave way. Stone groaned and collapsed onto the beast, pinning it beneath tons of ancient marble. A wet crunch followed. One arm still flailed wildly from under the rubble.
"Won't hold it forever," Velcrith hissed in his skull.
"Doesn't have to," Desan rasped. "Just long enough."
He pushed himself up, staggered toward where his sword had landed.
Desan grabbed his sword, fingers half-numb, half-burning. He ran, limping, teeth clenched, toward the creature as it clawed its way from the rubble. One of its ribs was torn wide open, gore spilling, one arm dragging useless behind it.
It rose. Barely.
Acid hissed out of its wounds. The smell of sulfur thickened, stinging Desan's eyes, throat, lungs.
No turning back. Now or never.
He aimed his sword straight for the gap between its ribs. The blade punched through soft muscle, acid-slick and broken. No resistance this time. The acid had softened it like rotten wood.
But the creature knew.
It knew it was dying.
A wretched screech shook the air as it twisted violently. The acid in its chest surged up, boiling through flesh, melting around the blade.
Desan drove the sword deep, the rusted blade punching through the creature's ruined chest, just inches from its heart.
But before he could finish it, the beast ripped a massive chunk of its own flesh away, tearing its ribcage open with a gurgling howl. Its heart—bloated, pulsing, raw—exposed itself like an offering.
The sight made Desan stumble.
Too sudden. Too close.
Then came the hiss.
The sword was melting. Acid leaked from the creature's wound, hissing along the blade, eating through steel like rot through wood.
Desan's grip trembled as the weapon dissolved in his hands.
He looked down at the crumbling metal—his sword, the same one that had dragged him through gods knew how many fights.
For a second… just a second, he felt a flicker of sadness. Then he tossed it to the ground.
A massive side swipe came for his head. Desan dodged inward, closing the distance again. Too close for comfort, perfect for killing.
He yanked his crossbow free and raised it.
Aimed for the heart.
Missed.
The bolt punched through upper abdomen instead—still a good hit, but not enough.
The creature roared, one arm limp, broken, and it crawled, dragging its twisted body with one remaining claw, charging like an animal.
Desan backpedaled, feet slipping over blood and dust.
The beast lunged low, sweeping its broken claw to the ground in a wild, downward arc. Its broken fingers clawed the stone, desperate.
Too slow.
Desan didn't hesitate.
He twisted, then kicked with everything he had—his nailed-up shoe crunching into the wrist joint.
Crack.
With a sickening rip, the creature's hand came clean off and thudded to the floor.
Blood sprayed like burst pipe.
Desan didn't stop to admire it. He was already moving, eyes on that beating heart.
The creature twisted mid-crawl, then snapped its entire body in a vicious backhand swing.
Desan barely got his left arm up in time.
Crack.
His forearm exploded in pain as the blow connected like a sledgehammer. Bone shattered. Muscle tore. His entire limb snapped sideways, flopping uselessly as he was launched like a ragdoll.
But he didn't go down easy.
Mid-air, through pure reflex, he twisted his torso, landed on his feet, just barely, and staggered into a wall, boots scraping stone.
His lungs burned. His vision flickered.
And the creature was already charging.
Its bulk moved with terrifying speed, shoulder lowered like a battering ram. Desan didn't have time to raise a weapon—didn't have a weapon.
It slammed into him, and this time there was no recovery. No balance.
Just impact.
His patched-together armor caved in. The flesh padding he'd stuffed inside burst with a sickening squish, and all of it crunched into his ribs as he was hurled across the chamber like a corpse.
CRASH.
He slammed into wall, back-first, the stone biting into him with unforgiving sharpness.
His ribs—several of them—cracked. Clean, brutal breaks. Pain lanced through his spine, up into his skull, a lightning bolt of agony.
His mouth opened, but all that came out was a dry wheeze and blood.
He slid to the floor, coughing red, everything in his body wrong and broken.
And through the blood-glaze in his eyes, he saw it.
It was crawling toward him.
Its jaw hung half-loose. One wing was torn off. Its other hand was gone. But it was coming—a thing running on pain and hate and instinct, hell-bent on dragging him into the pit with it.
Desan dragged himself upright, half-crawling with one arm and one working leg, leaving a trail of blood behind him.
He screamed—not a war cry. Just pain. Raw, human rage at existing.
The creature lunged—
Desan roared as he pulled out the bolter and slammed it into the creature's skull. Bone cracked. Gore splattered.
But its claws came down hard, pinning him to the stone floor like a crucifixion.
It felt like a crumbling brick wall had collapsed on top of him. His armor creaked, buckling, seams splitting open under the pressure.
Then came the stink—sulfur and rotting heat. Acid began to drip from the creature's jawless mouth, burning through his armor like it was parchment. One drop sizzled against his skin, and he screamed through gritted teeth.
He curled in a fetal reflex, legs kicking—then jammed his nailed boot upward with everything he had, shoving the bolter deeper into its skull. The creature shrieked, muscles spasming, grip faltering just enough for him to roll free.
Desan staggered to his feet, body screaming in protest. And then—
WHAM.
He threw his entire body and soul into a right hook, and it took the creature's jaw clean off. Flesh tore. Bone snapped. The lower half of its face splat onto the ground like dropped meat.
No hesitation.
Desan lunged his hand into the gaping wound in its chest. His fingers found its beating heart—acid spilling over his arms, eating through flesh, melting skin off his bones—and still, he didn't stop.
He squeezed.
And ripped.
Velcrith let out a strangled cry, a sound like both triumph and horror.
The creature spasmed violently—its remaining limbs thrashing, wings twitching, mouth foaming and pouring acid from the neck like a broken faucet. It let out one final, soundless scream, and then collapsed, crumpling in on itself with a wet, crushing thud.
Desan went down with it, the still-pulsing heart clutched in his hand.His arm was black. Skin peeled off in strips. Fingers burned to charred bone.
He didn't let go.
Didn't flinch.
Just breathed.
One breath.
Then another.
And another.
Velcrith, voice barely a whisper.
"…You're insane."
Desan coughed blood, lips splitting in a grin like broken glass.
"Yeah," he rasped. "But I'm not dead."