Story 609: The Butcher’s Blade

The midday sun hung low, casting golden rays over the ruined village. Smoke curled from the remnants of burned-out huts, and the stench of rotting flesh filled the air. General Viktor ‘Bloodfang’ Kruger stood amidst the carnage, gripping his combat knife, its serrated edge gleaming with fresh blood.

The battle was over, but the slaughter had only begun.

Around him, the corpses of resistance fighters lay sprawled, their weapons useless against the monstrous force that had torn through them. A lone survivor, a young soldier, coughed violently as he crawled away, his leg twisted unnaturally. His wide, terror-filled eyes locked onto Kruger.

"P-please…" he gasped, blood dribbling from his lips. "Don’t—"

Kruger didn’t hesitate. With one brutal motion, he drove his blade deep into the man’s throat, silencing him instantly. The soldier's body convulsed before going limp, his lifeless gaze fixed on the sky.

"Mercy is for the weak," Kruger muttered, pulling the knife free.