Burge the Butchered

Burge hummed a discordant tune, his footsteps echoing in the stark corridor as he approached Daron's cell.

The jangle of keys accompanied each step, creating a gruesome melody. His sausage-like fingers struggled with the iron keyring, clumsily seeking the right one. A chill seeped from the cell's entrance, drawing a smirk across his fleshy lips.

"Well, winter began already. How time flies when you have fun," he mumbled to himself, the warmth of his breath visible in the frigid air.

With a triumphant grunt, Burge secured the key between his fingers and inserted it into the lock. The lock yielded with a click and he pushed the door open.

Darkness greeted him—an impenetrable void that seemed to swallow the dim light spilling from the hallway. He leaned forward, squinting into the cell, his brows knitting together in confusion. No shine of the lamp. No shadow play on the walls. Nothing.

"Damned MagiTech," he growled under his breath, suspecting a malfunction.

He stepped into the cell, the darkness enveloping him like a shroud. An uneasy feeling knotted in his stomach—a rare sensation for a man who found comfort in the suffering of others.

Suddenly the darkness surged, like a living thing.

Without warning, it lashed out—a tentacle of shadow, twisted and malevolent. Burge's breath caught as the mass struck him squarely in the chest, sending his bulky frame crashing into the stone wall across the corridor.

The collision caused a tremor in the cellar, stirring up dust particles that glimmered in the dim light.

He scrambled to his feet, heart pounding, confusion etched on his features. His hand found the hidden knife under his belt, the blade sliding free with a silent promise of violence. Burge's eyes, wide and wary, fixed on the gaping maw of the cell. From within oozed an inky substance, creeping along the ground like tendrils of night.

Then—silence. The assault ceased as suddenly as it had begun. The void in the cell held its breath.

Burge's head swam, his thoughts a muddle of disbelief and adrenaline. He peered into the darkness, seeking the source of his assault, but the creature had vanished as if it were never there.

"Show yourself," he demanded, the command more a croak than the roar he intended.

A shape detached itself from the shadows, small and deceptively frail—a boy. A smile played on Burge's lips, not of amusement, but recognition.

With measured movements, he peeled off his apron, smeared with the evidence of his cruelty, revealing unharmed flesh beneath. No sign of injury from the phantom strike.

"Thought you could hide in the dark, eh?" Burge taunted, his low voice a rumble like a brewing storm. The figure said nothing, his silence more unsettling than any words.

The tension between them stretched taut, a string waiting for the pluck that would unleash chaos.

Burge's chuckle echoed off the stark stone walls, a sound as oily as the sheen on his skin.

"Snapped, have you?" he mused aloud, his gaze boring into Daron's impassive form. "Your Nexus bloomed… ripe for the harvest. Time you drank ichor, boy."

His hand, slick and heavy, withdrew a device from a pocket—a remote that chimed with silent promise. A thumb pressed down, alarms blared; the corridor bathed in a bloody hue.

"Come on then, darling," Burge spat, a foul grin on his face. "Still think you're tough, huh?"

Burge could feel it—the stirring beneath his skin, an awakening of his body's grotesque gift. Sweat mingled with a greasier substance, bubbling up from his pores stretched wide. The liquid coated him, a grotesque armor glistening under the pulsating red light. He ran a hand over his now-slick torso, the fingers sliding off without resistance.

"Lady Life's boon, my blessed shield." He muttered the words with reverence, almost like a prayer.

He knew his own flesh's secrets—how his protective coat could deflect, absorb, protect. This was not the first time he had to rely on it, though it had never failed him.

Burge's eyes flicked back to the boy... to Daron, who stood motionless in the shadows that just attacked him. His mind raced, considering the potential of the young magician's newly bloomed Nexus. If the boy could summon such power without training, what could he do with mastery?

The thought sent a thrill of fear—and excitement—through Burge. He remembered his own bloom, the pain when his ability first manifested, the years of honing it, to be untouchable. For a brief moment, he almost respected the boy's resilience. Almost.

Burge shifted his weight, testing the slipperiness of his new skin. He anticipated the next strike, the rush of a shadow trying to strike at him. It was hopeless for the boy. His hand tightened around the knife, its metal hilt warm against his palm.

"Do you even understand what you're playing with?" he growled, though part of him hoped the boy didn't. Ignorance could be useful; fear could be manipulated.

"If you calm down and walk back into the cell like a good boy, we can forget this little endeavor."

The offer was a lie, of course. Burge had no intention of letting the boy live. Yet he knew the boy was smart enough realize that.

Daron stood silent, a statue carved of night and quietude, as Burge readied himself for what must come. A smirk tugged at Burge's lips, edged with a hint of sadness.

"A shame that it must end now, truly. I thought we had something special."

His heart throbbed—a drummer signaling the march to a grim conclusion.

With a grunt, Burge surged forward, the knife glinting crimson in the alarm's glow. Despite his large size, he moved with an unexpected grace, born of countless such executions. Each step was a fluid motion, a dance of death with a predetermined partner. The knife in his hand traced an arc through the air, aiming for Daron's neck. Burge's eyes gleamed with the certainty of a man who had never missed his mark.

But then, in the middle of his charge, Burge stopped.

Disbelief etched into every feature of his face as he stumbled, trying to comprehend what had just happened.

"Impossible," he whispered, gazing down at three black tentacles impaling his torso.

They had breached his slick guard, puncturing the layer of grease that was his pride. Pain registered slowly, like a distant thunder after a lightning strike. He swayed on his feet, blood beginning to seep around the shadowy shafts. The tentacles quivered, as if eager to inflict more harm. Burge's mouth opened and closed, a fish out of water, struggling to form words of defiance.

The black appendages withdrew with a sickening slowness, and Burge's knees buckled. His vision blurred, the world around him dissolving into a red-tinted haze from the alarms. He tried to remember the last time he had felt this kind of raw, unfiltered agony. It was a new experience, and he found he didn't like it.

A cold realization washed over him: this was not just pain; it was fear. Fear of the unknown, of the unnatural force that had struck him down. Fear of the boy who stood unmoving, unblinking, like a puppet controlled by the shadows.

The cell loomed before him, a maw of unfathomable darkness. Burge tried to escape, but unseen forces yanked him toward the wall with brutal indifference. The tentacles—blacker than the night itself—materialized again from the shadows, each one jutting through his flesh. He gasped, pinned like a grotesque butterfly, his protective coat failing under their relentless assault.

Daron emerged, his small frame shrouded in darkness. Each silent footstep brought forth a new horror—whirling, slicing, exacting vengeance. With surgical precision, they carved through Burge, who could only watch as his own blood mixed with the slick of his substance, painting a grim portrait on the cold stones beneath.

A feral scream tore from Burge's throat, the sound a raw echo of fear and agony. His eyes, wide with terror, brimmed with tears—blurring his vision making Daron's face look like nothing but a blank slate, a black expanse in place of human features. The world seemed to tilt, reality skewing into nightmare.

"Wha—what are you?" Burge's voice cracked, the words barely slicing through the chaos.

The onslaught ceased as abruptly as it had begun. The darkness that had surged with such malice retracted from Burge's perforated form, leaving behind only the stark evidence of its fury. Slumped against the wall, he felt his lifeblood spilling out in warm streams, staining his greasy clothing a deeper shade of crimson. Consciousness flickered, threatening to extinguish beneath the weight of his injuries.

Daron's silhouette moved past him, the shadows billowing forth like ink spilled across parchment. Each step he took seemed to consume any hint of light, leaving behind a trail of complete darkness.

It was as if the very essence of night had taken form. The air itself seemed to shiver with an otherworldly presence as Daron's figure moved forward.

In the distance, an alarm's shrill cry pierced the air, relentless as the panic that clutched at Burge's chest. Footsteps multiplied, a growing sound against the stone floors, approaching fast. Guards, responding to the silent distress call from the remote that now lay forgotten beside his flaccid hand.

The heavy thud of boots grew louder, closer. Burge's breaths came out in ragged gasps as he lay slumped against the wall, his life force ebbing away. The corridor outside was bathed in the scarlet hue of emergency lights, casting long, dancing shadows that played upon the walls like specters in a macabre ballet.

He squinted through the haze of pain, making out the silhouettes of guards as they rushed forward, weapons drawn, their faces etched with determination. They halted at the end of the corridor.

At last, that's where it ends, boy. The butcher thought.

"Where is—" The words of one guard were cut short, a strangled cry lost in the darkness.

"Fall back!" another guard shouted, the command sharp with fear.

Burge watched in horror as the darkness surged forward, a tidal wave of shadows that crashed over the guards with relentless force. It was a living thing, pulsating with malevolent intent, swallowing the red glow of the emergency lights as it advanced. The guards, mere silhouettes against the encroaching void, fought with desperate valor. Their weapons slashed and thrust, metal gleaming in fleeting sparks as they struck at the intangible foe.

Each guard fell, one by one, their armor useless, their training inconsequential. Black tendrils snaked out with relentless precision, tearing, piercing, rending flesh from bone. Burge could hear the sounds of carnage, the wet squelches and snaps, more visceral than any horror he had ever wrought.

The figure at the center of the violence moved deliberately, each motion calculated and devoid of wasted energy. Daron's silhouette, now a harbinger of death, made its way toward the exit, unhurried. The boy who had once been merely a toy for torture now wielded the darkness like an extension of his own will.

Burge attempted to chuckle, a gory gurgle escaping his throat instead.

The irony was not lost on him; the tormented had become the tormentor. He tried to muster hatred, rage, anything—but all he felt was the cold grip of inevitability.

As his sight faded, the last thing Burge saw was the black figure cutting through the remaining guards with ease, leaving behind a trail of devastation.

Then, even the red alarm lights seemed to dim, surrendering to the encroaching nothingness.