Chapter 6: Rooting Obsession

The days stretched into weeks, and the fortress became both my prison and my proving ground. Thirty days of blood, fire, and death carved themselves into my soul. Each sunrise brought another skirmish, another relentless wave of gnolls clawing at the gates. Each sunset ended with pyres burning high, the stench of scorched flesh wafting through the air like a grotesque hymn.

At first, I fought because I had to. The fortress demanded it. The gnolls' attacks came with a rhythm as predictable as the tides. They surged forward every three days, probing our defenses, their savage howls echoing across the battlements. Each clash left the walls slick with blood and the ground beneath them a graveyard of mangled bodies. The veterans called it "The Gnoll Cycle." To me, it felt like an unending nightmare.

The instructors ensured there was no time for reflection. When we weren't fighting, we trained. Grueling drills tested our endurance and skill, pushing us to the brink of collapse. The fortress commanders called it "refinement." I called it survival. Sleep became a distant luxury, replaced by the gnoll war cries that haunted my dreams.

Yet, something began to shift within me.

The first time I felt it was during our second week. The gnolls had launched a night raid, catching us off guard. The walls trembled under their weight as they climbed, their guttural snarls filling the air. I fought alongside Buck, unintentionally, of course. He had a knack for showing up wherever I was, his infuriating grin somehow unshaken even amidst chaos.

One gnoll lunged at me, its jaws snapping inches from my face. My blade found its throat, the steel parting flesh with a sickening ease. The creature crumpled at my feet, its lifeblood pooling around my boots. My chest heaved, my arms shook, and then it hit me, a jolt of something I couldn't name.

It wasn't fear.

It wasn't disgust.

It was… exhilarating.

The gnoll's death sent a rush through me, sharp and electric, like a spark catching dry tinder. My grip on the sword tightened as I turned to face another foe, the pulse of that feeling driving me forward. The battle blurred after that. I moved through it like a storm, my strikes faster, harder, more deliberate. The carnage I left in my wake felt less like survival and more like… hunger.

By the end of the raid, my body ached, but my mind buzzed. As I sat in the barracks cleaning my blade, I couldn't shake the memory of that rush.

Was it wrong to feel this way?

I didn't have time to dwell on it. The days that followed brought more battles, more blood, and with each skirmish, the rush grew stronger. I began to anticipate it, crave it. The moment my sword cleaved through another gnoll, the way their bodies crumpled under my strength, it was intoxicating.

Buck noticed the change before I did.

"You've got that look again," he said one evening, leaning against the barracks wall.

"What look?" I muttered, not bothering to glance up from my sharpening stone.

"Like you're itching for the next fight. Like you enjoy this hell."

I froze, the rhythm of my hands faltering. Was it that obvious?

Buck didn't press the issue. Instead, he sat down across from me, his usual grin replaced by something softer. "You're not the only one, you know. A lot of guys start to feel it. It's like the fight gets under your skin, yeah? Makes you forget everything else."

I didn't respond. He wasn't wrong.

The fortress commanders must have noticed the shift in morale, or maybe they planned it all along. On the 25th day, the order came down: prepare for the counterattack.

The announcement sent a ripple through the garrison. Whispers spread like wildfire, rumors of an assault on the gnolls' stronghold. After weeks of endless defense, we were finally taking the fight to them.

The next few days passed in a haze of preparation. Supplies were rationed, weapons sharpened, and strategies whispered in shadowed corners. The commanders drilled us relentlessly, their voices harsh and unyielding.

"We march at dawn," one barked on the eve of the assault. "And when we reach their fortress, we leave nothing standing."

That night, sleep eluded me. I lay awake, staring at the barracks ceiling, my mind a whirlwind of anticipation and dread. Part of me feared what lay ahead. Another part; darker, hungrier, welcomed it.

When dawn came, we moved out in grim silence. The fortress gates creaked open, and the garrison spilled onto the battlefield like a tide of steel and flesh. The killing field stretched before us, a macabre testament to weeks of carnage. Beyond it, the forest loomed, its shadows deep and foreboding.

The march was grueling, the weight of my armor and weapon pressing down with each step. The forest swallowed us whole, its gnarled trees closing in like grasping fingers. Buck marched beside me, his usual chatter subdued. The tension was palpable, the air thick with the smell of damp earth and distant decay.

Hours passed before we saw it, the gnolls' fortress.

It rose from the forest floor like a blight, its crude stone walls jagged and uneven, as if carved by claws rather than tools. Black smoke billowed from countless fires, and the air was filled with the guttural growls of gnolls preparing for battle.

My grip tightened on my sword as I stared up at the stronghold. The rush was back, coiling in my chest, sharp and undeniable.

The commanders signaled for us to halt, their voices low as they outlined the plan. I barely heard them. My focus was on the fortress, on the battle to come.

Beside me, Buck exhaled slowly. "Well," he muttered, "this ought to be fun."

For the first time, I didn't find his sarcasm irritating.

The gnolls' fortress loomed before us, its crude walls a challenge, a promise, a dare. As the order to advance was whispered down the line, I felt it again, that electric jolt, that hunger.

The battle was coming.

And I was ready.