Chapter 14: Abomination

The Twisting of Flesh and Soul

The last two remained.

The leader and the scarred bandit stood, back-to-back, breaths sharp, eyes wild. The night stretched endlessly around them, shadows licking at the edges of their vision. They did not know where they were anymore.

The trees were gone. The stars had vanished. The world had collapsed into something that was neither real nor unreal.

And then—they saw him.

A figure stood at the edge of their vision.

Not a man.

Not a beast.

Something else.

It was watching.

Silent.

Waiting.

And in that moment, they understood—this was not an opponent they could defeat.

This was not something they could escape.

Vorynxis had taken three of them without lifting a finger. He had unraveled them, erased them from existence, and now, the last two stood before him, stripped of all power, all control, all hope.

There was only one choice left.

If they could not escape, if they could not fight—then they would burn everything.

The leader's breath hitched. His eyes darted toward the scarred bandit. A silent understanding passed between them.

Their embers—their very foundations of power—were all they had left.

And so, in a single desperate act, they detonated their own cores.

A final, reckless explosion of spiritual force.

A last, futile act of defiance.

But they had made a mistake.

They had forgotten what fire does when left unchecked.

They had forgotten what happens when ice does not cleanse but distorts.

And so, as their embers shattered—they did not die.

They changed.

It started with the sound.

A wet, sickening crack.

Then, the stretching of flesh.

Then, the tearing.

The leader stumbled, hands clutching at his chest, his breath choking in his throat. Something was wrong.

The scarred bandit collapsed to his knees, fingers clawing at his own skin, his veins bulging, pulsing, twisting.

Their bodies were breaking.

No.

Their bodies were rebuilding.

The leader screamed. His back split open like a ruptured cocoon, seven jagged limbs sprouting from his spine, twitching, pulsing, leaking.

His chest convulsed—then split in half, revealing a massive, gaping maw lined with jagged, needle-like teeth.

A deep, inhuman gurgle escaped from its depths. Not a scream. Not a voice.

Something else.

The scarred bandit was no better.

His arms stretched unnaturally, the bones beneath warping, splintering, emerging from his skin as jagged, curling protrusions.

His mouth unhinged, his jaw snapping apart, splitting downward to his collarbone. A second set of teeth emerged within the first.

His stomach boiled. His flesh bulged.

Then—it melted.

Dark, thick, putrid liquid spilled from every pore, dripping from his limbs, seeping into the ground with a sound like rotting meat collapsing in on itself.

He tried to scream.

Only wet gurgling came out.

The leader twitched, his new legs scraping against the ground.

He turned toward Vorynxis.

His eyes were gone.

No.

They had moved.

Dozens of tiny, yellowing pupils blinked from within the mouth on his chest.

He was still aware.

Still alive.

Still trapped in his own body.

And yet, Vorynxis had not moved.

He had not attacked.

He had not done anything.

They had done this to themselves.

And as the two abominations convulsed, as their own shattered power corrupted them from the inside out, realization dawned upon what little of their minds remained.

They had not escaped him.

They had offered themselves to him

The leader stumbled forward.

The movements of his legs were uneven, erratic.

His body did not obey him.

His new limbs twitched unnaturally, writhing without his command.

His own bones felt foreign. His own body was no longer his.

But something deeper inside him was still screaming.

That sliver of himself, that last remnant of who he had been—trapped inside the grotesque, twitching husk of his own flesh.

The scarred bandit gargled, his liquefied body dripping.

He reached toward Vorynxis.

Not to attack.

Not to strike.

But to beg.

A single, desperate, shaking gesture.

But his fingers were no longer fingers.

They were sharpened bone, peeling open at the tips like flower petals, revealing small, circular mouths within each.

The mouths smiled.

His arm dropped.

He could not beg.

Could not plead.

Could not even die properly.

They had lost everything.

And Vorynxis still had not moved.

He watched them.

Just as he had before.

Calm. Cold. Detached.

They were not human anymore.

They were not even beasts.

They were nothing.

And in that nothingness, Vorynxis finally stepped forward.

The leader twitched. The muscles of his mouth-convulsing chest flexed—as if trying to scream.

The scarred bandit shuddered. His remaining flesh, barely clinging to his skeletal frame, trembled.

And Vorynxis reached out.

Not with his hands.

Not with his power.

With his will.

Fire did not burn them.

Ice did not freeze them.

There was no struggle.

No resistance.

Only inevitability.

Their bodies collapsed inward.

Not crushed.

Not broken