EPS (12) Bloody night

They stared at each other—sharp, unblinking. Silent. No wasted words, no wasted movements.

Only a gaze—piercing, calculating—as if two different worlds were measuring one another's strength.

Then—THUD!!

In a flash, both lunged forward.

CLANK!!

The clash of metal shattered the stillness of the night, sparks flying as a thunderous impact echoed through the narrow stone alley. Barnard swung his small hammer—not with brute strength alone, but with centuries of technique and instinct carved into every muscle and breath.

The mysterious figure summoned a ceremonial dagger from beneath his robes, its blade pulsing with dark energy, absorbing the very light around it. His first slash aimed for Barnard's neck, but the dwarf twisted his body expertly, countering with a horizontal strike to the enemy's side.

"You're no ordinary fighter," the figure said, stepping back slightly—blood already trickling from the corner of his mouth.

"And you're no mere cultist," Barnard replied, his breathing steady. His eyes narrowed, reading the man's movement patterns. "Blood of Flesh... You're one of the Initiators, aren't you?"

The man grinned, then snapped his fingers.

A sickening creak of bone echoed from the darkness.

From the shadows at the end of the alley, two more figures emerged—masked, their bodies covered in crude stitches, like corpses reassembled and forced to walk again. Each carried a rusted weapon, and their presence reeked of rotting flesh and foul rituals.

"They are Praedator Vitae. Failed living offerings… but still strong enough to tear you apart."

Barnard spat on the ground and widened his stance. "Three against one? Good. I was hoping to break a sweat tonight."

Slowly there was a glow of light, he drew his heavy warhammer—Ironhowl. A faint blue glow pulsed along its engraved runes.

"Come on, then."

With a short roar, Barnard charged first. The battle exploded like a storm within the dark alley—hammer and blade, blood and screams, the silence of night shattered by the fury of a veteran and the zealotry of flesh-worshipping fanatics.

"You can summon your weapon? Not bad for an old fossil…" sneered one of the Praedator Vitae, its voice deep and raspy, like vocal cords stitched together from pieces of something that shouldn't speak.

Barnard grinned coldly. "And you're pretty dumb… for a corpse that still thinks it's clever."

BRAAAGH!!

The two Praedator Vitae lunged at once, their razor-sharp claws slicing through the air with brutal force. But Barnard didn't flinch. His eyes were sharp, calculating. At the last second, he spun his body and swung Ironhowl in a deadly arc.

SWUUUUSH!!

CRAAAK!!

One of the creatures was sent flying, crashing into the stone wall with the sound of bones being pulverized inside a sack of wet flesh. The impact shattered part of the wall, and when the dust settled, all that remained was a mangled husk twitching uncontrollably.

The other hadn't even adjusted its stance when Barnard's hand clamped around its throat.

Its neck began to crack under the dwarf's grip—though he barely stood chest-high to a man, his strength was that of a living anvil.

"You think I'm some weak old man? Listen close, corpse..." Barnard growled, his voice rumbling like thunder in the creature's ears. "I was forging weapons when the world still burned with the wars of the gods. And I was crushing freaks like you before most knew what fear even meant."

With a single motion, Barnard hoisted the creature overhead and slammed it into the ground.

BUAAAGH!!

The earth trembled. Thick, black blood splattered across his boots.

At the end of the alley, the robed cultist began to step back, his façade of calm slowly cracking. But Barnard's gaze locked onto him.

"You… you're next."

The flesh-worshipper snapped his fingers again. From beneath his sleeve, a long spiral-shaped dagger extended—its edges absorbing light, pulsing with dark energy.

"You are strong, dwarf… But your blood will make a fine offering to Deus Carnis."

Barnard swung Ironhowl to his side. The blue runes along the weapon flared brightly once more. Outside the alley, the rain poured harder, as if the storm itself bore witness:

The real fight had just begun.

"Hahaha!!"

The man's laughter echoed, rebounding off the ancient stone arches of the chapel. It wasn't just mirth—it was broken, twisted, something inhuman behind it.

Slowly, he removed his cloak, the tattered fabric falling to the cold, damp stone floor, soaked by rain seeping through cracks in the ceiling. Beneath it, a ritual garment of deep crimson was revealed, soaked with blackened stains of old blood. But what was most horrifying… was the eye embedded in the center of his chest—blinking slowly, shifting and twitching as if it could see in every direction.

"You… You're the priest of this cult…" Barnard muttered, his grip tightening around Ironhowl, which began to hum and vibrate faintly in response to the evil seeping through the room.

"Yes... You're not wrong."

The man nodded with a wicked grin, his steps slow but deliberate.

"My name is Marhuzar Glaeve, Sixth Blood Priest of the Carnavita Order… Keeper of the Womb of Flesh and Herald of the God's Tongue."

Barnard narrowed his eyes, his chest rising and falling—not from fear, but fury. "You're a follower of Deus Carnis…"

"Exactly."

Marhuzar stretched out his arms, and from beneath the skin of his forearms, grotesque bulges began to form—bubbling and splitting open to reveal writhing tendrils, thin and slimy like living entrails, slithering and undulating with a sickening motion.

"What you and your cult have awakened in this village… will not be allowed to live," Barnard growled, his voice heavy and rough, forged from iron resolve.

"You think we have merely awakened?"

Marhuzar's third eye on his chest locked onto Barnard.

"We are spreading. Flesh cannot be stopped. Our god is starving… and you are the appetizer."

"Enough talk."

Barnard slammed Ironhowl to the ground, ancient runes flaring to life along the head of the hammer, forming a protective sigil beneath his feet.

"In the name of the First Watchers… I, Barnard Barnes, stand against you in the name of humanity."

Marhuzar's twisted smile widened. "Then let us begin… the mass."

SWOOSH!!

The battle erupted in an instant. Tendrils cracked through the air like whips of meat and sinew, while Ironhowl swung like a bolt of blue lightning through the stormy night.

The old chapel became a battleground—where faith met darkness, and a new chapter of history was about to be written… in blood.

"Is that all you've got, old blacksmith?!"

Marhuzar roared, a maniacal grin plastered across his face—half of it already consumed by mutating flesh. From his back, a grotesque lash of sinew and bone erupted, dripping with a fetid stench and radiating searing heat that shimmered through the air.

"Cursed Lash: Maw of Devouris!"

WHIPSSHH!!

The flesh whip cracked through the air like a screaming serpent, surging toward Barnard with terrifying speed. But the battle-hardened dwarf stood his ground—

CLANGG!!

Ironhowl rose to meet the strike, metal clashing against corrupted flesh with a burst of sparks and splattering ichor staining the sacred floor of the church.

Barnard gritted his teeth, gripping his hammer tightly. His left hand shot upward—ancient runes igniting along his braced arm in lines of molten light.

"Iron Crucible: Breaker Seal!"

The ground trembled. A circle of runes flared beneath Barnard's boots, and a pillar of searing white light exploded upward—thunderous like the hammer of a god.

His weapon now pulsed with the glow of molten steel, its runes alive with a heartbeat of war.

"You think I came with just an old hammer? This is a relic from the Age of Deliverance—still burning in the hands of one who survived the Celestial Wars!"

Marhuzar let out a wild cackle. "Excellent... then you're worthy to witness my higher form!"

His body convulsed and expanded grotesquely, flesh folding and merging until he towered, monstrous. Dozens of eyes blinked across his new form, while countless tiny mouths whispered in a forgotten tongue. His right arm became a twisted lance of bone and sinew, and his left—an animate shield of gnashing, fang-lined flesh.

"Ascended Form: Apostle of Carnis."

Barnard stepped back once—but not in fear. His eyes narrowed. "I've broken worse than you when heaven itself was burning…"

Then they lunged.

Steel and cursed flesh collided. Holy fire met profane regeneration. Light and blood clashed in violent harmony with every strike.

Their battle shook the church to its foundations—cracks splitting the stone, shattering stained glass—while the air grew thick with the stench of iron, rot… and warborn sorcery.