19. Barbarian of Wrath

The elders' severed heads littered the ground, their lifeless eyes frozen in horror.

Entrails slithered through the dirt like butchered snakes, limbs twisted at sickening angles, bones jutting through torn flesh—each wound bearing the savage mark of teeth.

Naked women lay butchered, their bellies split wide, organs spilling onto the earth in glistening coils.

Their eyes, glassy and bulging, screamed silent agony, their final tears still glistening on blood-streaked cheeks.

Children—no older than him—were reduced to pulped meat, their tiny bodies crushed and smeared across the gnarled roots of the acacia trees, as if some monstrous hand had ground them into the earth.

A warrior of his tribe remained kneeling in death, his chest a gaping void, ribs splayed like broken branches.

Only the sword driven deep into the soil kept him upright, a grim monument to defiance in the face of annihilation.

The carnage carved a gap of despair into Hound's soul.

These weren't just corpses—they were part of his life, now butchered and broken.

The elders who had guided him, their wisdom now silenced forever.

The women who had nursed his wounds, their warmth now cold and gutted.

The warriors who had taught him to hunt, their strength now reduced to hollowed-out meat.

The children he had raced through the wilds with, their laughter now smeared across the dirt like meat.

Every face, every memory—still fresh, still alive in his mind—was now just meat for the flies.

And as the reality sank in, Hound felt nothing.

No rage, no sorrow. Just a void, black and endless, swallowing what little light remained inside him.

Hound staggered forward, his hollow eyes weeping crimson tears.

His Incite of Blood—once a raging tempest—had withered to silence, leaving his small, broken body drowning in exhaustion.

Yet still, he walked.

Like a lamb lost in the abyss of the Bone Orchard, he moved without purpose, without hope.

With each step, something within him twisted.

Something monstrous. Something that had slept since the God of Death himself cast his shadow upon the world.

But then—

A shape in the road. A beast on all fours, matted fur crusted with gore, jaws buried deep in twitching flesh.

The body beneath it shuddered, a wet, broken sound escaping its lips.

Half-eaten.

Still alive.

The creeping influence of Death faltered. Hound's dragging steps slowed—then quickened.

His hollow eyes burned with something forgotten, something desperate.

Alive.

Despite the ruin of its body, despite the inevitability of its suffering—it was alive.

And for the first time since the slaughter, Hound felt something crack inside him.

Not apathy.

Hope.

With rage burning through his mind, he charged at the black wolf devouring its victim—he had to kill it.

Blood pooled around him, gathering like threads before swirling in his wake like a flock of butterflies.

His Blood Incite hammered against his heart, sharpening his senses to their absolute limit, while his Blood Instinct revealed the surviving Tribesmen deeper in the forest—still fighting desperately against Hungers.

In his small hand, blood crystallized, forming a jagged, handleless knife with every crimson drop.

Hound lunged.

His leap carried him impossibly high and far, yet with eerie precision.

The beast, still leisurely feasting on the man beneath it, remained oblivious to the danger.

In one brutal motion, Hound drove the blood-forged blade through the back of its skull.

The knife erupted from its jaw effortlessly—like a hot knife through butter.

A spray of blood drenched Hound's face, the thick, scalding liquid clinging to his skin like mucus.

He grinned.

Finally, he had slain one of the monsters tormenting his people.

Then he saw the half-eaten corpse's face.

It was no tribesman.

Yellow, jagged teeth grinned up at him in twisted mockery.

A Hunger.

Disappointment crashed over Hound.

He had thought—hoped—he'd saved one of his tribesmen.

But the cruel twist shattered his mind.

His rage, already a wildfire, burned hotter, darker.

His gaze snapped to the night sky—the moon, now unveiled, cast its cold light over his blood-streaked face, his tears like liquid crimson.

"HAHAHAHAHA!"

His laughter tore through the silence—the hollow, broken cackle of a child whose soul had snapped.

The blood around him writhed, thickening into something grotesque, twisting his features into a mask of pure savagery.

And the rage—was no longer just rage.

It was corruption, seeping into his veins, forging him into something monstrous.

A wrath made flesh.

A true Demon of Neglect, A Barbarian of Wrath.

With a single, vicious slash, he severed the Hunger's head.

It spun through the air, crashed against the trees, and tumbled to the ground—a lifeless coin in the moonlight.

Then, a deep, guttural howl ripped through the night—a sound so primal it seemed to shake the very earth beneath Hound's feet.

His head snapped toward the source, his blood-streaked vision locking onto the silhouette looming atop a jagged cliff.

There, standing like a monstrous sentinel, was a beast of unimaginable size—three times the height of a full-grown man, its massive frame outlined against the moonlit sky.

It did not move.

It did not charge.

Instead, it simply watched.

Its eyes, twin pits of cold, calculating hunger, observed the slaughter below with eerie stillness.

The wind carried the scent of blood and fear toward it, yet the creature remained unmoved, as if the chaos beneath it were nothing more than a passing spectacle.

Hound's breath hitched.

His grip tightened around his blood-forged blade.