Chapter 5: I Died Screaming, and Hell Answered

It began with a plan written in rage.

For years, I'd carved paths of corpses through the empire's outskirts. I killed their scouts. I burned their supply wagons. I made orphans of their children. I didn't care. None of it was enough. None of it brought back what they stole.

I needed more.

So I found a map—one stolen from a noble merchant I butchered in his bed. He begged. He cried. He offered gold. I wanted his silence. I took it.

The map showed a tunnel—an ancient drainage route under the empire's outer wall. Forgotten. Unguarded. Just wide enough for a half-starved boy to crawl through.

I became a shadow for weeks. I memorized the guard routes. The bell timings. I counted every step they took on the stone walkways. I studied their meals, their shifts, even the direction they pissed in. I didn't sleep. I didn't eat. I waited.

And then, the night came.

I slipped into the tunnel—rotting filth clawing at my skin, rats chewing at my legs, the stench of decay crawling into my lungs. I welcomed it. It reminded me of them.

When I emerged inside the capital, I slit the sewer sentry's throat and wore his cloak. His eyes stared as I walked away in his skin.

The city was alive with celebration—some victory against rebels. They feasted, drunk on blood and wine, never knowing that death now walked their streets.

My plan was jagged but simple:

Infiltrate the barracks.

Poison their water with powdered nightshade.

Lock the gates once they dropped.

Burn the armory.

Burn the officer's quarters.

Kill the captain.

Storm the palace.

Kill the king.

And leave a message painted in their children's blood.

I didn't believe I'd live through it. That wasn't the point. The point was to make the empire scream before I died.

But fate doesn't fear broken children.

The barracks stank of sweat and steel. I moved like smoke through the corridors—whisper-quiet, blade in hand. I reached the water barrels. Crushed nightshade fell like black snow.

But then—

A bark.

A mutt.

Too loud. Too close.

"INTRUDER!"

The scream pierced the air like a sword.

The plan shattered.

Torches lit. Steel unsheathed. Footsteps thundered.

I ran. Slashed a throat. Drove my dagger through an eye. Blood sprayed warm across my face.

But they swarmed—more and more, like maggots in meat.

I fought. I raged.

I stabbed one in the gut and ripped upward. I broke a soldier's nose with my knee and drove my broken blade into his screaming mouth. I tore and tore until my arm split open. Until my vision blurred with my own blood.

I killed eight. Then twelve. I lost count after fifteen.

But I was just a boy. And boys don't win wars.

They overwhelmed me.

Boots crushed me. Fists broke my ribs. My shoulder popped from its socket. My leg twisted where it shouldn't.

They didn't kill me.

They dragged me.

Naked. Bleeding. Through the streets of the capital.

Villagers threw stones. Children spat. Nobles laughed. A woman pissed on me.

They tied me to a post in the square—the same square where my people had once been executed.

Then came the punishment.

First: Whips with rusted nails. Each lash stripped away skin and meat. My spine was bare before they stopped.

Then: Boiling water. They poured it over my chest, laughing as my skin sloughed off in sheets.

Then: Branding. They burned the empire's crest into my face.

I didn't scream.

So they smashed my jaw.

They pulled my nails out one by one. Shoved iron rods through my calves and twisted. Poured vinegar into my wounds.

Only when they pierced my stomach with a spear and dragged it sideways did I finally scream.

It wasn't fear.

It was pure, unfiltered hate. A scream so deep, so black, so full of fire that the sky itself dimmed.

And something heard it.

The air turned cold.

Shadows twisted.

The sky cracked—not with thunder, but with whispers.

The crowd went silent. Even the fire dimmed.

Then came the voice.

It slithered into my mind like oil through cracks.

"So much hate in such a tiny corpse."

I couldn't answer. My tongue was gone.

But my soul screamed louder than words.

"Would you trade everything for vengeance?"

"Would you burn the world?"

"Would you let go of your name, your soul, your God… for just one more chance?"

I didn't say yes.

I became yes.

"Then die for me… and rise as my answer."

And I died.

Heart stopped. Eyes glazed. Blood cold.

But the rage remained.

And from that rage, something else was born.

The stake shattered. My wounds screamed with flame. Bones realigned. My broken spine cracked upright. The iron rods melted from my legs.

Fire dripped from my mouth. My fingers bled shadows.

I rose—not healed. Not human.

I was the curse they carved.

A monster of their own making.

Their screams began the moment my eyes opened.

The boy they tortured was gone.

What stood now… was the beginning of the end.