Asael ran.

The screams never stopped.

They came from everywhere—left, right, ahead, behind—melding into a chorus of agony that clawed at his mind like rusted nails.

Each cry dug deep, twisting, demanding he move faster.

But then—

A sharp snap.

Something coiled around his leg. Before he could react, the rope yanked tight, wrenching his feet from beneath him.

His body slammed into the ground, the impact blasting the air from his lungs in a ragged gasp.

Then came the pull.

Dirt filled his mouth.

Small stones tore into his skin, carving jagged lines of pain across his body.

His ribs screamed with each brutal jolt as he was dragged through the unforgiving terrain, crashing against twisted roots and jagged rocks.

Every scrape and gash sent fresh fire through his nerves—only to be swallowed by the divine energy coursing through his veins, sealing the wounds before the pain could settle.

It didn’t matter.

Pain never mattered.

Asael gritted his teeth and slashed at the rope with his sword.

The moment the blade met its mark, the tension snapped.

His momentum sent him skidding across the ground, rolling to a stop in a gasping, trembling heap.

His chest heaved, his muscles ached, his vision spun.

Then he smelled it.

Not blood.

Burning flesh.

A sickening, acrid stench curled into his nostrils, coating his throat like oil.

His stomach twisted.

He lifted his gaze—and his breath died in his chest.

Ahead, bodies writhed in an inferno of orange and gold.

Men, women—human forms convulsing in agony as flames devoured them.

Their arms flailed, reaching for salvation that would never come.

Their legs jerked in frantic, useless attempts to escape.

The fire slithered up their limbs, consuming, peeling away skin to expose raw, bubbling muscle.

Screams filled the air, shrill and inhuman, voices shredded by unbearable torment.

The flames climbed higher, licking at faces, stripping flesh down to bone.

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Eyes boiled, then burst with soft, wet pops. Lips curled back from melted gums, teeth grinning through charred remains.

A rush of bile surged up Asael’s throat.

He forced it down and lurched forward—

But his legs buckled beneath him.

He collapsed to his knees, fingers clawing at the dirt. His breaths came fast, too fast, rattling inside his lungs.

The bodies stopped moving.

The screams fell silent.

The fire guttered out, leaving behind only blackened husks twisted in unnatural poses—arms reaching, mouths frozen in silent wails.

The world around him blurred, a crushing weight pressing against his chest, suffocating, unrelenting.

This… This is hell.

A deep, guttural growl shattered the silence.

Asael’s head snapped up.

Five figures loomed before him.

Orcs.

They stepped forward with slow, deliberate strides, their hulking frames casting long shadows across the carnage.

Their tusked mouths curled into sneers, their yellowed eyes glinting with hunger.

Something in Asael cracked.

The world bled into red.

His body moved before thought could take hold, his sword a flash of steel in the dim firelight.

The first orc swung its axe.

Too slow.

Asael twisted to the side, the air hissing as the heavy weapon cleaved through empty space.

His sword lashed out in response, slicing through flesh like wet parchment.

A severed limb spiraled through the air.

A howl of agony split the night.

The orc staggered back, its severed arm twitching in the dirt.

Asael didn’t stop.

One clean stroke—head gone.

Blood fountained in a thick, crimson spray, speckling his face, drenching his hands.

The body crumpled to the ground in a lifeless heap.

The other orcs roared, fury igniting in their veins. They charged.

Asael surged forward.

His sword plunged deep into the next orc’s chest, the blade sinking into muscle and bone.

The creature’s eyes bulged, blood bubbling from its tusked mouth in thick, wet gurgles.

Asael didn’t hesitate.

With a savage thrust, he drove the impaled corpse into another orc, pinning them together.

Then, he twisted the blade.

The sound of tearing flesh and snapping ribs filled the air.

A wet, slopping noise followed as the second orc’s innards spilled in steaming ropes onto the dirt.

A blur of movement—too late.

A heavy club crashed into Asael’s back.

His breath exploded from his lungs in a ragged cough, blood flecking the ground at his feet.

Pain tore up his spine in white-hot waves, his vision flickering.

But he didn’t stop.

He whirled, ducking beneath another swing.

His sword lashed out, slicing through an orc’s stomach.

The creature shrieked, its clawed hands grasping at the gaping wound, trying desperately to shove its spilling intestines back inside.

One final stroke silenced it.

The last two came at him together.

Asael danced between them, his blade a blur of motion.

A sharp thrust—straight through the throat.

The orc gurgled, dark blood spraying in a violent arc. Its body crumpled, lifeless.

The final enemy barely had time to register what had happened before Asael’s sword carved a merciless line across its torso.

Flesh parted, ribs cracked, and the orc’s insides poured out in a steaming heap.

Then, silence.

Asael stood in the midst of the carnage, his body drenched in crimson.

Blood dripped from his fingers, ran down his arms, soaked into his clothes.

His breath came in ragged gasps, his muscles trembling.

The scent of burnt flesh still clung to the air.

The screams still echoed in his mind, twisting, gnawing, refusing to let go.

His sword hung at his side, dripping red.

And him—

He felt nothing.

But the screams didn’t stop.

Even in silence, they rang in his ears—phantoms of suffering, clawing at his mind, whispering their agony into his bones.

He had no choice but to keep moving.

Yet, no matter where his feet carried him, he found only death.

Lifeless bodies sprawled across the ground, twisted in unnatural angles.

Men and women lay in pools of blood, their faces frozen in expressions of terror.

Some had burned beyond recognition, their charred remains brittle and crumbling.

Others had been torn apart, limbs scattered like discarded meat.

A graveyard of the living turned to the dead.

His thoughts blurred into chaos, a storm of rage and sorrow that twisted through his chest like a dagger.

His fingers clenched the hilt of his sword, his knuckles pale beneath the smeared blood.

Then—amidst the carnage—something different.

Not death.

Not yet.

A cluster of figures, bound together by thick, coarse ropes.

Anne. Kenta. Bob. Steven. A few others.

Their wrists were lashed tightly behind their backs, their bodies slumped in exhaustion.

Some had bruises blooming across their skin, others bore cuts that oozed fresh blood.

Yet one among them stood out—Steven.

His skin was pale, sickly.

His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths.

Sweat clung to his brow, his lips barely parted as if struggling for air.

Still alive.

Barely.

A voice cut through the air, sharp and mocking.

"Oh! You’re finally here!"

Asael’s head snapped toward the source.

Leimer with Fran beside him, a smirk twisting his lips.

Behind them, orcs and gnolls loomed in the dim firelight, their hulking figures shifting, weapons glinting with fresh blood.

Asael's hands curled into fists.

His body burned, not from battle wounds, but from the effort of restraining himself.

His rage coiled deep in his chest, snarling like a beast clawing to be free.

His gaze flickered back to Steven.

His friend’s breaths came weaker now, slower.

The poison was tearing through his body, dragging him toward death with each passing second.

Leimer let out a laugh, tilting his head with an air of amusement.

"Your friend is really tenacious. Still clinging to life, even now."

Asael said nothing.

Leimer shrugged. "Either way, if you want him to live, you’d better act fast."

He held up a small vial—the antidote.

Asael's heart pounded against his ribs.

"Come and give him the antidote," Leimer continued, his tone almost playful.

The moment those words left his lips, the orcs and gnolls moved.

Their heavy footsteps thudded against the blood-soaked earth as they stepped forward, forming a barrier between Asael and his friends.

Their claws flexed, their weapons gleamed, their eyes burned with savage anticipation.

Leimer smirked. "Be quick about it. Looks like he won’t last much longer."

A growl rumbled in Asael’s throat.

His grip tightened around his sword.

Every muscle in his body coiled, ready to strike.

He had no time.

No choice.

Steven’s breaths were fading.

And the monsters before him were already preparing to kill.