"Mai," he rasped, his voice rough as gravel. "I…"
His words, choked with surprise, hung in the air. She saw the flicker of hope in his eyes, the tentative reach of a hand scarred by past battles. Then, her mother's voice, a viper's hiss in her ear.
"Come in, Ba Gấu," Hét drawled, her voice dripping with honeyed venom. "We have much to discuss."
Ba Gấu's gaze flickered between the two women, shadows dancing in his eyes. He stepped through the threshold, a lone wolf entering a serpent's lair. The door slammed shut, leaving them alone in the darkness, the air thick with the stench of betrayal and the promise of a storm brewing just beyond the horizon.
Ba Gau, wary and sharp as a cornered wolf, stepped into the dimly lit room. The air hung heavy with Hét's cloying perfume and unspoken truths. Before they started Ba Gau wanted to know, "Why," he rumbled, his voice laced with suspicion, "Did you go through the process to have me declared dead? How did you even do it without my tail?Did you think a little over a hundred miles would finish me off? Our wild ancestors ranged further than that for breakfast.
Hét: (fluttering her eyelashes, with clear annoyance) Oh, Ba Gấu, darling, don't be so melodramatic. We were simply... concerned. Months away, no word, whispers on the wind of dangers lurking in the shadows...
Ba Gau: (scoffs) Months? I was gone barely 3 weeks! Four days each way, four days rest, two or three recovering a bandit attack another two days sidetracked before the journey back. Hardly a death sentence, even for a dog with less bite than bark.
Hét: (her facade crumbling) We were worried, that's all! You weren't known for your punctuality, shall we say. And frankly, the city wasn't exactly eager to welcome back a Butcher Fang with a reputation for... uselessness.
Mai: (stepping forward, a venomous edge to her voice) Perhaps you simply weren't cut out for survival, Ba Gấu. After all, who wants a butcher more scarred than skilled? More bone than blade?
Ba Gau's hand instinctively went to the jagged scars on his arm, a silent testament to battles fought and won. Mai's words were like a viper's bite.
Ba Gau: Scars tell a different story than claws, painted and polished, for a pampered life, little dove. (glances at Mai, anger simmering) So tell me, what was it? The allure of power or the fear of poverty that led you to trade loyalty for those fancy paws?
Hét: (stepping closer, her smile turning predatory) Loyalty is a luxury the weak can afford, Ba Gấu. And you, my dear, are far from weak. But perhaps not as strong as you once believed.
The room crackled with tension, the air thick with unspoken threats and simmering anger. Ba Gau stood tall, a lone wolf surrounded by vipers, his scars a badge of honor rather than weakness. The fight had just begun, and in this serpent's den, he wouldn't just be a butcher, but a predator ready to claim his own bite of revenge.
Ba Gau: (eyes narrowed, voice low and dangerous) We both know I'm not weak. But underestimating me has always been your biggest mistake. Tell me, Hét, are you ready for the consequences?
Hét: (a chilling smile playing on her lips) Consequences are for the foolish, Ba Gấu. And tonight, you're the only fool in this room.
Mai's heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. Doubt gnawed at her, the poison vial heavy in her palm. Hét's plan hinged on Mai serving the drink to Ba Gau before the Weaver's assassins arrived, framing him for their murders. Fear clawed at her throat, choking her with guilt. Could she go through with it?
As Ba Gau spoke, his eyes burning with the embers of past affection, the lie trembled on her tongue. Yet, the image of Nam Long, his smug smile promising a gilded future, flashed before her, momentarily eclipsing her conscience. She raised the cup, her hand shaking.
"Here," she murmured, offering the poisoned drink. Her voice, barely a whisper, betrayed her inner turmoil.
Ba Gau, wary, scrutinized the cup. "What is this?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous.
Panic seized Mai. The lie choked in her throat. Instead, she stumbled back, knocking the cup to the floor. It shattered, the poisoned liquid staining the rug like a dark omen.
Hét's face contorted in fury. "You fool!" she hissed, her voice laced with venom. "Now we have no choice."
With a practiced snap of her fingers, a hidden panel slid open, revealing two masked figures armed with wickedly curved blades. "The Weaver's finest," Hét announced, her smile cold and calculating.
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Pandemonium erupted. Mai screamed, genuine terror replacing her feigned fear. Ba Gau, ever the wolf, reacted instantly. His scarred hand shot out, disarming one assassin with a lightning-fast movement. The other lunged, but Ba Gau's reflexes were honed by years of fighting. He dodged the blade, delivering a bone-crunching kick that sent the assassin sprawling.
The room became a whirlwind of steel and fury. Ba Gau, a whirlwind himself, moved with deadly grace, disarming both attackers and pinning them to the ground. But victory was short-lived. Hét, seizing the opportunity, snatched the fallen cup and, with a practiced flick of her wrist, emptied its remaining contents into Ba Gau's own drink.
He drank, unsuspecting, unaware of the venom coursing through his veins. Its effects were immediate. His eyes became bloodshot, his movements erratic. A guttural growl ripped from his throat, transforming him into a crazed beast.
Fueled by the poison and betrayal, Ba Gau tore through the room, furniture shattering under his rage. He roared, a sound filled with pain and fury, before turning and crashing through the window, disappearing into the night.
Mai watched him go, a chilling emptiness settling in her chest. Tears streamed down her face, a mix of fear and regret. They had planned to frame him, not break him. Now, they were left with the shattered pieces of their plan, and a monster of their own making, loose in the city. The game had taken a deadly turn, and the consequences were just beginning to unfold.
Ba Gấu, the Butcher reborn, stepped into the night, a hulking silhouette swallowed by the shadows. His obsidian fur crackled with emerald fire, a monstrous echo of the infernal potion that had consumed his sanity. The cleaver, once a tool of his trade, now thrummed with a malevolent hunger.
The first to fall was a young vendor, his cart of sweet potatoes tumbling like autumn leaves. Ba Gấu barely registered the crimson bloom on the boy's throat, the gurgling gasp silenced before it reached the air. The cleaver, a blur of emerald fire, sang its deadly song.
Next, a patrol of Cẩu Binh guards, their armor no match for the fury that coursed through Ba Gấu's veins. He moved like a whirlwind, the cleaver weaving a macabre dance, each swing leaving a trail of broken bone and spilled life. Their screams, choked and desperate, were swallowed by the night.
Then, a woman, walking her dog, emerged from a darkened doorway. Her eyes widened in terror, but before she could even cry out, the emerald scythe claimed her. The whimper of the abandoned dog echoed in the empty street, a lone lament in the symphony of death.
Each kill, a tremor of revulsion shook Ba Gấu's fractured mind. The potion, a venomous fog, clung to his thoughts, distorting reality, twisting memories into grotesque parodies. He saw the woman, not as an innocent passerby, but as a Weaver spy, her gaze a mask for treachery. He saw the guards as the enemy horde, their blue uniforms morphing into the hated green of his wartime tormentors.
The battlefield of his past, a festering wound in his soul, bled into the present. He was back in the heart of the war, surrounded by the screams of the dying, the clang of steel, the stench of death. The cleaver, once an extension of his craft, became a weapon of vengeance, a conduit for his primal rage.
Each kill, a twisted echo of the countless battles he had fought. The line between butcher and warrior, once blurred, now vanished entirely. He was the wolf unleashed, the Canine Ripper, a monster fueled by a cocktail of trauma, rage, and the insatiable hunger of the corrupted Riptooth Path.
His control, tenuous at best, frayed with each blow. The whispers of the potion grew louder, drowning out the feeble pleas for mercy, the echoing cries of his own tortured conscience. He was a puppet in a macabre play, his strings pulled by the dark puppeteer within.
As dawn approached, painting the sky with streaks of bruised purple and angry orange, Ba Gấu stood amidst the carnage, a lone silhouette silhouetted against the dying embers of night. The cleaver, slick with gore, dripped a final crimson tear onto the cobblestones. The rampage had ended, but the nightmare had only just begun.
The city of Diba, once a bustling hub of commerce, awoke to a chilling silence, broken only by the cries of the wounded and the mournful wail of sirens. The Butcher, reborn in a monstrous form, had carved his bloody path through its heart, leaving a trail of innocents and fallen heroes in his wake. And in the depths of his fractured mind, Ba Gấu, the dog, fought a desperate battle against the encroaching darkness, a battle that would determine the fate not only of himself, but of the city he once called home.
part 3
Moonlight, pale and sickly, cast long, skeletal shadows across the terracotta rooftops of Diba. Ba Gấu, a wolf-man cloaked in the potion's venomous embrace, emerged from Lan Anh's aged manor. The acrid tang of betrayal clung to him like the reek of the slaughterhouse; Hét's treachery had unleashed a beast far crueler than any war ever could.
The potion, a serpent twisting in his gut, spewed venom through his veins, clouding his mind in a crimson fog. It hissed promises of power, a throne built on the stolen life-force of his enemies. His senses warped, he saw only fuel for his rage – a lone musician strumming his lute, serenaded into silence by the butcher's cleaver; two young constables, their lacquered shields no match for the whirlwind of steel and fur; even Linh's former neighbor, a wizened woman with eyes full of forgotten smiles, met her end beneath the cold kiss of the blade.
Thirty souls, all Cẩu Binh, fell to Ba Gấu's fury that night. But unlike during the war where he killed only men (who it is known, don’t have any life-force, the Cau Binh life-force was a potent elixir, intoxicating him with a power he had never known. The war had been a desolate wasteland, its victories hollow, its spoils mere ashes in his mouth. Killing then had offered no solace, no twisted pleasure. But this… this was different. Each life stolen filled him with a heady surge, a monstrous echo of the power he once craved.
The potion, a cruel puppeteer, danced him like a marionette on strings of blood. The Riptooth Path, once a fledgling flame within him, roared to life, a ravenous inferno consuming his control. He was adrift in a crimson tide, the screams of the dying his twisted symphony, the coppery tang of fear his intoxicating perfume.
Ba Gấu, the Butcher of Diba, once a warrior haunted by memories, was now a monster, their prisoner. The potion had unlocked a Pandora's box within him, unleashing a hunger not for flesh, but for the very essence of life itself. And the city, bathed in the crimson glow of his rampage, bore the chilling weight of his monstrous awakening. He didn’t know how long he moved about the city murdering innocents. He heard drumming or explosions. He couldn’t tell if they were in his mind, or there was some loud ghost making the deafening noises. Around the edges of his vision he sometimes saw flames, sometimes blood haze, sometimes black smoke made him blind, but his chopping was uninhibited. Flesh and bone were cleaved that night. Until the vile potion weakened enough for Ba Gau to reason; to get away from the heat and the blood and the death. By the end Thirty corpses, each a testament to the potion's insidious power, lay scattered across Diba's cobbled streets. And as the night stretched on, a chilling truth gnawed at the monster's clouded mind: this was not an ending, but a macabre beginning. The taste of stolen life-force, a forbidden fruit, had poisoned him beyond redemption, turning his butcher's cleaver into a scythe he no longer controlled, reaping a bloody harvest through the heart of his own city.