A group of rats scampered about the underbrush, squeaking and jittering amongst themselves as vermin tend to. Some stuck to the shadows, beady eyes scanning the landscape sporadically, whilst the larger, fatter ones scuttled about with a certain audacious confidence.

In the end, it mattered not what their attitudes were. Vermin were still vermin, and would need to be culled. Malt would make sure of it.

He stalked atop a small hill just adjacent from the rat pack's imaginary path. The crossguard of his messer lay next his ear, its wickedly curved blade rising up just a few inches behind him and practically shivering in anticipation.

Tensed muscles rippled under a substantial layer of drab steel, it was taking all his willpower simply to stop the stray rings of mail hanging from his crouched frame from clinking about.

This was a phenomena that he’d thought he’d conquered already. The morbid sense of excitement, the rush of endorphins, the fluttering feeling in his gut, these were all things that invariably preceded a battle.

The mark of a soldier with any ounce of veterancy was the ability to quell these perverse thoughts, as an abundance of emotion clouds rational thought; and having experienced more than a fair share of battles himself, he’d thought that he was amongst this number.

Yet ever since the operation, something about him had changed.

Not just his body, no. His very way of perceiving the world had shifted. Ideas and concepts that he had, for his whole life, abhorred, were now beginning to normalize within his mind; and to his horror, even sound enticing.

Whenever his mind lingered on these unnamable practices, his mind would produce a positive feedback loop, as if he were thinking of some pleasant memory. Logically, he could very easily tell that this kind of response was completely and utterly wrong, at least in a moral sense. It went against everything, every ideal that he’d stuck with his entire life. Yet the feedback would never stop.

He wasn’t sure of what the operation had done to his mind. But he did know that he was no longer fully in control of it.

And the most disturbing consequence, the most depraved yearning that arose from this lay not in his mind, but in his gut.

The sound of snapping twigs brought his mind back to reality. Although no one was there to witness him, he cleared his face and defaulted to the laid-back expression he’d grown used to. Any sense of turmoil that might have been present on his features, was suddenly no more, at least from the surface.

The faint sound he’d heard indicated that the group of Khods was fast approaching, and now nearly in range.

Amongst the cacophony of snapping twigs and rustling leaves was a single, barely discernible signal: two snaps, a pause, followed by three more, and succeeded by a single one. It was a cue that would go right over the heads of anyone not specifically looking for it, but one that Malt had been trained to recognize.

He readied himself, coiling himself like a sprinter at the starting line. After an internal count to three, he launched himself down the slope in a seemingly uncontrolled leap. His body, now simply a mass of rapidly accelerating steel and flesh, surged downward with the momentum and vigor of a lancer’s mare.

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With one hand still clinging to the messer hanging behind his ear, he tore his hand up and pressed his forearm against the openings in his helm.

Moments later, a violent crack reverberated throughout the air, echoing to and fro the woods seemingly a thousand times a second. One it had faded, confused yelps filled the air, and Malt knew that Nasir had hit his mark.

He tore his arm away, witnessing the now discordant group amongst a sea of shimmering blue dust, remnants of Nasir’s arcane prowess.

It was now time for him to put in some work.

Still barrelling forward at a reckless velocity, he brought his other hand to his messer and unleashed all the pent up energy within his body upon the unfortunate schmuck closest to his rampaging path.

Time seemed to move at a snail’s pace as he witnessed the blade, barely visible to even himself, slice through the man’s neck as if it were a ripe mango; how it severed arteries and cartilage with such wanton brutality; how it snaked in between the man’s vertebrae, its savage path unaltered by the now exposed, pearly white bone. And as it passed through the other side of his neck, so quick that blood hadn’t the chance to stick to it, a euphoric feeling rushed through his brain. Every emotion that could be felt: excitement, pleasure, content, disgust, happiness, superiority, triumph, it all mixed together into a cocktail of pure bliss, the taste of which he wouldn’t forget until the day he ceased to exist. Morals, strife, existence, turmoil, responsibility, purpose, none of it mattered anymore. In that moment he had reached an all-time high. The past and the future held no concern.

For in the present, he had achieved true happiness.

And as the man’s head, still conscious and unbeknownst to its severed fate, fell to the ground with a dull thud, he had already made his resolution.

No matter the consequence, he would ride this high.

What followed next was a flurry of malicious intent and barbarous savagery that he held no distinct memory of. He could only remember the ferocious speed at which his arms moved, and the constant murky crimson that permeated all muddled memories of the event.

Suffice to say, by the time he’d returned to his senses, he felt like he had just clawed his way out of a warm bath. Mulchy gore hung from every ragged surface on his body, and fragments of mutilated bone lie embedded within the chinks in his armor, and even in his palms.

As vile as he felt physically, his mind was in a whole other realm. Quick bursts of hot breath escaped his throat, turning into mist in the frigid night air. But this was not because he was tired - no, his body was still eager and brimming with energy.

He stared at one of the mangled corpses by his feet, grey intestines hanging from a gnarly gash in its abdomen. Even though it was so disturbing, his eyes refused to tear themselves away from those ropes of flesh, radiating with heat and emanating wisps of steam.

A whack to the back of the head dragged him from his trance.

Nasir stood behind him, pinching his nose with one hand.

“You went waaay to overboard, lad. Have’you any idea how difficult this’s going to be to clea-” He cut himself off, realizing the futility of the situation. A deep sigh escaped his lips. “Nevermind that, we’ll deal with that later.”

He turned around and walked to one of the far corpses, gesturing with his head for Malt to follow.

Eyes still lingering, stealing glances at the corpse below him, he took shaky steps toward Nasir, stopping beside him.

They stood above what he’d previously thought was a corpse, but was in reality an almost-corpse. The man (if he could even be called that) was near to Malt’s age, and lay covered in grievous wounds. Despite that, he was still breathing, albeit unconsciously.

Malt took one look at Nasir’s face, and his intent was clear.

“Looks like the situation’s not as bad as I expected. I honestly thought you might’ve killed them all in your little rampage.” He picked the young man up with surprising ease, hanging him over his shoulder like a bedroll.

From there, no words were exchanged. It was obvious what was going to happen to the young man, and Nasir was of course excited for it.