The man was fast; it was faster.

He leapt far and astray, trying desperately to further the distance between them, and yet, even as he did so — even as he sprung way, way back and further back still — he knew: he was far too slow, and it was far too late. They were close, and it had caught the Hunter by surprise. All that could save him now was a miracle, and he didn’t quite believe in those.

The creature fell on all fours, reared its massive head back, then, let its jaw snap open impossibly wide. There was an utmost audible cracking of bones, and the tearing of flesh, and once again, that horrid, horrid stench of rot and decay came to.

From inside its pitch black jaws shot out two sets of gnarly tongues, each unbelievably fast and unbelievably long. Like a snake pouncing for prey, they shot forth, sailing through the air and coming straight for him. The man raised his shotgun.

One, tw—

Too fast.

Too many targets.

And not enough time.

He fired off a round, hitting nothing but the crumbling stone columns and bare brick walls of the old cement factory. All at once now, the tongues darted, swerved from all four directions. They wrapped themselves around both his arms, clutching and coiling and crushing so very tightly, and the man could do nothing but stand idly there.

And then, they started to tug.

To pull.

Slowly.

Surely.

Back towards its gaping maw.

And towards oblivion embrace.

The man squeezed the trigger of his shotgun, and found his very own body unwilling. His fingers would not budge, and neither would his hands or arms or shoulders. Nothing, in fact, would move but his boots and knees, trying desperately, furiously, to find even the slightest bit of purchase on the cold, concrete floors. Then, of course, came the pain. He could feel his flesh and bones slowly giving way, slowly losing the fight. He could feel the cracking and snapping, and the gradual yet ever so excruciating pain begin to set in.

And yet, his mind was no less fogged. He was trained to ignore the pain. He was trained to think quickly, accurately, and under a tremendous amount of stress, and this was most definitely a tremendous amount of stress.

His wrist too began to fail him; his grip on the shotgun was lessening with each passing second, and soon, he would be without weapon. Still, he could do nothing but watch as his only means of defense cluttered from his grasps and dropped onto the ground below, into the darkness of the shadows and beyond.

This was it.

These were his final moments.

There were no more moves to be made.

No tricks.

No saves.

No aces in the hole.

Now, it was just a matter of a slow and painful death, it was just a matter of accepting one’s own end. Somehow, someway, the man always knew his death would not be one delicate and beautiful; it would be violent and all things unpleasant, filled to the brim perhaps with rage and desperation. He knew he would not live to see the old ages, nor did it bother him one bit.

He was ready.

As he always was.

And he would not cry in the face of Gentleman Death's scythe. He would not beg and cower. He would embrace Death as an old friend, and savor the reaping of his own soul.

It was within arm's reach now.

The creature, and his death.

He stared into its eyes, finding that there was no light at all to them. These were not the eyes of the living. These were the eyes of a monstrous creation, born of blood and unholy devilry, strung together by the occult and kept moving by Creationist magic.

And he was to die to the likes of this creature.

How truly fitting for a man of his stature.

It lunged forth.

He closed his eyes.

And its jaws snapped shut.

***

“Jonathan. . . Wicker Abhrams?”

Both his eyes flicked open, slowly at first, then all at once. He blinked.

The man was still in one piece.

The man was not dead.

Worst yet, there was blood on his coat. No, not regular blood, but rather, grotesque, green blood belonging to an exceptionally persistent, otherworldly entity with such voracious appetite for human flesh.

“Jonathan Wicker Abhrams?”

His head throbbed, and spun, and felt just about ready to explode. There was this intense, stabbing pain from the inside of his skull, and many more following suit from all over his body. His legs, his arms, his knees and hands were all but numb, and there was a great deal of pressure pushing against his chest, making breathing itself quite the chore. And even then, even while dazed and hurting and seconds away from passing out, the man was capable of recognizing his own name.

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams.

It was the name bestowed upon him by his late father, and his absent mother. It was the name of a decorated Heimer Republic war hero from centuries past, who dedicated body, soul, and mind in the service of his nation and empire, in the service and pursuit of greatness. It was the name of a great man, once, and now the mantle of that great man had fallen upon his shoulders. It had fallen on the shoulders of a struggling Hunter, who resorted to hunting anomalous entities and otherworldly creatures for a meager wage. It had fallen on the shoulders of a man who survived barely through scraps and runoffs, through desperation and instincts, and, more often than not, through crime.

It had fallen upon him now, and he had obligations to uphold.

Responsibilities to see through.

It was the last remaining remnant of his family.

He would not surrender it willingly.

Never.

Not until he knew.

Not until he had his answers.

“Yeah, that’s me,” Jonathan said, raising one arm high above his head. There was someone kneeling before him, lips twisted to a sly grin and eyes not unlike that of a lion’s.

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Canine.

Wild.

Untamed.

The man had hair like fire, and had with himself a set of twin blades, crooked and gnarly and all things terrifying. They were near identical, save for their finish: one was blue; the other, orange. Steel chains extended from the end of both handles, coiling around the man’s wrist, snaking to the top of his arms, whipping all the way past his shoulders, and down his back.

“Oh, goody,” the man said. “Means I saved the right guy. Go, me.”

Jonathan tried desperately to stand; the world threw him hither thither, wherever whenever, kicking him back down after every feeble attempt. And so he sat, like an obedient child waiting for its mother, back to the wall and legs a-spread.

He couldn’t care less. Jonathan didn’t care if his legs failed him. He didn’t care if he couldn’t stand, or fight, or see, or breathe, or let alone even live. All he cared about was having the shotgun by his side, as a means to defend himself, as a means to stave off the hungering darkness, and as a means to rebel against this cruel, cruel world. And even then, he could not find it.

It was nowhere in sight.

It had abandoned him.

And the man with the blades figured as much. “You won’t be needing that rusty bucket of bolts anytime soon, champ; you’ve done more than enough. I’ll take over from here. You just sit back, grab a drink, and enjoy the lightshow.”

All Jonathan could manage was a faint groan in agreement.

“Now then,” the man said, stepping forth. “You are one ugly, son of a bitch, aren’t you?”

The monstrosity greeted him with a grin, and with what could only be assumed was a mock attempt at a hug. “Come. . . To. . . Papa. . .”

“And would you look at that — it talks," he flashed a pearly white grin its way. "Now let’s see if it can scream.”

Hellish, blue flames and red, hot fires spilled forth from the man’s twin blades, lighting the whole of the cement factory in a dancing display of shadows and light. They glowed a deathly glow, and reverberated this awful, deep humming sound like some vassal of horror, and when Jonathan stared deep, deep, deep into its blade, something stared right back from within.

“Ready?” the man said, to no one in particular.

And much to Jonathan’s surprise, the blades answered back in what could only be described as deep, guttural growls, reminiscent of hungering demons from the depths of Hell. Little to the Hunter’s knowledge, those were exactly what the twin blades, Sygla and Vas were — demons from hell, imprisoned and forged to steel.

“A little cold in here, isn’t it?”

“Let’s warm it up, then.”

“The head’s mine, Sygla.”

“Oh but, Vas, that’s the best part.”

***

The creature fell on all fours once more, convulsing and twitching and jerking to and fro, and for the second time that day, it cracked its jaws open. From the inside of its pitch black maw again sprung forth those very same sets of devilish tongues, determined to snatch themselves a long overdue meal and pull it deep within.

It would not let go this time.

It would not let go again.

Not for a second time.

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams watched as they sailed through the air, twisting and turning and then, all at once now, darting. He watched as the man smirked and laughed, and as the flames of his twin blades grew and grew and grew, spilling onto the concrete floors below, burning right through stone and charring everything else to but blackened ashes. He watched as the man held unto Syglas and Vas with the back of both hands, and then, all too quickly, whipped hard.

The twin blades left the man’s grasps, streaking through the air in wide arches and impossible curves, slicing and dicing and making minced meat of the creature’s many tongues. Fire burned to a crisp what little remained.

A tug of the chains, a flick of the wrist, a twist of the arms, the man cleared himself a path towards the creature, free of meager flesh and pesky obstruction. He charged forth then, towards its gaping maw and open jaws, twin blades back and spinning in hand.

Zip, zip, swish.

The man was standing before it, face breaking into a smile matching the creature’s. He worked fast, wasting no time at all. In seconds, he had carved a deep, bloody X into its chest, breaking through the rib cage and slicing both lungs and heart into many, many little pieces. Still, it stood there, grinning, as it did with Jonathan Wicker Abhrams, and as it was doing so with the man. Still, it stood there, with both twin blades lodged deep between bone and flesh, glowing.

“Light ‘em up.”

The voices came again.

“Burn bright, burn eternal.”

“Burn brighter than bright, burn forevermore.”

A searing maelstrom of blue and orange erupted from the ground up, engulfing the creature in chthonic flames hotter than the hottest suns.

It was loud.

Deafening.

Resounding.

Roaring.

Jonathan could hear nothing but the growling of the fire, and the anguished cries of the creature within. Even from this distance, even from far, far away, he could feel the heat and intensity of the blaze.

It sought to overpower all.

To engulf all.

To consume and grow and devour.

The stench of rot and decay was no more, and was replaced, rather quickly and unmistakably, by one of burning flesh. He was sweating now; he didn’t realize he was until he noticed the wet in his hands and on all else, all over. He didn’t notice the cold in his bones and the chill in his flesh slowly seep away, and in came the warmth and fervor fever.

And when the flames died down, when all was quiet once more and nothing was left standing but the man and his twin blades, Jonathan breathed a sigh of relief.

It was over, now.

The thing was dead.

Returned.

Exterminated.

Step. Step.

Jonathan looked.

He shouted just in time.

“Behind you!”

***

The creature was falling apart, that much was certain: its skin was little less than raggedy sheets of black hanging from threads of red; its flesh was seared, baked, burnt, and cooked all the way through to a roiling boil; and its bones, which were once pure white and strong, had succumbed to the fires and started crumbling. The facade of the smiling, old man had gone, and in its place, was one of a faceless face, with burnt, running eyeballs and cracked teeth.

And even then, even on its last legs and final stand, it was no less slow. It emerged from the shadows, from behind the man and behind his blades, and in an instance, struck fast. Bony hands closed around the man’s neck, slamming him into the concrete walls, then, squeezing tight.

Squeezing ever so tightly.

Until the light of day was no more, and all life had gone from his eyes. Until the bones snapped and the spine severed and head and body were separated into two.

Or so the creature thought.

When the dust settled and the debris fell, there was nothing in his grasps but bare bricks and dusty old cements. There were no crushed remnants of the man — no bones, no blood, no flesh and skin messily cast about. There was nothing.

The creature reared its massive head, or, more precisely, what was left of one.

And there the man with hair like fire stood, balancing upside down atop its outstretched arm with one of his own.

“Oh, come now. A little cardio won’t kill you; you’ve got to be faster than that!”

“Slow.”

“Much too slow.”

The man pushed forth, sinking both blades deep into the creature's face. They tore apart what remained of its flesh and dug into bone, splitting its skull open — in two — like an egg. Jonathan watched as the man hacked and sawed, as he dismembered the monstrosity piece by piece, part by part. He watched as the man spilled its brains unto the dusty floors below, as the creature's lifeless legs buckled and kicked feebly, scratching streaks of white unto the concrete itself.

He watched as the man with blades removed all traces of its short-lived existence from all of Escardia, one hack at a time.

He sawed what could be sawed, broke what could be broke, and crushed what could be crushed.

And when all was done, when Jonathan saw for himself that it was little more than a corpse, disembodied and mutilated and disintegrating, he allowed himself to give into the darkness' calling.

He passed out, right then and there, contempt.

His job was done.

The contract was closed.

And he had permission to rest.

That's that.

***

"Such poultry flesh; I hunger for a taste.”

"Yes, let us devour."

"Let us consume."

"Let us feast."

"We hunger, we hunger!"

"We hunger for his essence!"

The man wiped a speck of imaginary dust from his blood drenched coat, singing to himself a cheery tune he first heard centuries ago in some distant lands, long abandoned and long forgotten. "Shut it, you two. You're not eating anyone. Not for a long while."

"You thread a fine line, Wrath."

"Walk a dangerous road."

"Our thirst cannot be quenched."

"Our hunger, sated."

"If we cannot take him."

"His soul."

"Essence."

"And flesh."

"We shall have yours instead."

"A delightful feast."

"A banquet."

"Death of Wrath, the Divine."

"And we shall be free."

"Sygla."

"And Vas."

“Once more, free.”

"And the world will know."

"Our fire."

“I said shut it,” the man let both twin blades slip from his grasps and sink into the concrete. He kneeled before the Hunter, now passed out and long asleep. His breath was weak. “You’re not eating him — not today, at least. That would upset Mr. Beauford a great deal.”

“Your morality is a stain.”

“Rid yourself of it.”

“Become Wrath.”

“Become free.”