The creatures don’t consume their kills—they collect them. Corpses arranged in geometric patterns. Territorial markers or ritualistic arrangements. The distinction doesn’t matter. What matters is the sheer number of dead things accumulated here. What matters is the stench that saturates the air thick enough to taste.
Soreia moves beside me without hesitation.
No fear in her stride. No calculation of magical cost. She walks through corruption that would have terrified her a week ago, and her only visible reaction is a slight wrinkling of her nose at the overwhelming smell of decay.
She didn’t run. She looked at what we’d become and accepted it without flinching.
Three more scoutsdie in the first hour.
All final. All staying dead where they fall. The bodies add to the existing piles of corpses without any shimmer of restoration attempting to pull them back together.
I stop waiting for the bodies to stir after the third kill.
The shift in my posture happens gradually—defensive retreat giving way to deliberate advance. For weeks, I’ve moved through this hunt with one goal: survival. Keeping Soreia alive. Avoiding fights when possible. Calculating escape routes before engaging.
Now I walk deeper into enemy territory with my attention fixed forward rather than behind.
Not running. Not defending.
Hunting.
Soreia matches my pace without comment. Her magic hums at the edge of my awareness—ready, steady, prepared to anchor whatever I kill. We move through the nesting grounds like a blade through rotting flesh, and the only sound is the squelch of corrupted soil beneath our feet.
The bond keeps her position mapped in the back of my awareness. When she falls two steps behind to anchor a scout’s remains, I know it before I hear her footsteps slow—a constant low signal, like a second compass point. I adjust my angle to keep the gap between us narrow without breaking stride.
“You’re different.”
Her observation catches me mid-stride. I glance at her, note the way she’s watching me with those sharp eyes that miss nothing.
“Explain.”
“The way you’re moving. The way you’re holding your shoulders.” She gestures at the expanse of hostile territory ahead. “An hour ago, you would have been scanning for ambush points and plotting retreat routes. Now you’re scanning for targets.”
Accurate assessment. I don’t bother denying it.
“The rules changed.”
“So you changed with them.”
“I stopped fighting an unwinnable war.” I turn to face her fully. “Every creature I’ve killed since this hunt started has eventually risen again. The gods rebuilt their army and sent itafter us again. No matter how many victories I earned, defeat was inevitable.”
“And now?”
“Now the things I end stay ended.” I reach for her. Pull her against me because I can. Because the proximity has become as necessary as breathing. “Now I’m going to eliminate every divine construct between here and the god who ordered this hunt. And then I’m going to make that god understand what permanent death means.”
Her hands flatten against my torso. Not pushing away. Steadying.
“That almost sounds like a plan.”
“It is a plan.” I lower my head. Brush my mouth across hers. Hard and claiming. “Stay close. The deeper nests will have heavier defenses.”
“I wasn’t planning on staying anywhere else.”
Good answer.
The FailedGod-Beast announces its presence with displacement.
Not sound—the creature is silent in a way that defies its massive size. But the air thickens where it exists. Pressure builds against my eardrums. The atmosphere itself seems to bend around a form that was never meant to survive in the physical realm.
