Ikra pushed the shutters of the windows open just enough to peer through, his eyes narrowing at the sight of the shimmering blue dome now sealing the village in. A chill threaded down his spine. That wasn't a mere festival trick. Not this time.
The need to confirm his suspicions hit him hard. He moved through the room. Past the pinned notes, the sketches, the threads of information that all pointed back to Warhound and slipped out the door without hesitation. Whatever was happening outside, he couldn't sit idle.
The moment he stepped onto the street, the noise hit him like a wave. Screams. Footsteps. Desperate shouting. The festive calm of the afternoon had shattered into chaos.
People surged past him in all directions, faces twisting in fear with some clutching their children not knowing where to go. Stalls were overturned, goods scattered all across the ground and trampled underfoot.
Ikra couldn't see the source of the terror, but the indicators were unmistakable. He had walked scenes like this before. This was what remained when something powerful, something merciless, moved through a crowd.
He scanned the street, his jaw tightening.
A massacre? Already?
He couldn't waste time guessing. Ikra cut away from the main roads, navigating the narrow alleys and side passages where the panicking crowd thinned out. His boots splashed through the puddles of spilled drinks and crushed fruit as he kept low.
The noise of fleeting villagers dulled the father he went. Only his breathing and the distant thrum of the dome remained. At last, he reached the edge of it. The blue barrier towered before him, glowing and humming as if alive.
He was close enough to touch, almost close enough to taste the energy radiating from it. He looked closely at the pattern, Ikra recognizing the technology instantly. It was unmistakably old world circuitry, the work of his former colleague.
Midas.
Midas had lived near this village for most of his reclusive years, a quiet sentinel watching from the margins. The villagers who were saved from his actions treated him like a stranger, even though they made the festival they were celebrating as a way to commemorate his actions.
Only some of the villagers truly knew of his story of sacrifice, and even fewer knew of what truly happened for Midas to change. He had sworn never to touch old-world tech again since that day.
Ikra's mind dragged him back to that memory. The Director was standing at the center of the briefing room, voice growing more frustrated with every refusal. Midas' sitting with his arms crossed, had a face like stone.
"Don't ask me to use what cost me my life."
No amount of negotiation budged him. The Director had offered him rank, resources, favors, even preferential treatment for the rest of his life. But to him, it didn't matter. Midas walked out of that room and never returned.
So why now?
Why erect a dome of the very technology that he despised so much?
Ikra stared at the shifting patterns of light running across the barrier. Midas wouldn't have done this for the village alone, it wasn't under attack when the dome appeared. Something specific triggered him, something dangerous.
Warhound.
The name alone made Ikra's muscles tense. If Midas knew Warhound was here, it meant that he had broken his silence, his vows, his self-imposed exile for one purpose alone. To trap him.
And if Midas intended to trap Warhound, then the hunt had already begun. The air behind Ikra vibrated with distant screams and the crash of overturned market stalls. Chaos rippled through the village like wildfire.
Fear, raw and directionless, pushed people into each other, through each other. There was no clarity to their panic, only the instinct to run from the danger. Ikra forced himself to shut out the noise.
He reached into his coat and pulled out a worn notebook, its leather edges frayed, pages stuffed with years of field notes. He flipped through quickly until he found the hand-drawn map of the village. A crude sketch, but one only he knew how to read.
Ikra crouched beside the glowing dome, using its light to illuminate the page. His finger traced the terrain, looking through the alleyways and vantage spots. He replayed every encounter he had ever studied about Warhound. How he moved, how he preferred cover, what environments he gravitated toward.
Slowly, methodically, a route began to form in his mind. Not the safest one. Not the quickest one. But the one that would take him through every place Warhound was most likely to hide.
Ikra closed the notebook, slid it back into his coat, and stood. His jaw tightened. Midas may have the same goal as him, but he didn't want Midas to find him. Ikra needed to fulfill his revenge. He needed to reach him first.
—---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
In the heart of the chaos, the monster born from the bodybag tore through the village with nightmarish purpose. Its tentacle-like limbs once loose folds of cloth had now hardened, woven with sinew and something that pulsed like muscle.
Each limb had fused with a different weapon scavenged from the facility or stolen from the villagers themselves. One extension dragged a jagged sword, swinging it in wide, messy arcs that cleaved bodies in half like wet fruit.
Another limb had anchored itself around a warped hunk of solid metal, so heavy that not even the strongest villager could have budged it. Yet the creature used it like a toy mallet, smashing people, walls, and wooden stalls as if nothing had weight at all.
A third appendage carried a spearhead, its motions disturbingly elegant. Stabbing, lifting, and discarding victims like discarded decorations from the festival. The cheerful music had long since stopped. The screams were nearly gone now too, drowned beneath the crushing, ripping sounds of the creature's advance.
Lanterns swung overhead, their gentle glow now illuminating pools of blood instead of festival colors. One villager, breathless and shaking, dared to look back while fleeting. And in that instant, he froze.
The creature had no face, not even a hint of one. No eyes, no mouth, no features at all. But in the subtle tilt of its torso, in the almost playful sway of its weapons, in the rhythm of its shifting mass…
He could feel it smiling at him.
A smile without a face. A smile made of intent.
He fell before he could scream.
The village streets, once full of laughter and chatter, had twisted into something unrecognizable. Decorations lay shredded among severed limbs. Spilled fruit mixed with blood, creating a sickly fragrance that clung in the air.
Every step the creature took left a wet imprint, a trail marking its passage deeper into the heart of what once was a community. Not a single villager remained alive where it stood.
The creature paused. Tentacles curled inward, twitching as if smelling the air, listening, deciding, and then–
It tensed.
Ready to move toward its next cluster of life.
But before its limbs could strike the ground, a sharp whistle sliced through the ruined street. A weighted arrow that glowed with a molted orange heat shot through the creature's side with a thunderous crack.
The force didn't just pierce it, it launched the monster off its feet. Cloth, flesh, and weaponized limbs tangled into a spinning mass as it slammed against a wooden stall.
The entire structure caved in immediately, collapsing into splinters beneath the monster's weight. The glowing arrow stayed lodged in the creature's torso, its molten light burning deep into the fabric-flesh hybrid, steam curling outward in twisting trails.
Five armed figures then rushed into the ruined street, boots splashing through blood and crushed fruit. Their formation was tight, clearly practiced with efficient placement.
At the center stood the archer, a woman with steady breath and steady hands, already sliding another glowing arrow from her quiver. She nocked it and pulled the string taut, eyes fixed on the billowing smoke where the creature had crashed.
One of the men beside her lifted two fingers and gestured forward. "Close in," he mouthed. Two others moved with him, fanning out to secure the perimeter. The air was heavy with dust, ash, and the faint hiss of the burning arrow embedded in the monster.
But before the smoke could settle–
FWIP.
A spear shot out like lightning.
It tore through the air and impaled the soldier standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the archer. The force lifted him off the ground for a fraction of a second before he collapsed, the spear protruding grotesquely from his chest.
"Shit– Move!" someone shouted.
The three who had tried to close in leapt back, barely escaping as another tentacle slashed low across the ground. It moved like a whip made of muscle and steel, tearing through the dirt and leaving a furrow inches from their boots, an attack meant to topple them.
Then the creature emerged. Not rising. Not limping.
Launching.
It burst out of the dog like a nightmare given purpose, its limbs bending at unnatural angles, its weapons dragging sparks from the stone. It sprinted straight toward the tallest of the armed men, a broad, heavily built fighter whose stance alone radiated experience.
The creature leapt.
But he didn't flinch.
Its impact crashed into his stomach, forcing a grunt out of him. He stayed upright however, sliding back only a step. A red glow ignited along his fist, swirling like heated embers.
"Try harder," he growled.
And he slammed his fist downward.
The blow sent the creature crashing into the ground, its limbs splaying out in a tangle of cloth and metal. Dust erupted around them. The man rolled his shoulder, glaring down at the writhing shape.
"That thing killed dozens? You're pathetic," he spat. The remaining crew tightened their circle, weapons raised, each one poised to kill the moment he created an opening. The man reached down, grabbing fistfuls of the blood-soaked cloth that made up the creature's upper body.
He pulled hard, intent on tearing the mass apart, ripping the monster free from its stolen, weapon-filled form. And for a heartbeat, victory felt close.
Then–
Something moved behind him.
A tentacle he hadn't seen. One that had stayed low to the ground, slick with blood, waiting. It rose silently behind him, then swung.
SHKK.
Both of his legs dropped to the ground before he registered the pain. His scream split the air as his body collapsed, the creature surging upward in the same motion. Its remaining tentacles lashed out wildly, each carrying a different weapon, each performing a different killing technique.
Stabbing, slicing, crushing, driven by a rage that felt almost ecstatic.
The formation broke instantly.
The archer, shaking but unbroken, fired again.
Her glowing arrow streaked across the battlefield, slamming into the monster's side with a cracking burst of molten light. The blast staggered it mid-attack, buying the group a few precious seconds.
The archer's voice cracked like a whip through the chaos.
"WAKE UP! MOVE!"
Her shout snapped the remaining fighters out of their horrified trance. The hesitation broke. Instinct replaced fear. Training replaced shock.
While she sprinted toward the fallen men, the one who had lost both his legs and had only seconds left, the other two charged straight toward the creature without waiting for orders.
Steel clashed with shrieks of twisting cloth. The first fighter's weapon, a compact curved blade wrapped in traditional engravings, flared with a ghostly gray light. Every swing scorched whatever it touched, leaving trails of smoldering heat in the air.
He darted in close, cutting across the creature's limbs, burning through cloth, tearing into the malformed body beneath. The second fighter fought with reckless ferocity. His mace slammed down again and again, bone-cracking blows fueled by sheer rage.
With each injury she sustained, cuts, stabs, crushed ribs, a pink glow pulsed across his skin, sealing her wounds just enough to keep him standing. She fought like someone who knew pain but never learned fear.
Together they moved like seasoned warriors. Fast, vicious, and efficient.
But the creature didn't stop.
No matter how many times it was sliced…
No matter how many bones were shattered beneath the mace…
No matter how lopsided the fight looked…
It kept moving.
Kept adapting.
Kept smiling without a face.
The prolonged battle began to wear them down. Their breaths turned ragged. Their steps slowed. Their precision dulled just enough for the entity to exploit. The gray-bladed fighter slipped, just half a step, but enough.
The entity surged. A tentacle shooting forward with a sword gripped in its cloth-wrapped tip. The blade flashed past him and–
SHLK.
The archer's scream cleaved the air.
Her bow arm fell to the ground before she did, severed cleanly at the shoulder. She collapsed onto her knees, clutching the stump as blood poured between her fingers. Her breath hitched. Her vision blurred.
She barely had a moment to react.
Another tentacle lunged.
The spear plunged straight through her skull, pinning her head to the ground with a sickening thud.
Silence.
Then a wet gurgle from her throat.
Then nothing.
The woman wielding the mace let out a raw and agonizing scream, one born not out of fury but of heartbreak as she watched her comrade fall lifeless to the ground. Grief twisted instantly into wrath. And with a desperate, bone-shaking roar, she raised her mace overhead and brought it crashing down toward the creature with every ounce of strength she had.
The impact split the earth beneath them, cracks spiderwebbing outward, but the entity barely staggered. At the same moment, the fighter armed with traditional blades lunged in from the side.
His strikes were relentless, fueled by panic and vengeance. Steel sank deep into the creature's flesh, carving scorching, smoldering trails wherever he dragged the blades through its form. Each slash was meant to be final, meant to matter.
But none if it did.
Their attacks, though powerful and dueled by desperation, left the creature unmoved, almost indifferent. The brief moment of relief that washed over them, that tiny brief that their combined assault had landed a killing blow, was fatal.
Their guard faltered for a breath. And that was all the entity needed.
With a swift, almost casual motion, it delivered a killing strike that cut through the two of them before either could react. Their bodies crumpled beside their fallen comrade, their blood mingling in the dirt.
As the creature surveyed the carnage it had wrought, its head tilted ever so slightly. Somewhere deep within the folds of its blood-stained cloth, a tremor rippled. And though no sound escaped its featureless form, the air itself seemed to vibrate with an unspoken triumph.