Chapter 11 – The Identity Struggle
The slimy creature lunged for Gharib's head without warning, aiming to sever it in a single blow. Gharib dodged on instinct—but not fast enough. The edge of the monster's blade nicked his cheek, and within seconds, a numbing sensation began crawling down his limbs.
A sharp voice echoed in his mind—
the sword's voice, urgent and commanding:
"Hold steady, Stranger. You mustn't die at the hands of a mutant. Draw me, and follow my lead!"
Without hesitation, Gharib summoned what strength remained and unsheathed the sword, surging forward. He raised his blade just in time to meet the creature's strike.
Sparks burst from the impact like tongues of flame.
It felt like colliding with solid stone.
The force knocked Gharib backward—but in the next breath, the monster vanished.
Silence fell.
Then—an eruption.
The beast exploded from beneath the ground, its jaw stretched wide to consume him.
Gharib barely dodged again, warned by the sword's sudden cry. But the venom coursing from the initial wound was weakening him.
His strength began to wane.
The creature came again, relentless.
They clashed. Metal howled. Bone groaned.
And then—from the shadows behind the monster—a figure emerged.
A long, black sword pierced through the beast's back, erupting from its chest.
Thick, dark fluid sprayed in every direction like corrupted blood.
At that very moment, Gharib had activated The Blade of Faces. But there was a rule: the target had to be slain by his own hand.
Since someone else delivered the fatal blow, the sword's side effects took hold—whispers in forgotten tongues, flickering faces, and a collapse of mental clarity.
The one who killed the creature… was none other than the first person Gharib had ever consumed.
His face… used involuntarily.
Gharib collapsed.
Pain gnawed at his body.
A storm of fractured thoughts swirled inside him. Voices clawed at his identity, seeking to take control.
But with the sword's help, he fought back.
He forced himself to rise—barely—and dragged his feet until he reached the base of a nearby tree, where he slumped down to catch his breath.
Still panting, he looked toward the sword and muttered:
"What… was that thing? Like a glob of living slime."
The sword answered in a low, resonant voice:
"That… was one of the flesh-eaters who exceeded their limit. Those who consume beyond what their bodies can endure first lose their humanity… then their minds… and finally, their form. Each turns into a monster in their own way. Even you… If you don't restrain yourself, you might share their fate."
Gharib sat in silence, absorbing the warning.
Then, wordlessly, he stood.
He sheathed the sword over his back…
And continued his march toward the city—
in silence.