Jack turned to the second creature, his eyes wild and unseeing, the irises swallowed by an unsettling darkness, leaving only the pitch-black pupils behind.
The foul blood of the slain screecher smeared across his face, his lips twisted into a grotesque smile. Then, from the depths of his soul, a chilling laugh bubbled up—a laugh that was neither sane nor entirely his own.
It was a sound that mocked the very pain coursing through his veins, as if daring the agony to break him.
The second screecher paused, its yellow eyes betraying a flicker of something akin to fear. But Jack was no longer the man who had hesitated moments before.
His hand moved with purpose, reaching for the cutlass at his waist. In one fluid motion, he unsheathed the blade just as the creature lunged.
Jack sidestepped the attack, his movements almost mechanical, and with a swift, merciless swing, he brought the cutlass down upon the screecher's torso.
