The golden rays of the sun bore down upon Zelaes, casting a harsh light against his pale, almost purely white skin. Yet, as the warmth seeped into his flesh, he felt no comfort. The heat was twisted by the void within him, manifesting as an icy coldness that gnawed at his core.
It was a bitter darkness, an emptiness that swallowed sensation and left only a ache behind. He sat upon the crest of a hill, its steep sides plunging into an abyss that seemed to stretch into infinity, the bottom lost to the shadows of the world below. He had lingered at this desolate peak for what felt like an eternity.
The hunt had become a futile exercise. Each failed attempt chipped away at the last fragments of his will.
Lifting his gaze, Zelaes looked out across the expanse of the sky. It blazed with the colors of a dying day, a searing orange hue tinged with the soft glow of scattered gray clouds. The sky had always been a source of solace for him, a place where he could lose himself and find some semblance of peace.
But even the sky, with all its beauty, could not dispel the darkness that clung to him. The isolation had worn on him—months without contact, without another living soul to remind him of what it meant to be human.
The beasts that roamed the land were no substitute. They were monsters, things that knew despair and despair only.
Had he failed them? Could he have saved them if he had been stronger, faster, more vigilant perhaps?
Regret was a wound that never healed, it never left. As he watched the enormous blue sun inch toward the horizon, sinking into its inevitable slumber, Zelaes could not help but wish for the same release.
To simply fade away, to be consumed by the darkness and let it take him where it may.
But such dreams were a luxury he could not afford. He knew that the world would not grant him peace without a fight.
Action was the only way forward. It had always been that way. Life had dealt him a hand of cruelty and loss, and he had no choice but to play it as much as he wanted to give up.
With a weary sigh, he pushed himself to his feet, the weight of the world pressing down on him as he rose. His hand reached out, fingers brushing against the ashen-gray grass before closing around the worn handle of his iron hatchet.
It was a simple tool, but in his hands, it was a lifeline—a means to survive, to keep death at bay for another day. Though, the concept never scared him.
Standing tall, Zelaes began his descent down the hill. Each step was deliberate, his mind was consumed by thoughts of shelter, of food, of the necessities that would keep him alive.
The ground beneath his feet crunched with each step, the brittle grass disintegrated into embers that glowed briefly before fading into the warm world. The air was full with the scent of decay, of a world slowly dying around him as his ashy gray scruffy hair shook silently upon the winds.
The trees at the base of the hill came into view, their gray leaves hanging limp and lifeless from twisted branches. They were the last remnants of a forest that had once teemed with life. But they were still useful. Zelaes would need wood to build a shelter, just as he had done before, back when he had a family to protect.
The memories of those days were bittersweet.
As he reached the first of the trees, he tightened his grip on the hatchet, as Zelaes moved through the desolate landscape, his senses were sharp, his gaze flicked back and forth. He knew all too well that the shadows could hide devils.
His grip on the hatchet tightened with each step. The silence around him was nothing short of immense, almost tangible, broken only by the faint rustle of dead leaves that whispered.
The trees loomed ahead, ancient sentinels of ghostly pillars, each one towered above him, their gnarled trunks standing several heads taller than he, their bark a dull, lifeless brown.
As he approached, Zelaes slowed his pace, his eyes tracing the rough surface of the nearest log. His fingers flexed around the hatchet's handle, feeling the worn grooves that years of use had etched into the wood.
He tapped the tree lightly, a knock echoed faintly in the air. The sound was absorbed by the surrounding silence, but it revealed a small crack running along the bark.
With a breath, Zelaes drew back the hatchet, feeling the muscles in his arm coil. His feet dug into the dry world of Cinder, grounding him as he prepared to strike.
But just as he was about to swing, something flickered at the edge of his vision—a movement, subtle and fluid, far off in the depths of the forest. His head snapped toward it, eyes narrowing as he focused on the source.
There, drifting in the distance, was a brown tent, its fabric flapping weakly in the wind.
Recognition hit him like a blow, but he didn't find himself caring. The tent was his—one he had spent hours to make. The wind must've been too much for it to handle, Zelaes thought to himself as he exhaled a long, drawn sigh.
He stood motionless for a moment, staring after the retreating form of the tent as it floated further into the dark embrace of the forest.
But there was no time to linger on what was lost. Zelaes turned his attention back to the tree before him.
The task at hand required his full focus—he could not afford to let his thoughts wander, not in a world so intent on his destruction.
He tightened his grip on the hatchet once more, this time, he swung back with more force, every ounce of his strength channeled into the strike.
The hatchet's blade bit deeply into the wood, the impact sent a shudder through his arms. Small splinters flew outward, scattering as the tree groaned in protest.
Zelaes paused, breathing heavily as he surveyed the wound he had inflicted upon the tree. The cut was deep, a jagged line that marred the otherwise smooth surface of the bark.
He closed his eyes briefly, drawing in a sharp breath and holding it, feeling the tension coil within him like a spring.
When his eyes snapped open again, he growled and slammed the blade into the log once more, the force of the blow sending a tremor through the ground beneath him. The tree swayed at a moderate pace.
Zelaes felt empowerment upon the idea of dealing a tree it's death with three blows, and unconsciously, he gave himself a challenge.
It was here, before these monotonous tasks, that he would search for meaning, desperately trying to anchor himself to something, anything, that could give purpose to his continued existence.
He questioned his own humanity, wondering if he was more beast than man, a creature of darkness that shunned the light.
Memories of his past always haunted him—images of his family, of the life he had once known. There were questions he dared not ask, for fear of the answers they might bring.
He had everything worth considering a good lifestyle. A family, a home, suppliable food, but now, he was reduced to nothing but rags for a pants, and a drawstring brown shirt.
He pulled the hatchet free once more, the blade slipping from the wood with a wet, tearing sound. The gap in the tree's trunk had widened, a gaping wound that stretched halfway through its heart.
Stepping aside, Zelaes positioned himself for the final strike, his body tensed like a drawn bow. He swung the hatchet with all the force he could muster, the blade cleaving into the wood with a resounding crack.
The sound echoed through the forest, sharp and final, as if the world itself had been split open by the blow. For a moment, everything was still.
Then, with a great, shuddering groan, the tree began to fall, its immense weight pulling it toward the earth. The snap of the trunk reverberated through the air, before Zelaes could fully comprehend the creaking groan above him, the tree came crashing down with a terrifying speed.
The massive trunk hurtled toward him like a beast unchained, ready to devour all in its path. Instinct gripped him in a vice, and quickly Zelaes threw himself to the side, narrowly escaping the crushing weight of the falling giant.
The air around him roared with the sound of the impact as the tree slammed into the earth, the ground trembling beneath the force. Gray grass crumpled beneath the trunk, flattened under its immense weight as dust and debris billowed into the sky like the ghost of the tree's final breath.
Zelaes stood motionless for a moment, his breath ragged as he stared at the felled tree before him. Its rough, gnarled bark seemed to writhe in the fading light, as though still alive, defiant even in death.
His thoughts drifted to the task ahead—dragging the massive log back to the campsite where his tent once stood. The realization sank in, and Zelaes sighed deeply. "I… will have to sleep out in the open tonight," he muttered to himself.
Zelaes crouched beside the log, his fingers tracing the rough texture of the wood as he sought a better grip. He wrapped his hands around the sides of the log as tightly as he could manage, his knuckles turning white with the effort.
With a grunt of exertion, he pushed upward with his legs, the strain shooting up his spine as he hefted the log onto his shoulders. It was heavy, but Zelaes set his jaw and began to move.
As he trudged through the forest, the log digging into his shoulders, Zelaes' mind churned with bitter thoughts. This should be good enough for a new handle… and a shelter, he mused darkly, the taste of failure still fresh in his mouth.
The weight of his thoughts seemed to match the burden on his back, both threatening to crush him under their combined pressure. Yet, he pressed on, his footsteps steady as he searched for a place where he might find some semblance of refuge, if only for the night.
Eventually, his path led him to a small clearing—a sparse patch of gray grass encircled by trees that stood like silent sentinels.
Their curled branches stretched overhead, interlocking to form a natural barrier that would shield him from the blistering sun when it returned with the dawn.
Here, at least, he would be free from the piercing rays that had tormented him throughout the day.
Zelaes let the log slip from his shoulders, and it hit the ground with a dull thud that seemed to ripple through the air, disturbing the stillness.
He slowly lowered himself to the ground, his knees drawing up to his chest as he wrapped his arms around them, seeking some form of comfort in the lonely twilight.
The gray grass beneath him felt brittle and dry, the sharp blades prickling his skin like tiny needles. Yet, it was a discomfort he welcomed, a distraction from the void that consumed him.
His thoughts spiraled downward into the abyss of his memories, that endless pit of sorrow that yawned open wider with each passing day.
The void in his heart, an aching emptiness that no amount of physical exertion could fill, seemed to grow with every reminder of the life he had once known—the farm where he had worked the earth with his hands, the laughter of his mother and father, the innocent joy of his little sister.
Zelaes inhaled slowly, the breath rattling in his chest as he tried to steady himself against the onslaught of grief. With a weak exhale, he let himself fall back against the grass, the brittle blades crunching softly beneath him.
They were dry, almost papery, but their touch was not altogether unpleasant. There was a strange comfort in their texture. If only he could make them vibrate, hum with some forgotten magic, then perhaps they might lull him into a sleep free of nightmares.
Then, his eyes shut, concluding the day.
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.
.
Zelaes had always been resilient to the heat for as long as he could remember. But today, it felt different—oppressive, as if the crimson tongues of flame in the sky had grown vicious, lashing at his skin with an intensity that cut deeper than ever before.
The air was suffocating, and each breath felt like inhaling the scorching wind of a furnace. His skin burned as though it had been flayed by invisible blades.
The gray leaves that cushioned his resting place had turned against him in the night. Their brittle edges poked and jabbed at his back, urging him to rise from his uncomfortable slumber.
With a groan, Zelaes pushed himself up, his body protesting the movement as he slowly straightened. His eyes, still heavy with the remnants of sleep, swept across the twisted trees that encircled him like silent sentinels.
Their skeletal branches reached out, interlocking above his head to form a canopy that did little to shield him from the sun's relentless gaze.
His gaze fell to the log before him, its rough surface a contrast to the smooth blade of the hatchet resting beside it. A soft exhale escaped his lips as he studied the log, a twinge of frustration gnawing at him.
He knew what needed to be done—he had to carve the wood into a new handle for his hatchet, the old one nearly splintered from years of hard use. But the realization dawned on him that this task would be far from sufficient.
If he were to survive another night in this desolate forest, he would need more than just a new handle. He would need shelter, a place to shield him.
And that would require much more wood than this single log could provide.
"I'll find some more, something stronger," he muttered. "Something that won't snap like the last one." It was a bleak wish, he knew. The last tree had been a rare stroke of luck, something already weakened by time.
Most of the trees in this forest were gnarled and twisted, with no visible cracks to exploit. If he was to find another tree suitable for his needs, he might have to venture beyond this forest, deeper into the unknown wastelands that stretched out before him.
With a resigned sigh, Zelaes reached down and gripped the handle of his hatchet as he pushed himself up from the ground.
He rose to his full height, his body protested the movement as he shook off the last vestiges of sleep. "For now, this will stay here," he murmured, his voice low and rough. "I'll remember it."
His eyes lingered on the log for a moment longer, as if committing its shape to memory before he turned away.
The silence that surrounded him was unnerving. Usually, the forest was alive with the sounds of insects—crickets chirping in the underbrush, the rustle of leaves as the wind whispered through the trees.
But now, there was nothing.
The air was still with an oppressive silence, it was as if the forest itself was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.
Zelaes noticed it immediately, his senses prickled with unease, but before he could fully process the quiet, his thoughts were interrupted by a distant sound.
A thump—deep and resonant, like the falling of a great weight—echoed through the trees.
The sound was far off, muffled by the dense forest, but it was unmistakable. Zelaes froze, his heart skipping a beat as his mind raced to identify the source.
The sound wasn't close enough to pose an immediate threat, but it gnawed at him. What could have caused it? A tree falling in the distance? Or something far more sinister?
He shook off the thought, forcing himself to focus. Whatever it was, it was too far away to concern him now. He had more pressing matters to attend to—finding a new forest, a place where he could harvest wood and build a shelter before nightfall.
He tightened his grip on the hatchet, his gaze set in determination as he began to walk.
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His clothes clung to his body, damp and uncomfortable, as he trudged forward under the blinding glare of the afternoon sun. The air shimmered with heat, distorting the barren landscape around him, leaving behind trails of sweat that dripped down his face in a relentless, salty flow, and still, no forest came into view.
Instead, Zelaes found himself traversing an empty, ashy field—a vast, desolate expanse where the planet was scorched and plain. The ground beneath his boots was dry and cracked, as if the life had been sucked out of it long ago.
The landscape was a monochrome wasteland, devoid of color or vitality, stretching out before him in all directions like the desolate plain of some forgotten world.
He hadn't expected it to take this long to come across another forest, but the hours had slipped by, and the sun had climbed high into the sky, casting long, stark shadows across the dead land.
Zelaes wasn't concerned about finding his way back to the forest he had left behind. His mind was similar to a map, every detail of his journey meticulously recorded, each landmark etched into his memory.
But as the hours wore on and the horizon remained empty, his resolve began to waver. The thought of a forest, of shade and shelter, seemed more distant with each step.
What's the point of this? The question echoed in his mind, the frustration in his voice clear even in the silence of his thoughts.
Doubt gnawed at him, but just as his thoughts began to spiral into despair, something snapped him back to the present—a sound, deep and resonant, that made the very ground beneath him tremble.
The thump.
The same ominous sound he had heard earlier, only now it was far more powerful, shaking his body to its core.
The force of the sound was palpable, it was a physical presence that rattled his bones and sent a shiver down his spine. It was as if the air itself vibrated with the sheer intensity of it, each pulse hammering against his mind and body.
Zelaes's senses heightened, adrenaline surging through his veins as his muscles tensed in response to the unseen threat. He spun around, his eyes scanning the barren landscape for the source of the disturbance.
And then he saw it—a towering figure, emerging from the shimmering heat like a nightmare given form. A devil, red as blood, its skin an infernal hue that burned against the gray backdrop of the ashy field.
Its body was covered in jagged spikes that jutted out from its flesh like the thorns of a twisted, otherworldly plant. The creature's limbs were long and lanky, grotesquely elongated, each step it took sending tremors through the earth.
It moved with a slow, monotonous gait, its spiked arms swinging low over the ground as it trudged forward, leaving deep gouges in the earth with each stride.
Zelaes's breath caught in his throat as he stared at the monstrosity, his heart pounding in his chest like a war drum. The devil's face—or what should have been its face—was a blank expanse of flesh, devoid of any features.
No eyes, no mouth, no expression—just a smooth, red surface that was all the more terrifying for its lack of humanity. Despite its lack of eyes, Zelaes felt its presence, as if the creature could see him, sense him, even without the need for sight.
I'll avoid it… considering its size, Zelaes thought. There was no question of fighting it—this was a creature born from the deepest pits of hell, and Zelaes knew better than to challenge such a beast directly. Survival was his only priority now.
He turned away from the devil, his heart still racing, and quickened his pace. The open field offered no cover, no place to hide, but Zelaes moved with purpose, his eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of a forest, a refuge where he could escape the creature's reach.
In the midst of his search, Zelaes's eyes drifted to the left, his instincts pulling his gaze toward something just outside his field of vision.
As he turned his head, the breath caught in his throat—a devil stood before him, its massive form looming in the ashen landscape as if it had been waiting for this moment, waiting for him to finally acknowledge its presence.
The creature towered over him, a colossus of death and darkness, its body a hulking mass of sinew and scale. Its skin was the color of storm clouds that seemed to absorb the light around it.
The only other color to break the monotony of its flesh was the jet-black armor of scales that covered its body, each one flat like the smooth edge of a defensive slab.
But it was the devil's eyes that truly struck fear into Zelaes's heart—two hauntingly white orbs, devoid of life and soul. They were like twin moons, staring down at him with a gaze that felt both empty and all-seeing, as if the creature was not truly looking at him, but rather through him, into the very essence of his fear.
There was no malice in those eyes, no hatred—just an unsettling void.
Zelaes barely had time to process the enormity of the threat before the devil struck, its massive arm lashing out with the speed of a viper. The blow came without warning, a sudden blur of movement that should have ended his life in an instant.
Reflexes took over, and Zelaes threw himself to the ground, feeling the rush of air as the creature's attack swept just inches above his head.
He hit the ground hard, the impact jarring his bones, but he was alive—alive, and staring up at the monstrous form that loomed over him.
Fear clawed at his insides, a terror that threatened to paralyze him where he lay.
The devil wasted no time, its gaze fixed on him as it prepared for another strike. Zelaes knew he had mere seconds to act, to find a way to survive this encounter.
The grip on his hatchet tightened until his knuckles shook. He had faced beasts before, and the very hatchet he held casually had become an instrument to his survival.
As the devil's fist came crashing down again, Zelaes rolled to the side, narrowly evading the blow. The earth trembled beneath the force of the impact, and with a burst of adrenaline, Zelaes dashed to his feet, his boots skidding across the dry grass as he positioned himself for a counterattack.
He knew better than to strike blindly at the creature's scales—those black plates were impenetrable, a fortress of bone and stone.
Instead, he aimed for the small, vulnerable spaces between the scales, where the creature's flesh was exposed.
With a swift motion, Zelaes slashed his hatchet toward the beast's leg, the blade seeking out the tender flesh between the scales.
There was a moment of resistance, the steel edge grating against bone, and then the hatchet found purchase.
A spray of black blood erupted from the wound, arcing through the air like ink spilled on a canvas. Zelaes's eyes sharpened—he had wounded it!
But as he looked up to gauge the effect of his blow, a cold dread settled over him. The devil did not falter, did not even acknowledge the pain. There was no roar of anger, no sign of distress.
It simply continued its assault.
Undeterred, Zelaes prepared himself for the creature's next move. The devil's massive arm swung toward him once more, the force of it creating a gust of wind that nearly knocked him off his feet.
But this time, Zelaes was ready. He twisted his body, dodging beneath the blow with a fluid motion, and in the same breath, he struck again.
His hatchet slammed into the same spot on the creature's leg, the iron biting deep into the wound he had already opened.
This time, the effect was more pronounced. A torrent of black blood gushed from the wound, spilling onto the ground like a river of tar. The devil faltered, its step momentarily unsteady, and Zelaes saw his chance.
It wasn't much—a fleeting moment where the creature's impenetrable aura cracked—but it was enough to give him hope. The odds of defeating this monstrous foe were slim, but they were no longer zero.
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Blood streamed down Zelaes's forehead, the warm, metallic scent filling his nostrils as it dripped into his eyes, stinging and blurring his vision. His eyelids fluttered, heavy with exhaustion, as he struggled to keep them open.
The devil had proven itself to be a worthy foe, amid the chaos of their battle, Zelaes had made a fatal mistake—one momentary lapse in focus, and the beast's massive claw had struck him.
The force of the blow had sent him reeling, his body barely escaping the follow-up strike that could have shattered him entirely.
Pain throbbed through him like a relentless tide. His feet, once swift and sure, now ached with a dull numbness that threatened to consume him.
His legs trembled beneath him, and his arms screamed with every movement, the muscles torn and frayed from hours of combat.
The hatchet in his hand, his once-reliable weapon, was now on the verge of snapping, the wooden handle splintered, and the iron blade dull and chipped from repeated clashes against the devil's impenetrable scales.
The sun was sinking low on the horizon, casting long shadows over the blood-soaked battlefield. Their deadly dance had lasted hours, and now yet, for all his suffering, Zelaes had not fought in vain.
The beast bore the marks of his relentless assault. Its imposing frame was now littered with deep gashes, each one oozing thick, black blood.
The creature's breath came in ragged gasps, a sickening gurgle as it choked on the blood filling its throat from the wounds Zelaes had inflicted.
But still, it refused to die.
Zelaes fought with every ounce of strength left in his battered body, but the toll of the battle was undeniable. His stamina was nearly spent, his movements slowed by the onset of fatigue.
The beast lunged at him again, its massive arm swinging with the force of a falling boulder, and Zelaes almost allowed himself to be taken by it. But instinct took over, and his body twisted just in time, narrowly evading the fatal strike.
His arms moved on their own, muscles screaming in protest as he thrust his hatchet toward the creature's waist. The blade buried itself deep into the monster's side, sinking into the flesh between its scales with a satisfying crunch.
Zelaes ripped it free with a savage pull, black blood spurting from the wound in a thick stream. Staggering backward, he nearly collapsed, his vision swimming with the sweat and blood that clouded his eyes.
The world tilted dangerously, and for a moment, he feared he might lose consciousness. But then the beast let out a scream—a high, piercing shriek that echoed through the field, a sound so terrible it seemed to shake the heavens themselves.
Zelaes's heart surged with satisfaction. The beast was in pain—real, undeniable pain.
He was winning.
The thought reignited a spark of hope deep within him, pushing him beyond his limits. Ignoring the relentless pain in his legs, Zelaes charged forward, each step a battle against his failing body.
His feet pounded the earth, driving him closer to the wounded devil with a speed that defied his exhaustion. In a flash, he was upon the creature, and as its massive arm swung down to crush him, he leaped into the air.
His legs found purchase on the devil's forearm, and he dashed upward, ascending the creature's arm.
The beast, sensing his intent, tried to swat him away, its massive hand grasping for him. But Zelaes was quicker, he twisted out of reach, bringing his hatchet down in a savage arc that severed one of the beast's fingers.
Black blood spurted from the wound, splattering across his face as he sprinted toward the creature's neck, his eyes locked on his target.
This was it—the final strike.
With every last bit of strength he could muster, Zelaes pulled the hatchet back, the muscles in his arm coiling like a spring. Then, with a roar of defiance, he swung it forward, the blade slicing through the air with lethal precision.
It struck the devil's neck with a force that sent a shockwave through Zelaes's entire body, the iron biting deep into the flesh, severing arteries and tendons in a single, brutal stroke.
Blood erupted from the wound, a fountain of dark liquid that drenched the earth in a sticky pool.
The devil's reaction was immediate and violent. It thrashed wildly, its enormous body flailing as it struggled against the inevitable. Zelaes was thrown backward by the force of the beast's death throes, tumbling through the air before crashing down onto the grass several meters away.
The impact knocked the breath from his lungs, and for a moment, he laid there, dazed and disoriented, the world spinning around him.
But when his vision cleared, the sight before him filled his heart with a cold, triumphant relief. The devil was dead. Its massive form laid crumpled on the ground. The black blood pooled around it, soaking into the planet like a dark stain, as the last shudders of life left the creature's body.
Zelaes forced himself to his feet, every movement a struggle against the overwhelming pain that wracked his body. He staggered toward the fallen devil, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he stared down at the monstrous corpse.
This was more than just survival—this was a victory. Against all odds, Zelaes had slain the beast.
And like any predator who had bested its prey, Zelaes felt the urge to claim his reward.
His stomach growled.
His eyes darted to his midsection, one hand instinctively clutching his abdomen as if to still the beast within. Slowly, his gaze shifted back to the fallen devil before him, its massive, bloodied form sprawled out on the gray grass.
Hunger was clawing at his insides, now, with the corpse of a devil lying before him, he faced a choice.
Feast, or starve.
The answer was clear, though it filled him with a dread unlike any he had known. He would live, whatever the cost.
His legs, trembling with exhaustion, finally gave way, and he collapsed to his knees beside the carcass. His hatchet, heavy and slick with blood, swung high before he drove it down with brutal force, the blade slicing deep into the devil's gut.
The sound of metal against flesh was wet and nauseating, but Zelaes moved regardless, tearing through the creature's thick, scaled pallets with swift, precise strokes.
Each scale peeled away from the body like the layers of an ancient armor, revealing the raw, bloodied flesh beneath.
This was uncharted territory for him—he had never consumed the flesh of a devil. The thought of it was repulsive, the idea of the unknown toxins or curses that might reside within its body enough to make him pause.
Is it poisonous? he wondered, his thoughts racing even as his hands continued their gruesome work. Will this kill me?
But then, a bitter truth settled over him like a shroud: What do I have to lose? In a world where death stalked him at every turn, this was a risk he was willing to take.
He had fought too hard, endured too much, to let hunger be the thing that undid him.
With each swing of his hatchet, Zelaes stripped more of the devil's scales away, exposing the vulnerable flesh that lay hidden beneath the armor. The scales were enormous, each one foot long and wide, and they fell to the ground with a heavy thud.
Soon, the devil's midsection was laid bare, its torso a mass of torn muscle and sinew, slick with dark, oozing blood. The sight before him was ghastly—gaping wounds marred the creature's chest, stomach, and waist, revealing the grayish insides that looked as alien as they were horrifying.
Zelaes paused for a moment, his breath ragged as he surveyed the carnage. This was his prize, his reward for a battle hard-fought and hard-won.
Yet, there was something different about this victory. A strange sensation stirred within him—a feeling of power awakening deep in his gut.
The devil's blood sang to him, calling out to be consumed, promising strength and vitality if only he would partake.
Wasting no more time, Zelaes leaned in, his teeth bared as he sank them into the devil's chest. The taste of blood flooded his mouth, thick and metallic, and the flesh beneath his teeth was spongy and resistant, like chewing on raw leather.
But the hunger within him drove him onward, compelling him to bite deeper, to tear at the meat with a ferocity of desperation. As he swallowed, the meat slid down his throat like a stone, heavy and warm, and yet it ignited a fire within him, urging him to devour more.
He ate with a savage intensity, tearing chunks of flesh from the devil's chest, oblivious to the blood that smeared his face and hands.
Each bite seemed to feed the hunger, yet only made it fiercer, as if the act of consumption stoked the flames within him rather than quenching them.
Fervently, Zelaes ate.
And ate.
And ate.
And then, his teeth struck something hard, something dense and unyielding. Zelaes paused, his mouth full of the strange flesh, and he realized he had unknowingly bitten into the devil's heart.
The organ was similar in shape to a human's heart, but it was darker—an ominous grayish-black that throbbed faintly with the remnants of the creature's lifeblood. Its texture was dense, chewy, resisting his teeth as he gnawed at it.
Zelaes found himself caring little. He was beyond reason, beyond fear.
With a burst of ravenous energy, he clamped his jaws around the heart, his sharp fangs digging into the tough tissue. As he bit through it, a strange sensation washed over him—a surge of heat that spread from his mouth down to his core, igniting his veins with an intense, unbearable warmth.
His body began to shudder, not with pain, but with an overwhelming sensation of rejuvenation that coursed through his limbs.
Panic flickered in the back of his mind as the heat intensified, his muscles seizing up as though on the verge of breaking. But just as the fear began to take hold, something occurred—his limbs moved with ease, his muscles was no longer strained or weak.
His senses sharpened, his vision cleared. Zelaes blinked in disbelief as he glanced down at his arm, noticing a faint steam rising from his skin.
It took a moment for him to comprehend what he was seeing—his wounds, the deep gashes and bruises that had covered his body, were healing before his eyes.
The pain that had haunted him throughout the battle ebbed away, replaced by a feeling of invigoration.
He looked back at the half-eaten heart in his hand, his mind reeling with the realization. This was no ordinary flesh—it was something far more powerful, something capable of bestowing life where there had been only death.
"What… is this?" Zelaes murmured in disbelief, his voice barely a whisper. The concept seemed laughable, and yet here it was, undeniable and real.
His eyes darted around the barren landscape, half-expecting some sorcerer or god to reveal themselves as the source of this strange power.
But there was nothing—only the desolate field and the still, lifeless body of the devil before him.
It wasn't magic, nor was it some divine intervention. This power, this gift of Inferno, had come from the heart he had consumed.
Zelaes raised a hand to his forehead, expecting to feel the sting of his wounds, but there was nothing—no pain, no blood, just smooth, unbroken skin.
His breath caught in his throat, a mix of shock and awe as the reality of what he had done sank in. He looked back down at the devil, the pieces of the puzzle falling into place.
I… can eat them, he thought, the realization dawning on him with clarity. I can eat devils.