"Sir..." one of the assistants interrupted nervously. "The Essentials have already killed the Mimics and the Belzebuth. What should we do?"
"Of course, they did," the Baron replied with a dangerous smile. "Send the rescue team and prepare a gala dinner. But don't set a plate for me. Tonight, there will be a bloodbath, and I want to see who emerges as the victor. Hahahahaha!"
Thousands of kilometers below, the children worked frantically and grotesquely. Around them, the bloodied remains of the Mimic lay scattered across the ground.
"Tyrin… what the hell are we doing? This thing only has rotten leftovers in its stomach! And the intestines… urgh, it's even worse! I'm gonna—"
"Hold it in and keep going," Tyrin ordered, his voice firm and dark. "We need everything this creature can provide. Camouflage is our only chance. We can't die tonight. Besides…" He paused, his gaze fixed on the horizon. "I believe we'll have a chance to kill what's hunting us. But you have to trust me."
It took two hours of focused, silent work. The young group operated in a morbid hush, their clothes and bodies covered in the putrid flesh and entrails of the Mimic. When they were finished, they were unrecognizable: drenched in blood, rotting organs, and fragments of flesh—bits of fingers and eyes clinging to their makeshift coverings.
"I think I swallowed something…" Damian stammered, his face pale.
"Shut up," Tyrin replied coldly. "Don't make a sound. Night has fallen. It's already awake. Stay silent and wait for my signal."
Inside the citadel's watchtower, five boys feasted on the food they had hoarded. Between laughter and words of encouragement, their confidence grew.
"We're going to survive, guys!" Ronald, the self-proclaimed leader, declared between bites. "We're in a privileged and protected spot. All we have to do is keep an eye on what's happening outside."
"Thank you so much, leader," one of the boys said with reverence. "Without you, we'd be dead. We got rid of that idiot, and with luck, we'll reap the rewards of this situation. We'll survive!"
"We'll survive!" the others echoed enthusiastically.
The celebratory atmosphere was abruptly shattered by a loud metallic noise coming from one of the nearby installations.
"What was that noise, leader?" one of the boys asked, alarmed.
Ronald froze, the smile vanishing from his face. That sound wasn't natural. Something was moving in the darkness. And it was close.
In the cold, desolate night, screams echoed clear and sharp, as if they were mere meters away. The sounds of bones breaking, agonized cries, and flesh tearing filled the air, creating a symphony of terror. Yet, the three children outside remained motionless, watching the horror unfold before them.
The meat grinder. The executioner. The sentinel of pain.
"Take your positions," Tyrin commanded, his voice firm despite the tension in the air.
"They didn't even have a chance…" Damian murmured, stunned. "I didn't hear a single shot. Was it… one-sided?"
"Shut up, Damian!" Tyrin snapped. "Focus on the mission. We only have one chance."
A few meters away, the Tyrano Belzebuth feasted. To it, human flesh was a delicacy—a sweet, tender, irresistible flavor. The younger the victim, the more intense the experience. With each bite, its mind wavered between ecstasy and torment, for, like all tyrants, its fate was to be consumed by eternal hunger. Satisfied for only a brief moment, it would be dragged back into the unbearable agony of insatiable need. That was its curse.
The grotesque, misshapen creature leaped over the citadel gate with monstrous ease. From afar, it resembled a horrifying blend of dog and demon, its crushed head and oversized tongue radiating pure malevolence. Each step it took was a warning: danger.
"It's coming, everyone," Tyrin warned. "Now is the time."
Tyrim knew that that corner, where the mimic's corpse was rotting, was the last place anyone would dare to be—except for those who loved decay. For Belzebuth, the stench was something marvelous, a vile balm that brought him a strange sense of security. Ty, of course, was counting on that.
Belzebuth had many striking characteristics, and almost all of them were terrifying. However, among the narrow scope of his flaws, intelligence was the greatest. That place, saturated with the smell of death and decay, was perfect—a trap disguised for any enemy, but even more so for Tyrim.
The creature crept toward the putrid remains of the Mimics, sniffing cautiously. Low groans escaped its throat. Slowly, its back began to open, accompanied by the grotesque sound of skin tearing, revealing rigid sacs that fell onto the viscous ground. This was the tyrant's most vulnerable—and most horrifying—moment.
"Now!" Tyrin shouted.
Without hesitation, Damian leaped onto the creature's exposed back and began stabbing it repeatedly. The beast roared in pain and fury, thrashing violently. As it looked ahead, it locked eyes with Tyrin. Like a predator, it charged toward him, its deformed body moving like a projectile.
Tyrin waited until the last possible moment before stepping aside. The charge missed him by mere millimeters. Even the creature seemed momentarily stunned to find its claws grasping only air.
"Keep stabbing it, Damian!" Tyrin yelled. "Eventually, it'll go down!"
The tyrant's roars grew louder, its confusion and rage building. Its primitive mind struggled to process the situation amidst the overwhelming stench of decay in the air. Each erratic attack weakened it further.
"Right!"
"Left!"
Tyrin, hyper-aware of the beast's movements, dodged its strikes with precision, exploiting every opening. But the rhythm of the battle began to shift. The tyrant, sensing its vulnerability, started closing the sacs on its back, attempting to shield itself.
"Shit, shit! Help me! It's closing its back, and I'm still inside!" Damian screamed, panicking.
"Cassandra, we need to act!" Tyrin commanded. "Give me your weapon!"
Cassandra hesitated. From the beginning, she had waited for her chance to finalize the plan, but now things were spiraling out of control. Reluctantly, she pulled something from her pocket.
"If you think I'm going to let you blow up my brother, you're insane!"
"Now's not the time for this! Just throw it!" Tyrin insisted.
With tears in her eyes, Cassandra tossed the object—a small metal disc—to Tyrin, who caught it mid-air while continuing to evade the tyrant's frenzied attacks. He knew there was only one way out. Someone would have to make the ultimate sacrifice.
"Come at me, you bastard! Come on!" Tyrin roared, drawing the full attention of the monster.
As the tyrant charged and opened its massive jaws to swallow him whole, Tyrin extended his arm and forced the disc deep into the creature's throat. The pain was immediate, but the irresistible taste of human flesh compelled it to bite down instinctively.
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" Tyrin screamed.
The cry of pain was followed by oppressive silence… and then, a muffled explosion. Fragments of the creature were hurled in every direction.
"You have leveled up."
"You have leveled up."
"You have leveled up."
"You have leveled up."
The message echoed repeatedly in Tyrin's mind. He staggered, staring at the starry sky as the adrenaline drained from his body. The battle was won, but the price was steep. Before losing consciousness, Tyrin had only one thought: Home.
On the cold, dark ground, a child missing an arm dreamed of home and a better life.
"Are you certain he's at this level? It doesn't make sense," the Baron murmured, his expression clouded with distrust.
"Sir, while he's extremely intelligent, I believe luck played a crucial role in much of what happened," the doctor replied, nervously adjusting his glasses.
"Keep close watch on that boy. And apply the reconstruction gene," the Baron ordered, his voice cold and calculated.
"What? Are you sure, Baron? I'm not certain it's worth wasting such a valuable resource on this particular specimen..."
"Doctor..." The Baron's voice hardened, each syllable dripping with menace. "Sometimes I wonder why I haven't killed you yet."
"Perhaps because I'm the most brilliant mind in your domain," the doctor replied with a cautious smile, trying to mask his fear.
"Good point. But you know, you can continue to be brilliant even without two arms and two legs. Just obey me."
"Of course, Baron. Forgive my audacity. I humbly beg your benevolence," the doctor said, attempting to sound submissive, though a faint tremor betrayed his voice.
"Enough with the theatrics. Do as I commanded."
Tyrin could hear fragments of the conversation, but his mind was too foggy to piece it together. Every fiber of his being was focused on one single task: survival.
His heavy eyes fluttered open for an instant, revealing the same sight he had experienced just days earlier—a cold, sterile room, the metallic stench of blood, and the blinding light above his head.
"I need to stop almost dying... One day, I'll actually die for real," he thought bitterly, the irony not lost on him.
He had known the plan was insane. Using his own body as bait to lure the Tyrano Belzebuth was a gamble, a desperate and necessary move. There had been no alternative. He had to risk it all to win.
But now the truth was unavoidable: luck would no longer be enough. He would need real strength—strength to face what lay ahead.
"I know you're waking up, kid," a harsh, sarcastic voice echoed through the room. It was the doctor. "I have to admit, you exceeded my expectations. You managed to attract the Baron himself to this lab and even convinced him to authorize the most expensive item we have. Hahaha! These days are full of inconsistencies. And you know what I hate most of all? Inconsistencies."
Tyrin, forcing every muscle in his weakened body, quickly realized the cost of what he had done. His mind resisted accepting it, but the truth was inescapable.
"I... lost my arm," he muttered.
"AHAHAHAHAHA!" The doctor burst into hysterical laughter, sounding almost unhinged. "You knew this would happen the moment you came up with that brilliant idea of yours. Stupid, but brave. And, surprisingly, effective."
The doctor approached, his barely contained anger flickering behind his glasses. He hated being out of control. Every unknown element in recent events felt like a direct challenge to his intellectual superiority.
"Well, although I'm convinced you'll die in the next mission, I have a little gift for you," he said, his smile unhinged. "Since you're awake, it might be time to use it. I hope it hurts a lot. Good luck."
Tyrin lacked the strength to resist. He could only watch as the doctor drew a syringe filled with a glowing liquid and brought it toward his chest. The luminous fluid shimmered under the cold, clinical light.
"AHHHHHHHHH!"
An excruciating pain ripped through Tyrin's body, as if every cell were being forcibly torn apart and reassembled. His eyes widened in agony before the pain suddenly gave way to something entirely unexpected: a vision.
A holographic window, filled with information, appeared in his mind.
"Fluido X23 successfully incorporated. Substance 100% compatible. Recovery initiated. Estimated time remaining: 155:59:59."
His eyes drooped, and consciousness slipped away like a sigh.