The rotted wood hissed through the muggy air. Julius pivoted on his heels, never more than necessary. A twist of the torso, an arm snapping forward like a rusted spring—deadly precise.
The tip of the wood struck the second creature not on the skull, but at the junction between neck and shoulder.
A sharp, clean crack, like a dead branch breaking. The beast collapsed, its front legs suddenly limp, its jaws drooling onto the stone before Julius crushed its neck with a quick, precise stomp—without even looking.
There was no rage in him. Just accounting. A dark, pragmatic art.
The yellow dots in the shadows shifted, drew closer in waves. The scratching turned to shrill scraping, like a tide of claws across wet stone.
They attacked together this time. Three, four, erupting from the lateral dark, others lunging straight at the massive figure blocking their path to the weaker prey.
