Eldrum, sitting sprawled in the mud, stared at his hand in confusion, his head still throbbing from the impact with the roof. What just happened? What was that power? The blood from his grazed knuckles dripped into his palm. But... it wasn't red. It was blackening, thickening into a viscous, tar-like sludge, glistening like crude oil under the sick moonlight.
He sniffed it.
SNIFF-SNIFF.
A strange, sharp aroma stung his nostrils.
Eldrum:
"What the hell is this? Smells like... gasoline?"
No, it was fouler. Like gasoline mixed with rotten meat and sulfur. Disgusted, he wiped the blood on the wooden wall of the house beside him.
TSSSSSSHHH...
The wall hissed. The wood didn't just stain; it blistered. The paint bubbled and peeled away, and the wood beneath began to blacken and soften, as if doused in potent acid, creating an open wound in the wall that looked like maggot-eaten flesh.
Eldrum:
"??!!"
He scrambled back several steps, pure confusion and fear running down his spine. At the same time, a burning itch exploded on his neck. He scratched at it, hard. The Mark of Sin, the creeping black veins, was now pulsing violently. The tendrils writhed under his skin, coalescing, burning themselves into a new, permanent symbol: a cowering rat. The symbol of cunning, betrayal, and the fall. The symbol of lost honor.
From a distance, perched atop a ruined chimney, a jet-black bird watched him with intelligent, emotionless eyes, before taking flight in silence, disappearing into the smoke of the fires.
Elsewhere...
Chaos. The village was now a pocket-sized hell. The cultists ran in a panic, their shadows dancing wildly amidst the spreading flames.
Cultists:
"This is too much! All in one night! We have to deal with a monster AND this fire!"
"Hey, you! Get more water! More water!"
"Where's Danica?! Did she leave us here to die?!"
One cultist, his wolf mask askew, ran stumbling with a leaking wooden bucket. Suddenly, his legs felt heavy. Impossibly heavy, as if they were made of lead.
Cultist:
"What the hell?" he thought, stopping to pant. He ripped off his hot, suffocating mask.
TIK-TIK-TIK...
Something warm dripped onto the ground between his feet. It wasn't sweat. He touched his face. His hand came back thick with red. Blood. Blood was pouring from his nose and eyes.
The other cultists began to feel it too. One by one, they stopped, dropping their buckets. Trembling hands rose to their masks, only to find the same viscous fluid. Then came the pain.
Cultist 2: "Agh! It hurts... hurts so bad! My head!"
Fresh blood spurted from his ears. He collapsed to his knees, convulsing, before falling silent in the mud. The others followed. They weren't being attacked. They were rupturing from the inside.
The black bird soared high above them, observing the internal massacre like a phantom in the sky.
Henzelgard (The Black Bird):
"...."
Henzelgard then flew away, his wings beating powerfully.
-Sin, is a phenomenon born from an ambition so strong that one can break through fate itself for the sake of a single desire-
Meanwhile, in another part of the village, in the heart of the battle...
One cultist was running, running for his life from the site of Oldred and Grog's fight, leaving his comrades behind.
Cultist:
"Damn it! Damn it! Screw you, Danica! Screw the Father! I'm getting out of here!-"
KRA-BOOOOOOOOM!!
A black, military-coat-clad missile—Oldred—was thrown through the wall of the building right in front of him. Oldred slammed into the man and the wall behind him with such force that the cultist didn't even have time to scream; he simply exploded like a watermelon hit with a sledgehammer, becoming a spray of blood and bone that soaked Oldred.
Oldred lay in the rubble, his body screaming in protest. With immense effort, he looked up at the shadow in the dust. Something massive was moving.
Oldred dove free, rolling sideways through shattered furniture.
KRAKKK!!
A fist smashed the spot where he'd been a split second before, creating a giant, splintered crater in the wall. The mark on Grog's exposed forehead had changed, pulsing with a faint red light, forming the symbol of a wild stallion. He was faster now, Grog wipe his body with his hand,extinguish the smaller flames.
Oldred pulled out his second bear trap, the KLANG of the metal jaws being forced open sickeningly loud, and concealed it beneath the tatters of his military coat. He held Grog's steel hammer—or what was left of it—tightly in his hand.
Grog, with unnatural speed, snatched the shotgun from the pulped remains of the cultist and fired at Oldred.
BAM!!
The blast was deafening. And Oldred... wait, where did he go? He was gone?!
Grog hadn't even lowered the shotgun when an excruciating pain erupted in his chest.
SSHHHNNK!
He looked down. The sharp, jagged steel handle of the broken hammer had pierced his chest, burying itself deep in the thick muscle but missing his vital organs. Oldred's boots were planted on Grog's shoulder and chest as he stood on him, having used the giant's own body as a springboard.
Grog roared. Instead of trying to grab Oldred, he retaliated by smashing the hammer's handle in two with a single fist.
KRAK!
Oldred, now holding only the broken-off hammerhead, leaped down from Grog. He landed and immediately swung the heavy remnant at Grog's wounded knee.
CRUNCH!
Grog kneeled. Oldred grabbed Grog's head and slammed it into the wall—THUD—creating a small hole and embedding Grog's head within it.
Grog tried to rise, but Oldred kneed him in the face again. Enraged, though half-blind and stuck, Grog blindly swung a fist into Oldred's side—where the antler had stabbed him—making him double over in a reflex of agony. Grog then smashed the butt of the long-barreled shotgun against the back of Oldred's head and threw the gun away.
TINGGGGG!!!
A high-pitched shriek filled Oldred's head, his vision blurring. He leaped sideways to dodge, but Grog caught his military coat and slammed Oldred back against the wall. Grog didn't let go. He started to run, dragging Oldred along the length of the wall, carving a giant trench through the interior plaster and wood.
SKRRRRRRRCHHHHH!!
Grog pulled the sharp steel handle from his own chest and tried to stab Oldred with it. Oldred parried the bloody stake with his bionic arm. With his free hand, he whipped out the prepared bear trap and smashed Grog across the face with it.
KLANG-CHUNK!
The jaws of the trap snapped shut, embedding themselves firmly around Grog's already mangled mask and face. The steel teeth dug deep into his flesh.
Grog shrieked in pain, finally releasing Oldred.
Oldred, stumbling but relentless, charged forward and tackled Grog through the wall. He punched his jaw with his steel fist. His gut. His ribs. And a final blow that sent Grog crashing clean through the building's back wall.
KRA-BOOM!
Oldred stood panting in the wreckage, coughing up blood. He stooped, retrieved the broken hammerhead, and then grabbed the shotgun Grog had discarded, tucking it under his ruined coat.