Chapter Text
And then, the dream was like a whirlwind of lost faces and accusing shadows.
Zara, with her wide smile and red hair under the sun, twirling a knife between her fingers before vanishing into a haze of dust and screams. Lâmina, serious and deadly, her eyes reflecting the fire of a siege, being dragged into the shadows by invisible soldiers. Farpa, the youngest, with his fear and unwavering courage, falling under a rain of stones and spears in Ouro Preto. And, hovering over them all, the silent, shadowy figure of Meia-Noite, his hat covering his face, his smoking pistol pointed not at an enemy, but at Tetanus, as if accusing him of failing, of surviving when they did not.
He awoke gasping, cold sweat gluing his purple hair to his forehead. The pain in his stump had at least faded, a distant feeling before he recalled the absence of his arm. His head throbbed with the remnants of the wine and the pleasant chaos of the previous night. But there was something soft beneath his nape. Something warm.
He opened his single eye, focusing with difficulty. Slender Moon looked down at him, her purple eyes serene in the morning light filtering through the hut’s entrance. Her deft fingers were woven into his hair, gently massaging his scalp.
“Regret visited your dreams,” she stated, not asked. Her voice was a calm murmur, so different from the echoing screams of the nightmare.
Tetanus tried to sit up, but a gentle pressure from her hand stopped him.
“Stay. The sun is still young. The forest can wait.” Her fingers continued their work, slowly easing his tension. “You fought even in your sleep. Your body is a battlefield, even at rest.”
He relaxed slightly, closing his eye again. The sensation was strangely intimate, comforting in a way he could barely remember. Not even when his former false mother stroked his body.
“They’re ghosts,” he murmured, his voice rough from sleep and drink. “People I left behind, and I hope they’re still waiting for me…”
“Ghosts are memories with teeth,” she philosophized, her fingers sliding to a specific strand of his hair. “They only hurt if you run. If you face them, they become part of you. Like a scar.” She paused. “Do you know how to braid your own hair?”
The question was so unexpected that Tetanus opened his eye again, glancing at her sidelong. “What? No. Never needed to.” His hair had always been long, a wild tangle he barely combed.
“That’s a shame,” she said, beginning to separate strands of his hair with practical precision. “Hair like yours, the color of a profane night sky, deserves to be honored. Not just left to the gods of wind and mess.” A faint smile touched her lips. “My warrior brothers always asked me to braid their hair before a battle. Said it brought luck. Kept the sweat from their eyes and their thoughts focused… your braids will say you’re a demon hunter.”
As she began weaving his braids, her movements quick and sure, she spoke. “The Quibungo isn’t like the Black Goat. It’s not a servant of a greater god. It’s pure hunger. Pure pain. It’s what remains when everything else is taken.” Her voice was soft but laced with dark knowledge. “It will try to speak to you. Use the voices of those you’ve lost in your life. Don’t listen.”
Tetanus listened, the rhythm of her braiding and the gentle pressure of her fingers against his scalp creating a hypnotic counterpoint to her words.
“And after?” he asked, his voice calmer. “After the boat?”
She paused, her fingers still in his hair. “The world out there will still be there. With its kings and wars.” Her purple eyes seemed to look through the hut’s straw, as if gazing at something distant. “But you’ll be different. The island changes everyone, and it’s already changing you.” She paused again, stroking his hair before continuing. “You talk in your sleep,” Slender Moon said, her voice soft but with a teasing edge. “Names. Zara, Lâmina, Farpa… Meia-Noite. Who were they?”
Tetanus sat up slowly. He rubbed his face with his good hand, trying to shake off the nightmare’s images. “Friends. Companions… maybe all dead by now…” He looked at her, his single eye gleaming with a mix of exhaustion and determination. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
She nodded, respecting his silence, but her fingers kept working on his hair, now separating strands carefully. “Your long hair is beautiful, but it’s a mess.”
Tetanus gave a half-smile. “Never been one for braiding. I just cut it when it gets in the way.”
She finished the first braid, tying it with a thin strip of leather. “Out there, you might need to learn to braid your own hair.”
As she worked, Tetanus relaxed a bit, the sensation of her fingers calming the tension in his body. “And you?” he asked. “Why are you taking care of a stranger like me?”
She laughed softly, her purple eyes meeting his. “Because you’re different. The elders say a one-eyed man sees what others don’t. And last night…” She paused, her smile turning mischievous. “You didn’t seem so strange then.”
Tetanus flushed slightly, the memory of the previous night—a moment of weakness and desire amid the chaos—resurfacing. He cleared his throat, changing the subject. “We’re hunting this Quibungo. I want off this island as soon as possible.”
Slender Moon finished a seventh braid at the back of Tetanus’s head, forming an ‘R’ shape, with two thicker braids in front of his face, behind his ears. She ended by subtly stroking the bulge in Tetanus’s pants. “Done. Now you look less like a savage. Let’s go outside. My father wants to talk to you.”
Her statement felt like a premonition, both practical and deeply symbolic. Tetanus didn’t respond, simply lying there, his head resting on her thighs, as the star-eyed warrior wove strands of his purple hair, binding the chaos of his past into something that might withstand the battles yet to come. Her scent, of earth and smoke, enveloped him, a temporary perfume of peace amid Fear Island. He knew he’d miss it, but it was time to move.
Native Encampment
Outside, the encampment buzzed with morning activity. Warriors sharpened spears, women wove baskets and tended to fruits, children ran between huts, oblivious to the rot of the world around them, casting curious glances at Tetanus and Gume. Tetanus strapped Al-Yasiin to his waist, the decapitated head grumbling as always. Gume recounted their adventures to the natives, just to score more liquor.
The tribe’s warriors noticed Tetanus’s new braids, exchanging sly smiles. One, with a twig piercing his nose and a spear in hand, elbowed another, whispering something in their native tongue that made them both laugh. Tetanus ignored them but couldn’t help feeling their gazes.
Stone Claw, the leader, approached, his carved staff firm in hand. “Slept well, Black Goat slayer?” he asked, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “My warriors haven’t stopped talking about the moans they heard from the hut last night. Seems Slender Moon gave you a warm welcome… at least it’s with someone worthy.”
Tetanus cleared his throat, his face reddening under his single eye. “It was… a long night,” he replied, trying to keep his composure. Al-Yasiin chuckled softly at his waist.
Gume, overhearing, let out a booming laugh, nearly spilling his liquor. “Damn, Tetanus, you don’t waste time, do you? While I was drinking, you were…” He stopped when Tetanus shot him a withering glare.
“The Quibungo,” Tetanus cut in, turning to Stone Claw. “Where is it? I want to end this and get off this island.”
The leader grew serious, pointing north, where the forest seemed denser, twisted trunks forming a dark arch. “The Quibungo lurks beyond the forest at midnight. It’s a monster with a mouth on its back, big enough to swallow a child whole. It moves fast, vanishes into the mist. My warriors tried hunting it, but it’s cunning. You’ll need to be better.”
Tetanus nodded, his hand on the woodsman’s axe handle. “We’ll kill it and take its head as a trophy. Got a plan yet?”
Stone Claw summoned three warriors—Creeping Fire, Jagged Fang, and Short Shadow—who gathered around an unlit fire. They discussed tactics: the Quibungo was drawn to blood and movement, so an ambush using live bait was ideal. Tetanus suggested using animal blood as a lure, while Gume proposed a frontal assault, “like real men.” The warriors laughed, approving Gume’s bravery, but suggested combining the ideas: bait to attract, coordinated attacks to flank.
The warrior with the twig through his nose, named Torn, stepped forward, a challenging smile on his lips. He brandished his spear, its bone tip aimed at Tetanus.
“The Black Goat slayer needs to prove it’s not just luck,” he growled in his tongue, but the intent was clear. The other warriors formed a circle, expectant. Gume tensed, but a look from Stone Claw kept him out of the makeshift ring.
Tetanus eyed the warrior, then his own body: one arm missing, the remaining hand bandaged and sore, a single eye to see the world. The mark on his chest burned lightly, not with pain, but impatience. He had no time for macho rituals.
“I don’t need to prove anything,” Tetanus said, voice flat. “But if you want a show, let’s get it over with.”
Jagged Fang attacked first, quick as a snake, his spear thrusting toward Tetanus’s torso. Tetanus didn’t dodge with agility. Instead, he stepped into the strike, surprising the warrior. Using the woodsman’s axe handle, he deflected the spear tip aside, feeling the impact’s vibration through his wounded arm. The pain was sharp, but he ignored it.
In the same motion, he drove his shoulder into Jagged Fang’s chest, using the warrior’s own momentum against him. Jagged Fang, off-balance, stumbled back. Tetanus gave him no time to recover. With a brutal swing, he struck the flat of the axe blade against the warrior’s temple.
*CRACK.*
The sound was dry and decisive. Jagged Fang dropped like a sack of stones, unconscious before hitting the ground.
Silence fell for a second. Then Gume let out a booming laugh. “THAT’S A BEATING!”
The other warriors looked at Tetanus with newfound respect. No more sly smiles, just silent acknowledgment of his lethal skill, even maimed. Stone Claw nodded, his expression serious.
“The Black Goat’s blood wasn’t just a metaphor,” he remarked. “You fight with the fury of a cornered beast. That’ll be useful against the Quibungo.”
Approval was earned. Not with words, but with brutal action.
At Night, on the Edge of the Dream Forest…
The sun set, plunging the island into a darkness that was more than just the absence of light. It was a living, heavy presence, filled with whispers and unseen eyes. Tetanus, Gume, and three of the tribe’s best warriors—Creeping Fire, a lean, agile man with ritual burn scars on his arms; Jagged Fang, with cut marks on his canines; and Short Shadow, a young warrior whose name seemed a joke given his considerable height—prepared at the forest’s edge where the Quibungo was said to be most active.
The plan was simple. They tied a young wild boar, captured earlier, to a tree. Its leg was shallowly cut, blood dripping onto the ground with a sound absurdly loud in the night’s silence. The smell of iron and fear was the bait.
Tetanus and Gume hid behind a tangle of roots and vines, a few meters from the bait. The native warriors positioned themselves strategically among the trees, spears and bows ready. All were painted with dark pigments to blend into the shadows.
The only sound was the boar’s fearful grunts and the men’s held breaths.
“Remember the plan, Mountain?” Tetanus whispered to Gume. “You move when I give the signal. Not before.”
“I know, I know,” Gume grumbled, gripping his axe handle. “Lure, flank, crush. But if this thing’s really that fast…”
“It is,” Al-Yasiin’s voice cut in from Tetanus’s waist. “It won’t fall for a simple trap like this easily. Be ready for it to come from behind. Always from behind.”
Tetanus felt a chill run down his spine. He adjusted his grip on the axe, his single hand sweating under the bandages.
And so, they waited. The night swallowing them alive, the only thing separating them from the monster being the smell of blood and the terrified sound of a wild boar.
The wait was torture. Each minute felt like an hour, every forest sound—a rustling leaf, a distant nocturnal insect’s chirp—amplified by tension. The boar grunted and thrashed, its fear palpable, the scent of its fresh blood lingering in the humid air like an invitation.
Tetanus felt every sensation in his body, every heartbeat against his ribs. His hand sweated on the axe handle. Beside him, Gume breathed heavily, his hands opening and closing on his weapon’s grip. The native warriors were dark statues among the trees, utterly still.
It was Al-Yasiin who broke the silence first, his voice a barely audible whisper. “It’s coming… I feel the ground trembling…”
Seconds later, they all felt it. A subtle, almost imperceptible tremor underfoot. The leaves on the ground vibrated. The boar stopped thrashing, froze, then let out a shrill squeal of pure terror.
And then, it emerged from the darkness.
The Quibungo didn’t move like a stealthy predator. It simply erupted into the clearing, a colossus of flesh and nightmare that made the air freeze instantly. Its five-meter height seemed to block the sickly moonlight itself. Its body was a mass of twisted muscles and reddish skin, torn in places, exposing pulsing veins and raw muscle tissue. A grotesque, swollen erection swung between its front legs.
Its canine, elongated head rose, multiple jaws opening to reveal rows of serrated teeth, dripping with viscous, fetid saliva. But the true horror was on its back. Between bony spines jutting from its spine, a massive vertical mouth opened, a pulsing pink slit that seemed to lead straight to the beast’s innards. From this second mouth, a prehensile, muscular tongue, as long as a man was tall, lashed out, writhing like an independent serpent, sniffing the air with its forked tip.
Its six limbs ended in claws that tore the earth with ease. It completely ignored the hidden warriors, its multiple eyes—small and black as obsidian—fixed on the terrified boar.
“By the river mother…” Gume choked, his face pale beneath his war paint.
The Quibungo emitted a low, guttural rumble from both mouths, taking a step toward the bait. The tongue on its back shot out, quick as lightning, wrapping around the boar and pulling it toward the vertical mouth before the animal could squeal again. *CRUNCH*. The sound of bones being crushed was horrifically clear.
That was the cue.
“NOW!” Tetanus shouted, leaping from behind the roots.
The attack was simultaneous. Creeping Fire fired an arrow that hit the monster’s flank, making its fatty flesh quiver with a snap. Short Shadow shot a blowgun, sending a poisoned dart toward the beast’s neck. Jagged Fang, moving with contained fury, rushed to flank, his spear aimed at the joint of a rear leg.
Gume charged like an enraged bull, his axe swinging in a deadly arc, making the Quibungo roar at the impact, a sound from both mouths, deafening and full of rage. The arrow in its flank snapped as it rolled on the ground with alarming agility for its size. The prehensile tongue on its back lashed the air, striking Short Shadow in the chest and hurling the young warrior against a tree with a bone-crunching thud.
Tetanus aimed for the junction between the beast’s neck and shoulder, where a pulsing vein was exposed. He drove the woodsman’s axe with all his strength, feeling the blade sink into tough flesh. Black blood gushed, hot and foul.
The monster screeched, spinning its massive body. The vertical mouth on its back opened wide, and the tongue, now coated with Short Shadow’s blood, turned the coordinated attack into pure chaos in seconds.
The prehensile tongue, dripping blood, whipped sideways like an enraged tentacle, wrapping around Creeping Fire’s leg before he could reload his bow. With a brutal yank, the warrior was flung upward, spinning in the air, and swallowed whole by the vertical mouth that opened like an abyss. A brief, muffled scream and the sound of crunching bones echoed in the night. Creeping Fire was extinguished.
Jagged Fang, driven by fury and perhaps vengeance, charged with his spear, driving it deep into the monster’s rear joint. The Quibungo roared in pain, but instead of falling, one of its middle arms, ending in scythe-like claws, hissed through the air and tore off Jagged Fang’s head with a motion so fast it seemed unreal. The head rolled on the ground, eyes still open in surprise, the body standing for a second before collapsing.
Gume, bloodied and enraged, saw his comrades fall. “NO!” he roared, charging with his axe raised. He delivered a devastating blow to the monster’s torso, opening a deep gash that spurted black fluid, but the tongue on the Quibungo’s back, now free, slammed like a hammer into Gume’s chest.
*CRACK.*
The sound of cracking metal plates and breaking bones was horrific. Gume was thrown back like a ragdoll, hitting a tree trunk with force and sliding to the ground, a dark bloodstain spreading instantly across his chest.
He didn’t move.
Tetanus saw it all in slow motion, a scream of rage and despair caught in his throat. His eye burned, fixed on his friend’s motionless body. He charged blindly, axe raised to strike the monster now turning its attention to him.
But the Quibungo didn’t stay to fight. Wounded, bleeding, but still terrifyingly fast, it let out a gurgling laugh from both mouths and, with grotesque agility, bolted toward the native encampment. Its trail of destruction was clear: smaller trees uprooted, earth torn by its claws.
Tetanus froze for a second, torn between chasing the beast and rushing to Gume.
“Go!” Al-Yasiin’s hoarse voice shouted from his waist. “If it reaches the camp, it’s a massacre! The giant’s tough, he can hold on! GO!”
The decision was made in an instant. With one last anguished look at Gume, Tetanus turned and ran like a man possessed, following the trail of destruction the Quibungo left behind, his heart pounding with pure hatred and terror.
Tetanus ran like a condemned man, his lungs burning, the pain in his body a mere detail against the pure adrenaline flooding his senses. The trail of destruction was easy to follow: broken trees, deep claw marks in the earth, and occasional chunks of black, bloody flesh the Quibungo shed in its desperate flight.
Screams from the encampment guided him like a beacon of horror. When he burst into the clearing, the scene was chaos. Brave but terrified native warriors charged the monster with spears and bows, but their weapons seemed to do little more than annoy the beast. The Quibungo, bleeding from multiple wounds, moved with frenetic agility, its prehensile tongue and claws hurling men aside like dolls.
Then Tetanus saw it. With a motion too fast to stop, one of the Quibungo’s front hands—a grotesque, powerful claw—grabbed a native woman by the arm. It was Slender Moon. Her purple eyes, once so serene, were wide with pure terror. She screamed, a sound that cut through the air and Tetanus’s heart like a knife.
“NO!” Tetanus shouted, his hoarse, desperate voice lost in the battle’s noise.
Ignoring the attacks still raining down, the Quibungo turned and bolted toward the coast, carrying Slender Moon like a macabre trophy. Its strength was monstrous, its speed terrifying.
Tetanus ran after it, his world reduced to that fleeing figure and the muffled screams of Slender Moon. The forest gave way to a black sand beach, where waves crashed with a dull, eternal sound under the sickly sky.
What Tetanus saw when he reached the water’s edge made him stop dead, his stomach churning violently.
The monster had thrown Slender Moon onto the wet sand. It pinned her with one of its middle paws, the pressure making her scream in pain. Its grotesque, swollen erection, already prominent and pulsing, was now fully exposed and bloated to an inhuman size. With a bestial, instinct-driven motion devoid of anything but predatory violence, the monster mounted her, its macabre, swollen penis hovering over her vulnerable entrance. With a brutal, uncontrolled thrust, it forced its pointed, thick member inside her, breaking her resistance and invading her womb.
Slender Moon moaned and writhed in acute pain, her screams muffled by the monster’s heavy body atop her. She tried to pull away, but it was impossible, pinned by the Quibungo’s paw that held her down, rendering her submissive to its bestial force.
The aberration began to move, fucking Slender Moon with long, brutal thrusts, each more painful than the last. Its breathing was a mix of hoarse grunts and dog-like growls, blending with Slender Moon’s cries and moans beneath it.
The Quibungo seemed unconcerned with the pain it caused, focused only on its own animalistic pleasure. It groaned and howled, its hands gripping Slender Moon’s hips with enough force to leave her breathless, moving above her with bestial frenzy.
Tetanus froze for a second, the horrific scene so overwhelming his mind could barely process it. Rage, nausea, and deep despair battled within him.
A roar tore from his throat, a sound not human, born from the mark on his chest that burned like a black sun. His vision turned red. Pain, exhaustion, reason—all were consumed by primal fury.
There was no strategy in his mind when he charged the creature.
The woodsman’s axe gleamed in the dim light, raised by his single hand. Tetanus ran toward the monster, his feet sinking into the black sand, a continuous scream of pure hatred pouring from his lips. He was pain, he was rage, he was vengeance incarnate.
The Quibungo, distracted in its violent act, barely noticed the threat until it was too late. Tetanus leaped, ignoring the searing pain in his body, and drove the axe with all his strength into the base of the monster’s skull, where the spine met the cranium.
The sharp blade, fueled by supernatural rage, met little resistance. The sound was nauseating. The Quibungo’s body convulsed violently, a jet of black blood and fluids spraying, staining the sand and Tetanus. The prehensile tongue on its back, still pulsing with life, whipped the air in a desperate arc and wrapped around Tetanus’s neck like a slimy serpent, squeezing with brutal force. The stench of its fetid saliva invaded his nostrils as the air was crushed from his lungs, his vision blurring as the creature lifted him off the ground.
“You… bastard…!” Tetanus growled, teeth clenched. With a primal surge, he sank his teeth into the tongue’s soft flesh, biting with all the fury he had left. The taste was bitter and rotten, like vomit mixed with spoiled meat, but Tetanus didn’t stop.
The tongue writhed in agony, loosening its grip enough for Tetanus to raise the woodsman’s axe. With a quick, precise strike, he sliced the tongue in half, the appendage splitting with a wet, repulsive sound, spurting black blood that splattered his face like hot ink.
The monster roared, a dual sound from both its canine mouth and the slit on its back, echoing along the coast like a damned soul’s lament. In a spasmodic motion, it withdrew its filthy, swollen member from Slender Moon, the grotesque organ dripping viscous fluids, leaving her moaning on the sand, her body trembling and violated. Ignoring its wounds’ pain, the Quibungo turned to Tetanus, its black eyes blazing with murderous fury, charging like an avalanche of flesh and claws.
Tetanus didn’t back down. He swung the axe in wild, erratic arcs, delivering multiple blows to the monster’s reddish torso, each opening deep gashes that exposed twisted muscles and pulsing organs.
Black blood poured like a fetid rain, staining the sand and Tetanus’s body, but the creature didn’t stop. It lunged to devour him, its canine mouth opening in a semicircle of serrated teeth, aiming for Tetanus’s remaining arm. At the last moment, he grabbed the remnants of the severed tongue, still writhing on the monster’s back, and yanked violently, using his body weight to tear the appendage further, ripping chunks of flesh with a sound of shredded fabric.
The Quibungo stumbled, its roar turning into an agonized screech, as the first native warriors appeared on the coast, spears and bows in hand, drawn by the battle’s screams. The dawn’s initial rays, pale and cold, cut the horizon, illuminating the scene like icy blades. Tetanus, panting and covered in black goo, delivered a brutal blow to the monster’s knee, cracking bone and tendon with a deafening *crack*, forcing the creature to its knees in the wet sand.
He stepped back from the staggering aberration, muscles burning with exhaustion, then ran to Slender Moon. She lay on the sand, trembling, her face pale with pain and shock. Tetanus knelt beside her, his good hand gently touching her shoulder, ignoring the blood dripping from his own wounds. “Moon… hold on. I’m here,” he murmured, voice hoarse, helping her sit up slowly, covering her with what remained of his torn cloak.
But as the warriors approached, shouting war cries and hatred, the dawn’s rays hit the Quibungo directly. The creature warped grotesquely, its colossal body trembling like rancid jelly, its reddish skin bubbling and twisting into impossible shapes.
Bones cracked, muscles rearranged with wet, nauseating sounds, and the fury in its black eyes turned to something like recognition—or betrayal.
Slowly, the bestial form shrank, limbs retracting, the mouth on its back closing into an irregular scar, until, under the growing light, the monster dissolved into a paternal human figure: Stone Claw.
The tribe’s leader, naked and covered in wounds, fell to his knees in the sand, his dark eyes now filled with broken madness, his mouth trembling in an inaudible whisper. The transformation’s completion left the coast silent, the warriors paralyzed, and Slender Moon, in Tetanus’s arms, letting out a moan of horror and pain that echoed like a lament for her father’s lost soul.
The silence on the beach was heavy, broken only by the sound of waves and Stone Claw’s labored breathing. The native warriors stood paralyzed, their minds struggling to process the monstrosity they’d witnessed and the even more horrific revelation that followed.
Tetanus shared none of their paralysis. The sight of Slender Moon, broken and violated on the sand, and the knowledge that the source of her suffering knelt just meters away ignited something primal within him. The cold rage that had guided him in battle against the monster now solidified into an implacable resolve.
He stood, his body protesting with every movement. He ignored the warriors’ confused, stunned looks. His single eye fixed on Stone Claw. The woodsman’s axe, still dripping black blood, was heavy in his hand.
Stone Claw looked up, his eyes still glassy, perhaps searching for words, an explanation, a plea for forgiveness.
He had no time for any.
Tetanus said nothing.
He raised the axe and, with a clean, precise strike that echoed across the silent coast, decapitated Stone Claw.
The chief’s head rolled onto the black sand, his expression of surprise and relief frozen on his face. His body remained kneeling for a moment before toppling sideways.
A collective cry of shock and horror escaped the warriors. Some raised their spears, but there was no charge; the justice, however brutal, had been done.
Tetanus didn’t face anyone. He simply dropped to his knees beside Slender Moon again. His fingers, stained with blood and sand, touched her face with a gentleness that violently contrasted with the act he’d just committed. Slender Moon tried to push his hand away but let him touch her anyway.
“We’ll get you home,” he whispered, voice low and hoarse.
He lifted her carefully, wrapping her in what remained of his cloak. She felt light, almost ethereal as he walked, her body trembling with shock and pain. Tetanus, with a woman’s help, carried her toward the encampment, passing the motionless warriors.
“The monster’s dead. Your chief fell in battle,” Tetanus announced, his voice leaving no room for questions. “Now, help your people. Help her…”
His authority, forged in blood and survival, was unquestionable. Two younger warriors, their faces pale, ran ahead to clear the path. Two others approached, offering support to carry Slender Moon.
The walk back to the encampment was a silent, somber procession. The news preceded them in whispers, the looks they received filled with fear, respect, and a deep, collective sorrow.
Upon reaching the main clearing, a sight of relative relief awaited. Gume was seated against a hut, his torso crudely bandaged with linen wraps. An old tribal healer was beside him, applying a herbal paste to his wounds. The black giant was pale and sweating profusely, but alive and conscious. His axe rested beside him, but his armor was notably absent—it hadn’t survived the battle.
Their eyes met Tetanus’s. No words were needed. Gume saw Tetanus’s state, covered in others’ and his own blood, the pain and fury in his single eye, the wounded woman in his arms. He saw the truth that didn’t need to be spoken. He simply nodded, slowly, a gesture of understanding and solidarity between warriors.
Tetanus carried Slender Moon to the hut they’d shared, laying her gently in the hammock. The tribe’s women, overcoming their own fear and grief, entered with water, herbs, and clean cloths, ready to care for her.
Tetanus stood at the entrance, watching for a moment, his entire body throbbing with pain and exhaustion. He had killed the monster.
He had avenged and protected them all. But the cost, as always on this cursed island, was visible everywhere: in his friend’s broken body, in the chief’s decapitated head on the beach, and in the bandaged chest of his brother-in-arms.