Anti-God

by Dr_Octavio_Nero

Summary:

The gods are not dead, they still linger around.

Once divine, now bloated and rotting on their thrones beyond the veil, they feast on the fear of empires, the prayers of the conquered, and the suffering of the forgotten. It was they who stole his eye. It was they who cursed the world. And it was they who failed to kill him.

Now, he rises—no longer a victim, but something darker.

A boy forged in betrayal, baptized in blood, and marked by forces even the Old Gods fear. From the ashes of his torment, Tetanus emerges: a savage blade in the darkness, a whisper in the nightmares of kings and priests, from a childhood marked by betrayal and abuse, now growing into an antihero seeking revenge.

Chapter 1: The Stillborn

“This world is rotten. Abandon hope, everyone who sets foot on this earth, a world that smells of shit and fresh carrion.”

Brazilian Empire — 1648 — Unknown Village

In a forgotten corner of an old village, tucked near a dark, ancient forest where the sun had long given up, there was a rundown shack. The trees around it reached their gnarled branches toward the sky like twisted limbs. The shack was falling apart, its wooden beams sagging from years of neglect. The wind howled through cracks in the walls, carrying the stench of rot and death.

Inside, a gut-wrenching sound shattered the silence—a deep, pained groan, followed by the sharp cry of a newborn. The baby had just been born into a world already rotting around it.

On a bed of blood-soaked straw, a young mother trembled. Her weak, filthy hands clawed at the hard dirt beneath her, as if trying to cling to life. Her eyes, once bright, were now dull with pain, staring at the crooked ceiling. Her breaths were short, each one like a desperate prayer.

“Please… Jesus… don’t let me die… not before I give this child to the world… take care of him…”

Her voice was barely a whisper, swept away by the icy wind. The darkness in the room seemed to close in, hungry for her final breath.

The newborn, covered in blood and yellowish goo, cried weakly. Its hair was an odd color, an unnatural purple, plastered to its head in tight curls. Flies buzzed around, drawn to the blood. Its tiny fists flailed in the air, grasping at nothing. The mother tried to reach for it, wanting to hold it one last time, but her body wouldn’t respond. Blood pooled, mixing with the straw and dirt.

With one last shaky breath, she died. The baby’s cries echoed through the shack, unanswered.

Days passed. The air grew thick with the stench of her decaying body. Her skin turned greenish, the flesh swelling as bugs feasted, turning the corpse into a bloated nest of meat and bone. Somehow, the baby survived, though its cries grew fainter until they stopped completely.

On the third day, a thick fog rolled over the village, cloaking everything in a shadowy veil. A crow, black as night, landed on the broken windowsill. Its red eyes scanned the scene before it hopped inside. The baby whimpered, too weak to cry.

The crow was quick—its sharp beak pierced the baby’s right eye, plucking it out. The child let out a short, broken scream before falling silent again. Blood ran down its face, mixing with the purple hair. The crow swallowed the eye greedily and went for another peck—but a noise outside startled it. With a hoarse caw, it flew off, leaving the child bleeding alone.

But someone had heard the cry.

The shack’s door creaked open. A woman stepped in. Tall and graceful, she wore a tattered purple dress that dragged on the floor. Her hair was bone-white, cascading to her waist like moonlight. A wide, pointed hat hid most of her face, but what showed was beautiful—sharp, delicate features with a quiet sadness.

“Well, well…” Her voice was soft, almost playful. “What a curious gift the Old Gods left for me.”

She knelt beside the baby, her black-gloved hands hovering over its wounded face. It whimpered at her touch. She pressed a hand to its tiny chest and whispered strange words. The pain seemed to ease, and the baby’s body relaxed, though its one remaining eye stared blankly.

“You’ve already met pain, little one,” she murmured, her voice sweet but cold. “A good start. Pain’s gonna be your best friend in this world.”

She wrapped the baby in a lavender-scented blanket and lifted it gently. She glanced at the mother’s rotting body and gave a small smile, like she saw beauty in the horror.

“Go ahead and cry,” she whispered to the baby. “I’m the one taking care of you now.”

With the child in her arms, she stepped back into the forest. The trees loomed overhead, their twisted branches like claws. The air smelled of wet earth and a faint sweetness beneath the rot.

As she walked deeper into the woods, she spoke softly to the baby.

“Don’t be scared of the dark, little one. I’ll teach you to walk in it. You’ll be my ward—my disciple. Shaped by this cruel world.”

They reached a clearing where moonlight cut through the trees. Fireflies (or something like them) flickered in the air, pulsing like a heartbeat. The woman paused, looking at the child. Its single eye caught the light, still holding a spark of life.

She carried him to a hut hidden among the trees, its walls woven from vines and wood. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of herbs, lavender, yarrow, potions and—something that clung to the back of the throat.

She laid the baby on a soft velvet-covered couch. From a bubbling cauldron, she poured a steaming drink into a cracked mug.

“Drink,” she ordered, bringing the mug to the baby’s lips. Her eyes gleamed—kind but dangerous. “This’ll warm you up. Keep death’s chill away.”

Too weak to resist, the baby drank the bitter liquid. Its eyelids grew heavy, and the world spun around it. Shadows danced, shifting shapes.

“Sleep now,” the witch whispered. “When you wake, you’ll be reborn—made new by my will.”

 

The Witch’s Lair

The hut’s roof sagged under layers of moss and leaves. Inside, the air was heavy with a variety of things hanging or scattered on shelves. Beneath it all, there was always a faint whiff of lavender, steady and constant. The floor was packed dirt in some spots, smoothed by years of the witch’s footsteps. In others, warped wooden boards creaked underfoot.

The witch carried the boy in her arms, her steps silent despite her high black boots. Her tattered purple dress clung to her lean but pretty built frame, the hem stained with mud from countless forest treks.

She laid him on a bed of petrified wood, its surface worn smooth from years of use. The boy, still caked in birth blood and goo, shivered when she set him down. His one good eye—yellow and bright—darted around, confused and scared. The other socket, where the crow had struck, was raw, throbbing like a second heart.

She worked slowly, her movements precise. She grabbed a cloth from a shelf lined with jars of dried plants and strange, glistening things. She soaked the cloth in warm wine mixed with crushed poppy. The sharp smell filled the air, and the boy flinched as she pressed the cloth to his wound, letting out a weak whimper. But she held his head steady with her long, soft, black-gloved hands—hands that had known poison and roots for years. She hummed a low, eerie tune as she cleaned, soothing the boy. Then, with a needle, she stitched the eyelid shut. When she was done, the scar curved like a pale moon against his skin—a mark of pain, but also raw survival.

She bandaged his head with a strip of white cloth soaked in a paste of lavender and green herbs, tying it tight like a crown.

“Best keep it closed,” she murmured, as if talking to the wound.

The boy’s first months hung by a thread between life and death. He barely cried—as if the pain of birth and the crow’s attack had already taught him screaming was pointless. His little body seemed to accept the pain, his whimpers fading into silence. But now, cradled in the witch’s arms, he stayed quiet, watching her with his yellow eye.

She never gave him a name. Names, she believed, were chains that bound a soul to the world, and she feared what might come looking if he was too tied down. Instead, she called him mine, with a fierce protectiveness—and maybe a touch of obsession.

When she fed him, offering her breast with a tenderness that didn’t match her sharp face, she stroked his cheek, her fingers tracing his skin like she was memorizing every detail. His hunger was fierce, but her milk was enough.

Baths were a ritual of their own. She washed him in a shallow basin carved from an ancient tree trunk, filled with cold river water mixed with tea leaves. She scrubbed until his skin glowed pale. He never knew the warmth of a fire; the witch kept no hearth. The only warmth he felt was her body when she held him close, her gaze heavy, like she could see his future in every twitch of his limbs.

The witch’s lair was alive with quiet, lurking things. Spiders wove delicate webs in the corners, their threads glinting with dew. Jars lined the walls, filled with roots, dried flowers, and animal organs floating in murky liquids. A cauldron simmered in the corner, its steam carrying a sweet-and-sour scent. The “windows” were just holes in the walls, draped with vines that let in the forest’s sounds—a distant wolf’s howl, the rustle of leaves, and the uncanny whistle of something not of this world.

When the boy learned to walk, his bare feet already knew every dip and rise of the floor. He stumbled at first but soon moved lightly, dodging roots and creaky boards. By two, he spoke in broken phrases: “mother”, “hungry”, “hurts”. The witch taught him more, her voice slow and careful: “bed”, “kiss”, “grief”. He repeated them like spells, clumsy but eager, as if each word unlocked another piece of the world.

By three, he was silent as a shadow, running and exploring, curious yet cautious, his yellow eye glowing in the dark like a dying ember. The bandage over his stitched socket was part of him now, changed every full moon with fresh herb-soaked strips.

His days followed the witch’s rhythm. Mornings were for gathering herbs, her basket filling with roots and mushrooms while he trailed behind, learning which plants burned and which healed. Afternoons were for chores—sweeping the dirt floor with a twig broom, feeding the spiders in the corners, stirring the cauldron under her watchful eye. At night, she sang to him, her voice weaving tales of faceless gods and forests that swallowed men whole, myths from the many lands she’d wandered.

The forest outside was both home and threat, full of shadows, whispers, and shapes that moved. Sometimes, he saw things in the deep woods—something watching him when he peered out the “window” at night. Big yellow eyes, long thin ears, and a creature twice the size of a man… but crouched low.

 

The boy grew lean and light, as if the forest had shaped him to slip through its shadows unnoticed. His hair, once a soft purple, darkened to a deep violet—thick and wild like an animal’s pelt, falling unevenly over his face. His single yellow eye blazed in the dim hut, too big for his sharp features, cutting through the gloom like a flame.

Time meant little in that forest, where seasons blurred under the thick canopy. The witch never spoke of years or marked his growth, but he felt it—in his longer limbs, his sharper mind, the growing hunger gnawing at his belly. His voice, once faint and small, grew steadier, though he still spoke softly.

Even as he grew taller, the witch still held him to her chest, nursing him like a newborn. She gripped him tightly, her arms a warm prison, and sometimes he wondered if she needed it more than he did.

“The world wants you dead, my son. My milk keeps the rot away. You must drink… and live.”

By five, he’d learned the chores that sustained their strange life. Every morning, he swept the dirt floor with a twig broom, though the dust always returned as fast as it was cleared. He gutted fish with a small knife, silver scales sticking to his fingers. He peeled tree bark, learning the roughness of oak and the slippery softness of willow.

The witch taught him with slow patience, her voice soft but firm. She moved through the hut like a living shadow, her tattered purple dress dragging on the floor, her white hair glowing in the faint light of fireflies. Her hands guided his as she showed him how to grind herbs in a mortar.

“This is comfrey,” she’d say, holding up a jagged leaf. “Fixes bones, speeds healing.”
Or, handing him a knobby root: “Burdock. Good for fever. But you gotta boil it with orange leaves, or it won’t work right.”

Outside, the forest felt alive—heavy with the smell of damp earth and rotting leaves. Roots and thorns snagged at his bare feet as he walked. Over time, he learned to move carefully, listening for the snap of a twig or the low growl of some forest beast.

The witch took him to gather, pointing out glowing mushrooms in the shade or berries that burned the tongue. He followed, clutching her dress, his small hands stained with dirt, learning the forest’s secrets step by step.

But the boy didn’t always listen.

By six, he started lingering outside, shirking his chores. He chased fireflies in the forest clearing, their lights flickering like tiny stars, trying to catch them. He climbed low branches, scraping his hands on rough bark. He sat by the swamp’s edge for hours, watching the water ripple with fish below. When the witch called him back, her voice sharp as a blade, he pretended not to hear, kicking the dirt, savoring those brief moments of freedom.

One stormy night, rain lashed the trees, and the wind howled like a wounded animal. The boy sat near the hearth, where a small fire flickered inside a circle of blackened skulls. The air smelled of burnt herbs, and candlelight made the walls glow softly. He watched as the witch knelt on the floor, drawing strange symbols in the soot with a charred bone.

“What’s that one?” he asked, pointing to a spiral with two jagged slashes.

She smiled, her lips stained red from crushed beetles, her teeth too white in the firelight.
“It’s the letter that turns words into blades. It cuts things apart.”

“Cut apart?” he repeated, the word heavy and strange on his tongue.

“Yes, my sweet.” She leaned closer, her ink-stained nails brushing his cheek. “It’s a ritual to break something. Like a word that slices through anything standing against you.”

He frowned. “How does a word cut?”

She laughed, and the sound sent a shiver down his spine.
“Words cut when they carry strong meaning, my love.”

She reached for a stack of books tied with velvet cords, her fingers hovering over an old, cracked leather volume. When he tried to grab it, she pulled it back.

“The Tale of the Jackrabbit,” the cover read.

“Not that one,” she said firmly. “This one.”

She handed him a small black book, its cover rough like tree bark. He scowled.
“I want that one.”

“No, my sweet. Wanting is a fever. Too much, and it burns you up inside. Got it?”

He nodded, but his eye lingered on the leather book.

She kissed his forehead, her lips lingering too long, and pulled him into her lap, her arms wrapping around him like vines.
“My perfect boy,” she murmured. “I love you more than worms love a grave. You’re my spark in this ashen world.”

He stiffened, her affection weighing on him.
“Why do you keep those books if I can’t read them?”

She froze, then let out a cold, surprised laugh.
“Knowledge is a snake pit, my love. Some I keep… in case you ever try to leave me.”

His throat tightened.
“I wouldn’t leave.”

“Oh, my sweet. All sons leave their mothers. But not you.” She opened the black book to a page of ancient, curving letters. “This is the Pattern of the Old Kingdom. Every word we speak comes from it. Learn the alphabet first. It’ll keep you alive if… you ever leave this forest…”

Her voice grew sad.

“Can I read the big ones later?”

Her smile faded.
“No. Those books aren’t for you.”

“But—”

“No.” Her nails pressed into his chin, turning his face toward her. “There are things a child shouldn’t know.”

Then her voice softened.
“One book at a time, my love. I waited six years to show you this. Let’s not rush.”

And so he studied by candlelight, under the hearth’s glow, the witch always nearby—correcting his posture, feeding him soft fruit and warm milk as he read, combing his hair with fingers far too gentle for a woman so obsessed.

In the silence of the night, as the boy slept, the witch leaned over him, her face so close that her warm breath brushed his pale skin. Her gloved fingers traced the contours of his cheek with a delicacy that bordered on fanaticism.

“My treasure... my only one...” he murmured, his eyes shining with a mixture of devotion and hunger. “The world doesn't deserve you, only I can have you”

She took a lock of his violet hair, slowly twirling it between her fingers. For a moment, their lips met, the witch caressing his pale, smooth face as she kissed him.

“You will never leave me.”

She pulled away, but not before pressing another long, wet kiss to his forehead, as if marking her ownership.

The day after the boy's teachings, the boy sat cross-legged on the dirt floor, his eyes shining with a mixture of curiosity and exhaustion. In front of him, the witch held a yellowed piece of parchment covered in angular, curved symbols that seemed to pulse in the dim light.

“This is the Brazilian Imperial Alphabet,” she said, her voice low, almost reverent, as she pointed to a series of sharp lines that resembled blades. “The language of the Old King. Each letter forms a meaning, which together with other letters formed words.”

The boy frowned, his violet hair falling over the headband covering his empty eye socket. He held a charred twig, his small hands stained with ash. On the ground before him, the witch had improvised a wooden board that served as a chalkboard.

“Try it,” she ordered, pointing to the first symbol, a straight line intersected by two diagonal lines, like a broken spear. “This is Ka. The letter of brute force. Draw it.”

He hesitated, the twig trembling in his hand. Carefully, he traced the straight line, but the diagonal strokes came out crooked and clumsy. The witch tilted her head, her white hair falling like a curtain, her breasts more in front of the boy's face than the witch's. Wordlessly, she knelt beside him, gently holding his wrist. Her fingers, cool beneath the black gloves, guided his hand, retracing the symbol with precision.

“Like this, my sweetie...”

The boy swallowed and tried again, alone. The twig scraped against a basin of earth, which would be his makeshift “notebook,” the harsh sound echoing in the silence of the hut. He drew the Ka three times, each attempt a little firmer, until the witch nodded, a faint smile curving her lips.

“Good. Now, next. Zhe.” She pointed to a sinuous symbol, like a coiled snake. “The letter of cunning.”

He traced the Zhe, the twig trembling less this time. The witch watched, her eyes shining with something other than pride. When he finished, she took the parchment and held it close to the candle, letting the light reveal the outlines of the letters.

“You will learn them all, my love. It is necessary to know the language of the empire to understand what is written in the books more accurately.”

The boy looked up, his yellow eye meeting hers. “What if I spell it wrong?”

The witch chuckled softly. “Don't worry.” She leaned in, her lips brushing his, the scent of lavender enveloping him. “We have all the time in the world to learn together...”

 

By eight, the boy’s curiosity about the world beyond the witch’s forest was a gnawing ache he couldn’t ignore anymore. The dead sun hung frozen in the sky—a gray, lifeless eye casting the world in a sickly twilight. Still, he slipped away from the hut whenever he could, sneaking past the circle of toadstones the witch had placed to ward off the forest’s worst horrors.

Under the twisted branches of ancient trees, he lost himself for hours. With sticks, he drew little scenes in the soft dirt—whole kingdoms in the mud. Sometimes, he built villages from smooth pebbles, lining them up like houses, crowning himself king of moss and beetles crawling through his tiny domain. Other times, he lay on his back, staring at the canopy where leaves glowed an unnatural green in the faint light. He wondered what lay beyond the trees—what strange lands, forgotten cities, what secrets the world hid from him.

The witch watched him with growing unease.

“Don’t wander too far, child. The forest doesn’t take kindly to the curious. It swallows the distracted alive.”

But the boy didn’t listen. His hunger for answers only grew.

One afternoon, venturing deeper than he’d ever dared, he found something awful—a deer, its head completely torn off, lying in a pool of black, clotted blood. The boy froze, staring at the carcass for hours, his stomach churning. The air reeked of rust and spoiled meat. Clouds of flies buzzed, their wings glinting in the dead light.

He didn’t understand death, not really. The witch had never let him see it before. But now it was there, raw and repulsive, and he couldn’t look away. A dead body that didn’t sleep, just was.

Now the boy knew what death was.

That night, he dreamed of the deer. In his dream, its severed head spoke to him, lips moving soundlessly as its glassy eyes stared.

As the years passed, the boy’s questions piled up inside him like stones in his chest.

“Why don’t I have a name?” he asked one night, staring at the witch with his single yellow eye.

She stirred the cauldron, her face blank.
“Names are for things that belong to the world. And you belong to no one but me.”

“Why can’t I go past the trees?”

“Because the world out there is dead. The sun’s gone. There are no gods left, just beliefs… beliefs kings use to control their tamed flocks, filthy rituals passed down through generations of defiling sanctity… this land is dead…”

“What’s wrong with my eye?”

Her fingers twitched.
“Nothing’s wrong with it. It sees more than most. That’s why I had to close the other…”

After that, he stopped asking. But he never stopped wondering.

Weeks earlier, he’d found a hidden clearing—a quiet place where the trees parted and the ground was soft with moss. Usually, he stayed in the forest, where candles and torches kept the darkness at bay. But there, outside the trees, there was only the moon—huge and pale—casting long, unnatural shadows. That day, he stayed too long.

When he finally returned to the hut, the air felt heavier. The witch sat by the hearth, the fire reduced to glowing embers. Her face was blank, her expression hollow. In her lap sat a bowl of soup, long cold, a wrinkled film forming on its surface.

The boy’s throat went dry. He knew he’d crossed a line.

“I brought the mushrooms,” he whispered, holding out the basket.

The witch raised her head slowly. Her eyes were sunken, her lips colorless. When she stood, the room’s shadows seemed to lean toward her, clinging with menacing intent.

“Come here,” was all she said, patting her thigh with a bony hand.

The boy hesitated. He’d never seen her like this—so cold. Something about her made his skin crawl with fear.

“I’m not hungry,” he mumbled, stepping back.

Her face twisted. In a flash, she was on him, her fingers digging into his arm like claws. She yanked him forward, pressing his face against her rough robe. The smell of herbs filled his nose.

“You will be hungry,” she hissed, forcing his mouth to her breast. The flesh beneath the fabric was warm, damp. He struggled, but she was too strong.

“You’re mine,” she murmured, her voice trembling with rage. “All sons must obey their mothers.”

For the first time, he understood—she wasn’t just protecting him.

She was possessing him. Her love wasn’t tenderness—it was obsession. A raw, desperate need to control.

Chapter 2: The Tale of Jackrabbit

Brazilian Empire — 1660 — The Witch’s Lair

The boy woke with a scream caught in his throat, his heart pounding like the wings of a trapped bird. The nightmare still clung to him, its claws sunk deep into his mind. He saw the crows—hundreds of them, black wings slicing the air like blades, their red eyes glinting with hunger. In the dream, he ran through an endless forest, branches tearing at his skin, the soft mossy ground turning to sticky mud that pulled him down. The crows came, first one, then ten, then a storm of feathers and beaks. He stumbled, fell, and one dove, its beak sharp as a dagger. The bird tore out his eye—not the one already missing, but the other, the good one, the one that still saw the world. The pain was white fire, and blood ran hot down his face as the caws echoed, a chorus of cruel laughter.

He blinked, gasping, and the darkness of the cabin enveloped him. The nightmare faded, but a phantom pain throbbed in his empty socket, where the moon-shaped scar still marked his skin. The silence of the night was heavy, broken only by the soft snoring of the witch, sleeping on her bed of soft straw across the cabin. Moonlight streamed through the holes that served as windows, painting the dirt floor with silver stripes. He sat up slowly, the rough blanket scraping against his skin. His eye scanned the den, alert to every shadow.

The witch lay on her side, white hair splayed like cobwebs over the makeshift pillow. Her tattered purple dress rode up to her thighs, revealing thick, dark legs. She seemed smaller in sleep, less terrifying, but the boy knew it was an illusion. Even asleep, she was a weight, a presence that stifled the air around her.

He slipped out of bed, bare feet touching the cold floor. Each step was calculated, avoiding creaky boards and roots that rose from the earth like bony fingers. His heart raced, not from fear, but from something more dangerous: desire. He knew exactly what he wanted and where to look.

Waking in the middle of the night had rekindled a flame he’d tried to extinguish for years, since the first time he saw the cover of that book, 'The Tale of Jackrabbit'. The book the witch kept hidden from his curious eyes, yet it called to him like a voice in the dark. He’d tried to take it before, sneaking through the cabin’s shadows while she was out gathering herbs, but he’d never found its hiding place. Now, something in the nightmare—the crows—drove him. He wanted to know what she was hiding.

He moved like a shadow, his thin frame slipping between crooked shelves filled with jars and bones. The scent of lavender and night-rot filled the air, mingled with the sweet steam rising from the dormant cauldron. He passed the fireplace, where embers still glowed, casting a faint red light on the vine-and-bone walls. His fingers brushed a table’s surface, feeling the rough texture of a loose floorboard. He froze. Something was different.

Kneeling, his nails scraped the board’s edge. It gave way with a faint creak, and he winced, imagining it would wake the witch.

“Shit... she’ll kill me now...” he thought.

He glanced over, and she was still lying on her back—it’d be impossible for her to sleep on her stomach with breasts that size.

Back to the board, he found a hollow space beneath. His heart raced. There, wrapped in a mold-stained black cloth, was the book. 'The Tale of Jackrabbit'. The cracked leather cover seemed to pulse under the dim light, the embossed letters glowing as if alive. He hesitated, his hand hovering over it. The witch’s voice echoed in his mind: “Knowledge is a garden of snakes, my love.” But curiosity was a hunger stronger than fear.

He took the book, its weight surprisingly light in his hands. The cloth fell away, revealing a drawing on the cover—a rabbit, but not like any he’d ever seen. It was tall, dressed in fancy, old-fashioned clothes. Its ears were too long, its eyes large and yellow, its mouth comically wide and full of small, sharp teeth. It was the creature he sometimes glimpsed in the forest, crouching among the trees, watching him with a gaze that seemed to know him better than he knew himself.

With trembling hands, he opened the book. The pages were rough, smelling of mold, unopened for years, perhaps. The words were written in an elegant, almost feverish script, with drawings in the margins: rabbits with fangs, crows with human eyes, trees with faces twisted in silent screams. He began to read, the witch’s voice still echoing in his head, now drowned by the pulse of his own blood.

“Once upon a time, before the empire’s sun died, there was a boy who didn’t listen to his parents.

His mother warned him—‘Don’t go beyond the forest, son, for the forest is hungry, and the night is long.’ But the boy was curious, and curiosity is a slippery thing. Slip just a little, and it takes you where you never imagined.

So, one night, when the sun shone for the last time at the top of our kingdom’s sky, the boy ran beyond his city, running past the forest, deeper than anyone had gone. The trees grew taller, and the shadows loomed menacingly over his head.

Then—the boy heard.

A soft tap-tap on hollow wood.

The boy froze, looking back.

There, among the trees, a figure too tall to be a man, too elegant to be a beast.

Jackrabbit.

Oh, what a sight! His long legs, clad in striped silk trousers, ended in polished shoes with buckles that gleamed like stolen stars. His coat, worn at the cuffs but still fine, was the color of dried violets. And his face—oh, his face—was not a face but a smooth wooden mask, its rabbit smile forever frozen in a cheerful grin.

‘Well, well~’ chirped the Rabbit, tilting his head. ‘What a delicious morsel has stumbled into my forest!’

The boy’s heart pounded like the drums of the once-living kingdom.

The Rabbit turned slowly toward the boy, showing off his long legs as he approached, hips swaying lazily, gloved fingers fluttering in a shushing gesture at his mouth—or rather, his wooden mask. ‘You’re far from home, little toy. Does Mommy know you’re here?’

The boy didn’t answer. His feet itched to run.

‘No matter!’ sang Jackrabbit. ‘I love a visitor! Especially one so lovely and pure as you! Come, come~ I have so many wonderful things to show you.’ He leaned in, his mask gleaming. ‘Games, sweets, and secrets... Do you like those, little toy?~’

The boy took a step back.

Jackrabbit’s laugh was low and malicious, like a broken music box. ‘Oh, don’t be shy, sweet thing! All the best children visit me eventually.~’ He reached into his trousers, stroking something deep inside... then suddenly pulled out a watch, its gears exposed, hands dancing wildly. ‘Look how late it’s getting! Mommy will be so worried. Shall I take you home?’

The boy knew, deep in his soul, that Jackrabbit didn’t mean his home.

So he ran.

Behind him, Jackrabbit’s voice trilled through the trees—‘Run, run, little toy! But remember—I love a child who runs!~’”

The rest of the page was faded, the story unreadable, leaving only a single curved illustration: Jackrabbit, standing at the treeline, waving.

A creak came from across the cabin. The boy froze, the book nearly slipping from his hands. The witch stirred in her bed, a low moan escaping her lips. He closed the book carefully, heart in his throat, and slid it back into its hiding place, replacing the board. Each movement was slow, as if erasing his existence, as he crept back to bed, body tense, waiting for a scream that never came.

Lying down, his eye fixed on the mossy ceiling, where shadows danced like specters in the faint morning light. The nightmare’s echo mingled with the book’s words, Jackrabbit, a name that seemed to pulse in the air. He couldn’t close his eye and sleep. The cabin, once a refuge, now felt like a cage, its vine-and-bone walls closing in. The witch’s slow, rhythmic breathing was a constant reminder of her vigilance, even in sleep. He needed to get out. He needed to feel the forest air, to leave the cabin’s weight behind and feel alive.

Silently, he rose again, bare feet avoiding the treacherous boards. He passed the glowing jars, the cauldron still exhaling sweet, poisonous steam, and reached one of the window holes. The forest outside was alive, trees swaying in the wind, signaling morning.

He grabbed his wooden sword, hidden under a pile of rags near the door. He’d carved it months ago from an oak branch, sanded smooth, its tip sharpened with his small knife. It wasn’t a real weapon, but in his hands, it felt like an extension of his will, a talisman against the shadows. With a final glance at the sleeping witch, he opened the door, its creak muffled by the howling wind. The cold forest air enveloped him, smelling of damp earth and sweet rot. He ran, a towel tied around his neck like a heroic cape.

At twelve, the boy was lean and agile, shaped by the forest’s treacherous trails. His bare feet knew every root, every stone, every slick patch of moss. He ran with the wooden sword in hand, purple hair fluttering, yellow eye gleaming in the dim light. The forest was both ally and enemy, a labyrinth of shadows and whispers he navigated like a storybook adventurer he’d never read. He spent hours like this, free, far from the witch’s suffocating weight. He climbed trees, slashed the air with his sword, imagining battles with wolves or even humans. He was the king of a realm that existed only in his mind.

That day, he ran farther than ever. The trees seemed taller, the branches denser, as if hiding him from the dead sky. The sun, a gray, lifeless eye, barely pierced the canopy. He leaped over streams, climbed lichen-covered rocks, laughing softly to himself, the sound swallowed by the forest. Hours passed, time dissolving in the eternal gloom. He didn’t know where he was going, only that he needed to go deeper, farther, as if something called him.

Then the canopy opened. He stopped, panting, chest burning. For the first time, he saw the forest’s other side. The ground sloped gently, revealing a vast clearing covered in tall, greenish grass swaying in the wind. Moonlight bathed everything in a sickly glow, and in the center of the clearing, he saw it.

Jackrabbit.

The creature was stranger than the book described. At least two meters tall, its legs were long and thin, as if defying bone. It wore a tattered purple coat, sleeves frayed at the cuffs, and striped trousers that shimmered as if wet. The wooden mask, smooth and polished, bore a wide smile full of small, sharp teeth, frozen in malicious joy. Its eyes—large, yellow, like the boy’s—glowed with a light not from the moon. It constantly stroked something inside its trousers.

Around Jackrabbit, a group of children followed. Five or six, thin, in ragged clothes, faces dirty. Their eyes were glazed, as if hypnotized, moving silently, almost floating, their feet barely touching the ground. Some held sticks, others ropes, as if playing a game the boy didn’t understand. The scene was wrong, deeply wrong. The creature’s malice could be felt from meters away.

The boy gripped his wooden sword, heart racing. He knew he should run, but his feet drew him forward, pulled by an inexplicable force. Jackrabbit tilted its head, the mask gleaming in the faint light of the dead sun.

“Well, well~” it sang, its voice high and melodic, like a broken song. “What a lovely morsel has stumbled into my clearing!” It pulled its hand from its trousers. “So late, so lost, so precious. Does Mommy know you’re here, little toy?~”

The boy swallowed hard, the sword trembling in his hand. “I... I don’t have a mother.”

Jackrabbit laughed, a sound that turned the boy’s stomach. “Ohhhhhh, everyone has a mother, sweet thing! But you...” Suddenly, it stretched its neck grotesquely, extending meters toward the boy, the mask inches from his face, yellow eyes piercing him. “You smell different. You’re not a virgin, are you? Papa Jackrabbit loves secrets, you know? I have so many secrets stored. Want to see?~”

The children around laughed, a low, empty sound echoing Jackrabbit’s voice. One, a girl with tangled hair, extended her hand, offering a handful of dark, rotten berries. The boy stepped back, instinct screaming to flee, but Jackrabbit lunged forward, its long legs bending grotesquely.

“Don’t be shy!” it said, its voice gayer now. “All the best children play with me. Look!” It pointed to the children, who began dancing in a circle, their movements mechanical, like puppets. “They’re so happy with me. Don’t you want to be free too? Little toy?~”

The boy shook his head, his yellow eye wide. “I... I just want to go back.”

“Back?” Jackrabbit tilted its head, the mask’s smile seeming to grow. “There’s no going back, sweet thing. Only forward. Come with me. I have sweets, toys, and a place where no one will ever find you.” It extended its other hand, holding a large potato sack, fuller than it should be, and definitely not with potatoes.

The boy stepped back, raising his sword. “Stay away!”

Jackrabbit laughed again, and then its body began to change. Its legs stretched further, arms elongated, fingers twisting into impossible angles. The mask remained still, but the body seemed to melt, like wax, stretching toward the boy like a starving predator. “Run, run, little toy!” it sang, its voice now a chorus of many, all laughing. “I love a child who runs!”

The boy turned and ran. The forest swallowed him again, branches whipping his face, roots trying to snag his feet. Behind him, the tap-tap of Jackrabbit’s polished shoes echoed, accompanied by the rustle of the children following.

The boy ran, his heart hammering, his side aching from the effort. The forest seemed alive, conspiring against him, twisted branches scratching his skin, roots rising like traps under his bare feet. The tap-tap of Jackrabbit’s shoes had stopped, his wooden sword long lost in the mud, and he felt the weight of his mistake in venturing so far.

He no longer knew where he was. The tree canopy blocked the sun entirely, plunging the world into suffocating darkness, the familiar trails had vanished, swallowed by a maze of shadows and thorns, panic made him stumble, his purple hair plastered to his sweaty face, searching for any sign of safety.

He tripped, his foot caught in a root. He fell, hands sinking into damp earth, the smell of rot and moss filling his nostrils. Desperate, he looked around and saw a hole among the roots of an ancient tree, a dark void that seemed to swallow light. Without thinking, he crawled inside, his thin frame squeezing against the cold earth. The space was tight, roots scraping his skin, but he curled up, his heart pounding so loudly he feared the creature might hear.

The silence that followed was worse, a void that held its breath. Then another sound came—a choked, wet breathing, heavy and dragging. The boy held his breath, his yellow eye peering through the hole. Something moved among the trees, a large, clumsy shape. He saw its paws first, muscular and covered in gray fur, stained with dried mud. Then the whole creature emerged from the darkness: a wolf, but headless. Where a head should be was only a jagged hole, the throat pulsing, thick yellowish saliva dripping in strands that gleamed in the faint light. The hole seemed to sniff the air, the body trembling as it moved, guided by blind, hungry instinct.

The boy curled tighter, his breathing short and silent, body pressed against the cold earth. The wolf stopped, its neck-hole turning toward him as if it could see. The saliva dripped, hissing as it touched the moss, and the stench of rotten flesh invaded his hiding place. His stomach churned as the headless wolf approached, fear turning solid. The wolf took a step, then another, its claws scraping the earth. It was so close now that the boy could hear the wet gurgle of its breathing, a grotesque sound from the headless torso.

He tried to crawl back, hands digging into the dirt, but the space was too small. A dry twig snapped under his weight, the sound cutting the silence like thunder. The wolf froze, turning directly toward the hole. With a growl that seemed to rise from the earth itself, it lunged.

The boy screamed, the sound caught in his throat as the wolf’s claws tore into the makeshift cape of linen and leather scraps the witch had sewn. The fabric ripped with a dry sound, and the boy thrashed, kicking and crawling to escape. The wolf was heavy, its hot, foul body trying to pin him down, saliva dripping onto his face, burning where it touched. He groped around, hands desperate, until he found a loose rock the size of a fist, crawling with startled insects.

With a desperate cry, he raised the rock and smashed it against the wolf’s stump. The impact made a wet sound, like crushing meat, and the creature staggered, a gurgling growl escaping the hole. The boy didn’t stop. He rose and struck again and again, the rock sinking into the exposed flesh, black, viscous blood splattering his face. The wolf writhed, paws clawing the ground, until, with a final blow, it collapsed, its body slumping like a sack of sand.

The boy stood, panting, the rock still in his hand, dripping black blood. He scanned the forest, searching for any sign of other creatures. The silence was heavy, but he knew he wasn’t safe. He dropped the rock, body trembling, and looked at the headless wolf, its saliva still bubbling from the neck. His torn cape hung uselessly from his shoulder.

The boy stood over the headless wolf, his breath ragged, his hands trembling. The rock slipped from his fingers, landing with a wet thud in the gore beneath him. Black blood clung to his skin, sticky and warm, smelling of iron and something sour—like meat left too long in the sun.

He kept staring at the corpse.

It didn’t look like a wolf anymore. Not really. Just a heap of fur and muscle, the stump of its neck still pulsing faintly, as if the beast hadn’t yet accepted its death. The saliva that had burned his skin now pooled in the dirt, hissing as it ate into the earth.

His stomach twisted.

He had killed before—rabbits, birds, things the witch made him hunt for supper—but this was different. This thing had been alive in a way those creatures hadn’t. And now it was nothing. Just dead meat.

He wiped his hands on his torn cape, but the blood wouldn’t come off. It smeared, dark and thick, under his nails, in the creases of his palms. He could taste it in the air, metallic and wrong.

His breath hitched.

Then, without warning, his body betrayed him. He doubled over, retching, bile rising sharp in his throat. He vomited onto the moss, his empty stomach heaving until there was nothing left but spit and the bitter aftertaste of fear.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing blood across his lips.

I killed it.

The thought didn’t feel real. He had fought, yes—clawed and struck like a cornered animal—but he hadn’t meant to kill. He had only wanted to live.

And yet, the wolf was dead. By his hands.

A strange numbness spread through him. His fingers tingled. His legs felt weak. He should be running already. But he couldn’t stop staring at the body.

What if it wasn’t really dead?

He kicked it. Once. Twice. The third time, his bare foot sank into the wet ruin of its neck, and he recoiled with a gasp, stumbling back. The wolf didn’t move.

Definitely dead.

Pretty dead.

A laugh bubbled up in his chest—hysterical, breathless. He clamped a hand over his mouth to stifle it.

 

Time seemed warped, folding in on itself. What had been a sickly twilight was now deep night, the black sky speckled with faint, indifferent stars. The hoot of owls cut the silence, a sharp, mournful sound marking midnight, though the boy wasn’t sure how so many hours had passed.

He walked, and walked, and walked, his bare feet cut by thorns and stones, the tattered cape hanging in rags. Unknowingly, his steps followed tracks in the earth—giant footprints, larger than any wolf or bear, pressed deep into the wet soil. Each print was wide enough to swallow both his feet, claw marks like stab wounds in the ground. He didn’t notice, lost in exhaustion, his mind clouded by fear and the hunger gnawing at his stomach.

The forest seemed endless, the trees taller and more twisted, their branches forming arches that blocked the moonlight. Then, through the shadows, he saw an orange glow, flickering like a pulsing heart. The smell of smoke hit him first, acrid and suffocating, followed by the crackle of burning wood. His chest tightened. He knew that place. He ran, ignoring the pain in his feet, until the clearing opened before him. The witch’s cabin—his home, the only one he’d ever known—was in flames.

Flames licked the vine-and-bone walls, the mossy roof collapsing into embers that floated like fireflies. The heat was oppressive, burning his skin even from a distance. And then he saw it: the wolf. Not like the headless one he’d killed. This one was colossal, larger than any creature he could imagine, with long, greenish fur that glowed like rotten moss in the firelight. Six eyes, arranged in an uneven arc on its head, glowed like embers, except for one, blind and milky, opaque as the dead moon. Its claws, long and thick, could slice through anything effortlessly. Its mouth was a cavern of horror, gaping wide, filled with hundreds of canine teeth, some as large as the boy’s torso, crowded in chaotic rows, dripping thick saliva that hissed as it hit the ground.

The wolf turned its head, and for a moment, the boy felt the weight of its eyes on him, his heart stopped, air trapped in his throat, but the creature didn’t advance, and with a growl that shook the ground, it turned and fled, its massive body vanishing into the forest’s darkness, trees twisting under its weight. The boy stood frozen, the growl echoing in his mind, mingling with the crackle of flames.

Slowly, he approached the hut, each step heavier than the last. The destruction was total. The shelves of jars had collapsed, shattered glass spilling murky liquids and floating organs onto the scorched earth. The cauldron lay overturned, its contents forming a bubbling pool in the heat. The petrified wooden bed, where he’d slept for so many nights, was now a pile of ashes. And the witch—his “mother”—was gone. Not a trace of her, not a single white hair, as if she had vanished completely.

Tears came before he could stop them, hot and salty, streaming down his face and dripping onto the burned earth. He fell to his knees, face pressed to the ground, the smell of ashes and rot filling his nostrils.

“Mother...” he whispered, the word escaping as a lament, though he already suspected she was never truly his mother. The weight of loneliness crushed him. The cabin, with all its horrors, was the only place he knew. And now, it was gone. He had nowhere to go.

Sobs tore through his throat, his hands clawing the earth, nails digging into the soil.

Exhaustion, fear and hunger—all mixed into a weight his thin frame could no longer bear. His scarred shoulders shook, his eye blurred with tears. He tried to stand, but his vision spun. With a final trembling breath, he collapsed, his body slumping onto the scorched earth, enveloped by the silence of the forest that watched, hungry.

Chapter 3: Under the Eyes of Father Arture

Forest of the Wailers

The boy woke with his face pressed against the scorched earth, the taste of ashes and dried tears in his mouth. The light of the dead sun, a sickly gray, filtered through the trees, casting twisted shadows over the cabin’s remains. He sat up, his body aching, legs slightly numb from running all night. His mind was a whirlwind, thoughts buzzing like flies on rotting meat. Where is she? What happened to the witch? Where do I go? What do I do now? The surrounding forest seemed to mock him, its silence broken only by the rustle of leaves and the mocking cry of something distant.

The hunger that had gnawed at his stomach like a ravenous beast was strangely quiet, dulled by his faint. But he knew it was a temporary truce. It would return soon. He stood, scanning the cabin’s ruins. Nothing. The flames had devoured everything, even the lavender scent that always lingered in the air, swallowed by smoke. He searched for anything, but the destruction was complete, as if nothing built there mattered anymore.

The boy wiped his face with the back of his hand, smearing ash and dirt across his skin. Tears still burned in his eye, but he swallowed them, forcing his chest to stop trembling. There was nothing left for him here. The witch—his “mother,” or whatever she was—had vanished, perhaps consumed by the flames, perhaps taken by the six-eyed wolf. He didn’t know, and the uncertainty was a knife in his chest. But staying here, crying over ashes, wouldn’t change anything. There was only one thing to do: move forward.

Taking a deep breath, the cold air cutting his throat, he turned his back on the rubble and entered the forest again. His bare feet, cut and bruised, stepped carefully among thorns and roots. The tattered cape hung from one shoulder, useless against the icy wind howling through the trees. This time, he didn’t look back.

He walked for hours, or perhaps only seconds—the forest’s time was an impossible knot to untangle. The canopy blocked the sky, but the sound of water guided him. He followed it until he found a river, its banks covered in moss and smooth stones. The boy knelt, his body trembling with exhaustion, and stared at his reflection in the water. The face looking back was a stranger: long, tangled purple hair caked with dirt and dried blood; a cloth bandage over his missing eye, his single eye glowing with a mix of fear and determination.

He looked like a cornered animal, a survivor of something he didn’t understand. He plunged his hands into the icy water, washing his face, the cold sensation drawing a sigh. He drank from cupped palms, the bitter but refreshing water filling some of the emptiness in his stomach.

He stood, wiping his hands on the ragged cape, and continued. The forest began to change, the trees growing sparser, the ground less treacherous. The canopy opened, letting in slivers of gray light, and he felt a shift in the air—less rotten. Then, finally, the forest gradually gave way, as if reluctant to release him. The trees thinned into a sparse grove of thorny bushes and yellowed grass. Ahead, a rocky trail wound upward along a gentle slope. It was the first time he’d seen such a thing—a path that seemed to lead somewhere, not just an endless loop within the forest.

The boy stopped, his chest tight. He didn’t know what lay beyond the trail, but the idea of leaving the forest was both liberating and terrifying. The forest was a monster, but it was the monster he knew. Whatever lay out there—villages, cities, people, kingdoms—was an unknown he couldn’t predict. Still, he had no choice. The cabin was destroyed, the witch gone, and hunger would soon return, hungrier than ever.

He took a deep breath. “Let’s go,” he murmured to himself, his voice hoarse, almost lost in the wind. With the tattered cape flapping around his shoulders, he began climbing the trail.

As he hesitantly walked the rocky path, a flicker of hope pierced the despair that had settled over him like a shroud. The trail was narrow and winding, but it was a trail, a tangible sign that he was no longer lost in the forest’s endless maze.

He walked slowly, his bare feet aching and bleeding from the sharp stones covering the path, but he refused to let the pain stop him.

As he climbed, he noticed changes around him. The air grew fresher, the trees sparser, and the undergrowth gave way to patches of dry grass and local flora. It was as if the forest was reluctantly yielding to the encroaching world beyond, a world the boy had only heard whispers of in the witch’s cryptic tales. Everything was still dead, tinged gray by the lifeless sun.

Then he heard a voice, so unexpected and strange that he froze, his heart pounding. A man, dressed in a tattered tunic and breeches, was walking down the trail toward him. The man was older, with wrinkles creasing the corners of his eyes. He carried a large pack on his back, bulging with various goods.

“Well, what in the name of our Lord Jesus—” the man said, his voice weary as he approached the boy. “What’re you doin’ here? You hurt, kid? Lost?” He stopped a few steps away, his eyes scanning the boy’s ragged, filthy appearance, lingering for a moment on the bandaged eye.

The boy said nothing, his eye narrowing as he watched the stranger warily. He’d never seen a man like this before, with his clothes and confident demeanor. The witch had always warned him about strangers, dangers lurking in the world beyond the forest. “Name’s Elias,” the old man said, forcing a smile as he leaned on a staff. “I’m a peddler, a supplier of goods and basic necessities. Been travelin’ the land for sixty years, bringin’ wares to those who need ‘em most.” He paused, his gaze sweeping over the boy’s malnourished frame again. “By the look of you... you could use a meal. Where’re your parents, kid? They must be worried sick with you wanderin’ out here alone.”

The boy stayed silent, jaw clenched as he tried to decide whether to trust the stranger. He was starving, exhausted, and desperate, but he knew the dangers that lurked in the world’s shadows.

Elias seemed to sense the boy’s hesitation, and his smile softened, his voice taking on a gentler tone. “No need to be scared, lad. I don’t mean you no harm. In fact, I can help you, if you’ll let me.” He reached into his pack and pulled out a small bundle, offering it to the boy. “Here, take this. It’s some bread and cheese, nothin’ fancy, but it’ll fill your belly and give you strength.”

The boy hesitated, his stomach churning with hunger as the scent of food wafted through the air. He hadn’t eaten in days, and the offer was tempting, but he knew he had to be cautious.

Elias seemed to understand the boy’s dilemma and lowered his hand. “Tell you what, kid. I’ve got a proposition for you. By your state, I reckon you might not have a home.” The boy nodded cautiously, keeping one eye on the bundle of bread. The old man continued, “As you might’ve noticed, at my age, my back ain’t what it used to be. If you could help me carry my goods to the city... what do you say?”

The boy hesitated further. He knew trusting strangers was dangerous—the witch had drilled that into him with tales of men who smiled with wolf’s teeth and hungry eyes. But the old man seemed different, weary like him. And anyway, the boy was alone now.

“Alright,” he murmured, his voice hoarse, almost swallowed by the wind. “I’ll help.”

Elias smiled, the wrinkles deepening around his eyes. “Good choice, kid.” He tossed the bundle of bread to the boy, who caught it with trembling hands. “Eat while we walk. The city ain’t too far, but the path’s treacherous.”

The boy tore open the cloth, the smell of stale bread and sour cheese filling the air. He bit into it eagerly, the dry bread scratching his throat, the greasy cheese melting on his tongue. It was the best thing he’d tasted in days. As he chewed, Elias handed him a smaller bag from the bulging pack. “Put this on your back. It ain’t heavy, but it’ll keep me from droppin’ dead before we reach Maragônia.”

The boy slung the bag over his shoulder, the weight uncomfortable but bearable. The rocky trail stretched on, but the food in his stomach gave him strength he hadn’t felt in days. Elias walked ahead, his staff tapping the ground in a steady rhythm, muffled by the wind carrying the scent of dry earth and, further ahead, something else—rust, perhaps, or old blood.

As they walked, Elias passed a leather canteen to the boy. “Drink. Water from a clean stream, not that filth you find around here.” The boy took a sip, the cold water soothing his dry throat. He handed it back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and noticed Elias watching him with a curious look.

“What’s your name, kid?” the old man asked, his tone casual but with a hint of interest that made the boy pause.

He thought about the question. Under the old man’s gaze, he felt an emptiness where a name should be. “Don’t have one,” he replied softly, almost ashamed.

Elias raised an eyebrow but didn’t press. “No name, huh? Well, I’ve seen worse. Where you from, then? You don’t look like you were born ‘round these parts.”

The boy stared at the ground, the stones passing under his feet. The forest was still a shadow at his back, and talking about it felt like opening a wound. “The forest,” he said finally. “A cabin. But... it burned down. My...” He stopped, the word “mother” dying in his throat. “The woman who took care of me is gone.”

Elias let out a low whistle, almost lost in the wind. “The forest, eh? Cursed place. Heard stories from there that’d make a grown man cry like a babe. You got out alive, that’s more than most can say.” He paused, tapping his staff harder. “And that bandage on your eye? Some beast get you?”

The boy touched the bandage, the memory of the crow still burning in his mind. “A bird,” he murmured. “When I was a baby. She... the woman... stitched it up.”

Elias shook his head, his face hardening. “Cruel world, kid. But you’re here, walkin’, so you’re tougher than you look.” He gave a crooked smile, showing yellowed teeth. “Stick with me till Maragônia. We’ll figure out what to do with you there.”

The boy nodded, the weight of the bag on his back and the bread in his stomach anchoring him to the moment. He didn’t know if he trusted Elias, but for the first time in days, he didn’t feel entirely alone. The trail continued, the terrain flattening, the sparse vegetation giving way to a gray clearing where dry grass crunched underfoot. The sky, dull and lifeless, seemed to press down on the world, as if trying to crush it.

After hours, the silhouette of Maragônia appeared on the horizon. The city was a blur of crooked buildings, made of rotting wood and chipped stone, scattered like broken bones in a dead valley. Smoke rose from twisted chimneys, mingling with the low-hanging fog. The sounds of shouts, hoarse laughter, and clanging metal echoed even from a distance. The smell of Maragônia hit before the city itself—sweat, manure, beer, and something sharper, like burned flesh.

State of Maragônia

Elias stopped, leaning on his staff. “Welcome to Maragônia, kid. Ain’t paradise, but it’s what we got.” He laughed, a dry, joyless sound. “Stay sharp. Here, everybody wants somethin’, and not all of ‘em ask nicely.”

The boy stared at the city, his yellow iris trembling. The narrow streets teemed with movement—men with knives hanging from their belts, women in revealing clothes in alleys, children darting through shadows, some with gazes as sharp as blades. A cart rattled by, pulled by a donkey, the driver shouting obscenities at a group of men playing dice in the gutter. In a corner, two men traded punches, blood staining the earth as others watched, laughing and betting rusty coins.

“This is... a city?” the boy asked, his voice low, almost a whisper.

Elias shrugged. “It’s what’s left of one. Maragônia used to be better, the old folks say. Now it’s just a rat’s nest, where the strong or the clever survive.” He looked at the boy, his smile returning but now with a hint of warning. “If you wanna live here, learn fast. And don’t trust nobody right off, not even old men like me. You got lucky I’m just lookin’ to sell my wares.”

The boy swallowed hard, the bag’s weight feeling heavier now. Maragônia was a different kind of monster from the forest, but just as hungry. He wasn’t sure if he was ready, but the trail had brought him here, and turning back wasn’t an option. With Elias by his side, he took his first step toward the city, heart pounding, yellow eye gleaming with a mix of fear and determination.

The boy followed Elias through Maragônia’s winding streets, the dry earth scorching underfoot. The bag’s weight on his back was now a familiar burden, but the city’s stench still made him wrinkle his nose. The streets were a living chaos, with vendors shouting prices for rotten food, scrawny dogs growling in alleys, and furtive glances that seemed to dissect him. He kept his gaze down, avoiding the faces passing by, each seeming to carry a secret as filthy as the mud beneath their feet.

Elias stopped in a quieter corner where the street narrowed between two rotting wooden buildings. He leaned on his staff and looked at the boy, noticing his bloodied feet, the cuts open from the trail’s stones. “Sit down, kid. Those feet are a mess. You won’t make it to the orphanage if you collapse first.”

The boy hesitated but obeyed, sitting on a smooth stone. Elias knelt with a grunt, his joints cracking like dry twigs. From his pack, he pulled a tattered cloth and a vial of murky liquid smelling of bitter herbs. “Ain’t fancy, but it’ll keep gangrene out of those feet,” he muttered, wetting the cloth and cleaning the boy’s cuts. The liquid stung, making the boy bite his lip to stifle a groan. Elias worked in silence for a moment, then spoke, his voice lower. “No parents, no name, and comin’ from that hell of a forest... You’re a mystery, kid. How’d you survive so long?”

The boy shrugged, his gaze fixed on the cloth turning red with his blood. “She took care of me,” he said, the word “she” heavy, as if it hurt to say. “But now she’s gone. I don’t know what happened.”

Elias shook his head, tying clean cloth strips around the boy’s feet. “The world swallows the weak, and sometimes even the strong. But you’re here, and that’s somethin’.” He stood, wiping his hands on his tattered tunic. “Can’t carry you with me forever. I’m an old man, and Maragônia ain’t no place for a kid alone. But I know a place you can stay. The São Dantas Orphanage. My brother, Father Arture, runs it. Ain’t a palace, but it’s a roof, food, and maybe a chance to survive.”

The boy frowned, the word “orphanage” sounding strange, like something from a world he didn’t understand. “Orphanage?” he asked, his voice hesitant.

“A place for kids like you. No parents, no one. Arture’s... well, he’s a man of God, far as I know. You’ll have a place to sleep there, at least till you’re big enough to fend for yourself.” Elias paused, his gaze hardening. “Trust me.”

The boy nodded slowly, unsure if he had a choice. The idea of a place with other children was both curious and frightening. He’d known no one but the witch, and now Elias. But the trail had brought him here, and he couldn’t go back to the forest. “Alright,” he murmured.

Elias gave a light slap on the boy’s shoulder, more practical than kind. “Let’s go, then. It ain’t far.”

The walk to the orphanage was short, but Maragônia’s air felt heavier as they approached. The São Dantas Orphanage loomed at the city’s edge, an ancient structure of rubble and wood, with cracked walls and crooked windows covered by broken boards. The roof was cloaked in black moss, and a chimney released thin smoke smelling of ashes and something sweet, like rancid incense. A rusty iron gate guarded the entrance, and above it, a painted portrait of São Dantas dominated the hall. The saint was a pale man, his blond hair falling like old gold, clad in medieval armor that seemed too heavy for his thin frame. His irises and pupils were white, giving him an empty, almost blind stare that made the boy shudder.

The place’s atmosphere was oppressive, as if the air carried an invisible weight. Nuns walked the corridors, some smoking cigarettes, the smoke curling as their hollow eyes followed the boy. Children peeked from dark corners, hunched, their pale, thin faces and dull eyes watching. Some sat in classrooms, reciting texts in monotone voices while a nun slapped a ruler on a desk to keep rhythm.

Elias knocked on the gate, and after a moment, it creaked open. A tall, thin man appeared, wearing a faded black cassock, his gray hair combed back, his face so pale it seemed carved from wax. This was Father Arture. His eyes, sunken and ringed with dark circles, looked like they hadn’t slept in months. He smiled at Elias, but the smile was sticky, clinging to the boy’s skin. “Brother,” Arture said, his voice low and drawling. “What a surprise. And who is this... child of God?”

“A kid I found on the trail,” Elias replied bluntly. “No name, no parents, from the forest. Needs a place. Thought you could take him.”

Arture tilted his head, his eyes fixed on the boy, lingering on the bandage. “From the forest, is it?” he murmured, as if savoring the words. “A survivor, I can feel it. Interesting.” He extended a hand, his long, bony fingers hovering near the boy’s shoulder but not touching. “Come, child. Here, you’ll have a home.”

The boy stepped back instinctively, his eye narrowing. Something in Arture’s tone and the glint in his eyes reminded him of the witch in her most possessive moments. Elias seemed to notice the hesitation but only shrugged. “He’s yours now, Arture. Take care of him.” He looked at the boy, his face hardening. “Be smart, kid. And good luck.” Without another word, Elias turned away, his staff tapping the earth as he walked off, leaving the boy alone with the priest.

Arture gestured for the boy to follow. “Come, there’s nothing to fear,” he said, his voice too sweet, like spoiled honey. He led him through the main corridor. The orphanage’s interior was even more oppressive, the air thick with the smell of mold, incense, and something metallic. The walls were covered with portraits of stern saints, and candles flickered in niches, casting shadows that seemed to move on their own.

Capital of Maragônia — São Dantas Orphanage

Along the way, the boy saw more children—some sweeping the floor, others sitting in silence, their eyes fixed on nothing. A thin, pale girl with dirty blond hair cut unevenly glanced at him briefly before looking away, as if afraid to be caught. The sound of a nun coughing, a cigarette dangling between her fingers, echoed through the corridors.

Father Arture led him to a claustrophobic office, his height nearly brushing the ceiling, with a cracked wooden desk and stacks of yellowed papers. A bookshelf overflowed with books beside the desk. A crucifix hung on the wall behind his chair, and a boarded-up window let in slivers of light. The priest sat, pointing to a hard chair. “Sit, child,” he said, taking a quill and a document. “Here at São Dantas, we’re pleased to receive you under the eyes of our Lord...” he said, gesturing to a startlingly realistic statuette of a crucified figure resembling Jesus. “You’ll study, study, and obey. In return, you’ll have food, a roof, and God’s protection.” He smiled again, his teeth gleaming in the candlelight. “Sign here. Any name will do.”

The boy stared at the paper, his heart tight. He recalled what the witch had taught him about the imperial alphabet and how to read. But Arture’s sticky, insistent gaze made him pick up the quill. He traced a shaky “Ka,” the letter of brute strength his “mother” had taught him. Arture nodded, satisfied. “Good. You’ll adapt, I’m sure...” He made the sign of the cross with his hand.

The boy, now with an improvised name—Ka, scrawled shakily on Arture’s paper—felt the weight of São Dantas Orphanage close over him completely. The priest’s office was heavier than ever, an oppressive, unpleasant feeling, the air thick with a strange fish-like smell. Arture rose from his chair. “Come, Ka,” he said, his voice drawling as if savoring the name. “I’ll show you who you follow now.”

The boy followed, his gaze darting through the orphanage’s dark corridors. The stone walls were damp, stained with leaks that formed indistinct shapes, like silently screaming faces. Candles flickered in niches, casting writhing shadows, and portraits of empty-eyed saints stared from all sides. The one of São Dantas seemed especially alive, as if it could step out of the frame and walk among them. Nuns passed through the corridors, utterly unconcerned, as if holiness was the last thing present here. One swore when she nearly tripped near the boy.

Arture led him to a communal dormitory, a long, narrow room with rows of thin iron bunk beds, their thin mattresses covered in rough sheets smelling of sweat and semen. “Here’s where you sleep,” the priest said, pointing to a bed in the corner, its mattress stained with something yellowish. “Wake at the first bell, five o’clock. Bath, study, prayer, study, work, study, sleep. Don’t be late; it’s not tolerated.” He smiled again, placing his long hand on the boy’s shoulder, stroking it. The boy noticed a stigma on the priest’s hand.

“Our Lord guides us, child. He sees everything.”

The boy nodded, his heart tight. He didn’t know what a bell was, but Arture’s tone made it clear disobedience had a price. The priest leaned closer, his face so near the boy could smell his sour breath, mixed with rancid incense. “You’re special, Ka. I can feel it. But here, everyone must bow to the same God. Understood?”

“Yes,” the boy murmured, avoiding the priest’s eyes.

Arture straightened, satisfied, and left the dormitory, his cassock dragging on the wooden floor. The boy stood alone, the room’s silence broken only by the soft snoring of a child sleeping in one of the beds. He sat on the assigned bed, the mattress creaking under his weight.

The first day began with the clang of a bell, startling the boy, a metallic sound slicing through sleep like a knife. He rose, body still aching, vision blurred by exhaustion. The other children were already up, moving like ghosts, wearing ragged tunics that seemed cut from the same dirty cloth. Ka grabbed a tunic tossed at the foot of his bed and put it on, the rough fabric scraping his skin.

He was led with the other children to a vast hall, damp and cold, located far from the orphanage’s other wings. The air was heavy, hot. The rough stone walls dripped with leaks, and the cracked tile floor was slippery, covered in a layer of slime that clung to bare feet.

Ka walked behind the other children, his thin frame hunched, arms crossed over his chest to hide his vulnerability. His skin was white, not pale, like someone who’d spent time in the sun. His feet, still bandaged with Elias’s cloths, seemed to be in better shape, the dirt washing away as he walked.

The boy was tall for his twelve years, shaped by hunger and the forest, but his muscles, though thin, had a hardness forged by survival.

The nuns, dark figures with ill-fitting veils and faces hard as stone, led the children with short, sharp orders. One, with burn scars on her neck, carried an iron bucket of icy water, the liquid sloshing as she shouted, “Move it, you worms! We don’t have all day to clean this filth!” Her tone was cruel, and the boy noticed how the other children lowered their heads, shoulders hunched, as if fearing a blow at any moment.

There, the children were forced to strip. Ka hesitated, his fingers trembling as he pulled off the ragged tunic they’d given him. He’d never been naked before others, except in the witch’s presence, and the feeling of exposure made him want to vanish. He sat on the cold floor, pulling his knees to his chest, his bony knees pressing against his torso, trying to make himself as small as possible. The other children did the same, some covering their faces, others staring at the floor, as if stripping was an act of surrender.

Ka’s body told his story in silence. There were smaller marks—forest scratches, poorly healed cuts on his arms and legs, and an old burn on his thigh from when, as a small child, he’d gotten too close to the witch’s cauldron. He shivered, not just from the cold water he knew was coming, but from the weight of the gazes, the uncertainty of what would become of him.

The scarred nun dumped the bucket of icy water over Ka. The shock stole a gasp, the water streaming through his hair, dripping.

“Scrub, boy!” she growled, tossing a worn sponge. “We don’t want lice here!” The sponge scratched his skin as Ka scrubbed, trying to wash away the dirt of recent days and the forest. But the feeling of being watched didn’t fade. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Father Arture, his gaze fixed on a younger girl scrubbing her arms so hard her skin turned red.

The other children were a reflection of the same suffering. An older boy scrubbed his body mechanically, his eyes dead, as if he’d given up on living. Another child, a thin girl with unevenly cut hair, coughed incessantly, the wet, painful sound echoing in the hall. Ka noticed purple marks on her wrists, as if large hands had gripped her too tightly. He looked away, his stomach churning at the thought of what these children endured.

Among the children, there were signs of abuse Ka didn’t fully understand but felt in the air. A smaller boy, with sunken eyes, trembled so much he could barely hold the cloth, and Ka glimpsed whip marks on his thighs, thin and red, like lines drawn in anger. Another child, hiding in a corner, seemed to avoid sudden movements, as if knowing any mistake could bring punishment. The sound of a ruler smacking desks in the classrooms echoed here, mingling with the nuns’ whispers and the muffled sobs of someone Ka couldn’t see.

When the bath ended, the children were ordered to put on clean tunics—or what passed for clean, as the fabric was stained and smelled of dampness. Ka dressed and followed the others out of the bath hall. The cold still clung to his bones.

The classroom was a cold stone cubicle, with crooked desks lined in sloppy rows, on the second floor. A boarded-up window let in slivers of gray light from outside, and a fat candle flickered on the teacher’s desk, casting dancing shadows on the walls. Ka sat at a desk in the back, trying to blend in with the other children. They were hunched over old notebooks, scribbling with broken quills, while the nun—a tall, obese woman—paced between the desks, her ruler snapping against her palm.

“SILENCE!” she roared, her sunken eyes sweeping the room. “Stop writing, and you’ll get a whipping. Learn! Or our Lord Jesus will rip out your souls!”

The blackboard was covered in chalk scribbles, study books telling the history of the kingdom and the holy prophet, Jesus Christ, the Ascended, the most prominent cult among the strongest kingdoms around the Earth, his story described in the book, which Ka took time to read.

“An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, this is the justice of the holy prophet, the Ascended, Jesus Christ.

In the ashes of the old world, in the city of Jerá, a child was born of a virgin mother—his father whispered in rumors as the ‘False God.’ This mortal child grew with silent grace, gathering twelve apostles around him as he proclaimed salvation through strength and dominion. He was called Jesus Christ, the Savior of Humanity—destined to restore order to a fractured kingdom.

Jesus taught compassion, hope, and forgiveness—but behind his gentle gospel was something fierce: vengeance for tyranny. Corrupt kings and sultans feared his message. They seized him, nailed him to a cross, and left him to die in public humiliation. The year was called ‘Year 0,’ marking his rebirth and the dawn of a new calendar.

But, like an unholy resurrection, Jesus rose after three days—not to preach peace, but to enact bloody justice. Returning to his apostles, he led them in a relentless campaign of vengeance, slaying the tyrants who crucified him and destroying the old world order to build a new one—with himself enthroned at its center.

His symbol was the cross, once an instrument of death, now consecrated as the emblem of power. He ascended to the divine city of Al-Yerushalaim, shedding his mortal shell in a tomb near the ancient city—but leaving it behind in death. And yet, his vengeance endured in the flesh-torn landscape he left behind. However, the ascension of our holy prophet came at a dark cost. To purify his soul and gain divine ascendancy, he carved out his darker half—his hatred and wrath—and cast it into the sulfurous pits in the world’s depths.

From that shadow forged by sin emerged the Sulfur God, a fracture of vengeance that now may reign in place of our holy prophet—especially in the west, where worship of Jesus took on a blood-obsessed cruelty. Some believe the ‘Jesus’ of the west is, in fact, this sulfurous twin—a furious deity whose face is marked by a single eye, a sign of his fractured being. Meanwhile, the original, gentle mortal Jesus may remain trapped in torment below, his true nature lost to the ascendancy of his shadow.”

The lesson spoke of violence as virtue: “Strength is the voice of God,” the nun said, slamming the ruler on the desk. “The weak perish, the strong inherit glory.”

Ka wrote the words on paper, his quill trembling. He pondered the existence of such a deity, wondering if such a being could truly exist among mere humans, abandoned even by the sun. He thought if he embraced the religion of our Lord as the only truth, whether he’d be freed from all this suffering.

The nun’s tone made it clear mistakes weren’t an option. The other children wrote in silence, some with ink-stained fingers, others with visible bruises on their wrists. He saw the pale girl, white as a candle, sitting two desks ahead, the same one who’d exchanged a glance with him earlier. Her dirty blond hair was likely her only normal feature. She coughed softly, a wet sound that drew a sharp glance from the nun, but she said nothing.

Suddenly, a subtle movement. The girl dropped something—a folded piece of paper that slid across the floor, stopping near Ka’s foot. He froze, his heart racing. The nun was at the blackboard, scribbling, but her footsteps echoed, and she could turn at any moment. Ka bent quickly, pretending to adjust his tunic, and grabbed the note, hiding it in his palm. He glanced at the girl, but she was already hunched over her notebook, as if nothing had happened.

When the nun turned, slamming the ruler on the desk, Ka flinched. He opened the paper discreetly under the desk, the words scrawled in shaky handwriting: “Safe spot. Midnight. Behind the well in the courtyard. Want to talk to you.” No name, but the message’s weight made him swallow hard. He didn’t know if it was a trap, but something about the girl—perhaps her being just a child, as if she too carried invisible scars—felt real.

The lesson continued, the nun’s voice cutting the silence. She spoke of the kingdom, the Empire of Brazil, now reduced to states, rural corners, and forgotten cities like Maragônia, where the law was a knife in the hand of whoever cut first. Before the sun died, the kingdoms were vast, ruled by kings under the blessing of the Old Gods.

Ka listened to the lecture, but his mind was on the note. The blond girl didn’t look at him again during the lesson. Now, at midnight, he had a commitment—answers or more confusion. But for now, he had to keep obeying the system.

The bell rang again. The obese nun slammed the ruler on the desk one last time, her eyes sweeping the children. “Get up, you rats! Time to eat. And no chitchat on the way!” The children obeyed in silence, dragging their ragged tunics, first stowing their notebooks in the desks, each secured with a password. Ka followed the flow of bodies through the orphanage’s damp corridors.

The dining hall was a long, dimly lit room with chipped metal tables arranged in rows under a low, stained ceiling. The smell was worse here. Another nun stood guard at the door, a wooden club with a rusty nail embedded in it hanging from her belt. The children formed a disorderly line, grabbing dented tin bowls and bent spoons from a pile. Ka gripped his tightly, the cold metal against his fingers, his stomach rumbling despite the bread from Elias still sitting in his belly.

The food was served by another nun, who ladled a watery gray broth into the bowls, chunks of something that might be potato or meat floating on the surface. Beside it was a basket of hard bread, so dry it seemed like stone. Ka took a piece, the smell of mold rising, and turned to find a seat. The tables were nearly full, the children eating in silence, eyes fixed on their bowls, as if fearing the food might escape.

As he walked, a bony leg shot out from a nearby chair, deliberately tripping him. Ka stumbled, his bowl slipping from his hands and clattering to the stone floor. The broth splashed, staining his tunic and the tiles, the bread rolling until it hit the wall. A stifled laugh came from some children but stopped quickly when the nun at the door slammed her club against the wall. “Silence!” she shouted, her eyes fixed on Ka. “Clean up that mess, boy, or you’ll lick the floor!”

Ka dropped to his knees, his face hot with shame and anger. He glanced at the boy who’d tripped him—an older kid with a smirk, who went back to eating as if nothing had happened. Ka gathered the bread and soggy potato pieces, wiping the broth with his hands, the cold, viscous liquid running between his fingers. The nun watched, her club swaying, as if waiting for a reason to use it.

With the bowl recovered, now half-empty, not that it mattered much, Ka stood, eyes down to avoid further trouble. He walked to an empty table in the corner, far from the other children, and sat, the bench creaking under his weight. The broth was cold, tasting of earth and salt, but he swallowed it anyway, savoring each spoonful and bite of bread—it was this or starve.

As he ate, he looked around. The blond girl was a few tables away, hunched over her bowl. Ka tried to catch her eye, but she didn’t look up.

The other children ate in silence, many with visible signs of beatings. The nun at the door tapped her club against her palm, a steady rhythm that reminded Ka of something he wanted to forget.

A deep tap-tap buried in his mind.

The dining hall, like the rest of the orphanage, was a place where survival demanded more than strength—it required cunning, silence, and the ability to go unnoticed. Ka finished the broth, his stomach still rumbling, and tucked the rest of the bread into his tunic. He’d need all the strength he could muster for what awaited at midnight.

Chapter 4: A War Name

Saint Dantas Orphanage

The bell rang again, its hoarse clang summoning the children to the chapel. The boy rose from the dining hall table, following the flow of children, noticing how the nuns occasionally struck their rulers or clubs against the backs of those walking too slowly.

The chapel resembled a medieval church, its stone walls cracked and adorned with countless portraits of saints, most with hyper-realistic eyes that seemed to watch the children. At the altar, a statue of Jesus Christ, the Ascended, dominated the space—a figure carved from dark wood, a thorny cross on its back and a sword of nails in its hand, its face stern, almost cruel, with a single glowing eye that seemed alive. Dozens of candles on the altar dripped wax onto the floor, and the vaulted ceiling was stained with soot, as if the air itself were burning. The children were lined up on hard pews, their thin bodies hunched, eyes fixed on the altar or the floor, none daring to look sideways.

Father Arture stood at the pulpit, his long arms clutching a Bible while his other hand performed a blessing, his sunken eyes gleaming in the candlelight. The stigma on his palm was visible, more prominent this time, and he began the prayer, his voice slow and hypnotic, like a chant that ensnared the mind.

“O Lord Prophet, Jesus the Ascended, who cut down pagan kings and bathed the earth in their blood, guide these fragile souls. Teach them strength, obedience, the glory of your thorny cross. Purify their sins with your sword of light!”

The children repeated the words in unison, their voices monotonous, as if reciting a spell. Ka murmured along, but the words felt empty, meaningless to him, an echo of something he didn’t feel. He saw the children around him, their faces blank, eyes glazed, as if undergoing brainwashing, becoming obedient, will-less drones.

The obese nun patrolled from a corner, but unlike usual, she seemed entranced by the prayer, distracted. The boy also noticed the blond girl, Bile, wasn’t there, a fleeting wave of concern washing over him.

Suddenly, Ka felt something different—a tug on his sleeve, subtle but firm. He turned and saw the older boy, the one who’d tripped him in the dining hall, with a curious appearance: a zigzag scar on his neck and shaved head. Unlike the others, his eyes weren’t glazed; there was something sharp in them, as if he hadn’t yet succumbed to the place’s brainwashing.

“Stay quiet and follow me,” the boy whispered, his voice so low it was barely audible under the chant. He stood, taking advantage of the distracted nun, and signaled for Ka to follow. They slipped to the back of the chapel, where the shadows were denser, and exited through a side door into a narrow, hidden corridor.

Ka stopped, eyes narrowed, fist clenched. “What do you want?” he asked, voice low but firm. “If this is about tripping me again, it won’t be so easy this time.”

The older boy laughed, a short, dry sound without joy. “Relax, newbie. I’m not your enemy.” He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, staring at Ka. “Name’s Davi. And you’re Ka, right? The forest kid Father Arture’s so interested in.”

Ka frowned, body tense, ready to run or fight. “How do you know that? And why’d you pull me out here? Everyone’s too busy praying to that weird god.”

Davi shrugged, a mocking smile returning. “I know things that go on in this place. Either you learn to stay sharp, or you turn into one of those zombies in there, reciting prayers until you forget who you are.” He pointed to the chapel door, from where the chant’s echo drifted. “They want to turn you into one of them, you know? A puppet that obeys, doesn’t think. But you don’t seem like the type to break easily, and honestly, neither am I.”

Ka crossed his arms, eyes fixed on Davi, trying to read his intentions. “And you? Why do you care? What do you want?”

Davi laughed again, this time with a hint of respect. “You’re suspicious, huh? Good. You’ll need that. Look, I’m not a saint, but I’m not like them either.” He jerked his thumb toward the chapel. “I’ve been here too long to know how it works. Father Arture, the nuns... they’re not saving anyone. They’re building something. And worse, Arture’s involved in the worst kind of stuff you can imagine. Why do you think they’re doing this to everyone?”

Ka felt a chill but didn’t let it show. “And you? What do you get out of telling me this?”

“Maybe I just want someone who’s not a coward.” Davi stepped closer, voice lower. “There’s stuff going on here. Things you’ll see, sooner or later, if you keep your eye open. And if you want to survive, you need someone who knows the game. I can help you. Show you how to avoid the worst beatings, where to hide food, how not to end up in the basement.” He paused, eyes narrowed. “But there’s a price. You help me when I need it. Nothing’s free, sweetheart.”

Ka stayed silent, the idea of an ally, even one with such dubious intentions, better than facing the orphanage alone. “Alright. But if you try to screw me over, Davi, I’m not as weak as I look.”

Davi smiled, this time with a genuine glint in his eyes. “Fair enough. I like that.” He pointed down the corridor. “Get back to the chapel before the nun notices. And don’t forget: here, everyone’s watching you, even when you think they’re not. We’ll talk more later.”

Ka nodded and slipped back to the chapel, sliding onto the pew as the chant continued, the children’s voices echoing like a chorus of ghosts.

The chant in the chapel ended with a final muffled echo, and the bell rang again, a sound that was already becoming an invisible chain for Ka. The children rose from the pews, their faces blank, moving like shadows toward the next task.

The obese nun shouted, “To the courtyard, you worms! Work now! Anyone who lags goes to the basement!”

The damp corridor led to the back courtyard, a space enclosed by cracked stone walls, covered in dry earth and dead weeds. Maragônia’s gray sky seemed to press down on the place, and the smell of rust and sweat filled the air. In the courtyard’s center, piles of broken stones, rotten planks, and burlap sacks filled with something heavy awaited. Two nuns stood watch, clubs in hand, while a burly man with a patchy beard and a grease-stained apron barked orders. “You know what to do!” he roared, voice hoarse. “Stones to the wall, wood to the shed, sacks to the mill! MOVE, YOU USELESS BRATS!”

The children scattered, each taking a task without question. Ka hesitated. Davi, the boy with the neck scar, carried a plank with ease, but his eyes were always moving, as if mapping every corner of the courtyard. Ka was shoved by a nun, her club grazing his back. “Move, kid! Grab the stones, or you’ll feel the leather burn!”

He bent down, picking up a jagged stone, its weight making his arms tremble. The rough surface cut his hands, but he gritted his teeth and carried it to the courtyard’s edge, where other children stacked blocks to repair a crumbling wall. The work was exhausting, the sun offering little warmth, but sweat dripped anyway, mixing with the dirt on his tunic.

A smaller boy with sunken eyes dropped a stone, and a nun with a milky eye struck her club across his back, the dry sound followed by a muffled whimper. “No mistakes!” she shouted as the boy cowered, grabbing the stone with trembling hands.

Ka felt rage swell as he gripped the stone, the same feeling that drove him to crush the headless wolf in the forest. He wanted to scream, to hurl the stone at the nun, but the weight of all the eyes on him kept him silent. He carried another stone, muscles burning, thinking maybe this routine would make him stronger...

The man in the apron shouted orders nonstop, pointing at the material piles. “Faster, you useless lot! Father Arture wants the wall done before the next bell!”

The courtyard was a forced labor camp, where the smallest slip brought pain. Ka saw a small girl with dirty braided hair stumble with a sack, its contents—rotten grains mixed with dirt—spilling out. Before the nun could approach, Davi appeared, helping her gather it with rehearsed speed. The nun watched but didn’t strike, just muttered something and turned away.

Ka kept carrying stones, his body protesting, but his focus kept him going. He continued for at least five hours, stacking stone after stone, sweat dripping onto the dry ground.

The hours in the courtyard dragged until Maragônia’s sky darkened, the oppressive gray giving way to a black speckled with pale stars. The bell rang one last time, a low, final clang signaling the end of work. The exhausted children dropped their stones and sacks, bodies slumped from the day’s weight.

“To the dormitories, you rats! Anyone who dawdles gets a whipping!” Ka dropped his last stone, hands red, and followed the flow.

While heading back to the dormitory, Ka took a shortcut through the chapel, where Father Arture’s slow footsteps echoed in the silence.

“Ka, my child.”

The voice was soft, almost paternal. Ka looked up and saw the priest smiling, his long fingers laced over a Bible. The stigma on his palm seemed less alive—just an old scar now.

“You’ve been working hard. I notice your effort.” Arture leaned in, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder. The touch was light, almost too careful. “The Lord Ascended sees the sacrifice of the righteous. Perhaps you’re ready for a special task...”

Ka swallowed hard. The man’s tone was so... sincere.

“Thank you, Father Arture,” Ka murmured, lowering his head.

The priest sighed, glancing at the altar.

“This place is harsh, Ka. I know. But discipline is necessary. The world out there is cruel—here, at least, we protect you.” His dark eyes gleamed briefly. “You’ve seen what happens to children on Maragônia’s streets, haven’t you?”

“Yes, Father,” Ka lied.

Arture smiled, stroking his hair like a real father might.

“Good boy.”

As he walked away, leaving a trail of incense in the air, Ka almost—almost—felt compelled to believe him.

Back in the dormitory, Ka collapsed onto his bed, his tunic still caked with dirt, his body numb with pain. He slipped his hand into his sleeve, feeling the note from the pale girl, Bile Surström, and reread it in his mind. He pulled out the hidden bread and ate it to fill the hole in his stomach, his eye scanning the room to ensure no one watched. The other children lay down in silence. A caretaker, an old, scowling man, extinguished the lone candle, plunging the dormitory into darkness.

Ka tried to sleep, but exhaustion didn’t quell his restlessness. The orphanage seemed alive at night, with creaks in the walls and the distant echo of something scratching, like nails on a plate. He closed his eyes, heart racing, waiting for midnight. When the chapel clock struck twelve, the muffled sound piercing the walls, Ka opened his eye, alert. A closer creak made him freeze. The dormitory door opened slowly, and Father Arture’s tall silhouette appeared, his black cassock blending with the shadows. He held a lantern casting a yellowish glow, illuminating his bony face and the stigma on his palm, which seemed to pulse in the dim light, worse than before.

Arture walked among the beds, his steps silent but heavy. He stopped at a bed a few meters from Ka, where a smaller boy with messy hair slept curled up. Without a word, Arture grabbed the boy’s arms with one hand. The boy woke with a muffled whimper, eyes wide with fear. “Silence,” Arture whispered, his voice cold as the night wind. He pulled the boy, dragging him out of the dormitory, the lantern swaying as the door closed with a click.

The dormitory sank into heavy silence when Ka finally moved. Arture and the boy’s traces had vanished into the dark corridor, but the echo of terror still pulsed in the air.

Ka waited until the other boys’ breathing steadied, then slipped out of bed. His bare feet touched the cold floor as he crouched, fingers probing the cracks in the worn wooden floorboards. There was something there—something he hadn’t noticed before, when a board creaked differently under his hand’s weight.

He pressed the wood carefully until he felt a faint click. The board loosened, revealing a narrow gap beneath the floor. Dust rose as he reached into the dark space, his fingers finding something cold and smooth.

It was a dusty, yellowed envelope.

Ka pulled it into the faint moonlight streaming through the window. The paper was fragile, nearly crumbling in his hands. Carefully, he opened it, revealing a letter written in faded ink:

“To the Watchers of the Order,

The recent events in Maragônia have become unsustainable. Two delinquent boys, no older than twelve, were responsible for stealing hosts from our church in Piagûl. Witnesses claim the young troublemakers acted as if guided by a force beyond their control—whispering in strange tongues and laughing without reason.

Royal Guard Dain captured them in the Forest of the Wailers after their escape. One, the older, was sent to the church under Father Arture’s custody. The other, the younger, was delivered to the hotel hosting General Teosbaldo I, where we hope his turbulent spirit will be tamed.

May the Holy Prophet have mercy on their souls.

Signed,
Captain Relrik, Maragônia Guard”

Ka held the letter with trembling hands.

The sound of footsteps in the corridor made his heart race. Ka hurriedly folded the letter and stuffed it back into the hiding spot, pushing the board back just before the dormitory door opened.

The obese nun peered inside, her lantern sweeping the beds. Ka pretended to sleep, but under his closed eyelids, his mind raced frantically.

Ka stayed still until she left, his heart pounding harder, anger and curiosity battling within him. He couldn’t stay there all night. He slipped from the bed, bare feet touching the cold floor, and moved silently, keeping to the corridor’s shadows, the night air sending a shiver down his spine.

Ka approached, pressing his face to the crack of a slightly open door. Inside, the lantern’s light illuminated Arture’s serene face, standing behind the boy.

....
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The boy, trembling, was sprawled face-down over the office desk, his hands tied behind him with thick rope. Arture raised his hand, the stigma pulsing, and delivered a sharp slap to the boy’s face, the sound echoing like thunder. “Your soul is weak,” Arture hissed from behind the boy, his voice dripping with contempt. “But the thorny cross will purify you.” He picked up a knife, and the boy let out a muffled sob, eyes brimming with tears.

Ka felt his blood boil, a pain searing through his head, ready to push the door and do something, anything. But before he could act, a firm hand grabbed his shoulder and yanked him back with force.

It was Davi, eyes wide with urgency. “Are you crazy, newbie?” he whispered, dragging Ka down the corridor. “Want to end up like him? Come with me, now!” Ka tried to resist, but Davi was stronger, pulling him to a dark corner where a narrow staircase led to the courtyard.

They ran silently, the cold air cutting their skin, until they reached the well behind the orphanage, a moss-covered stone structure hidden by dry bushes. Davi shoved Ka against the well’s wall, eyes blazing with anger and fear. “You almost got yourself caught, you idiot!” he whispered hoarsely. “If Arture catches you, he’ll have your ass too!”

Before Ka could respond, he noticed a figure in the shadows. It was the pale girl, her sunken eyes gleaming in the dark. She was crouched against the well, trembling. “You came,” she whispered, her voice weak but relieved. “I thought you wouldn’t, Ka. I’m Bile Surström,” she introduced herself.

Ka crossed his arms, still shaken by what he’d seen. “What the hell is going on? Why the note? And what’s Arture doing?”

Bile glanced at Davi, hesitant, before speaking. “He... takes the kids at night. He uses them, and then they disappear... this place isn’t an orphanage. It’s... something else. We need to get out before he gets us too.”

Davi nodded, his expression hard. “She’s right. Arture’s not just preaching about that god. He’s doing something with the kids, something no one explains. I’ve been locked in the basement for days, Ka. There’s messed-up stuff down there! He keeps other kids locked up, there are symbols on the walls, dried blood.” He paused, eyes narrowed. “But escaping’s not easy. The walls are high, nuns watch everything, and this damn place—Maragônia’s both a state and a capital, it’s the end of the world.”

Ka felt the weight of their words, but his mind was already working, plotting. “So how do we get out?” he asked, voice firm, trying to bury the trauma. “I don’t want to stay here waiting for my turn.”

Davi exchanged a look with Bile, who wiped her mouth with her sleeve. “There’s a passage,” Davi said. “In the mill, behind loose stones. It leads outside, but I don’t know where. It’s dangerous. And we need a plan, food, something to defend ourselves.” He looked at Ka, sizing him up. “You in, newbie? If you snitch on what you saw here, I’ll snitch on you too.”

“I’m in,” Ka said, fully trusting them.

Bile gave a weak but genuine half-smile, while Davi chuckled softly. “Alright,” he said. “Now shut up and get back to the dormitory. Tomorrow we plan properly. And watch what you see, Ka!”

Ka ran through the dark corridor, trying to reach the dormitory, but the orphanage at night was another world. The shadows breathed. The saints in the portraits seemed to turn their eyes to follow him. And then—

“Ka.”

The voice came from behind him, soft as a knife’s cut.

The boy froze. His blood turned to ice before he even turned to see Father Arture standing at the corridor’s end, arms raised as if preparing for an embrace, the lantern in his left hand casting a yellowish glow that made his stigma pulse. His black cassock swallowed his lanky frame, but his eyes—those sunken eyes—burned like embers.

“What are you doing awake, child?” Arture advanced, steps slow. The lantern’s light flickered, casting dancing shadows on the walls.

Ka swallowed hard. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, but he forced the words out: “Th-thirsty, Father. Went to get water.”

Arture stopped a hand’s breadth away. The smell of fish and semen?—invaded Ka’s nostrils. The man leaned in, his face so close that Ka could see the bloodshot veins in his eyes.

“Water?” Arture smiled, his teeth visible under thin lips. “The well’s out back, child. And you were coming from the wrong direction.”

Arture’s free hand rose, his long fingers touching Ka’s chin, forcing him to look up. The stigma on his palm seemed to writhe, like worms under the skin, and his cassock, seen up close, was stained with blood.

“Lying is a sin, Ka. And sinners... well.” His thumb slid down the boy’s neck, chilling his skin. “They need purification.”

Ka felt his heart pound so hard Arture could probably hear it. Instinct screamed to run, but his feet were rooted. Arture sniffed his hair, a sigh almost... predatory.

“Go back to bed, child. I’ll be watching you. Always.”

His hand tightened on Ka’s shoulder, trying to slide behind him—

Ka didn’t wait. He turned and walked quickly, *“Don’t run, don’t run,”* he thought, until he reached the dormitory. Only when the door closed behind him did he stop thinking.

In bed, pretending to sleep, Ka clenched his fists under the blanket.

Weeks dragged like a river of mud in Maragônia. The gray sky never cleared, the sun just a pale smudge behind eternal fog. Ka woke with the bell, marched to the chapel, swallowed watery gruel in the dining hall, then headed to the courtyard—always the courtyard, always the stones.

At first, each block he lifted was agony. His muscles burned, hands ended red, and sweat mixed with the ground’s dust. The nuns watched, clubs ready for anyone who faltered. But the boy never faltered, his determination unwavering.

Day after day, he pushed his limits. The stones that once made his arms tremble became easier to lift over time. His shoulders grew defined under the worn tunic. Even the scars on his palms turned into thick calluses, indifferent to the sharp edges.

“Faster, you lazy brat!” The man in the stained apron spat near his feet, but Ka didn’t care anymore.

He’d learned the lesson: in the orphanage, weakness was an invitation to meet the Father personally.

In rare moments of rest, Ka, Davi, and Bile met in hidden corners—behind the mill, in the gap under the stairs, among sacks of rotten grain in the storage room.

“The east wall’s the lowest,” Davi said once, “but there’s a dog. A black beast the nuns let loose every night.”

“Fuck... this place feels more like a prison than an orphanage,” Ka replied.

“Figured that out now?” Davi shot back.

Bile, always curled up in a corner, thin arms wrapped around her knees, rocked in place. “They found a kid’s foot in the bathroom once. Guess they forgot to hide it...”

In the following weeks, the three began stealing scraps from the dining hall, hiding them for future supplies. Chicken bones, moldy bread—anything remotely edible.

Meanwhile, Bile watched the nuns’ schedules, noting when the courtyard was least guarded. Davi, in turn, sketched mental maps of promising spots in the orphanage.

“We need a stormy night,” Ka murmured, looking at the sky. “The noise could cover our steps...”

Maragônia, however, was a desert region in the imperial backlands, so it rarely rained, maybe once a year.

On the eve of their plan, Ka was woken by muffled moans and grunts. Father Arture was in the dormitory again, this time over a girl with undone braids. He was using her right there, the bed shaking relentlessly, keeping Ka awake until morning.

Maragônia’s sky weighed like lead, the oppressive gray swallowing any hope of light. It was late afternoon, and the orphanage courtyard was nearly empty, hopeless, except for a few children finishing stacking stones under the watchful eye of a nun dozing in a corner. Ka, now stronger after a month of forced labor, carried a stone block when he heard a shrill scream from the courtyard’s east corner, near the low wall where Davi said the dog patrolled at night.

He dropped the stone, the sound muffled against the dry earth, and ran toward the scream. There, crouched against the wall, was a smaller girl with undone braids, the same one Ka had seen being abused by Father Arture weeks ago. She trembled, eyes wide with terror, as a mangy black dog with bared fangs and bloodshot eyes advanced slowly, growling. Foam dripped from its mouth, and its ribs showed through patchy fur, suggesting hunger and disease.

Ka didn’t think twice. His eye scanned the ground, spotting a rusty iron bar half-buried in the dirt, likely leftover from some old orphanage construction. He yanked it free, feeling the rough, cold metal in his palm, its weight familiar like the stones he carried daily, but there was something alive in the rage growing in his chest—the same fury that drove him to crush the headless wolf in the forest, the same anger he’d bottled up all this time, now ready to unleash.

“Hey, black mutt!” Ka shouted, stepping between the girl and the dog. The animal turned its head, wild eyes fixed on him, and let out a guttural bark that vibrated the air. The girl crawled back, sobbing, as Ka gripped the bar with both hands, muscles tense.

The dog lunged, claws scraping the dry ground, and Ka swung the bar with all his strength, hitting the animal’s head. The impact made the dog yelp, but it didn’t retreat; instead, it leaped, fangs aiming for Ka’s arm. He dodged narrowly, feeling the beast’s hot breath graze his face, and struck again, this time aiming for the head again. The bar hit with a dry crack, and the dog staggered, still trying to attack, its head caved and deformed.

Ka hit it again, and again, and again, the rusty metal staining with blood and saliva. The dog finally stopped moving, its body limp on the ground, head a mangled mess, foam still bubbling from what remained of its mouth. Ka stood panting, the bar dripping blood, heart racing, his rage spent. The girl ran behind a pile of planks, still crying but alive.

The other children in the courtyard, who’d stopped to watch, murmured among themselves, eyes wide. The dozing nun finally approached, club swaying, but before she could speak, a voice cut through the silence. It was a thin boy with makeshift glasses, one Ka had seen in class, always quiet, reading stacks of books and handling the orphanage’s documents, spared because he managed their records.

“You’re crazy, kid!” the boy said, voice trembling but with a hint of admiration. “That bar’s all rusted. If that dog had bitten you, you’d die of tetanus anyway. Killing it was the only way to make sure it didn’t get you.”

Ka looked at the bar in his hands, the corroded iron glinting in the dim evening light. He didn’t know exactly what tetanus was, but the word stuck in his head, heavy as the metal he held. The glasses boy continued, pointing at the dead dog: “Tetanus is a hell of a disease. Gets in through a wound, makes you stiff as stone, and you die screaming. You faced death, man. You’re Tetanus now.”

The other children repeated the word, first in whispers, then louder, like a chant. “Tetanus. Tetanus.” Even the braided girl, still trembling, looked at Ka with a mix of gratitude and fear, murmuring, “Thank you... Tetanus.”

The nun, face twisted with anger, shouted, “Silence, you worms! Back to work!” But no one moved immediately. The name had stuck to Ka, like the dog’s blood on his tunic, like the dried blood on the iron bar. He dropped the metal to the ground, the weight of the scene still pulsing in his veins, and returned to the stones, feeling the children’s eyes follow him.

That night in the dormitory, Davi approached Ka’s bed, a half-smile on his face. “Tetanus, huh?” he said softly. “Not a bad name for someone who just killed the orphanage’s black devourer. But you’d better take care of those wounds later, you know... might have that rust in your blood... at least that’s what the smart kid said.”

Midnight fell over Saint Dantas Orphanage. The boy, now called Tetanus by everyone as the name spread through every corner of the orphanage, lay in his bed, but sleep wouldn’t come. His hands, still sore, burned where the rusty iron bar had cut his skin. Small scratches, almost insignificant, but the word “tetanus” echoed in his mind like the chapel bell. He didn’t know exactly what it was, but the glasses boy’s words—“makes you stiff as stone, and you die screaming”—weighed on him.

He touched the cuts on his palms, feeling slight swelling and warmth spreading. Panic grew silently. He couldn’t stay there, waiting for the disease to consume him. He had to do something. Already accustomed, he slipped from the bed and crept to a corner of the dormitory where he kept stolen supplies hidden: a dirty cloth, a piece of moldy bread, and a bottle of water taken from the dining hall.

In the dark, he recalled something Bile had mentioned days earlier while planning their escape. She’d spoken of a cabinet in the back corridor where the nuns stored medical supplies—or what passed for them in the orphanage: dirty bandages, bottles of rancid alcohol, and some wilted herbs. It was risky, but the boy saw no other option; he needed to clean the cuts, or at least try.

Leaving the dormitory, he made his way to the back corridor, where a crooked wooden door led to the cabinet. The lock was broken, as Bile had said, and he opened it carefully, the smell of old chemicals invading his nostrils.

In the faint moonlight through a window crack, he rummaged through the cabinet. He found a glass bottle with yellowish liquid smelling of alcohol, some grimy bandages, and a jar of dried herbs that looked more like dust than medicine. Unsure what to do, he poured the liquid on his cuts, the sting making him clench his teeth to stifle a groan. He scrubbed his hands hard, trying to clean any trace of rust or dirt, and wrapped his palms with the bandages, tying them tightly until the pain pulsed like a drum.

Suddenly, the sound of footsteps made him freeze. He hid behind a stack of boxes in the cabinet, holding his breath. The obese nun passed the corridor, lantern swaying, eyes half-closed with sleep. She paused for a moment, as if sensing something amiss, but muttered something incoherent and moved on. The boy waited until the footsteps faded before leaving the hiding spot, heart still racing.

Back in the dormitory, he lay down, but restlessness kept him awake. His hands throbbed, and he imagined the disease creeping through his blood, stiffening his muscles, fulfilling the glasses boy’s prophecy. He tried to recall what he knew about survival—things learned in the forest before the orphanage. There, open wounds were washed with clean water, sometimes with bitter herbs his mother used. But in the orphanage, there was no clean water, and the cabinet’s herbs seemed useless.

The next morning, Tetanus woke with the bell, body feverish but not paralyzed as he’d feared. He hid the bandages under his tunic’s sleeves and headed to the courtyard, determined not to show weakness. During work, he felt the heat in his cuts slowly fade, as if the rancid alcohol had, by some miracle, worked. Or perhaps it was his own stubbornness, his refusal to succumb to the disease, that kept him standing. He carried stones as always, ignoring the pain, eyes fixed on the horizon, where the east wall promised escape.

The black dog’s corpse from the day before still lay in a corner, proof the orphanage cared as little for its animals as its children.

At lunch, Bile approached slowly, avoiding attention, her sunken eyes full of concern. “Hey... Tetanus, your hands... are they okay?” she whispered as they shared a piece of hard bread.

He showed the bandages, now dirty with earth, and shrugged. “Did what I could. Not stiff as stone yet, so I guess I’ll live.”

Davi, nearby, chuckled softly. “You’re stubborn as hell, kid. If tetanus doesn’t kill you, this orphanage won’t either.” He paused, eyes serious. “But take care of those hands. If they get infected, no stinking alcohol’s gonna save you.”

Chapter 5: The Anti-God

Saint Dantas Orphanage

The days passed, and Tetanus obsessively monitored his cuts. He stole more alcohol from the cabinet whenever he could, cleaning his wounds at night, hidden in the dormitory. The fever came and went but never brought him down. His strength, forged through grueling labor and the rage that sustained him, seemed to fight off any poison the rusted iron might have left. He didn’t know if it was luck, stubbornness, or something deeper—perhaps the same instinct that had kept him alive until now.

A week later, the cuts began to heal, their edges hardening into calluses, like everything else in his life at the orphanage. The bespectacled boy who had christened him Tetanus found him in the courtyard and gave a crooked smile. “You’re made of iron, man. The tetanus didn’t get you. Guess the name suits you after all.”

Tetanus merely nodded, his yellow eye glinting with a mix of relief and determination. He had survived—not just the dog but the invisible threat the bespectacled boy had feared. Embracing his new nickname, it was night in Maragônia, and in the orphanage dormitory, Tetanus, Davi, and Bile gathered in a dark corner behind a pile of moldy mattresses.

The boy crouched, his hands still wrapped in dirty bandages, the sting of the cuts fading. He looked at Bile, whose paleness seemed even more ghostly in the faint moonlight seeping through the boarded-up window, and at Davi, whose neck scar gleamed like a silver line in the dim light.

“Tonight’s the night,” whispered Davi, his voice firm but low, his yellow eyes shining with determination. “We can’t wait any longer. Arture’s taking kids every night, and I’m not gonna be next… neither are you two.”

Bile nodded, trembling, her thin arms wrapped around her knees. “The east wall… it’s our best shot. The nuns change shifts at midnight, and the dog… well, you already took care of it…” She coughed, muffling the sound with her sleeve while staring at the boy, her dark, lined eyelashes giving her a gothic appearance. “But the passage in the mill… I don’t know what’s on the other side.”

Davi, leaning against the wall, traced lines on an improvised map of the orphanage. “The passage is behind the loose stones in the northwest corner of the mill. It leads outside the walls, probably to the forest. But it’s dangerous. Maragônia doesn’t forgive those who wander at night.” He looked at Tetanus, sizing him up. “You really in, Tetanus? ‘Cause if we go, there’s no turning back. If they catch you, it’s the basement. And you know what happens there.”

Tetanus clenched his fists, the pain in his hands rekindling the rage that sustained him. “Of course I’m in, damn it! I didn’t make it this far for nothing!”

Davi laughed, a dry sound but with a glint of respect. “Fair enough. Here’s the plan: we grab what we’ve got—bread, bones, water—and head out right after the midnight bell. Bile, you watch the corridor. Tetanus, you lead the way to the mill. I’ll cover the rear.” He paused, his eyes narrowing. “And watch out for the nuns. They don’t sleep as soundly as they seem.”

Bile handed him a small burlap sack containing their stolen supplies: bits of moldy bread, some chicken bones, and a half-full canteen of water. “It’s not much, but it’s what we’ve got,” she murmured, her voice weak but resolute.

He took the sack, tying it to his waist with a piece of rope he’d stolen from the courtyard. “It’ll have to do. Let’s go now!”

The chapel clock struck midnight, the sound echoing like a warning. The trio moved silently, Tetanus in the lead, his bare feet gliding over the cold dormitory floor. They slipped through the door, avoiding the creaking floorboards, and descended the narrow staircase to the courtyard.

They ran to the mill, a decaying stone structure reeking of rotten grain and rust. Tetanus found the loose stones Davi had mentioned, haphazardly stacked in the northwest corner. He removed them quickly, revealing a narrow tunnel, its interior so dark it seemed to swallow the light.

“Looks like a mouth…” Bile remarked unnecessarily. “Better than Arture’s mouth,” Davi shot back.

“This way,” whispered Tetanus, glancing back. Bile trembled but nodded, and Davi gave him a pat on the shoulder, as if to say, “Hurry up.” Tetanus went first, crawling through the damp tunnel, the burlap sack scraping against the earthen walls. The stench of mold and decay was suffocating, and the space was so tight his shoulders brushed the sides.

Bile followed close behind, her panting breaths echoing in the tunnel. Davi brought up the rear, clutching a broken piece of wood he’d found in the courtyard, ready for any surprises. The tunnel seemed to stretch on forever, but finally, Tetanus felt the air shift, sharper now. They emerged on the other side, outside the orphanage walls, at the edge of the Lamenters’ Forest. Tall, twisted trees loomed like sentinels, and the night’s silence was broken by strange sounds—branches snapping, something moving in the dark.

“We made it,” whispered Bile, her eyes wide but relieved. “We’re out.”

Maragônia’s fog enveloped the three fugitives, making it hard to see beyond a few steps. Tetanus led the group, his senses sharpened from his time in the forest before the orphanage. Davi followed close behind, restless, while Bile brought up the rear, panting.

Suddenly, Davi stopped. “Wait… I heard something.”

Tetanus turned, muscles tense. “What now?”

Davi pointed to the left, where the fog was thicker. “There. Someone’s following us.”

Bile gripped the iron bar tightly, her eyes wide. “The nuns?”

Tetanus stepped forward, trying to see. That’s what Davi was waiting for.

A sharp blow to the back of his head.

Tetanus fell to his knees, his vision blurring. The last thing he saw was Davi’s face, devoid of remorse, shouting, “HERE! I GOT HIM!”

Voices answered the call. Heavy footsteps approached.

Then, only darkness.

---

When Tetanus woke, his head throbbed as if something were trying to claw its way out. The air was damp, heavy, reeking of dried blood and bitter herbs. He was naked, lying on a cold stone table, his hands and feet bound with thick ropes.

Black candles lit the space, casting dancing shadows on walls covered in symbols painted in red. Some looked like holy scriptures. Others, far worse.

Father Arture was there, his back turned, naked, his long hands working something on a metal tray. The stigma on his hands was worse than before.

“Awake, my child?” His voice was syrupy, almost tender.

Tetanus tried to speak, but his mouth was dry, his tongue heavy. Drugged, he realized…

Arture turned, holding a curved knife and a vial of murky liquid. His eyes roamed the boy’s body, like a butcher appraising meat.

“You’ve always been special, young Ka. Since the first day.” He leaned in, his icy fingers brushing the boy’s chest and sliding down to his groin. “But I didn’t expect… this.”

The knife’s blade grazed Tetanus’s skin, tracing an invisible pattern. Then, Arture dipped a brush into the vial and smeared the liquid across the boy’s chest.

It burned like fire.

The boy arched his back, a muffled scream escaping his lips. Where the liquid touched, a mark began to form—a black symbol, embedded as if it had always been there, waiting to be revealed.

A swirling whirlpool, etched into the boy’s chest, symbolizing the ever-changing cycle of nature.

Arture stepped back, his eyes gleaming with a mix of ecstasy and terror. “So it’s true… you bear the mark of the Anti-God.”

He didn’t understand the words, but their tone filled him with inexplicable dread.

Arture raised the knife, no longer as a tool of torture but as an object of reverence. “The legends are real… after years of futile sacrifices, finally… but first, you and I will have a long… conversation.”

With a malicious smile, Father Arture aimed the knife at his bare chest, as if about to stab him. Then, slowly, he h the blade across the boy’s soft skin, leaving a red line in its wake.

He groaned in pain, feeling the cold air of the room against his exposed skin. His eyes, filled with terror, met Arture’s, which gleamed with perverse desire.

“You’re so beautiful, my little child,” whispered Arture, his voice hoarse with excitement. “And I’ll make you even more beautiful. Inside you.”

With one hand, he pushed the boy’s body back onto the table, exposing him completely. With the other, Arture pulled himself forward, revealing a grotesque, swollen erection.

The boy couldn’t see anything after that, only felt an intense, burning pain, a horror that came from knowing he was being violated by this repulsive man.

Arture wasn’t satisfied with just physical violence; he leaned down and forced his lips onto Tetanu’s, invading his mouth with his tongue.

Tetanus tried to fight, but he was too weak to resist. He felt contaminated, poisoned by Arture’s presence in his body and soul. He knew he’d never be the same, no matter what came next.

---

The orphanage’s basement plunged into pure darkness as the last black candles were snuffed out by a wind from nowhere. Tetanus lay on the stone table, his body marked, the whirlpool on his chest raw and pulsing like a second heart.

Outside, the night’s silence was broken by a single caw.

Then another.

And then—

Maragônia erupted in wings.

The first crow struck the boarded-up basement window with the force of a cannonball, splinters of wood flying like shrapnel. The second, the third, the hundredth—until a storm of black feathers swept through the entire orphanage, glass shattering, boards torn away, nuns’ screams drowned by a sea of beaks and claws.

Inside the basement, Tetanus lifted his head, his cracked lips dripping blood. The crows didn’t touch him. They swarmed around him like a living cloak, pecking at the ropes binding him until his hands and feet were free.

A larger crow landed on his shoulder, its eyes gleaming with unnatural intelligence.

“Get up,” it cawed, in a voice not its own. “He could come at any moment.”

Tetanus didn’t question it, despite the trauma weighing on him. He rolled off the table, his weak legs nearly giving out, and grabbed the knife Arture had left behind in his escape. The symbol on his chest burned, as if responding to the chaos outside.

The crows parted for him, a black river of feathers guiding him through the basement. Where he passed, the walls seemed to bleed, the painted symbols writhing like worms under the paint. Something breathed in the orphanage’s foundations, the floor trembling like a lung’s pulse.

In the main corridor, nuns and the caretaker tried in vain to defend themselves. One nun screamed as the crows reached her—first her eyes, then her tongue, then everything soft and vulnerable. Tetanus passed by without looking back.

The main door was open, blasted apart by the crows. Outside, Maragônia’s fog was now black, filled with crows everywhere.

The crow on his shoulder pecked his ear, insistent.

“Run. Before he comes!”

Tetanus kept running, not looking back, the cloud of crows swallowing him, lifting him into the night sky.

The crows carried Tetanus through Maragônia’s night, a whirlwind of black feathers slicing through the fog like a blade. The cold wind bit at his naked skin, and the symbol on his chest—the swirling whirlpool Arture had called the “mark of the Anti-God”—pulsed with a pain that felt alive, as if responding to the chaos around him. He gripped the curved knife tightly, the only thing he carried in his hands, as the crows guided him away from the orphanage, beyond the borders of the desolate state of Maragônia.

The flight—or whatever it was—seemed to last an eternity, but suddenly, the crows began to descend, releasing him with an almost supernatural precision. The boy fell onto damp ground covered in leaves and moss, the impact knocking the air from his lungs. The crows scattered, their wings beating one last time before vanishing into the darkness, leaving only silence and the distant caw of a single bird.

Tetanus, still dazed, looked around. The landscape was different from Maragônia. The trees were denser, the air more humid, thick with the scent of wet earth and eucalyptus. The sky, though still dark, seemed less oppressive, with sharper stars shining through the treetops. He was naked, his body covered in scratches, dried blood, and the mark now etched on his chest. The curved knife, still in his hand, was his only possession, aside from the trauma that weighed like an invisible chain. But at that moment, too many thoughts swirled in his mind to focus on it.

The night’s cold made him shiver, even though he was used to it. He knew he couldn’t stay there, exposed. Staggering, Tetanus stood, his legs trembling, and began walking through the woods, guided only by instinct.

After what felt like hours, Tetanus spotted faint lights in the distance, the glow of a small village. He approached cautiously, keeping to the shadows. The village was modest, with exposed brick houses and dirt roads. In one yard, a clothesline swayed in the wind, laden with worn-out garments. Tetanus hesitated, the guilt of stealing clashing with the need to survive. He grabbed a tattered cotton shirt and a pair of short pants, both slightly too small for his frame but enough to cover his nakedness. He wrapped the knife in the spare shirt and tied it to his waist with a piece of rope he found on the ground.

Clothed, he continued walking through the night, the village streets giving way to a trail cutting through the forest. Exhaustion weighed on him, but he didn’t stop, driven by the need to distance himself from the orphanage, from Arture, from everything Maragônia represented.

After another hour of walking, Tetanus spotted an abandoned campsite by the trail. It was small, just a clearing with a dead firepit, a torn tarp stretched between two trees, and scattered objects: a dented pot, a broken bottle, and a threadbare blanket covered in leaves. He approached cautiously, knife in hand, ready for any surprises, but the place was empty, as if its occupants had fled in a hurry.

The boy removed his shirt again, spreading it on the ground like a blanket, brushing away the leaves with his hands, and lay down, his exhausted body finally giving in. He ran a finger over his chest and torso, almost as if caressing himself, spending some time feeling and studying his lean muscles, as well as the mark resting on his chest, replaying everything that had happened just hours ago.

The knife stayed by his side, within reach, in case something—or someone—appeared in the night. Finally, he lay down, closing his eyes, trying to block out the memories of the basement, of Arture, of Davi’s betrayal. The caw of a crow echoed in the distance, a sound both comforting and unsettling.

As he drifted into sleep, he felt something shift within him. The rage that had sustained him in the orphanage was still there, but now there was something more—a cold determination, a promise that he would survive, no matter what fate threw at him.

Chapter 6: Tiradentes Mercenaries

Tetanus was back in the basement of the Saint Dantas Orphanage, naked on the stone table, ropes cutting into his flesh. Father Arture was there, but different—larger, more monstrous. His arms stretched like tentacles, the stigma on his palm pulsing like rubies, his squinting eyes sliding sideways. The curved knife gleamed under the light of black candles, and when he smiled, his teeth were needles.

“You liked it, didn’t you, my child?” Arture’s voice echoed, distorted, as if coming from inside Tetanus’s own head. “You’re mine now. Marked. And broken.”

The blade descended, but instead of cutting, it penetrated, fusing with the boy’s flesh, becoming part of him. The symbol on Tetanus’s chest burned, the whirlpool spinning faster, pulling him into himself—

He woke with a start, his body drenched in sweat, his breathing ragged. His fingers gripped the curved knife so tightly that his knuckles were white, the blade pointed at nothing, as if Arture could emerge from the darkness of the woods.

Brazilian Empire — Minas Gerais

The abandoned campsite was silent, the gray light of dawn filtering through the trees. His body was soaked in sweat, his muscles taut like a bowstring about to snap. His chest throbbed, a dull pain that never truly went away.

Tetanus took a deep breath, counting to ten while gripping the dagger tightly, trying to quell the rising panic. Slowly, the world around him came back into focus: the smell of wet earth, the distant song of a bird, the weight of the knife in his hand.

He released the weapon and grabbed the canteen he’d found at the camp, taking a sip of the stagnant water. Even the water tasted of mold, but it was better than nothing. Then he broke off a piece of bread and chewed slowly, forcing himself to swallow.

Every movement hurt. His body was still sore, adjusting to the circumstances, but always, forever, there was a sense of filth that no water could wash away.

“Shit,” he muttered, rubbing his face with his hands.

A crow watched from a nearby branch, its head tilted. Tetanus ignored it. He didn’t have the energy to wonder why the bird followed him or if it was even real.

He stood, stretching his aching muscles, and looked at the trail ahead. There was no plan, just movement. Survive. Escape. Find… something. Maybe answers.

Or maybe just a place where he could sleep without dreaming.

The knife returned to the makeshift holster at his waist. Tetanus gave one last look at the camp, pulling on the blanket. Everything around him was silent except for the rustling of leaves stirred by the wind. He forced himself to breathe deeply, trying to anchor himself in reality.

Suddenly, a sharp snap cut through the forest’s silence. He froze, the knife raised, his senses sharpened. Heavy footsteps, muffled voices, cruel laughter. The boy crouched, hiding under the torn tarp of the camp, his eyes scanning the darkness. Three figures emerged from the trees, ragged men with sparse beards and dirty clothes. One carried a torch casting dancing shadows, another held a crude bow, and the third wielded an old machete. Bandits, likely deserters or thieves prowling the trails of Minas Gerais, taking advantage of the desolation to ambush travelers.

“Look at that, a kid all alone,” said the one with the torch, his voice hoarse, eyes gleaming with malice. “Must have something valuable in that little body of yours.”

The boy gripped the knife, his heart racing, the rage that had sustained him in the orphanage bubbling beneath the surface. He wouldn’t be a victim again. “Get out of here,” he growled, rising slowly, the blade reflecting the torchlight. “I’ve got nothing for you.”

The machete-wielder laughed, a guttural sound, and advanced, swinging his weapon with arrogance. “You don’t call the shots, kid. Hand it over, and maybe we’ll let you live.”

Without warning, the archer fired an arrow, but the boy dove to the side, the projectile embedding itself in the tarp behind him. Adrenaline surged, and he lunged, the knife slicing through the air. The first strike hit the machete-wielder’s arm, who screamed and dropped his weapon, blood gushing. The second bandit, with the torch, tried to land a punch, but the boy dodged and drove the knife into his thigh, eliciting a howl of pain. The third, the archer, hesitated but was already reloading his bow.

The boy didn’t stop. The three bandits, wounded and stunned by the boy’s ferocity, retreated, cursing and stumbling in the dark. “Let’s get out of here! This kid’s crazy!” shouted the torch-bearer, limping as he clutched his thigh.

But before they fled, the archer, in a final act of spite, fired another arrow. The boy tried to dodge, but the sharp tip tore through his shoulder, the pain exploding like fire. He fell to his knees, the knife still in hand, warm blood streaming down his arm. The bandits vanished into the forest, their voices fading into the night.

Panting, he touched the wound, the arrow still lodged, its tip buried in his flesh. The pain was unbearable, but he gritted his teeth, refusing to pass out. With a trembling hand, he snapped the arrow’s shaft, leaving the tip inside to avoid worsening the bleeding. He dragged himself to the tarp, grabbing the burlap sack and canteen, and collapsed against a tree, the world spinning.

Dawn crept over Minas Gerais, the sky tinged with a pale gray that barely dispelled the forest’s darkness. The boy, with the broken arrow still in his shoulder, limped along the trail, each step a battle against pain and exhaustion, dried blood mingling with the dirt on his skin.

The woods began to thin, the trees parting to reveal a wide clearing. The sound of metal clashing and hoarse voices cut through the morning silence. He stopped, hiding behind a tree, his senses alert despite his weakness. Before him stood a military encampment, a vision seemingly torn from a brutal past, like something out of a war tale. Thick canvas tents, some patched, were scattered in haphazard rows, surrounded by sharpened wooden stakes. Faded white flags bearing a red triangle crossed by swords fluttered in the wind. Men, women, and youths too young to be adults, most in leather and iron armor stained with dirt and blood, moved with purpose—some sharpening blades, others carrying crates or tending fires where pots simmered with the smell of rancid stew.

The boy hesitated, knife in hand, his survival instinct warring with the fear of trusting strangers after Davi’s betrayal. But the pain in his shoulder was a constant scream, and he knew he wouldn’t survive long without help.

He stepped forward, emerging from the tree’s shadow, and immediately felt eyes turn toward him. A tall, robust man with a thick beard and a scar across his forehead dropped the sword he was sharpening and approached, his hand on the hilt of an iron sword.

“Identify yourself or eat steel!” he demanded, his voice deep, eyes narrowed. “It’s not common for bloodied kids to show up out of nowhere around here.”

He swallowed hard, his throat raw. “Just… need help!” he exclaimed, pointing to his wounded shoulder, the broken arrow shaft still visible. “I was attacked… in the forest.”

The bearded man sized him up, noting the stolen clothes, the curved knife, the lean frame of someone who hadn’t eaten properly in weeks. Something in his expression softened—perhaps pity, perhaps recognition of someone who’d faced hell. “You look like you’ve seen the devil, kid.” He gestured to a nearby woman with short, tied-back hair, a monocle-like device hanging from her neck, and leather armor reinforced with iron plates. “Captain, call the healer. This one won’t last long without care.”

The woman, her name unknown, nodded and disappeared among the tents. Two soldiers helped the boy walk, guiding him to a central fire where a larger tent, used as an infirmary, was set up. He was placed on an improvised stretcher of planks and cloth as the healer, an old man with calloused hands and sunken eyes, arrived carrying a leather bag full of tools and herbs. The smell of alcohol and balms filled the air.

“This is gonna hurt,” the healer warned bluntly, examining the arrow. “The tip’s deep, but it didn’t hit bone. You got lucky, kid.”

Tetanus gritted his teeth, the muffled scream escaping as the camp seemed to pause for a moment, soldiers outside casting curious glances. The healer yanked the arrowhead out with a swift pull, blood gushing before he pressed a cloth soaked in a burning liquid against it. The boy arched his back, the pain rivaling memories of Arture’s basement, but he refused to faint. The healer stitched the wound with coarse thread, applying a poultice of green herbs and a white liquid.

“It’ll leave an ugly scar, but you’ll live. Better than nothing, eh?” the old man said, wiping his hands on a dirty uniform. “Sleep. If you try walking now, you’ll rip the stitches.”

The bearded man, who seemed to be the leader, crossed his arms, watching. “What’s your name, man? And how’d you end up here, alone in the forest?”

He hesitated, the word “Tetanus” nearly slipping out, but he decided to own it. “Tetanus,” he answered, his voice weak. “I was… attacked by bandits. Came from far away.” He didn’t mention anything prior to that.

The leader grunted, as if not entirely convinced, but didn’t press. “I’m Tiradentes, commander of this… troop. We’re mercenaries, hired to protect Minas Gerais’s trade routes. We’re no saints, but we don’t let random folks die at our doorstep—we don’t need more trouble with the baron. Stay till you’re better, but don’t expect endless charity. Here, everyone earns their place in hell.”

Tetanus nodded, exhaustion outweighing distrust. The red-haired woman with the makeshift monocle brought a bowl of watery stew with tough meat and roots, and he swallowed it with difficulty, the warmth easing the emptiness in his stomach. They left him in the tent under the watch of a young soldier who seemed more bored than threatening, and Tetanus stayed on the stretcher.

As the camp returned to its routine—the clanging of swords, shouts of orders, the crackling of fires—Tetanus closed his eyes again. He was alive, and that was enough to keep fighting.

The sun had already set when Tetanus woke again. His shoulder throbbed, but the pain was now a dull, manageable ache. The healer’s tent was empty except for a skinny boy—the same soldier who’d kept watch—now mending a leather bag with needle and thread.

The boy sat up slowly, avoiding sudden movements. The soldier looked up, surprised.

“Already awake? The old man said you’d be out till tomorrow.”

Tetanus ignored the comment, rubbing his face. “Need water.”

The soldier, a kid not much older than him, maybe ten years old, with brown eyes and a chin marked by acne, handed over a canteen. “Here. And stay quiet, or the healer’ll have my ears.”

He drank greedily, water spilling down his chin. The soldier watched him curiously.

“Is it true you killed three men before getting here?”

Tetanus frowned. “What?”

“It’s what they’re saying, uai. That you came from the forest covered in blood after taking on a gang of thieves alone. They found their bodies half a league from here, eyes gouged out, tongues too. You’re downright creepy, man.” The soldier—more like a kid in costume—grinned, showing a broken tooth. “They’re saying you’re some kind of trained assassin, or worse.”

Tetanus’s eyes widened as he took another gulp, avoiding a response. Good stories spread fast, he thought. And scary stories keep people away.

The soldier leaned forward. “Commander Tiradentes wants to talk to you. Said to bring you as soon as you woke up.”

Tetanus looked up, tension returning to his muscles. “Why?”

The soldier shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe he wants to recruit you. Or maybe he just wants to know if you’re a real threat.”

He finished the water and stood, testing his balance. His shoulder ached, but not as much as before. “Take me to him, then.”

The camp was livelier at night. Torches lit rows of tents, and the smell of roasted meat and tobacco filled the air. Men and women laughed loudly, playing dice or sharpening weapons. Some glanced at Tetanus as he passed, whispering among themselves.

Tiradentes sat by a large central fire, skewering a piece of meat with a knife. He wore an open linen shirt, revealing old scars and a silver chain with a triangular symbol—the same as on the flags.

“Ah, the survivor.” Tiradentes smiled, but his eyes remained cold. “Sit. Eat something.”

Tetanus hesitated, but hunger won out. He took a piece of hard bread and sat on the opposite log, then noticed his knife was gone.

“Thanks.”

Tiradentes laughed. “Polite. Interesting.” He chewed a piece of meat, eyes fixed on the boy. “Do you know where you are, kid?”

“Uh… Piagûl?” Tetanus threw out the first place name that came to mind.

“That’s geography. I’m asking if you know where you are.” Tiradentes pointed his knife at the camp. “This is the Last Comradeship of Minas Gerais. Mercenaries, yes, but also the only thing between the villages and what crawls in the forests. The baron pays us to keep the roads safe, but… well, safety’s a flexible concept.”

Tetanus didn’t respond, his fingers tightening around the meat he ate, the best thing he’d tasted in his last twelve years.

“You’ve got two options, kid.” Tiradentes wiped the blade on his high boot. “First: you leave tomorrow morning with a canteen and a piece of bread, and hope you don’t run into more bandits—or worse—on the way.”

“And the second?”

The commander smiled. “You stay. Learn to fight. And pay your debt with blood.”

Tetanus stared at the fire, the flames reflecting in his eyes. He had nowhere to go. No place was safe. But here… here he could become strong enough to never be a victim again.

“I’ll stay, then.”

Tiradentes nodded, as if he’d known the answer. “Good. Tomorrow you start training. And, kid?” He leaned forward, the firelight casting shadows on his face. “Here, you either die or you learn. There’s no middle ground.”

“I’m kinda used to that,” Tetanus replied.

The dead sun hadn’t fully risen when a splash of cold water hit Tetanus’s face, jolting him from restless sleep. He sprang up, gasping, his lungs protesting as water dripped down his chest and soaked the straw bed. His eyes met the red-haired Captain, her short hair tied in a tight ponytail, the monocle-like device around her neck glinting in the tent’s dim light. She held an empty bucket, a sarcastic smirk on her lips.

“Wake up, recruit!” she said, her voice sharp as a blade. “No time for laziness here. Get up and put this on.” With a quick motion, she kicked a worn leather armor toward his feet, the basic material—likely stolen—clattering softly.

Tetanus, still dazed, rubbed his face, the cold water dripping from his chin. His wounded shoulder throbbed, but the healer’s stitches held. He looked at the armor, then at the Captain, who crossed her arms below her chest, clearly not planning to leave.

Tetanus definitely didn’t want anyone seeing his symbol—not out of shame, but because Arture’s words about the Anti-God still echoed in his mind, and he didn’t know what that mark might mean to strangers.

“I…” He hesitated, searching for a quick excuse. “I’m kinda shy. Can you… step out while I change?”

The Captain raised an eyebrow, her smirk widening. “Shy?” She laughed, a short, dry sound. “Kid, you’re in a camp full of sweaty men, and you’re worried I’ll see your pecker? Nobody cares about your modesty here.” Still, she shrugged and turned, heading to the tent’s entrance. “Two minutes. If you’re not ready, I’ll drag you out naked for training.” She pulled the flap aside, leaving him alone, but her voice echoed from outside: “And don’t try running. I’ve seen kids like you try. It doesn’t end well.”

Tetanus didn’t waste time. He stripped off the damp shirt, the morning air biting his skin.

He touched his mark briefly, a shiver running through him, before grabbing the leather armor. It was light in his hands, worn from years of use, with scratches and dried bloodstains. He donned it carefully, adjusting the straps to avoid pressing on his shoulder wound. The armor was too short, hanging loosely on his lean frame, but it covered the mark completely, letting him breathe a sigh of relief.

As he stepped out of the tent, the camp was already bustling. The rising sun painted the sky in orange hues, and the clanging of swords and shouts of orders filled the air. Soldiers moved among the tents, some carrying weapons, others sparring in impromptu duels. The smell of smoke, sweat, and hot metal was stifling.

The red-haired Captain waited outside, arms still crossed. “Not bad, recruit,” she said, eyeing him up and down. “But that armor’s seen better days. Let’s see if you last longer than it.” She pointed to a circle of packed earth in the camp’s center, where other youths, some as scrawny and disheveled as him, trained with wooden swords under an instructor’s watchful eye. “Your training starts now. Tiradentes said to throw you into the fire right away. Let’s see if you’re as tough as they say.”

Tetanus swallowed hard. The circle of packed earth was scarred by years of blows, deep ruts where countless feet had shuffled, pivoted, fallen. The other recruits sweated under the rising sun, their faces tense as they clashed wooden swords, muscles trembling with effort.

The Captain shoved Tetanus into the circle’s center, her voice cracking like a whip.

“Show what you’ve got, kid.”

He had no time to respond. One of the recruits, a taller boy with broad shoulders and a broken nose, lunged with a direct punch. Tetanus dodged by instinct, the fist grazing his face. The move was clumsy but quick. Before the recruit could recover, Tetanus drove his elbow into the boy’s ribs, making him double over with a grunt.

The Captain laughed, a surprised sound.

“Look at that, the kid’s got fire in his eyes.”

The other recruits stopped to watch, forming a semicircle. The air grew heavy with expectation. Tetanus felt the weight of their stares, the same feeling as when the other orphans watched him kill the orphanage dog.

The redhead picked up two wooden swords from the ground and tossed one to him.

“Let’s see if you can handle more than a knife.”

Tetanus caught the weapon mid-air, his fingers instinctively gripping the handle. The wood was rough, lacking the sharp balance of his curved knife, but he adapted quickly. The next opponent was an older woman, with scarred arms and a calculating gaze. She attacked without warning, a lateral strike that Tetanus blocked with a sharp crack. The impact reverberated through his bones, but he held firm.

He countered with a swift move that caught the woman off guard, forcing her to step back. The Captain whistled, impressed.

“Good reflexes. But reflexes aren’t everything.”

She stepped into the circle herself, grabbing a wooden sword. The recruits parted respectfully.

“Show me what you’ve got, kid.”

Tetanus didn’t hesitate. He struck first, a quick blow that the redhead dodged easily, almost laughing. She countered with a series of precise strikes, each faster than the last, forcing him to retreat. He blocked what he could, but a well-aimed hit struck his side, dropping him to his knees, pain throbbing in his ribs.

“Weak,” she said, smiling, but it wasn’t cruel. It was almost… proud. “But promising.”

He was getting up when a surprise attack came from behind.

A muddy foot swept his legs, sending him face-first into the dirt. Laughter erupted in the circle, and Tetanus spun around quickly, teeth gritted, ready to retaliate.

The attacker was an unremarkable soldier, with a crooked smile and narrow eyes.

“Who said an enemy warns you before striking, recruit?” he spat, laughing with the others.

Tetanus felt his blood boil. He stood, fists clenched, but before he could react, the redhead grabbed him, stepping in.

“Enough, Rastro.” She shoved the soldier, making him stumble. “If you want to fight here, fight fair. Not like a cowardly rat.”

The soldier, apparently named Rastro, spat on the ground but backed off, his eyes still fixed on Tetanus with hatred.

The Captain extended a hand to Tetanus, helping him up.

“Don’t let them knock you down twice. That’s today’s lesson.”

He grabbed her hand, and she pulled him up with surprising strength.

“I’m Zara,” she introduced herself, her eyes burning with a fire he’d never seen before. “And if you want to survive here, you’ll have to learn to fight better than that.”

Tetanus took a deep breath, his shoulder throbbing, but his heart pounded, and his blood surged—he felt alive again.

The gray sun was dipping toward the horizon when training ended. Tetanus was drenched in sweat, his muscles burning, his hands calloused from striking wood and earth. His shoulder ached, but the pain was a living thing, almost comforting—proof he was still moving.

Zara dismissed him with a wave, tossing him a piece of hard bread.

“Go eat. Tomorrow we’ll see if you learned anything.”

He caught the bread mid-air, but before he could leave, a group of recruits approached. There were three: a tall, lean Black boy with scars on his arms, wearing leather clothes that covered everything but his arms and a red scarf; a girl with a shaved head and almond-shaped eyes; and the same kid who’d watched over Tetanus during his recovery days ago.

“You’re the new guy, right? Farpa told me about you,” the lean boy said, crossing his arms. “We eat together. If you don’t mind sharing with the rabble.”

Tetanus hesitated. Strangely, the offer felt genuine. Not like the orphanage days, where every crumb was fought over with nails and teeth. Here, it was almost like camaraderie.

“Alright, I guess,” he nodded, following them to a smaller fire, away from the main bustle.

The lean boy introduced himself as Gume, the girl was Lâmina (obviously a war name), and the younger one was Farpa—a nickname earned after shoving a wooden splinter into a bandit’s eye.

“And you?” Gume asked, chewing a piece of dried meat. “Got a name, or you just gonna be ‘the new guy’ forever?”

“Tetanus.”

Gume let out a laugh. “Damn, a disease name. You must be badass.”

Lâmina elbowed him. “Ignore this idiot. But… why Tetanus?”

He shrugged, dodging the topic. “Long story.”

They didn’t press. Instead, they shared the bread, meat, and a canteen of cheap aguardente that burned Tetanus’s throat like fire. It was the first meal he’d truly shared with anyone.

That’s when Tiradentes appeared.

The commander emerged like a shadow by the fire’s edge, his dark eyes reflecting the flames. The recruits straightened immediately, but he just nodded.

“Relax,” his voice was rough but not hostile. “Just came to fetch the recruit.”

Tetanus swallowed the last piece of bread and stood, following Tiradentes to an isolated clearing where two training swords were stuck in the ground.

“Zara says you’ve got instinct. Seems like it…” Tiradentes pulled one sword, testing its weight. “Let’s see if it’s true.”

Without ceremony, he attacked.

Tetanus barely had time to grab his sword before the first blow came. He blocked it by a hair, the impact nearly wrenching the weapon from his hands. Tiradentes didn’t fight like Zara—he was brutal, efficient, every move calculated to kill.

But Tetanus adapted quickly.

He dodged a lateral strike, countering with a swift move that nearly hit Tiradentes’s flank. The commander stepped back, his eyes glinting with what might’ve been surprise.

“Good,” he smiled. “But not good enough.”

And then, he sped up.

Tetanus didn’t see the next attack. A spinning strike hit his ribs, followed by a sweep that threw him to the ground. His breath left his lungs, and before he could react, the wooden sword’s tip was at his throat.

“Dead,” Tiradentes announced, emotionless.

Tetanus gasped, his chest burning.

“Again,” he growled.

Tiradentes laughed, lowering the sword. “I like the anger. But anger without control just gets you killed faster.”

He extended a hand, helping Tetanus up.

“We’ll continue tomorrow. If you’re still in one piece.”

Tetanus didn’t respond. He just nodded with his thumb.

Chapter 7: Just Like Tooth Decay

Brazilian Empire — Minas Gerais, Last Comradeship Camp — 1662

The scorching midday sun fell like a curse over the Last Comradeship camp. Tetanus, now fourteen years old with muscles more defined after months of brutal training, struck a gnarled tree with his rusty curved sword. Each slash left a deep scar in the bark, parallel marks that told the story of his bottled-up rage.

“More strength!” he whispered to himself, mimicking Zara’s tone. “The enemy won’t wait for you to play nice.”

Sweat dripped down his face, mixing with the dust clinging to his skin. The routine was always the same: wake before dawn, train until his hands turned red, eat whatever was available, and occasionally talk with his friends—Gume, Lâmina, or Farpa. But today, something was different.

A piercing scream cut through the air.

Tetanus froze, the sword still embedded in the wood. The sound came from Tiradentes’s large tent. It wasn’t a battle cry—it was pure, raw pain.

Without thinking, he yanked the sword from the tree and ran.

The commander’s tent was closed, but the screams continued, muffled by the thick canvas. Tetanus pushed through the entrance without ceremony, ready to face any threat—

And found himself staring at a surreal scene.

Tiradentes, the formidable mercenary leader, was hunched over a man writhing in an improvised chair. The patient—a scout Tetanus recognized—had eyes wide with terror as Tiradentes, wielding bloodied pliers, yanked something from his mouth with a sharp motion.

“STOP CRYING!” Tiradentes roared, holding what looked like a molar with the pliers. “YOU SAID NO ANESTHESIA!”

The scout spat blood into a dirty bucket beside him, groaning.

Tetanus stood frozen at the entrance, his sword slowly lowering.

“What’s going on here?”

Tiradentes turned, the pliers still dripping. His eyes lit up when he saw Tetanus.

“Ah, the kid! Come in, come in. Want a little treat too?” The scout choked in the background.

“Why are you pulling teeth?” Tetanus asked, bewildered.

Tiradentes shrugged, wiping the pliers on a stained cloth.

“In my spare time, I’m a dentist. Someone’s gotta do it, and I’ve got the steadiest hand.” He tossed the tooth into a glass jar filled with others, clinking like coins. “Plus, it pays well. Mercenaries live off war, but dentists live off fools with cavities.”

The scout mumbled something unintelligible, clutching his swollen face.

Tetanus looked around. The tent was part war room, part macabre clinic. Battle maps covered a table, next to bottles of alcohol and torturous-looking tools that didn’t seem meant for humans.

“You here for a reason, or you want a check-up too?” Tiradentes asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Heard screams.”

“Oh.” Tiradentes laughed. “So you came to save me? Good to know.” He turned to the scout. “Get out. And put a warm cloth on that.”

The man fled like a scared rabbit, leaving a trail of saliva and blood.

Tiradentes cleaned his hands and grabbed a bottle of beer, taking a swig before offering it to Tetanus.

“Drink. I’ve got a job for you.”

Tetanus waved it off. “What kind of job?”

Tiradentes grinned, his teeth glinting in the tent’s dim light.

“Something’s stealing our supplies. No one sees it, no one hears it. It just disappears.” He leaned forward. “I want you to find out what it is.”

“How much does it pay?”

Tiradentes laughed again, tossing two gold coins onto the table.

“This now. More when you come back with answers.”

Tetanus picked up the coins, feeling their weight in his palm. It was more money than he’d ever held.

“And if it’s something… I can’t handle?”

The commander let out a hearty laugh.

“Then that’s your problem. You shouldn’t have joined this life if you couldn’t handle it, kid.” He pointed to the forest beyond the camp. “And don’t come back without knowing what it is.”

“Alright. When do I start?”

“The thefts always happen at night. So… tonight.” Tiradentes clapped his shoulder. “Good luck.”

Tetanus didn’t know if he was joking, but the gold coins in his pocket said it didn’t matter. It was time for his first mission as a mercenary—and, for the first time in a long while, something akin to purpose.

Tetanus left Tiradentes’s tent as the dead light of dusk painted the camp in sickly orange hues. The mercenaries were gathering around fires for dinner. He needed to prepare, but first, he wanted to talk to Zara. If anyone knew how to survive a nighttime patrol in the forest, it was her.

Asking around, he learned she’d gone to a nearby stream. Tetanus followed the beaten dirt path, the sound of running water reaching him before he saw the stream. The vegetation was denser here, the air thick with the scent of wet earth and green leaves.

“Zara?” he called, pushing aside low branches.

What he saw made him freeze for a moment.

Zara stood waist-deep in the water, her back to him, the muscles of her shoulders defined under her tanned skin. Her red hair, loose and wet, fell in dark strands down her back. She splashed water on her face, rubbing her neck, and Tetanus realized, with a sudden jolt, that she was completely naked.

His heart raced. He should leave. Immediately. But his feet felt rooted to the ground. How convenient.

“Gonna keep staring, or you gonna tell me why you’re here, kid?” Zara’s voice wasn’t angry, but it carried a mocking edge. She didn’t turn, but he saw her shoulders tense slightly, as if ready to crouch or spin in an instant.

Tetanus choked.

“I—I didn’t know you were—”

“Taking a bath? In a stream? Shocking.” She laughed, a hoarse sound, and turned slightly, just enough for him to see the profile of her face but not enough to reveal more than he’d already glimpsed. “Spit it out.”

He closed his eyes for a second, forcing his voice out.

“Tiradentes gave me a mission. Something’s stealing supplies. I’m investigating tonight.”

Zara went quiet for a moment. Then he heard the sound of water moving, and when he opened his eyes, she was facing away again, stepping out of the stream with smooth motions. He quickly averted his gaze, but not before catching her reflection in the water—strong curves, white scars crisscrossing her skin.

“So you’re hunting ghosts.” She grabbed a linen shirt hanging on a branch and dressed with practical, unhurried movements. “Got any guesses what it might be?”

“No.” He was still staring at a tree. “But Tiradentes said no one’s ever seen it.”

“Because it’s either real quiet or real fast.” She appeared beside him, fully dressed, her hair dripping. Her yellow eye studied his face, and he couldn’t tell if she was annoyed or amused by the situation. Even though he was taller than her, he couldn’t help feeling intimidated by the mercenary captain.

Tetanus swallowed hard.

“You believe in that stuff?”

She shrugged.

“Seen too much to doubt anything.” She walked past him, heading back to the camp. “Come on.”

He followed, relieved she hadn’t punched him—and, secretly, a little disappointed too.

---

Night fell over the camp. Tetanus adjusted his worn leather armor, the rusty curved sword—more familiar than any other weapon—hanging at his waist, its worn handle molded to his hand. He carried a canteen of water and a small sack with strips of dried meat, the gold coins from Tiradentes tucked into an inner pocket of his armor, their weight a constant reminder of the mission.

He left the tent, the cold night air biting his exposed skin. The camp was quiet except for the crackling of fires and the snoring of sleeping mercenaries. Zara, Gume, Lâmina, and Farpa had already turned in. He was the only one staying up late.

Tetanus moved silently, his eyes adjusted to the dark, each step calculated to avoid twigs or stones that could give him away. Tiradentes had been clear: something or someone was stealing supplies, and he needed to find out what.

He circled the camp’s perimeter, keeping to the shadows of the trees surrounding the clearing. His senses, sharpened by months of training, picked up every sound: the rustling of leaves, the distant croak of frogs, the wind carrying the scent of damp earth.

Under the faint light of a forgotten torch, he noticed something on the ground—tracks. They weren’t normal. Each mark was from a single foot, deep and irregular, as if whoever made them leaned on something for balance. There was no sign of a second foot. He frowned, his hand instinctively touching the sword’s handle. One foot? The idea seemed absurd, but the tracks formed a clear trail, leading away from the camp into the dense forest.

Tetanus followed the trail, sword in hand, the rusty blade reflecting the pale glint of stars occasionally piercing the clouds. The path led him through a winding trail, the trees growing taller and more twisted as he moved deeper. The forest’s silence was oppressive, broken only by his own footsteps and the pulsing of the mark on his chest, which seemed to throb with an unease he couldn’t explain.

After about half an hour, the trail opened into a clearing where an abandoned farm stood, its wooden fences broken and the main house’s roof collapsing. The one-footed tracks continued, leading straight to the property. Tetanus slowed, crouching behind a fallen fence to observe. The air smelled of rot and something else—a metallic tang, like fresh blood.

He approached an animal collapsed near a barn, its legs bent awkwardly, its thin body trembling with exhaustion. Tetanus moved closer cautiously, sword ready.

The horse’s neck bore strange wounds: two deep punctures surrounded by bruises, as if something had sucked its blood. The animal let out a weak groan, its eyes dull, making Tetanus recoil at the sight. He touched the marks with his fingertips; the skin was still warm, but there was no fresh blood.

He stood and continued following the tracks, which now led to the main house. The door was ajar, hanging on rusty hinges. He pushed it slowly, the creak of wood echoing in the silence. The interior was dark, the smell of mold mixing with something heavier, more visceral. His eyes adjusted, and he saw a body.

The farmer—or what was left of him—was sprawled on the dirt floor, his face unrecognizable, swollen and purple with bruises. His skull was caved in on one side, as if repeatedly struck with something heavy and blunt, perhaps a club or a piece of wood. Blood pooled around him, already starting to dry.

Tetanus approached, sword raised. He examined the body without touching it, noting scratch marks on the man’s hands, as if he’d tried to defend himself. The one-footed tracks were everywhere, circling the body like a macabre dance.

He stepped back. Something was wrong here—this wasn’t just a common thief. Whatever did this was more than human. He looked around for more clues, but the house was empty except for broken furniture and cobwebs. The tracks led out the back door, vanishing into the forest’s darkness beyond the farm.

Tetanus hesitated, his hand tightening on the sword. With the blade in hand, he followed the tracks out of the farm. Now, the forest itself seemed to watch him.

---

Tetanus followed the one-footed tracks, the forest’s darkness swallowing him as the trees closed in around him. The trail was treacherous, with exposed roots and loose stones, the air heavy with humidity and the metallic scent that had haunted him since the farm.

The tracks continued, deep and irregular, leading him deeper into the woods. The forest’s silence was suddenly broken by a strong wind, a howl that seemed to come from nowhere, sending leaves swirling around him.

Tetanus stopped, sword raised, eyes scanning the darkness. The wind wasn’t natural—he felt it in his bones. The trees creaked, their branches bending as if pressed by an invisible force.

Suddenly, something struck his hand with inhuman force, wrenching the sword from his fingers. The blade flew, spinning through the air until it lodged in a tree trunk meters away, out of reach.

Tetanus spun, heart racing, searching for the attacker, but there was nothing but the wind and dancing shadows. He clenched his fists, muscles tense, and grabbed the canteen at his waist, an idea forming.

His sharpened senses caught a faint shift in the air to his left, a near-silent sound of something moving fast. Without hesitation, he opened the canteen and flung the water in a wide arc.

The water hit something in the air, and what was once invisible took form. The creature materialized as if the water had torn a veil, revealing a grotesque being that made Tetanus step back.

It was a Saci, but not like the childish tales of the empire. This was a malnourished abomination, its coal-black skin stretched tight over jagged bones, as if it hadn’t eaten in decades. Dressed in a makeshift red jumpsuit, its single leg, thin as a dry twig, ended in a deformed foot with curved claws digging into the ground. The other leg stump—or whatever the devil it was—was a grotesquely long penis. Its face was a mask of horror: sunken eyes glowing with a sickly red from constant smoking, like dying embers, a mouth too wide, always grinning, filled with crooked teeth like bone shards. A tattered, dirt-stained red cap hung on its head, emitting a faint supernatural glow. The Saci held a lit pipe, its laughter a sarcastic hiss, as if mocking existence itself.

“Thought you’d catch me that easy, kid?” the creature spat, its voice rough and full of scorn. “I’m hungry, and you look like a nice snack!”

Before Tetanus could respond, the wind intensified, and more laughter echoed around him. Six other forms appeared, each as grotesque as the first, materializing as if the air itself had vomited them. It was essentially a gang of Sacis, all with the same starved, deformed look: skeletal bodies with visible ribs under cracked skin, arms too long ending in hands with knife-like nails. Their red caps, some torn, others stained with dried blood, seemed to pulse with a life of their own. Each hopped on a single leg, their other limb swinging unnaturally.

The creatures circled him rapidly, their demonic laughter cutting the air like blades.

Tetanus pressed his back against a tree, swordless, heart pounding. They were fast, unpredictable, and didn’t seem the type to play fair. The first Saci lunged, spinning through the air like a whirlwind, claws aiming for Tetanus’s face. He dodged by a hair, the strike tearing bark from the tree behind him. Another Saci kicked at his legs, trying to trip him, while a third threw a handful of dirt in his eyes.

Tetanus spat as he stumbled back, rubbing his face, his rage reigniting.

He spat out the bitter dirt sticking to his lips, his eyes burning. The Sacis’ laughter echoed like rotten church bells, each cackle a needle in his skull.

“Look at the little orphan, all scared!” one screeched, spinning on its single leg like a crazed top.

“Gonna cry? WHY DON’T YOU RUN BACK TO YOUR MOMMY’S SKIRT?” another spat, its claws scraping the ground like sharpened knives.

Tetanus didn’t answer. His body moved before his mind could catch up—a feral instinct that smelled of blood and opportunity. The first Saci attacked, launching itself like a human dart, claws aimed at the boy’s neck.

Tetanus dove to the side, twisting his body in the air. His hand closed around a fallen branch—rotten but long enough to serve as a club. The Saci zipped past with a hiss, but before it could recover, Tetanus swung and smashed the branch against its nape.

The impact was wet. The Saci faceplanted into the dirt, its red cap slipping like peeled skin. The others paused for a fraction of a second—long enough for Tetanus to snatch the cap.

“Die without this, you bastard!”

The fabric glowed, pulsing like a dying heart. The Saci choked as if suffocating, its skeletal body writhing. Then, with a sharp crack, it vanished in a cloud of sulfurous smoke.

The other Sacis howled with rage.

“SON OF A BITCH, HE KILLED LIL UZI JO!”

“YOU’LL PAY WITH YOUR SKIN, FILTHY ORPHAN!”

The attack came from all sides.

One Saci leaped from a tree, claws aiming for Tetanus’s eyes. He ducked, letting the monster sail overhead, and drove the rotten branch into the ribs of another charging in. The wood shattered against bone, but the creature just laughed, spitting a stream of black saliva.

“That won’t work, BRAT!” And then it vanished in a cloud of sulfur.

Tetanus ran, the gang of Sacis hot on his heels.

He rummaged through his sack again, searching for anything to use against them. He found nothing but another canteen of water, so he figured he might do them a favor and clean their filthy mouths.

The Saci screeched as the water hit, its skin steaming like raw flesh, cracking and smoking, revealing a more demonic form beneath.

“WATER! CURSED WATER!”

Tetanus ran, the forest a blur of shadows and branches whipping his face. The wind howled, carrying the Sacis’ laughter, a demonic chorus that seemed to tear the air itself. The one-footed tracks, now multiplied, marked the ground ahead, as if the gang of mocking spirits was toying with him, leading him into a trap.

The mark on his chest pulsed hot, a burning pain that seemed to respond to the chaos around him.

The six remaining Sacis pursued, hopping on their single legs with impossible agility, their skeletal bodies slicing through the air like living blades. They hurled insults, their voices blending into a tumult of scorn and hatred.

“Look at the little punk running!” one, with a crooked cap and a scar across its face, screeched. “SCARED OF US, YOU LITTLE SHIT?”

“YOU’RE BIG BUT YOU AIN’T ALL THAT!”

“NO, IT’S ‘YOU’RE ALL THAT BUT YOU AIN’T BIG,’ YOU DUMBASS!”

Some Sacis were so chaotic they even argued among themselves.

“CHECK OUT THE BOSS’S STRETCH!” another bellowed, its grotesque penis swinging as it leaped between trees. “Oops, forgot—ORPHANS DON’T HAVE MOMMIES!”

Tetanus gritted his teeth, rage burning hotter than fear.

He stopped running, planting his feet in the muddy ground, and turned to face the creatures. His hand tightened on the rotten branch, now reduced to a jagged stump, but it wasn’t like he needed a sword to fight.

The first Saci attacked, spinning in a whirlwind of claws and teeth, its pipe spewing acrid smoke that burned Tetanus’s lungs. The mercenary dove to the side, the strike missing his face by inches, tearing bark from a nearby tree. He countered, driving the branch into the creature’s thigh, the impact reverberating through his arms. The Saci screamed, but not in pain—it was a laugh, a gurgling sound.

“THAT ALL YOU GOT, KID?” the creature spat, its skin cracking where the branch hit, revealing black, pulsing flesh, as if the Saci was unraveling into something more demonic. “YOU’LL NEED MORE THAN A LITTLE STICK!”

Tetanus didn’t wait. He yanked the branch free and, with a swift motion, aimed for the red cap. The creature tried to dodge, but he was faster, his fingers closing on the tattered fabric. The Saci screamed, a sound not human, like scraping metal.

Tetanus pulled hard, clutching the cap, and the creature exploded in a cloud of foul-smelling smoke, the stench burning his nostrils.

“Two!” he shouted, more to himself, adrenaline surging through his veins. “Who’s next, you bastards?”

The five remaining Sacis stopped, their laughter ceasing for a moment. Their eyes glowed with hatred, their forms shifting, skin cracking further to reveal tendons and bones that looked like burning coal and sulfur. One pointed a claw at Tetanus.

“YOU KILLED LIL UZI AND JOE!” it roared, its voice shaking the forest. “GET HIM, BOYS! GET HIM!”

They attacked in unison, a blur of single legs and razor-sharp claws. Tetanus dove backward, rolling through the mud to avoid a strike that tore a chunk from his leather armor. He sprang up, grabbing a fist-sized rock and hurling it at the nearest Saci. The rock smashed into the creature’s face, shattering a crooked tooth. The Saci staggered, cursing.

“SON OF A BITCH! MY TOOTH!” It spat a stream of black blood but didn’t stop, lunging at Tetanus with monstrous speed.

Tetanus dodged by a hair, feeling the claws tear through his armor’s sleeve. He needed his sword. His eyes found the rusty blade lodged in a tree meters away, but another Saci was already there, laughing as it yanked the sword free and tossed it into the darkness.

“WANT YOUR LITTLE KNIFE, KID? GO FETCH IT IN HELL!” the Saci mocked, twirling its pipe like a weapon.

Tetanus, with no time to think, darted to the side, diving between trees, using the terrain to his advantage. He grabbed another branch, this one sturdier, and swung it like a club.

One Saci leaped at him, but Tetanus spun, striking the creature mid-jump. The impact sent the Saci crashing into a tree, the sound of breaking bones echoing through the night. The creature rose, its skin now fully cracked, revealing a red glow beneath, like lava.

“TRUCO! FOOL!” the Saci shouted, its voice now deeper, almost inhuman. It charged again.

The mercenary was faster. He lunged, using the momentum to snatch the creature’s cap. The Saci howled, its body convulsing before exploding in another cloud of fetid smoke.

“Three!” Tetanus shouted, panting, his chest burning with the action.

The four remaining Sacis were enraged, their forms growing more demonic. Their skin cracked like charred tree bark, their eyes glowing with a red so intense it lit the surroundings. They no longer laughed—they growled, their mouths spewing flames.

“YOU’RE MAKING THE CREW WORK FOR IT!” one, with a torn cap, spat, lunging at Tetanus with an outstretched claw.

The mercenary ducked, letting the claw slice the air above his head, and kicked the Saci’s single leg, making it lose balance. He seized the moment, grabbing the cap and yanking with all his strength. The Saci screamed, its claws raking Tetanus’s arm, leaving bloody gashes, but the cap gave way. The Saci melted slowly into dust.

“FOUR!” Tetanus roared, blood dripping down his arm, the pain only fueling his rage.

The three remaining Sacis changed tactics. They didn’t attack directly but began circling Tetanus, hopping from tree to tree, their laughter returning, now crueler, more desperate. One threw a rock, hitting the mercenary’s shoulder, drawing a groan of pain. Another raked his face near the nose, leaving an ‘X’-shaped gash, momentarily blinding him.

“TIRED YET, ORPHAN?” a Saci mocked, its voice echoing from all sides. “YOUR RAGE WON’T SAVE YOU!”

Tetanus blinked, trying to clear his eyes, and felt a blow to his back, strong enough to drop him to his knees. He rolled to the side, dodging another attack, and grabbed a handful of dirt, throwing it at the nearest Saci. The creature recoiled, cursing.

The mercenary seized the chance to dart to a fallen tree, using it as a shield. He searched for something—anything.

His eyes found a broken branch with a sharp tip, like an improvised spear. He grabbed it, feeling its solid weight in his hands.

When the next Saci attacked, leaping with a deafening scream, Tetanus drove the branch into its chest. The wood pierced the cracked skin, and the Saci howled, its demonic form pulsing with a red glow.

The mercenary didn’t hesitate—he yanked the cap off with his free hand, and the creature melted into dust, the stench nearly making him vomit.

“FIVE!” he shouted, his voice hoarse.

The two remaining Sacis hesitated, their eyes glinting with what might have been fear. Their forms were nearly unrecognizable now, skin fully cracked, revealing a demonic musculature that seemed made of embers and shadow. The larger one pointed at the mercenary.

“YOU WON’T WIN, KID!” it roared, its voice shaking the trees. “WE’RE ETERNAL!”

“Then why you scared?” Tetanus spat, gripping the makeshift spear with both hands.

The larger Saci attacked, spinning in a whirlwind so fast Tetanus could barely track it. He raised the spear, but the Saci dodged, its claws slashing the boy’s flank, tearing through armor and skin.

Tetanus grunted in pain, warm blood flowing, but he used the pain as fuel. He swung the spear, hitting the Saci’s single leg, making it fall with a screech. Before the creature could recover, Tetanus leaped on it, ripping the cap off with a savage pull. The sulfurous explosion threw him back, but the Saci was gone.

“SIX!” he shouted, panting, collapsing to his knees.

The last Saci stood still.

It didn’t attack, just stared at him, its eyes glowing with a mix of hatred and respect.

“You’re different, kid,” it said, its voice low, almost a whisper. “But this ain’t over.”

Before the mercenary could respond, the Saci leaped, spinning in a flaming tornado. Tetanus rolled to the side, spear still in hand, and threw it with all his remaining strength. The wood struck the Saci in the shoulder, bringing it down. Tetanus ran, ignoring the pain in his flank and shoulder, and ripped off the final cap with a roar of rage. The last sulfurous explosion engulfed him.

Tetanus stood in place, his chest heaving, adjusting to the exhaustion.

When the smoke cleared, the forest was silent. The Sacis were dead.

Tetanus stood panting, his body covered in cuts and blood. He held the seven caps in his hands, the fabric still warm, pulsing faintly.

He rose, staggering, unable to find his sword.

The forest was quiet now.

Too quiet.

After all that chaos, he remembered he still needed to return to the camp. Tiradentes wanted answers, and Tetanus had gotten far more than that.

Chapter 8: A Day of Noble

Last Comradeship Camp

The first light of dawn painted the camp in sickly orange hues as Tetanus stumbled through the stake gate. His body was a wreck—his leather armor torn in several places, the cuts on his face and arms already forming dark crusts of dried blood. In his right hand, he carried a bundle of tattered red caps, still faintly smoking, with his canteen and supply pouch tied to his waist.

Farpa was the first to see him. The young soldier dropped the water bucket he was carrying, his eyes wide.

“CRIPES!” his shrill voice cut through the morning silence. “TETANUS IS BACK!”

Within seconds, Gume and Lâmina appeared from behind the tents. Gume, with his frayed red scarf and arms crossed, whistled at the sight of his friend’s condition.

“Hey, buddy, looks like you fought the devil... and lost,” he commented, his eyes scanning the wounds.

Lâmina, more pragmatic, was already holding a clean cloth and a bottle of aguardiente. Without ceremony, she poured the liquid onto one of the deeper cuts on Tetanus’s arm.

“Ow!” he grunted, recoiling.

“Calm down, relax,” she muttered, bandaging the wound with precise movements. “Spill it, idiot. What happened?”

Tetanus opened his mouth to answer when a deep voice echoed behind them:
“Let me guess...”

Tiradentes emerged like a ghost, his white shirt unbuttoned three times, long dark pants, and tall boots. The commander’s dark eyes fixed on the red caps in Tetanus’s hand, and for the first time since they’d known him, Tetanus saw something akin to surprise on the old mercenary’s face.

“Seven Sacis?” Tiradentes whistled softly, picking up one of the caps and rubbing the fabric between his fingers. “And you came back with your skin still on. Impressive.”

Gume snorted:
“Not that intact, boss.”

Tiradentes ignored the comment, studying Tetanus as if seeing him for the first time.

“And the supplies?”

“They were the ones stealing,” Tetanus replied, his voice hoarse. “Found the remains in an abandoned barn. They’d killed a horse... drank its blood.”

A heavy silence fell over the group. Even Farpa stopped bouncing.

“Damn,” Gume muttered, adjusting his scarf. “That’s something, huh?”

Tiradentes tossed the cap back to Tetanus, the corners of his mouth twitching upward slightly.

“Looks like someone deserves a bonus.” He pulled a small leather pouch from his belt and tossed it to Tetanus. “And some advice.”

Tetanus caught the pouch, feeling the satisfying weight of coins. “What’s that?”

“Spend it in Ouro Preto. Buy some decent armor, maybe a sword that doesn’t look like it came from a junkyard.” The commander glanced at the caps again. “And sell those rags to some superstitious fool. They’re probably worth a small fortune.”

Lâmina nudged Tetanus with her elbow:
“Can I tag along? It’s been ages since I saw a decent city.”

“Me too!” Farpa bounced like a rabbit, his broken tooth showing in a wide grin.

Gume sighed, but Tetanus saw the glint of interest in his eyes.

Tiradentes was already turning away when he said over his shoulder:
“Just don’t die. And Tetanus?” He paused without turning. “Good work. Really.”

Tetanus tucked the red caps into his pouch and walked with Gume, Lâmina, and Farpa toward the camp’s central area. The adrenaline from the previous night still pulsed in his veins, but exhaustion weighed like lead on his shoulders. He needed food, a bath, and maybe a corner to collapse for a few hours. His friends surrounded him, talking over each other, Farpa hopping and asking about the Sacis, while Lâmina tried to convince him to split the coins for a “decent night” in Ouro Preto.

“Dude, you killed seven Sacis!” Farpa exclaimed, nearly tripping over his own feet. “How are you not bragging more? I’d be telling everyone!”

“He’s exhausted, kid,” Lâmina shot back, smacking Farpa’s neck. “Let the guy breathe.”

Gume, walking with arms crossed and his red scarf swaying, chuckled softly. “Exhausted or not, Tetanus, you’re a legend now. Even Tiradentes is impressed, and that guy’s impressed by nothing.”

Tetanus just grunted, eyes fixed on the ground ahead. He didn’t feel like a legend. He was about to respond when a figure appeared, blocking the dirt path to the tents.

The mercenary leaned against a stake, arms crossed, a crooked smile twisting his lean face. His narrow eyes gleamed with malice, wearing worn boots, dirty linen pants, and a torn shirt that revealed the lean muscles of someone who survived more by cunning than brute strength.

“Look who’s back, the camp’s hero,” Rastro said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He stepped forward, away from the stake. “Killed some little monsters and thinks he’s king, huh?”

Tetanus stopped, muscles tense. Gume, Lâmina, and Farpa halted too, exchanging glances. The tension in the air was palpable, like the heat before a storm.

“Get out of the way, Rastro,” Tetanus said, his voice low but firm. He wasn’t in the mood for games, not after the night he’d had.

Rastro laughed, a dry, taunting sound. “Get out of the way? I just wanna see if you’re all they’re saying.” He spat on the ground, eyes fixed on Tetanus. “Or are you only good against one-legged critters?”

Farpa opened his mouth to say something, but Lâmina grabbed his shoulder, silencing him. Gume just watched, face impassive, but with a glint that suggested something was about to erupt.

Tetanus stepped forward, his hand instinctively hovering over the empty space where his sword should’ve been. He’d lost it in the forest, and now all he had was exhaustion and a battered body. “Wanna test me? Come on, then.”

Rastro didn’t hesitate. With a speed that caught Tetanus off guard, he lunged, low and fast like a snake. His right leg shot out in a sweep, aiming for Tetanus’s ankles. The boy jumped by instinct, but Rastro was already moving, spinning and landing a quick kick to Tetanus’s thigh, making him stumble as pain exploded in the muscle.

“Fast, huh?” Rastro mocked, hopping back, boots kicking up dust. “Not fast enough!”

Tetanus gritted his teeth, anger reigniting the fire that had kept him going. He charged, fists clenched, but Rastro was slippery. The mercenary spun, using his legs like weapons, landing another kick that hit Tetanus’s knee, forcing it to buckle. A crowd was forming—other mercenaries drawn by the noise—laughing and shouting, some cheering for Rastro, others just enjoying the show.

“Beat him, Rastro!” someone yelled.

“Show the punk who’s boss!” another echoed.

Tetanus ignored the voices, focusing on Rastro’s movement patterns. He was fast, using his legs like blades, striking low to unbalance. But Tetanus had faced worse the previous night. He feigned another charge, letting Rastro attempt another sweep. When the mercenary’s leg came, Tetanus jumped, but this time leaned back in the air, using his body’s weight to land a kick on Rastro’s chest.

The impact made Rastro stagger, air escaping his lungs with a grunt. He recovered quickly, eyes blazing with rage. “You little shit!” he spat, charging with a flurry of quick kicks, one aimed at the ribs, another at the stomach.

Tetanus blocked the first with his forearm, but the second hit, knocking the breath out of him. He fell to his knees, the crowd roaring. Rastro seized the moment, leaping to deliver a final kick to Tetanus’s head, but the boy was faster. He rolled aside, grabbing Rastro’s supporting leg mid-motion and yanking hard.

Rastro lost his balance, crashing onto his back with a thud. Before he could get up, Tetanus was on him, knee pressing into his chest, hand gripping the collar of his torn shirt. Tetanus’s fist hovered, ready to strike, but he stopped, panting, eyes locked on Rastro’s.

“It’s over,” Tetanus said, voice hoarse but steady.

Rastro, face red with anger and humiliation, spat to the side. “This isn’t over, kid,” he growled, shoving Tetanus off to stand. He rose, brushing dirt from his pants, his narrow eyes burning with hatred. “You’ll regret this.”

Without another word, Rastro turned and limped away, the crowd booing and laughing. Some mercenaries shouted taunts, others returned to their tasks, the show over.

Gume, a hulking figure who could’ve stopped the fight earlier, approached, clapping Tetanus’s shoulder. “Damn, man, you’re collecting enemies faster than I thought.”

Lâmina laughed, crossing her arms. “He’s always been like that. Rastro’s a jerk, but he’s harmless. Just hates losing.”

Farpa, still bouncing with excitement, pointed at Tetanus. “You’re badass, man! Should’ve broken his nose!”

Tetanus didn’t reply. He adjusted the pouch at his waist and glanced where Rastro had vanished. Something in the mercenary’s look—not just anger, but a glint of envy and resentment—bothered him. Deep down, he was certain this wouldn’t be their last clash.

“Let’s eat,” he said finally, voice tired. “Before someone else wants to fight.”

Gume laughed, slapping Tetanus’s back, while Lâmina and Farpa followed him to one of the campfires, where the smell of mushroom stew was already spreading.

The sun was high when Tetanus finally right the campfire, his stomach full with the stew that, despite its questionable smell, tasted decent. Gume, Lâmina, and Farpa kept talking animatedly, retelling the fight with Rastro and speculating about what they’d do with the gold coins.

He, however, just wanted a moment of peace. His body ached, the cuts stung under Lâmina’s makeshift bandages. He needed a bath and rest—lots of rest.

He headed to the stream where he’d met Zara the previous night. The memory of her in the water, naked and unashamed, made his cheeks flush, but he pushed the thought away. No time for distractions. He needed to clean the dirt, dried blood, and lingering sulfur smell clinging to his skin.

The stream ran calmly, its clear water reflecting the gray rays piercing the tree canopy. Tetanus set his pouch and canteen on a smooth rock by the water’s edge, carefully removing his torn leather armor. Each movement made his muscles scream, and he noticed new bruises forming on his ribs and shoulder, courtesy of the fight with the Sacis and the clash with Rastro. He tossed the armor to the ground, followed by his dirty shirt, and stepped into the cold water, the shock drawing a sigh of relief.

The icy water soothed his cuts, washing away dried blood and dust. He dunked his head, scrubbing his face with his hands, careful of the cloth covering his right eye. The fabric was grimy, stained with sweat and dirt, and he decided it was time to replace it. Stepping out of the stream, he grabbed his pouch and pulled out a clean piece of linen Lâmina had given him. Sitting on the rock, he untied the old cloth, revealing the crescent-shaped scar where his eye should’ve been. The scar was old, but memories of his former caretaker felt fresh.

He tied the new cloth carefully, adjusting it to cover the void without pressing too hard. The fresh linen was a small comfort, but he couldn’t escape the weight of that empty space, a constant reminder of something lost. He was finishing the knot when he heard light footsteps on the path.

“Didn’t know you were so vain,” a familiar voice said, laced with that mocking tone he knew well.

Tetanus turned and saw Zara approaching, her boots firm on the dirt. She wore a loose linen shirt, sleeves rolled to her elbows, and leather pants with torn patches. Her red hair was tied in a loose ponytail, her green eyes gleaming with a mix of curiosity and amusement. She stopped a few steps away, arms crossed below her chest, tilting her head.

“How you holding up, kid?” she asked, her tone more serious now, though still carrying that testing edge. “You can talk.”

Tetanus shrugged, his gaze subtly drifting to Zara’s chest. “I’m alive. That’s something.”

Zara laughed softly, sitting on a nearby rock, legs crossed. “Alive and with seven Saci caps. That’s more than ‘something.’ Tiradentes won’t shut up about you. I think he’s even considering promoting you.”

Tetanus snorted. “Don’t want a promotion. Just want a day without someone trying to kill me.”

“Good luck with that,” Zara said, a half-smile tugging at her lips. She fell silent for a moment, her eyes fixed on the cloth covering Tetanus’s eye. “And that?” She nodded toward it. “What happened to your eye?”

Tetanus hesitated, his hand instinctively touching the fresh linen. He didn’t talk about it. Not even with his friends, not even with Farpa, who asked about everything all the time. But Zara was different. There was something in her manner—direct, without pity or judgment—that made the truth feel less heavy.

“A crow,” he said finally, voice low, almost swallowed by the stream’s murmur. “When I was a baby. Tore out my eye before anyone could do anything. I don’t remember much, but... the person who raised me told me once. I heard someone say I was born cursed.”

Zara just nodded. “Crows are bastards,” she said lightly, but with a hint of empathy. “But you know what’s worse? Surviving a crow and still dealing with idiots like Rastro. You’re doing alright, kid.”

Tetanus gave a faint smile, his first in hours. “Thanks. I guess.”

She stood, stretching her arms as if ready to get back to work. “Finish cleaning up and rest. Tomorrow’s another day, and something tells me you’ll need all the energy you can muster.” She paused, glancing at the pouch. “And keep those things safe. If they’re as valuable as Tiradentes says, don’t let anyone steal them.”

“Got it,” Tetanus replied, tying the pouch tightly to his waist.

Zara gave a short wave and started to walk away but stopped, glancing over her shoulder. “And, Tetanus? Don’t let Rastro bait you again. He’s fast, but you’re smarter. Use that.”

He nodded, watching her disappear down the path, her bootsteps blending with the stream’s murmur. He returned to the camp, finding a quiet spot near his tent. He spread a tarp on the ground, lay down, and closed his eye, exhaustion finally overtaking the adrenaline.

The sky above was dead, as always, but Tetanus felt a spark of anticipation, imagining what it’d be like to visit a big city for the first time, and whether Ouro Preto would be as peaceful as Maragônia.

Tetanus woke with a start, his body refreshed from the previous day, gray rays hitting his face and rousing him. He lay on the tarp beside his tent, the damp ground under his back. His sleep had been deep but restless, haunted by uneasy dreams of traumas he’d been trying to bury.

He rubbed his face, the new cloth over his right eye still secure, and sat up, every muscle protesting.

The pouch with the coins and red caps was beside him, and he pulled it close, the familiar weight a small comfort. But when he untied the knot and looked inside, his heart froze. The gold coins were still there, hidden at the bottom, but the seven red caps—his battle trophies—were gone. The space where he’d kept them was empty, save for a faint sulfur smell that seemed to mock him.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, fists clenching. Only one person could’ve done this. Rastro.

Rage made him leap up, ignoring the ache in his ribs. He tied the pouch to his waist, grabbed his canteen, and stormed out of the tent, eyes scanning the camp. The place was still waking, with mercenaries lighting fires and hauling water buckets. Tetanus didn’t waste time. He knew where to find Rastro—the bastard was probably bragging somewhere, thinking he’d won.

As he crossed the camp, he heard a commotion near the stake gate. Muffled shouts and the sound of something hitting wood made him quicken his pace. Turning a corner, he saw Gume, the hulking figure, pinning Rastro against a wooden wall, his forearm pressing the mercenary’s throat. Rastro thrashed, face red, spitting insults between gasps.

“You idiot!” Rastro growled, trying to push Gume off. “Let me go, or I’ll cut you to pieces!”

Gume didn’t budge, his eyes cold as stone. “You’re not cutting anything, you rat. Give back what you stole.”

Tetanus stopped a few meters away, rage still simmering but now mixed with curiosity. Gume turned his head, noticing his approach, his face serious but with a faint glint of satisfaction.

“Tetanus, take this,” Gume said, tossing a cloth bundle toward him.

Tetanus caught it mid-air, unfolding it quickly. There were the seven red caps, still faintly glowing with that supernatural shimmer, the tattered fabric warm to the touch. He looked back at Gume, who now shoved Rastro hard, making him stumble and fall to the dirt.

“Get up and get lost, Rastro,” Gume said, his deep voice echoing in the damp air. “If I catch you messing with Tetanus’s stuff again, it won’t just be a few slaps.”

Rastro stood, brushing dirt from his pants, his narrow eyes burning with hatred. He spat on the ground, glaring from Tetanus to Gume. “You two will regret this. This isn’t over.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned and slunk away, disappearing among the tents.

Tetanus gripped the caps, his anger giving way to cautious relief. “How’d you know?” he asked, looking at Gume.

Gume shrugged, adjusting his scarf. “Saw the bastard skulking around your tent at dawn. He thought he was being clever, but I sleep lighter than I look.” He clapped Tetanus’s shoulder, nearly knocking him over. “Now keep those safe, man. And you owe me one.”

Tetanus nodded, tucking the caps back into the pouch. “Thanks, Gume. Seriously.”

“Cut the mushy stuff,” Gume replied, laughing. “Come on, let’s grab Lâmina and Farpa. Weren’t you headed to Ouro Preto to spend those coins?”

Half an hour later, Tetanus, Gume, Lâmina, and Farpa were ready to leave. Tetanus had swapped his dirty shirt for a clean one, though his torn leather armor was still his only protection. He carried the pouch with the coins and caps, now secured more carefully, and a full canteen. Gume had a halberd slung across his back, its worn handle steady, while Lâmina adjusted a long knife at her waist, her eyes gleaming at the prospect of a city. Farpa, as always, bounced ahead, carrying a small backpack that seemed more stuffed with enthusiasm than supplies.

“Ouro Preto, uai!” Farpa exclaimed. “Bet there’s tons of stuff to buy! Like, cool daggers!”

Lâmina rolled her eyes. “If you spend it all on candy, I’ll tie you to a tree and leave you there.”

Gume laughed, walking beside Tetanus. “Relax, we’ll keep the kid in line. You decided what to buy yet? A new sword, like Tiradentes said?”

Tetanus shrugged, the pouch’s weight at his waist a constant reminder. “Maybe. Wanna see what’s there first. Never been to a big city.”

“Ouro Preto’s an interesting place,” Lâmina said with a crooked smile. “Full of merchants, drunks, some thieves. Like the camp, but with more gold and fewer Sacis. It’s technically one of the few cities that hasn’t fallen to the kingdom’s rot.”

“Hope so,” Tetanus murmured, memories of Maragônia surfacing. He glanced back, half-expecting to see Rastro lurking, but the camp was fading behind them, tents disappearing among the trees.

The group followed the dirt path, the dead sun hidden by dark clouds. The trail gave way to uneven cobblestones as they finally sighted Ouro Preto.

The city emerged among gray-green hills, stone houses with red roofs crowded as if vying for space. The air carried the scent of smoke, tanned leather, and fried food, mixed with the clamor of merchants shouting prices, creaking carts, and laughter echoing from taverns. It was a stark contrast to the oppressive silence of the Last Comradeship Camp, and Tetanus felt a tightness in his chest—not fear, but a strange excitement.

Farpa, as usual, couldn’t stay quiet. “Look at this!” he shouted, pointing at a street vendor with a tray of stuffed bread. “Dude, they’ve got food that’s not rancid soup! We’re in paradise!”

Lâmina snapped at him. “Focus, kid. We’re here to spend smart, not stuff your face with dough.”

Gume laughed, his halberd swaying on his back. “Let the kid dream, Lâmina. But he’s right, this place is another world.” He looked at Tetanus, who walked silently, the pouch of coins and caps secure at his waist. “You ready to spend those coins, Tetanus?”

Tetanus shrugged. “First, I wanna see what I can buy. Tiradentes said these coins are worth a lot.”

The group stopped in a bustling square, surrounded by merchant stalls and wooden storefronts. A blacksmith hammered an anvil in the distance, while a woman shouted prices for colorful fabrics.

Tetanus opened the pouch, counting the gold coins Tiradentes had given him. There were thirty gleaming pieces, each stamped with the seal of the current king, Dom Pedro II. He’d heard a gold coin was worth about a hundred réis in goods, giving the group a total of 3000 réis—a small fortune for mercenaries like them.

“Alright,” Lâmina said, crossing her arms and eyeing the coins with a calculating glint. “Let’s split it fair. Seven coins each, and two extra for Tetanus since he killed the Sacis. Fair?”

Farpa pouted. “Why’s he get the extras?”

“Because he almost died for those caps, you ungrateful brat,” Lâmina snapped, flicking Farpa’s ear.

Gume chimed in, “Take it or get nothing.” His looming shadow hung over the group.

Farpa grumbled but nodded. Tetanus handed seven coins to each, keeping nine for himself. He still didn’t know what to do with the red caps but decided to sell them only after finding a buyer who wouldn’t cheat him.

“Alright, every man for himself,” Gume said, rubbing his hands. “I’m hitting the bar over there. I can smell good cachaça from here.” He pointed to a tavern with a crooked sign reading “Twisted Goose Tavern.” “Who’s with me?”

Lâmina rolled her eyes. “You’re gonna blow it all on booze? Pathetic.”

“Pathetic’s you not knowing how to have fun,” Gume shot back, already walking off with a wave. “See you at the end of the day! Or when I wake up.”

Farpa bounced with excitement, eyes fixed on a stall full of weapons glinting in the sun. “I want a bow!” he declared, sprinting toward the vendor before anyone could stop him.

Lâmina sighed. “Better go after him before he buys an arrow he can’t even use.” She looked at Tetanus. “And you? Know what you want?”

“A sword,” Tetanus said, voice firm. “Something that won’t break on the first hit... or get kicked away.”

Lâmina gave a half-smile. “Good choice. Go for it, buddy. We’ll meet at the square before sunset.”

Tetanus headed to the forge he’d seen entering the square, the sound of a hammer on metal guiding his steps. The blacksmith, a burly man in a soot-stained leather apron, looked up as Tetanus approached. The stall was packed with blades: knives, daggers, short swords, and some exotic weapons like hatchets and sickles. But what caught Tetanus’s eye was a greatsword on a wooden stand. It was a two-handed weapon, its polished steel blade reflecting the cloudy sky. The hilt was simple, the kind elite city guards might use.

“Interested, kid?” the blacksmith asked, wiping his hands on a dirty rag. “That’s a war sword. Quality steel, forged to last. Heavy as hell, but cuts like a dream.”

Tetanus picked up the sword, testing its weight. It was heavier than anything he’d held, but months of camp training had strengthened his arms. He swung the blade with both hands, feeling its balance. It was perfect—not just a tool, but an extension of his rage.

“How much?” he asked, eyes still on the blade.

“Eight gold coins,” the blacksmith replied, crossing his arms. “And don’t haggle, it’s inflation.”

Tetanus hesitated briefly, but the sword’s weight in his hands felt right. He handed over eight coins, leaving just one in the pouch, and looked for a way to strap the new weapon. The blade at his side was a comfort he didn’t know he needed.

Meanwhile, at the weapons stall, Farpa haggled with a sharp-eyed vendor. The boy held a polished recurve bow with a taut string and a handful of colorful feathered arrows. “This is perfect!” he exclaimed, testing the string with eager fingers. “How much?”

“Five coins,” the vendor said, rubbing his chin. “And I’ll throw in ten arrows free.”

Farpa paid without hesitation, spending nearly all his coins, and left the stall with the bow in hand, already aiming at imaginary targets. “Lâmina, look at this! I’m gonna be the best archer in the camp!”

“You’ll shoot your own foot,” Lâmina mocked, but her eyes were fixed on a scimitar at another stall. The curved blade gleamed with an almost mirrored finish. She approached, testing its weight with one hand. “This one’s mine,” she said, almost to herself.

“How much?” she asked the vendor, a woman with gray braided hair.

“Six coins,” the woman replied.

“Six coins? What a robbery!”

Lâmina paid, sheathing the scimitar in a new scabbard that cost her last coin. She spun the blade in the air, her movements swift and precise, and smiled. “Now I’m ready for anything.”

---

The group reunited in the square at dusk, as agreed. Gume returned from the tavern, face slightly flushed, reeking of beer. He carried a half-empty bottle and a wide grin. “Best day of my life,” he declared, raising the bottle like a trophy. “And I’ve still got one coin for tomorrow!”

Farpa showed off his bow, trying to convince Lâmina to let him shoot at an apple he’d stolen from a stall. Lâmina, with her scimitar at her waist, just rolled her eyes, while Tetanus adjusted his greatsword, still getting used to its weight.

“Gume! You gotta help me strap this to my back,” Tetanus said, eyeing Gume.

Gume handed over his halberd’s scabbard. “Here. It’s big enough for that little sword of yours…”

“And now?” Gume asked, taking a swig from his bottle. “Find a place to sleep or spend the rest of the cash?”

“You guys can sleep,” Tetanus said, voice firm. “I’m gonna try to find someone to buy these caps.”

Lâmina nodded. “Good idea. But watch who you deal with. Ouro Preto’s full of crooks who’ll try to rip you off.”

Farpa, still playing with his bow, pointed to an inn across the square. “There! Looks warm and smells like food!”

The group headed toward the inn, the city’s noise enveloping them like a wave. Tetanus walked in the opposite direction, hand on his new sword’s hilt, eyes alert. Ouro Preto might be a place of opportunities, but he knew deep down it was also a place of dangers.

Tetanus crossed the street, heading away from the inn. But at the corner, he was hit by a wave of impure sounds and movements from the open door of a brothel.

He approached the entrance slowly, his eyes widening at the obscene scene unfolding before him. Scantily clad or outright naked women mingled in the shadows, while loud, older men drank and caroused, many with hands on forbidden parts of the women.

Tetanus felt a strange heat rise to his face. It was repulsive, yet fascinating. He’d never seen anything so explicit, even in the orphanage, and being alone in an unfamiliar city made it all the more dangerous and thrilling.

With a firm grip on his sword’s hilt, he entered, a crowd of curious eyes staring. A fat, bearded man approached, grinning with gold teeth.

“Look what we got here, ladies! A new customer, eh? How much you got, kid?”

Tetanus glanced around, his last coin glinting in his clenched hand. He knew he shouldn’t spend it like this, but something in him—a burning curiosity—pulled him into this forbidden world.

“I’ll pay one coin for a service,” he said, voice firm and resolute.

The bearded man laughed, slapping the thigh of a nearby brunette, pushing her forward. “Good choice, kid. This one’s our queen, the most popular whore in all of Ouro Preto.”

The woman smiled, her red lips gleaming in the dim light. She approached Tetanus. “I’ll give you a show you’ll never forget,” she said, pulling the hero up a staircase to the dark, sweat-soaked brothel.

The room was small and dimly lit, with a wide bed covered in frayed sheets. The brunette prostitute closed the door and turned to Tetanus, her eyes sizing up the young armed boy.

“How much time you got?” she asked, her voice soft but tinged with disinterest.

Tetanus glanced at the wall clock and replied, “One hour.”

The woman sighed, running her fingers through her brown hair. “That’s not much time for games, but I can do something quick if you pay extra…”

Tetanus shook his head. “I want normal sex,” he said firmly.

She laughed, a sharp sound. “You’re new to a whorehouse, aren’t you? Here, you pay for specific services, not a romantic adventure.”

Tetanus felt a thread of anger unravel inside him. He hadn’t come here to haggle over prices and services. He just wanted to experience a prostitute, plain and simple. “I’ll pay for the full hour,” he said, louder than intended. “And I want everything you can give.”

The woman raised her eyebrows, clearly surprised by the boy’s insistence. “Well, if you’re that eager…” she said, starting to undress slowly.

Tetanus felt relief as she finally lay on the bed, naked and waiting. He undressed quickly, his eyes fixed on her breasts.

But as he tried to lie beside her, she pushed him back with a firm hand. “Hold on,” she said, her tone now sharper. “You can’t just come here and expect me to do this without even knowing your name, kid!”

Tetanus felt his anger slowly rising. With a growl, he grabbed the brunette prostitute by the waist and flipped her face-down on the bed, the force making the sheets jump. He positioned himself over her, between her legs, his throbbing erection pressing against her entrance.

“You don’t call the shots here. I pay, so I do what I want.”

He pulled his hips back and, with a brutal thrust, penetrated her in one go. She moaned, her fingers clawing at the sheets as she tried to adjust to his size and force.

“SLOW DOWN! NOT LIKE THAT!”

He began moving inside her vigorously, each thrust harder than the last. The prostitute moaned and writhed beneath him, but Tetanus didn’t slow down. He wanted to feel every inch of her closing around him.

The bed creaked under the frantic rhythm of the sex, the room filled with their heavy breaths and the sound of skin slapping against skin.

He kept pounding her relentlessly, until, at the moment of climax, a traumatic vision invaded him. He saw Father Arture, that cruel, depraved man who had abused him in the orphanage.

A child’s scream rang in his ears, and suddenly, Arture was standing over Tetanus, a sadistic expression on his face as he forced himself on the vulnerable boy. Touching him, exploring his body with those long hands.

Tetanus felt his blood turn to ice. That horrific scene replayed in his mind as if it were happening again. He saw Arture lean over him, smiling wickedly before penetrating him with a moan of pleasure.

For a moment, he felt like he was Arture.

With a scream, Tetanus leapt off the prostitute, grabbing her neck with force while still inside her. In a state of total frenzy and panic, he began to strangle her.

“You’re just like him,” Tetanus whispered, barely audible. “A whore, a child violator…”

And then, in one final swift, brutal motion, he finished strangling the prostitute, killing her.

Tetanus breathed heavily, climaxing inside her, adrenaline coursing through his veins. He turned to the door, checking the empty hallway before planning his escape.

The prostitute’s body was still warm as Tetanus fled the brothel, his breathing ragged, hands trembling as he dressed hurriedly. The smell of sex and death clung to his skin, but he couldn’t stop. Not now.

He ran through Ouro Preto’s streets, his new sword weighing like a ton behind him, feet pounding the uneven cobblestones. The city was alive with voices and laughter, but to Tetanus, it all sounded muffled, as if he were underwater.

Until he spotted a sign swaying in the wind: “Twisted Goose Tavern.”

It was a small, dingy tavern, the half-open door leaking the smell of sour beer and tobacco. Inside, flickering candlelight revealed hunched figures over mugs, but Tetanus had eyes for only one: Gume, sitting alone in a corner, an almost-empty beer bottle in front of him.

Tetanus entered, knuckles white from gripping his sword’s hilt.

Gume looked up, his face flushed from alcohol, but his expression shifted at the sight of his friend’s state.

“Damn, Tetanus.” He frowned. “You look like you saw a ghost.”

Tetanus collapsed onto the bench beside him, shoulders tense.

“Beer,” his voice came out hoarse, like he’d swallowed embers. “Can you cover it?”

Gume studied his face for a second, then waved to the barkeep.

“Four.” He tapped his empty bottle on the table. “And another of these.”

The barkeep, a potbellied man with scarred arms, brought the drinks without question. Tetanus grabbed a mug with both hands, downing half in one gulp. The bitter liquid dripped down his chin, but he didn’t care.

Gume waited. He knew Tetanus well enough to know questions wouldn’t help now.

“I might’ve killed someone,” Tetanus said suddenly, his voice so low it nearly drowned in the tavern’s noise.

Gume didn’t flinch. He took a slow sip before replying:
“Did they deserve it?”

Tetanus stared at his hands. He could still feel her neck under his fingers.

“No. I don’t think so.”

Gume nodded, as if that was the most normal answer in the world.

“Alright then.” He pushed the new bottle toward Tetanus. “Four left for you to drink. Tomorrow, we get the hell out of this city.”

Tetanus swallowed hard. Was that how it worked? Kill and move on?

But as the second beer arrived, he realized it was.

That’s exactly how it worked.

Chapter 9: Iron Taxes

Empire of Brazil — Ouro Preto — 1662

The dawn in Ouro Preto brought a sky heavy with dark clouds, the humid air foretelling rain—a bad omen.

Tetanus woke with a weight on his chest, his head throbbing not only from the beer the previous night but from what he’d done in the brothel earlier. The memories were a blur of anger, panic, and guilt. He hadn’t slept at the inn with the others, choosing instead to hide in an alley near the tavern, terrified that someone might have seen him leaving that room. Guilt gnawed at him, but the fear of being caught was greater.

Gume, Lâmina, and Farpa were already in the square when Tetanus found them, his face pale and eyes sunken. Gume, with his now-empty beer bottle tucked into his belt, gave him a look that mixed concern and complicity. “Rough night, huh?” he said, clapping Tetanus’s shoulder. “Let’s get outta here before you pass out.”

Lâmina, adjusting her scimitar at her waist, noticed the tension on Tetanus’s face but didn’t ask questions. “How long till someone notices you slipped away last night?” she murmured, keeping her voice low so Farpa wouldn’t hear.

“Don’t know,” Tetanus replied, his voice hoarse, eyes fixed on the ground. “Just wanna leave.”

Farpa, oblivious to the heavy conversation, was trying to hit a bird with his new bow, arrows clinking in his quiver. “Ouro Preto’s cool, but I wanna go back to the camp! Bet Tiradentes will flip when he sees my bow!”

“He’ll make you clean latrines if you point that at anyone,” Lâmina retorted, already walking toward the road out of the city.

The group left Ouro Preto behind, the cobblestones giving way to a dirt trail. Tetanus walked in silence, the heavy sword on his back, unable to recall what happened to his last coin from the night before, which only heightened his unease. He glanced over his shoulder every few steps, expecting to see guards or someone from the brothel chasing him. But the city shrank, swallowed by the hills, and no one came.

The journey back to the Last Comradeship Camp was tense, at least for Tetanus. Gume and Lâmina kept the conversation light, while Farpa tried shooting arrows at trees along the way, missing every shot. Tetanus barely spoke, his mind spiraling between everything and what Gume had said in the tavern: “Tomorrow, we get the hell out of this city.” Was it that simple for them? Kill and move on? He didn’t know if he could live like that, but he also didn’t know what else to do.

When the group finally sighted the camp, the sun was high, but the sky remained gray, as if the world were trapped in eternal twilight. The stake gate loomed ahead, and the familiar smell of smoke and leather filled the air. But something was off. The camp, usually calm at this hour, buzzed with activity. Mercenaries ran back and forth, raised voices echoing between the tents.

At the center of the chaos, Tiradentes paced near the main campfire, his boots kicking up dirt. His white shirt was crumpled, his thick beard disheveled, and his usually impassive face was red with rage. He clutched a crumpled piece of parchment, gesturing as if cursing the air itself.

Gume was the first to approach, halberd in hand. “Hey, boss, what’s the deal? Looks like you wanna kill someone.”

Lâmina crossed her arms, the glint of her new scimitar catching the faint light. “Yeah, never seen you this pissed. What’s up?”

Farpa, holding his bow like a trophy, stood on tiptoes, trying to peek at the parchment. Tetanus stayed behind the group, shoulders tense, hand instinctively on his sword’s hilt.

Tiradentes stopped pacing, his dark eyes locking onto the group. He crushed the parchment harder, as if he could destroy what angered him.

“The prince, that bastard,” he spat, his voice dripping with contempt. “Wants to raise iron export taxes by 15%! Fifteen percent! It’s unacceptable, damn near blasphemy!” He threw the parchment to the ground, stomping on it as if it were the prince himself. “This will crush the miners, the merchants, and us! Half our pay comes from the iron trade, and now this spoiled noble thinks he can bleed us dry!”

Gume whistled low, adjusting his scarf. “Fifteen percent? Guy’s lost it. That’ll ruin everyone.”

Lâmina frowned. “So what do we do? It’s not like we can storm the palace and smack the prince around.”

“The mercenary council’s meeting tonight. We’ll decide what to do. Negotiate, or… something more drastic.” He paused, his eyes sweeping over each of them, landing on Tetanus, who stood silent, his face half-hidden by the cloth over his eye. “And you, Tetanus? Spend the coins? Get anything useful?”

Tetanus swallowed hard, the image of what he’d done last night flashing in his mind, but he forced his voice to stay steady. “A sword.” He stepped forward, showing the two-handed blade, its steel gleaming even in the dim light. “Still got the caps. Couldn’t sell them…”

Tiradentes nodded, but his eyes narrowed, as if sensing something amiss. “Good. Keep those caps safe. With these taxes, they might be worth more than ever.” He resumed pacing, muttering about “greedy nobles” before shouting to a nearby mercenary to haul more crates.

Gume glanced at Tetanus, raising an eyebrow. “Too quiet, man. Rabbit bite you?”

Tetanus shook his head, fingers tightening on the pouch. “Just tired,” he lied, looking away.

Lâmina crossed her arms, studying him for a moment. “Tired, sure.” She didn’t press, but her tone made it clear she wasn’t fully convinced. “Let’s find a spot to rest. Looks like Tiradentes is dragging us into this mess, whether we like it or not.”

Farpa, fiddling with his bowstring, chimed in, “Bet there’s gonna be a fight!”

Tetanus followed the group toward the tents, the weight of the sword on his back now rivaling the guilt in his chest. The tax news was serious, but his mind was still in Ouro Preto, in that dark room, with the body he’d left behind. The past doesn’t stay buried forever—and with Rastro still lurking and a prince tightening the screws, the future promised to be as dangerous as everything he was trying to forget.

Last Comradeship Camp

Night fell over the Last Comradeship Camp like a heavy veil, the gray sky now speckled with pale stars, nearly smothered by clouds. The central campfire crackled fiercely, casting dancing shadows over the tents and the hardened faces of the gathered mercenaries.

Minas Gerais was a province known for having the most mines in the kingdom, a perfect place for trading and selling precious ores, which also attracted criminals…

It wasn’t just Tiradentes’s crew there; miners from the nearby hills, their faces smeared with soot and hands calloused, formed a tense semicircle around the fire. The air smelled of burning wood, sweat, and barely contained rage.

Tetanus, Gume, Lâmina, and Farpa stood in the crowd, close to the fire. Tetanus stayed at the back, trying to focus on the present. Gume, towering at two meters twenty beside him, chewed a piece of grass, his red scarf swaying in the cool breeze, arms crossed in his signature pose.

Lâmina, scimitar at her waist, watched everything with sharp eyes, while Farpa, clutching his bow like a lifeline, couldn’t stop fidgeting, eager with anticipation.

Tiradentes climbed onto a makeshift platform of crates, his robust one-meter-ninety-three frame standing out in the firelight, the crumpled parchment still in hand, nearly torn from being handled so much. He no longer wore the white shirt; now he donned reinforced leather armor and worn boots, his beard glinting in the firelight. His dark eyes swept the crowd, silencing murmurs with a single glance. When he spoke, his voice was deep, laced with controlled fury that made even the weariest miners straighten up.

“Comrades!” He raised the parchment like a weapon. “You all know why we’re here. The prince, that primped-up rat, thinks he can crush us with his taxes! Fifteen percent more on iron!” He spat on the ground, the gesture drawing grunts of support from the crowd. “He sits on his throne while we bleed in the mines and forests, facing Sacis, thieves, and death itself to put food on the table! And now he wants more? Our blood, our sweat, our ore?”

The mercenaries and miners roared in response, fists raised, voices blending into a chorus of outrage. Tetanus glanced aside and saw Captain Zara with a half-smile, as if enjoying the spectacle. Gume just shook his head, while Farpa, caught up in the excitement, shouted with the crowd, and Lâmina stood calmly in a corner.

Tiradentes raised a hand for silence, and the crowd obeyed almost instantly. “But listen well,” he continued, his voice dropping to a sharp, almost conspiratorial tone. “What we plan here, what we do, must stay secret.” He paused, eyes scanning every face, as if gauging their loyalty. “One wrong whisper, one loose word in the wrong tavern, and everything we’ve built collapses. The prince has eyes and ears everywhere, even in Ouro Preto. The gallows could be our fate.”

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the fire’s crackle. Tetanus felt a knot in his stomach, scanning the crowd… he noticed Rastro wasn’t there and wondered where the bastard was.

“What the prince doesn’t understand,” Tiradentes went on, his voice gaining strength, “is that mining isn’t just precious metal. It’s our livelihood, our pride, and we must resist this tyranny! He thinks he can subdue us, but we are the Last Comradeship! We will be the mighty vengeance! And if he wants war, then by Jesus, we’ll give him war!”

The crowd erupted in cheers, miners banging shovels and pickaxes on the ground, mercenaries raising their weapons. Farpa shouted loudly, thrilled, while Gume clapped, laughing. “That old man knows how to talk, huh?” he said, almost yelling to Tetanus over the uproar.

Lâmina leaned closer to Tetanus, her expression serious now. “He’s talking rebellion,” she murmured, low enough for only Tetanus to hear. “This isn’t just about taxes. If we go down this road, it’s all or nothing.”

Tetanus nodded but didn’t reply. He knew that if the camp went to war against the prince, secrets like his could become weapons in the wrong hands. He looked at Tiradentes, now stepping down from the platform, barking orders to the mercenary and miner leaders.

The old commander seemed a force of nature, but Tetanus couldn’t shake the feeling that, amidst the brewing storm, he himself was a crack about to shatter.

“Get ready,” Tiradentes shouted, already moving off with a group of men. “Tomorrow, we start planning. And remember: keep your mouths shut, or the gallows await!”

The crowd began to disperse, some returning to tents, others forming small groups to talk in hushed tones. Tetanus stayed put as Gume, Lâmina, and Farpa approached, the latter still buzzing with the speech’s energy.

“This ain’t a game. If Tiradentes is serious, we’ll need more than this junk,” Lâmina said, gesturing to their gear.

Gume looked at Tetanus, noticing his silence. “You in, Tetanus, or you planning to bolt for the woods?”

Tetanus forced a half-smile, hiding the turmoil in his mind. “I’m in,” he said, voice steady. “Just hope we know what we’re getting into.”

As the group headed to the tents, Tetanus felt the scar on his chest pulse again, as if on alert. He didn’t know if it was a warning, a premonition, or something else.

The next day, prepared, the Last Comradeship mercenaries set out from the camp—a group of about forty, with Tiradentes at the lead, marching toward Ouro Preto. The tension was palpable, boots kicking up dust on the cobblestone road as swords, daggers, and axes swung at belts and shoulders. Miners from the hills, armed with pickaxes and machetes, swelled the ranks, their faces marked by anger and exhaustion. Tiradentes’s plan was clear: confront the prince, heir to Dom Pedro II, who was in the city for meetings with local administrators and to oversee the new 15% iron tariffs. The rebellion was still a secret, but the air carried the weight of something about to explode.

Tetanus marched at the rear, sword in hand this time. Gume, beside him, carried his halberd over his shoulder with the ease of someone born with it in hand, while Lâmina cast sharp glances at the growing crowd in Ouro Preto’s streets. Farpa trailed behind, eyes scanning the surroundings, a far cry from the excitable kid he’d been days ago.

Or he was trying to look serious.

“Keep it down, kid,” Lâmina muttered, yanking Farpa by the collar. “This ain’t a game. The prince isn’t here for jokes.”

“I didn’t do anything yet!” Farpa protested, earning a smack on the neck. “But you were thinking about it!” Lâmina shot back.

Tiradentes led with steady steps, halting the group in the central square, where an imposing mansion with stained-glass windows and armed guards at the door signaled the prince’s presence. The Ouro Preto crowd—merchants, locals, and curious beggars—gathered, keeping their distance but eager for trouble.

Tiradentes raised a hand, signaling the mercenaries and miners to form a line. His voice cut through the air like a blade.

“Prince!” he shouted, his voice echoing off the square’s stones. “Come out and face those who prop up your throne! You want to tax our iron? Then explain why we should pay with our blood while you fill your pockets!”

The guards at the mansion’s door exchanged nervous glances, hands on sword hilts. The crowd murmured, and Tetanus felt the moment’s weight. He knew Tiradentes was playing with fire, but he also saw an opportunity. As the confrontation brewed, he could slip away, find someone to buy the Saci caps he was tired of carrying, and turn the trophies into more coins—something to ensure his survival if everything fell apart.

“Stay here,” he whispered to Gume, who raised an eyebrow but nodded.

“Don’t kill anyone, Tetanus!” Gume replied softly. “And hurry back!”

Tetanus slipped out of the group, moving through Ouro Preto’s side streets. He’d heard rumors of eccentric merchants paying fortunes for supernatural relics, and those caps, according to the commander himself, were exactly the kind of item that attracted such people.

He navigated narrow alleys, passing taverns and stalls, until an old man in a makeshift wheelchair pointed to a hut on the city’s outskirts, half-hidden among twisted trees. “Find the Collector,” the old man said with a toothless grin. “He likes weird stuff like that.”

The hut was a rickety structure with a thatched roof and rotting wooden walls. The smell of sulfur and burnt herbs hung in the air. Tetanus hesitated before knocking on the door. When no one answered, he pushed the creaking wood and entered, sword in hand, ready to use it.

The interior was organized chaos. Crooked shelves lined the walls, filled with sealed glass jars. Inside them, indistinct shapes swirled slowly, like living smoke, some emitting a faint red glow.

Sacis.

Tetanus shivered as he recognized the glowing eyes in the jars, identical to those he’d faced in the forest. At the hut’s center, a thin man with entirely white hair, black skin, dressed in a patched red jumpsuit with a blanket over his legs, scribbled in a notebook, oblivious to Tetanus’s arrival.

“What do you want?” the man asked without looking up, his voice dry as dead leaves.

Tetanus cleared his throat, pulling the pouch from his waist and showing the red caps. “Heard you buy these. Saci caps. Seven of them.”

The man—the Collector, Tetanus presumed—finally looked up, his eyes gleaming with interest. He adjusted a monocle and approached, taking a cap with bony fingers. “Seven?” he muttered, sniffing the fabric and wrinkling his nose. “Fresh. Remarkably so. Still warm. You killed them all?”

“I did,” Tetanus replied, voice steady, though the memory of the Sacis unsettled him. “In the forest, near the camp. They… laughed at me. Knew things they shouldn’t. Called me an orphan.”

The old man laughed, a low, raspy sound, placing the cap on a table cluttered with jars and tools. “That’s what they do, boy. Sacis aren’t just pests spinning in the wind. There are different kinds, and the ones you faced… they were the worst. A gang of aggressive Sacis, likely Pererês, I’d wager. They read your soul, find your deepest insecurity, the fear you hide even from yourself.” He pointed to the jars on the shelves. “These here are tamer, caught with herb traps and spells. But yours… these are hunters. They use your weaknesses to throw you off, make you doubt. They called you an orphan because they knew it’d cut deep.”

Tetanus swallowed hard.

“How much for the caps?” he asked, wanting to change the subject.

The Collector rubbed his chin, eyeing the caps with a greedy glint. “Each is worth about two hundred réis, if I’m generous. Seven caps… fourteen hundred réis. Fourteen gold coins.” He paused, looking at Tetanus. “But I’ll pay fifteen if you tell me how you killed them. Details. I like stories.”

Tetanus hesitated. He didn’t want to relive that night in the forest, but fifteen coins was more than he’d expected. He began speaking, voice low, describing the ambush, the swirling smoke, the cruel laughter, how he’d used his own rage to take them down one by one. The Collector listened intently, scribbling in his notebook, eyes gleaming as if before a treasure.

When Tetanus finished, the Collector handed him a heavy pouch with fifteen coins. “Good work, kid,” he said, storing the caps in a wooden box. “Find more, you know where to find me. But be careful. Sacis like those… they don’t forget who fights them. And sometimes, they don’t truly die.”

Tetanus nodded, tucking the coins into a hidden compartment in his pouch. He left the hut without looking back, the sulfur smell clinging to his nostrils.

CAW CAW!!! CAW CAW!!!

A large crow atop the hut screeched, startling him. Tetanus spun, facing the red-eyed bird watching him silently.

CAW CAW!!!

“What do you want?” Tetanus asked, half-expecting an answer.

The crow flapped its wings and flew toward where Tiradentes had been earlier. Taking it as a sign, Tetanus quickened his pace.

As he returned to the central square, followed by the crow from afar, he heard shouts and the clang of metal. The confrontation with the prince was escalating, and Tetanus sped up.

The smell of trouble was thick ahead.

The clash with the prince had intensified, the air vibrating with the tension of an imminent fight. He hurried, heart racing.

When he reached the square, the scene was chaos. The crowd of mercenaries and miners formed an irregular circle around Tiradentes, who stood face-to-face with the prince, a tall, slender young man with long, pigmentless hair and the distinctive Habsburg chin.

Dressed in a blue velvet doublet and polished boots that seemed out of place in the dusty city, the prince held a slender rapier, its blade glinting in the dim, clouded sunlight. Royal guards, armed with halberds and short swords, formed a hesitant barrier between the crowd and their lord, clearly intimidated by the mercenaries’ fury.

Tetanus slipped between Gume and Lâmina, who stood in the front line, hands ready on their weapons. Farpa, bow raised, seemed torn between shooting and hiding. Gume shot Tetanus a quick glance, muttering, “Where the hell were you, man? This is getting ugly.”

Before Tetanus could reply, Tiradentes stepped forward, face red with rage, the tax parchment now crushed in his hand. He pointed an accusing finger at the prince, his thunderous voice echoing across the square. “You think you can crush us with your taxes, you spoiled brat?” he roared. “The iron is ours, the blood is ours, and you won’t take another damn thing from us!”

The prince, pale-faced and eyes narrowed, opened his mouth to respond, but Tiradentes gave him no chance. In a gesture of contempt, the commander spat in the prince’s face, the spittle hitting his polished boot and splattering his doublet.

…

…

…

A deathly silence fell over the square, the crowd holding its breath.

The prince’s face contorted with fury. “You insolent dog!” he hissed, hand tightening on his rapier’s hilt. In a swift, almost theatrical motion, he lunged, the slender blade slicing toward Tiradentes’s face. The old mercenary raised an arm to defend, but the rapier was fast, its tip gleaming inches from his face.

Tetanus acted on instinct. He shoved Gume aside and threw himself between Tiradentes, already cut on the face by the rapier, and the prince, drawing his two-handed sword in a clumsy but quick motion to prevent a larger fight.

The prince’s rapier clashed against the heavy blade with a sharp clang. The crowd roared, some mercenaries drawing weapons, while the royal guards advanced, forming a wall of steel.

“Back off!” Tetanus shouted, muscles tense, gripping the sword with both hands to keep the prince at bay. His eyes met the noble’s, seeing a mix of surprise and disdain.

The prince stepped back, rapier still raised but now hesitant. “Who’s this rat?” he asked, voice dripping with scorn. “Another dog from your kennel, Tiradentes?”

Tiradentes, hand on Tetanus’s shoulder, pulled him back, eyes blazing with rage but also a glint of approval. “This ‘rat’ just saved your hide, you punk,” he growled, wiping sweat from his brow. “And you, prince, just showed who you are. A coward who attacks with rich boy toys.”

The crowd laughed, but the tension didn’t ease. The royal guards advanced further, and Tiradentes raised a hand, signaling the mercenaries to fall back. “Stand down,” he said, voice firm though laced with frustration. “We won’t spill blood here and give this worm an excuse to call the army. Back to the camp. Now.”

Gume grabbed Farpa’s arm, who still held his bow with an arrow nocked, and Lâmina tugged Tetanus by the sleeve. “Let’s go, hero,” she muttered, her tone mixing sarcasm and respect. “You’ve done enough for one day.”

Tetanus followed, Tiradentes at his side, wiping the cut on his face with a cloth. Tetanus’s blood boiled as he sheathed his sword in its makeshift scabbard. He glanced back, seeing the prince shouting orders to the guards and dispersing the crowd, his face red with humiliation. Ouro Preto’s locals began to scatter, but their looks showed support for the mercenaries, some even murmuring words of encouragement.

The return to the camp was quiet, the group marching under the weight of what had almost happened. Tiradentes walked ahead, entering a hut, the tax parchment now torn to pieces that he tossed into the wind.

Last Comradeship Camp

Tetanus felt Lâmina’s eyes on him, but she didn’t ask anything, just seemed to show a certain interest. Gume, meanwhile, offered random words of encouragement.

The mercenaries scattered, some muttering about the prince, others checking weapons and supplies. Tiradentes lay in a tent, a wet cloth over his face, turning to the group. His eyes met Tetanus’s, and he beckoned him closer.

“You were quick back there,” the commander said, voice lower now, almost a whisper. “But don’t kid yourself: this was just the start. The prince won’t forget this humiliation, and we need to be ready when he comes at us full force.”

Tetanus nodded. “What now?” he asked.

Tiradentes gave a half-smile, fatigue in his eyes. “Now, we plan. And you, Tetanus, keep that sword sharp. I think you’ll need it sooner than you expect.”

As Tiradentes moved off to gather the mercenary leaders, Gume, Lâmina, and Farpa approached.

Lâmina chuckled, but her eyes were serious. “That was cute, Tetanus, but Gume’s right. You’re collecting enemies. First Rastro, now a prince. Watch out, or you’ll be everyone’s target.”

Tetanus didn’t reply, just adjusted his tattered armor.

The next morning, the scar on Tiradentes’s face—a thin cut from temple to chin—was still red, a vivid reminder of the Ouro Preto confrontation. The old mercenary stood outside his tent, arms crossed, watching Tetanus approach with a look that mixed appraisal and something like pride.

“Tetanus, come here,” Tiradentes said, voice hoarse. “You look like a beggar in that torn armor. If the prince sends someone after us, you’ll be easy to spot.”

He pulled a leather pouch from his belt and tossed it to Tetanus. “Here. Silver coins to go with the gold you’ve got. Go to Ouro Preto and buy decent armor.”

Tetanus caught the pouch, feeling the satisfying weight of the coins. “What if the prince recognizes me?”

“He won’t,” Tiradentes said, rubbing the scar on his face as if reliving the moment. “Nobles like him don’t look twice at people like us. But if you’re scared, wear a hood.”

Tetanus nodded, tucking the pouch with the gold coins from the Collector.

“There’s more,” Tiradentes continued, pointing to the camp’s makeshift stables, where a few scrawny horses grazed. “After you’re done shopping, go to Ouro Preto’s stables. Find a good horse, something that can handle long distances. Tell the stablemaster it’s my order. He’ll know what to give you.”

Tetanus frowned. “Why not go to other cities? Mariana’s closer, or even Sabará…”

Tiradentes let out a dry laugh. “Mariana? Sabará?” As if the names were an insult. “Those cities don’t matter, kid. Ouro Preto is the heart of trade, where everything happens. You’ll find anything there, even what you don’t want. And more importantly… it’s where the prince will show his claws first. If we know what he’s planning, we can prepare.”

Tetanus understood. It wasn’t just about buying armor or a horse. It was about keeping eyes open, feeling the city’s pulse before the war truly began.

And so Tetanus went to Ouro Preto again, growing accustomed to the journey, his calves no longer yielding easily to fatigue.

The setting sun painted Ouro Preto’s streets a dirty red as Tetanus entered the city, head low under a tattered hood. The air was heavy with the smell of lamp oil and roasted meat, but something else hung in the atmosphere—tension.

He’d barely passed the gate when murmurs reached him.

“…purple hair, one eye, yellow as gold… strong build, about one meter eighty.”

Tetanus froze. The voice came from a royal guard leaning against a nearby wall, questioning a fruit vendor. The man wore a sweat-stained brigandine and held an unrolled parchment.

“…murdered the city’s best whore. Maximum danger level. If you see this bastard, arrest or kill on sight.”

The vendor, an old man with bulging eyes, shook his head, but his gaze lingered on Tetanus for a fraction of a second—and widened.

“Shit…” Tetanus whispered to himself.

The mercenary turned quickly, blending into the crowd flowing down the main street, keeping his hood low. His heart pounded like a war drum, hand instinctively reaching for his sword’s hilt. He needed to get out, but first, the armor. And the horse, of course.

Moving like a shadow among the passersby, he ducked into a narrow alley, then another, away from the center. The low rooftops leaned over the streets, creating tunnels of shadow perfect for someone who didn’t want to be seen.

Then he heard it.

A faint clink of metal, almost imperceptible, from the rooftop above.

Before he could react, something heavy landed on his shoulders. Strong hands grabbed his collar, dragging him into a dark alley. Tetanus drew his sword, but a nimble leg hooked his, forcing him to his knees.

“Stop fighting, idiot,” hissed a familiar voice.

Lâmina.

She shoved him against the brick wall, her lithe body pressing against him. Her face was inches from his, dark eyes glinting in the dim light. A fleeting blush crossed her face at their closeness, but it was quickly replaced by a hard expression.

“What the hell did you do, Tetanus?” she growled, low but with the intensity of a whipcrack. “The whole city’s hunting you!”

The scent of cinnamon and metal from her distracted him for a second. He swallowed hard.

“I didn’t…”

“Bullshit.” She tightened her grip, squeezing his doublet. “I saw you leaving that brothel last night. And now the so-called best prostitute in Ouro Preto is dead. Coincidence? I don’t think so!”

Tetanus felt sweat trickle down his back. Now she knew too.

“It was an accident,” he muttered, teeth clenched.

Lâmina let out a sharp laugh. “Accidents don’t leave strangulation marks, Tetanus.”

A heavy silence fell between them. Outside, the guards’ footsteps echoed, growing closer.

She sighed, loosening her grip. “Damn it, kid… I should turn you in.”

“No…” She glanced around, senses sharp. “Because if Tiradentes finds out I let you come alone on this shitty mission, I’m screwed too.”

The footsteps rounded the corner. Lâmina pulled Tetanus deeper into the alley, their bodies pressed together in the damp darkness.

“Listen up,” she whispered, her breath hot in his ear. “You’re gonna buy that damn armor fast. I’ll handle the horse. Meet me at Zé Cabrito’s stables before curfew. And if you screw this up again, I’ll cut your throat myself.”

Before he could reply, she stepped back and, with catlike agility, scaled the alley wall, vanishing onto the rooftops.

Tetanus stood frozen for a moment, heart pounding, when a familiar sound cut through the air:

CAW!! CAW!!

He looked up. On a house’s rooftop, a pitch-black crow stared at him, its red eye glowing like an ember. The same damn bird as always.

“What do you want now?” he muttered.

The crow flapped its wings once, hopping to the next rooftop, as if pointing the way.

CAW!

Tetanus hesitated. No time for superstitions.

Following the crow through alleys and side streets, avoiding the main roads where guards patrolled, he reached a shop tucked behind the fabric market. The sign creaked in the wind: “Samson’s Armors – Protection for Real Men.”

Inside, the smell of tanned leather and metal oil filled the air. The crow perched on the window, watching.

Baltazar was a broad-shouldered dwarf with arms like tree trunks, his calloused hands sharpening a metal plate on an anvil. He looked up, sharp eyes arching toward the mercenary.

“Need armor,” Tetanus said, tossing the coin pouch onto the counter. “Something that can take a beating and still let me run.”

The dwarf examined the coins, then Tetanus, pausing at the cloth over his eye.

“Kids these days, huh?” he laughed, showing a gold tooth. “This’ll do.”

He pulled out a reinforced leather armor with metal alloys at the shoulders and chest. Tough but flexible.

“Twenty silver coins.”

Tetanus didn’t haggle. As he donned the armor, the crow at the window screeched again.

CAW!!

Hurry.

“Thanks,” Tetanus said, adjusting the straps and heading out. The crow was already flying toward the stables.

Dusk painted Ouro Preto a muddy red, shadows stretching through the alleys as Tetanus ran toward the stables. The new reinforced leather armor, with metal plates at the shoulders and chest, fit well, lighter than it looked, top-quality material.

His hood stayed pulled over his purple hair, hiding his face as he moved through side streets, dodging guards patrolling with lit torches, their eyes searching for the “one-eyed killer.”

The crow, ever-present, flew ahead, hopping from rooftop to rooftop, its black wings stark against the darkening sky. Each caw felt like a warning, a reminder that time was against Tetanus. He didn’t know why he followed the bird, but something in those red eyes drove him forward, as if fate were pulling his reins.

Zé Cabrito’s stables were on the city’s outskirts, a rough wooden structure surrounded by crooked fences and the strong smell of manure and hay. The sound of horses neighing mixed with muffled voices.

Tetanus slowed as he approached, senses sharp. He spotted Lâmina before she saw him, leaning against a haystack, sharpening her scimitar on a stone. Beside her, a sturdy black horse with a braided mane and alert eyes was saddled and ready.

Zé Cabrito, a thin man with a long goatee, adjusted the reins, muttering something to Lâmina.

Tetanus approached, keeping his hood low. Lâmina saw him and straightened, eyes narrowing. “Took you long enough,” she said, voice low but laced with impatience. “Got the damn armor?”

He nodded. “You? The horse?”

Lâmina pointed to the black horse, which snorted as if aware it was being judged. “Best Zé had. Strong, fast, good for long distances. Told him it’s Tiradentes’s order, so he didn’t ask many questions.” She looked at Tetanus, face serious. “You’re lucky. Heard guards passing by while I waited. They’re looking for a guy with purple hair. Good thing you’ve got that ridiculous hood.”

Tetanus swallowed hard, guilt hitting like a punch to the gut. “Let’s just go,” he muttered, approaching the horse. Zé Cabrito handed over the reins without a word, just nodding before heading back into the stable.

Lâmina mounted first, with the ease of someone who’d done it a thousand times. She extended a hand to Tetanus, who hesitated before accepting and climbing up behind her. The horse grumbled at the extra weight but didn’t protest.

Tetanus held onto Lâmina’s waist, feeling the warmth of her body through the leather armor. She turned her head, her face so close he could see the freckles on her cheeks, even in the dim light. “Don’t try anything, funny guy, or I’ll toss you off,” she said, half-serious, half-teasing.

“Not an idiot,” Tetanus retorted, voice hoarse, though her touch made him uncomfortably aware of their closeness.

Lâmina tugged the reins, and the horse began to trot, leaving the stables and taking the dirt trail to the Last Comradeship Camp. The crow had vanished, and Tetanus kept his eyes on the shadows, expecting royal guards to appear with spears pointed at any moment. But the trail was empty, the only sounds the horse’s trot and the creak of his new armor.

“You’re too quiet,” Lâmina said after a few minutes, without turning. “Thinking about what happened, huh?”

Tetanus tightened his grip on her waist, not wanting to answer. “None of your business,” he muttered, but his voice lacked conviction.

“It’s my business if I’m risking my neck to help you,” she shot back, voice sharp. “I won’t turn you in, Tetanus, but you need to tell me what’s going on. If the guards catch you, it’s not just you going to the gallows. Tiradentes won’t be happy to know one of ours is wanted for murder. Especially a woman.”

He stayed silent, guilt and fear choking him. “I don’t know what happened,” he said finally, words stumbling out. “I lost it. She… reminded me of someone. Something. It wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Lâmina didn’t reply immediately, but he felt her body relax slightly. “You’re carrying more than that eyepatch, aren’t you?” she said, voice softer now. “Whatever it is, Tetanus, bury it deep. Because now’s not the time to fall apart. We’re heading into a war with the prince, and you’ll need to be whole.”

The Last Comradeship Camp came into view. Mercenaries patrolled the perimeter, more alert than usual, and Tetanus noticed the stake gate had been reinforced with new beams. The clash with the prince had put everyone on high alert.

Lâmina dismounted first, tying the reins to a nearby tree. Tetanus climbed down less gracefully, the new armor still unfamiliar. Gume and Farpa were near the campfire, the former eating a piece of dry bread, the latter sewing some cloth, a pastime of his.

“Look, the hero’s back!” Gume shouted, raising the bread like a salute. “And with new armor! I’m impressed, Tetanus. Didn’t die in the city.” He winked.

Farpa ran over, eyes gleaming at the horse. “Whoa, that beast is badass! Can I ride it?”

“Better not, Farpa, for your own safety,” Lâmina replied.

Tetanus stayed silent, eyes scanning the camp. He saw Tiradentes emerging from his tent, the scar on his face still red but now covered with a makeshift bandage. The commander approached, appraising Tetanus’s armor and the horse with a nod of approval. “Good work, kid,” he said, voice hoarse but firm. “The horse? As good as it looks?”

“Zé Cabrito said it can handle long distances,” Lâmina answered for Tetanus, crossing her arms. “And he didn’t screw up in the city, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Tiradentes raised an eyebrow, looking at Tetanus. “Hope so. Because tomorrow we start planning for real.” He paused, eyes narrowing. “Anything I need to know, Tetanus?”

Tetanus’s stomach tightened, but he forced his voice to stay steady. “Nothing, boss. Just got what you asked for.”

Tiradentes nodded, but something in his look suggested he wasn’t entirely convinced. “Then rest. And keep those coins safe. We’ll need everything we can get.”

As Tiradentes walked away, Lâmina shot Tetanus a look, a silent warning to keep his mouth shut.

Chapter 10: Between Heroes and Secrets

Last Comradeship Camp

The dawn was cold, dew clinging to the tents and the boots of the mercenaries who were already up, sharpening blades or reinforcing stakes. The central campfire, now reduced to embers, sent thin spirals of smoke curling into the gray sky.

Tetanus, already awake, was adjusting his two-handed sword in its makeshift scabbard when a young mercenary with fresh cuts on his face approached. “Tetanus, the boss wants you. At his tent. Now.”

Tetanus nodded, his stomach tightening. He glanced around for his friends, but they were likely elsewhere. The camp seemed quieter than usual, as if everyone sensed something big was being planned. He adjusted his hood over his purple hair, a habit, and walked to Tiradentes’s tent, eyes alert for any sign of trouble.

Inside the tent, the air smelled of old leather and candle wax. Tiradentes sat in a chair, the scar on his face looking better. He held a tin mug, its contents steaming faintly, and his dark eyes rose as Tetanus entered. To Tetanus’s surprise, the commander smiled—a rare gesture that softened the hard lines of his face.

“Sit, kid,” Tiradentes said, pointing to a crate nearby. “No need to stand there like a statue.”

Tetanus hesitated but obeyed, sitting with his sword on his back. He expected a reprimand or a direct order, but Tiradentes’s tone was different, almost… affectionate. The old mercenary took a sip from his mug before speaking, his eyes fixed on some distant point.

“You know, Tetanus, ever since you got here, I’ve seen you as a son,” he began, his voice hoarse but steady. “A stubborn son, sometimes, but with potential. That’s why I was hard on you in training.” He chuckled, a dry sound echoing in the tent. “If I’d gone easy, you’d still be tripping over your own feet, not wielding a two-handed sword and taking down forest demons.”

Tetanus looked down, uncomfortable with the praise. He wondered if Tiradentes would still see him as a son if he knew the truth. “I… just did what you told me,” he mumbled, trying to steer the conversation away.

Tiradentes shook his head, as if sensing Tetanus was hiding something but choosing not to press. “You did more than that, kid. That day in the square, you jumped in front of a rapier for me. That’s not just following orders. That’s courage. And that’s why I trust you with what’s coming next.”

He leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with an intensity that made Tetanus sit up straighter. “The prince thinks he can crush us with these taxes, but he’s underestimating the Last Comradeship. We’re done negotiating. We’re taking Ouro Preto. A rebellion, Tetanus. We’ll invade the city, take down his guards, and show that the iron is ours. But it has to be quick, precise, and above all, secret. One misstep, and the gallows will be waiting.”

Tetanus felt the weight of Tiradentes’s words. A rebellion. Not just a confrontation in the square or an exchange of insults. It was war against the crown, everything that kept Ouro Preto under control.

“I’m in,” he said, voice firm, though his mind was in turmoil. “What do you need me to do?”

Tiradentes smiled again, clapping Tetanus’s shoulder. “For now, keep your mouth shut and your eyes open. We’ll hash out the details tonight with the other leaders. You’ll have a role in this, son. Don’t let me down.”

Tetanus nodded, the weight of Tiradentes calling him “son” settling heavily. Rising to leave, the commander’s trust felt like an added burden. He pushed through the tent flap into the cold camp air, the sky still heavy with clouds. But before he could take two steps, a movement in the shadows stopped him.

Rastro was leaning against a nearby tree, his face half-hidden by a hood, but his eyes glinted with a venom Tetanus recognized from afar. The crooked smile on his face said he’d heard everything.

“So, the boss’s son, huh?” Rastro said, his voice dripping with mockery. “Planning a little rebellion, are we? Think Tiradentes will protect you when the guards come for you?”

Tetanus’s blood boiled, his hand instinctively reaching for his sword’s hilt. “What’d you hear, Rastro?” he asked, voice low but sharp. “And what do you want with it?”

Rastro stepped forward, a knife twirling between his fingers. “Heard enough to know you’re neck-deep in this shit pit. And I know more, Tetanus. Like a certain dead lady in an Ouro Preto brothel. Purple hair, one eye… sound familiar?” He laughed, a low, cruel sound. “Imagine what Tiradentes would think if he knew his ‘son’ is a whore-killer.”

Tetanus lunged, half-drawing his sword, body taut as a bowstring. “You don’t know shit,” he growled, eyes locked on Rastro. “And if you open your mouth, I’ll cut you before the guards get here.”

Rastro raised his hands, still smiling, but took a step back. “Easy, kid. I’m not the one being hunted. But maybe I’ll keep your little secret… for a price.” He pointed to the pouch at Tetanus’s waist. “Those gold coins you’re carrying. Hand them over, and I’ll stay quiet. For now.”

Tetanus gripped his sword’s hilt, rage battling fear. He knew Rastro was a snake, and trusting him was as dangerous as fighting him right there. But with the rebellion looming and Ouro Preto’s guards on his trail, he couldn’t afford to make an archenemy.

“You wanna play dirty?” Tetanus said, voice cold. “Bring it. But if you try to screw me, Rastro, I swear it won’t be the prince you’ll fear.”

Rastro laughed again, but there was a glint of caution in his eyes. He sheathed his knife and shrugged, as if the conversation was just a game. “See you around, Tetanus. And keep that purple hair hidden. Be a shame to see you swing before the rebellion.”

He turned, vanishing among the tents, leaving Tetanus alone with the weight of his words. Needing to clear his mind, Tetanus left the camp’s central area, wandering aimlessly toward the woods bordering the camp. Following the same trail that led to a nearby stream, the sound of running water promised silence.

Maiden’s Stream

His steps were heavy as he set his sword aside, avoiding its weight as a distraction. He wanted just a few minutes of peace, but fate, as always, had other plans.

At the stream’s edge, the crystal water reflected the day’s last light. He was about to sit on a rock when a sharp whistle came from the trees, and a figure emerged from the shadows with confident steps. Captain Zara, the redhead, her unmistakable green eyes gleaming. She appeared with a half-smile, her monocle dangling around her neck, glinting faintly. Her red hair, tied in a makeshift ponytail, swayed as she walked.

This time, she wore a more casual outfit, hugging her body—not that it mattered, as Tetanus had already seen her naked before.

“Tetanus, what are you doing out here alone, looking like a lost dog?” Zara said, her voice firm but tinged with amusement. She stopped a few steps away, arms crossed under her breasts, emphasizing their size, her green eyes assessing him as if she could read every crack in his soul.

Tetanus shrugged, trying to seem indifferent. “Just needed… to think. Too much on my mind.”

Zara raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Think? You?” She laughed, a short, sharp sound, but not cruel. “Come with me, kid. You need more than thinking.”

Before Tetanus could protest, Zara grabbed his arm with surprising strength and pulled him toward the stream. He stumbled, nearly falling, but she held him up easily, dragging him to the shallow, icy water’s edge. “You always look like you’re carrying the world on your shoulders,” she said, releasing him and starting to untie her tunic’s straps. “Can’t you relax for once in your life?”

Tetanus stood frozen, unsure how to react, as Zara stripped off her clothes with quick, precise movements, leaving them in a pile on the grass. Underneath, she wore black underwear that highlighted her strong curves and tanned skin. She kicked off her boots and, without ceremony, stepped into the water up to her ankles, turning to him. “Come on, Tetanus. A bath won’t kill you.”

He hesitated, heart racing. The idea of removing his shirt—exposing himself—made him uneasy, not out of shame, but at the thought of Zara seeing the mark on his chest. That strange spiral scar, he always worried someone might recognize something in it.

But this time, Zara’s firm, challenging gaze left no room for refusal. She bent down, scooped a handful of icy water, and splashed it at him, the cold liquid hitting his face and chest.

“Hey!” Tetanus stepped back, but Zara was already laughing, splashing more water with her hands.

“Get in, you coward!” she shouted, her voice a mix of authority and playfulness. “Or I’ll drag you in!”

Tetanus wiped the water from his face, the cold sharpening his senses. With a sigh, he began untying his armor, setting it beside hers. The shirt, though, he hesitated to remove.

Zara noticed and crossed her arms, water dripping from her hands. “What’s wrong, Tetanus? Shy?” She stepped toward the bank. “Or hiding something?”

He swallowed hard, his mind racing. Lying to Zara didn’t seem like an option—she had an uncanny knack for sniffing out secrets. With a slow, almost reluctant motion, he pulled his shirt over his head, revealing his muscled chest, marked by smaller scars from past fights, and the spiral mark. He avoided her gaze, bracing for a reaction.

Zara stayed silent for a moment, her eyes fixed on the mark. Then, to Tetanus’s surprise, she just shrugged and returned to the water. “Interesting,” she said, her voice neutral but tinged with curiosity. “Everyone here’s got their marks, kid. Now get in the water. Obey your captain!”

Relieved but still tense, Tetanus stepped into the stream, the cold biting his legs. Zara laughed, splashing him again, and for the first time in days, Tetanus felt a weight lift from his shoulders. He retaliated, splashing back, and for a moment, they were just people, not mercenaries carrying the burden of an imminent rebellion or deadly secrets. Zara ducked her head under the water and emerged laughing, her red hair now loose and dripping.

“See?” she said, swimming closer to him. “Not so bad. You need to stop burying yourself in your own demons. War’s coming, and if your head’s not right, you won’t help anyone.”

Tetanus nodded, the cold water calming him.

Zara grinned, a rare genuine smile that contrasted with her commanding presence. “Good.”

Without warning, she pushed him deeper into the water. Tetanus gasped, emerging and spitting water, his purple hair plastered to his face. “Take off those pants,” Zara demanded.

His muscles tensed under her watchful gaze. Hands still gripping his pants, he asked cautiously, “What are you doing?” watching her half-naked body.

Zara gave a wry smile, her eyes roaming Tetanus’s toned, youthful frame as he hesitated. She stepped forward, the water rippling around her waist. “Helping you,” she said, her voice low and suggestive.

Without waiting for a response, she reached out and grabbed the waistband of his pants, pulling them down. Tetanus gasped, trying to cover himself, but she swatted his hands away. “Don’t be shy, kid,” she teased, brushing her fingers over his hardening member through his underwear.

Zara hooked her thumbs into the waistband of his underwear, slowly pulling it down. His cock sprang free, already half-erect and pulsing. She licked her lips, wrapping her hand around his shaft and stroking it slowly.

“Nice cock you’ve got there,” she purred, continuing to stroke him. The cold water and her warm hand sent shivers through Tetanus’s body. He bit his lip, trying to stifle a moan as she massaged his sensitive flesh.

Zara stepped closer, removing her bra, her breasts pressing against his chest as she whispered in his ear. “Relax, I’ll make you feel good…” She punctuated her words with a firm grip on his shaft.

Without warning, she dove under the water, taking his cock with her. Tetanus gasped as he felt Zara’s hot mouth engulf him underwater. His hips bucked involuntarily, driving his member deeper into her throat. She took him to the hilt, her nose pressing against his pelvis as she swallowed him, her tongue swirling around his shaft.

His head fell back, purple hair fanning out in the water as he moaned, the sound muffled by the current. Zara bobbed her head, sucking him hard and fast, her hand pumping what little air remained in her lungs. She could feel him pulsing in her mouth, his body tense as he fought the urge to cum.

Just when Tetanus thought he couldn’t hold on, Zara surfaced, a trail of water and saliva connecting her lips to his cock. She gasped for air, then dove back down, taking him to the peak again. This time, she raised a hand to caress his balls, rolling them gently in her palm as she sucked.

Tetanus was lost in a haze of pleasure, his mind clouded as Zara sucked him with skill and enthusiasm. He could feel his orgasm building. With one final, powerful suck, Zara pushed him over the edge. He came hard, his semen spurting from his cock and down her throat.

Finally, she emerged from the stream, dressing again. Tetanus followed, pulling on his shirt, hiding the mark once more. After what had happened in that stream, Zara knew too much about him—or at least, the surface: the mark, what had happened to his eye.

After receiving an underwater blowjob from the mercenary captain, his feelings were different, a sensation he’d never experienced before. He felt on top of the world, as if he could finally bury his trauma, but even he knew nothing stays submerged forever.

The sky was dawning as Tetanus and Captain Zara returned from the stream. The walk was silent but not uncomfortable. The fresh night air seemed to ease the weight Tetanus carried, though the memory of the stream encounter—Zara’s touch, the unexpected pleasure, the vulnerability of exposing his mark to someone for the first time—still made his heart race. Zara, meanwhile, walked with her usual confidence.

She didn’t mention what had happened, but the slight smile on her face suggested she knew the impact she’d had.

As they reached the camp, the central campfire was nearly out, only red embers lighting the mercenaries talking in low voices. Gume and Farpa were arm-wrestling, and Lâmina was sharpening her scimitar near a tent, casting a curious glance at Tetanus and Zara but saying nothing.

Tetanus avoided eye contact. Zara gave him a pat on the shoulder, a gesture both friendly and commanding. “Go on, kid,” she said, voice firm. “It’s gonna be a long day.”

Tetanus nodded, the camp’s air thick with the energy of something big. Tiradentes was at the camp’s center, studying a map. He was talking with two miners, gesturing over a rough map in his hands. Seeing Tetanus, he waved him over.

“Good to see you up, lad,” Tiradentes said. “We’re planning the rebellion, but first, we need food. Supplies are low, and I don’t want my men hungry while we figure out how to take down the prince.” He pointed to the forest surrounding the camp, a sea of dark trees stretching to the hills. “I want you to go out there and hunt something. A wolf, a wild boar, anything to feed these people. Take your sword, but go alone. I don’t want a group scaring off the game.”

“Count on me,” Tetanus said, adjusting his armor and slinging his sword across his back.

“Good. Be back before noon,” Tiradentes replied, returning to the map. “And watch your step. Those forests hold more than animals, and you know plenty about that.”

Tetanus grabbed an old bow and a quiver with a few arrows, though he knew his real weapon was the sword. He left the camp without looking back, the dirt trail giving way to a narrow path covered in roots and dry leaves. The forest was dense, the air heavy with the smell of moss and damp wood. The camp’s sounds soon faded, replaced by distant owl hoots and the rustle of leaves in the wind.

He walked carefully, eyes scanning the ground for tracks of large game. The mark on his chest pulsed faintly, as if responding to the forest’s stillness. Tetanus tried to ignore it, focusing on the hunt, but a sense of being watched made him nock an arrow just in case. The forest felt alive, branches swaying without wind, as if whispering to each other.

Then he heard it. A sharp crack, like wood snapping, from behind a twisted tree to his left.

He stopped, bow ready with an arrow nocked, but before he could aim, a tall, slender shadow emerged from the trunk, as if the tree itself had come to life. It was a Varapau, a forest guardian, its lean, elongated body made of living wood, with arms like twisted branches and eyes glowing like amber resin. Its skin, if it could be called that, was covered in bark and dry twigs.

The creature moved with supernatural grace.

Tetanus stepped back, arrow aimed, but the Varapau didn’t attack immediately. It tilted its head, amber eyes fixed on Tetanus’s chest, as if seeing through his armor and shirt.

“You…” the Varapau’s voice was like the creaking of ancient trees, deep and resonant. “You bear the mark. The spiral of the Anti-God. Why are you here, bearer?”

Tetanus froze, heart pounding. How did this thing know about the mark?

“I… just came to hunt,” he said, voice steady but with a slight tremor. “I don’t want trouble in your territory.”

The Varapau took a step forward, its branch-like fingers crackling. “The forest does not believe your words, bearer. The mark you carry is a poison. A destroyer. You do not hunt for hunger, but for blood.” Its eyes glowed brighter, and the ground beneath Tetanus trembled, thick roots emerging like serpents.

“I’m not an enemy!” Tetanus shouted. “I didn’t come to cut your trees!”

The creature seemed unconvinced. “The mark does not lie,” it growled, raising an arm. A nearby tree creaked, leaning dangerously toward Tetanus, as if obeying the creature’s will. “You are a threat. And the forest does not forgive.”

Tetanus dodged just as the tree fell, the impact shaking the ground and raising a cloud of dirt. He spun his sword into a defensive stance, heart racing. The Varapau advanced, its movements swift despite its ungainly form, its branch-arms whipping through the air with bone-breaking force. Tetanus blocked a blow with his sword, the impact reverberating through his arms, but he knew fighting a forest guardian was different from facing mercenaries or guards.

A Varapau was part of nature itself, and the forest seemed to fight alongside it, roots trying to ensnare his feet and branches falling dangerously close.

“Listen to me!” Tetanus shouted, dodging another attack. “I don’t want to fight! I just came for food for my people!”

The ent didn’t respond. Its amber eyes burned with greater fury now, and Tetanus realized it wouldn’t back down.

The tall, slender creature moved with agility that belied its wooden form, its amber eyes always fixed on the invisible mark under Tetanus’s armor. The ground trembled with the movement of roots, trees around leaning toward the mercenary, as if reaching for him.

Tetanus gripped his two-handed sword tightly, muscles tense, the blade reflecting the faint light filtering through the canopy.

“The mark is a threat!” the ent growled, its voice like snapping dry wood. One of its arms extended, stretching unnaturally, and Tetanus barely had time to raise his sword to block. The impact was brutal, the creature’s strength making his arms shake and his feet slide in the soft earth. The blade bit into the Varapau’s bark, splintering wood, but the guardian didn’t flinch, its amber eyes burning with resolve.

“FASTER, YOU ROTTEN LOG!” Tetanus shouted, sidestepping to avoid another blow that tore a chunk of earth from where he’d stood. Roots erupted from the ground, wrapping around his boots, trying to immobilize him. He slashed one with his sword, the steel slicing through the living wood with a dry snap, but more roots came, faster and more numerous. “Shit!” he muttered, leaping back, heart pounding.

The living wood creature gave no quarter. With a gesture of its arm, another tree groaned, leaning perilously. Tetanus saw it coming and rolled aside, the tree crashing with a boom that shook the ground, kicking up a cloud of leaves and dirt. He coughed, his eye stinging.

The Varapau advanced again, both arms extended, each splitting into smaller branches that moved like tentacles, seeking to trap him. Tetanus swung his sword in a wide arc, severing several branches with one blow. Splinters flew, and the Varapau let out a sound—half roar, half lament—as if the forest felt the pain. “You wound what protects!” the creature accused, its words echoing among the trees. “The mark condemns you!”

“I didn’t choose this shit!” Tetanus shouted, anger mixing with fear. He charged, exploiting the Varapau’s brief hesitation, and struck with all his strength, aiming for its torso. The sword cut deep, tearing off bark and branch, but the Varapau retaliated with terrifying speed, one of its arms striking Tetanus’s shoulder like a whip.

Pain exploded in his shoulder, and he was thrown meters back, nearly dropping his sword. The reinforced leather armor absorbed some of the impact, but he felt warm blood seeping under the fabric. “Damn…” he muttered, retreating to gain space. The mark on his chest pulsed stronger, as if responding to the battle’s fury, and for a moment, he felt a surge of energy course through him, as if the mark were fueling his strength.

The Varapau paused, its amber eyes narrowing. “You are more than you seem,” it said, voice thick with suspicion. “But the forest does not forgive.” It raised both arms, and the ground shook violently. Thick roots burst from the earth, encircling Tetanus like a living cage. He spun his sword like a whirlwind, cutting what he could, but they kept coming, faster, more numerous.

Out of options, Tetanus decided to risk everything. He ran toward the Varapau, ignoring the roots grabbing at his legs. One caught his ankle, but he broke free with the force of his charge, slashing quickly, using his momentum to leap. With a yell, he raised his sword overhead and brought it down with all his might, aiming for the creature’s head. The Varapau tried to block, crossing its branch-arms, but Tetanus’s blade was heavy, driven by a rage he barely understood. The steel sliced through, severing one of the Varapau’s arms, which fell with a dry snap.

The creature staggered, letting out a wail that made the surrounding trees tremble. “You… do not know what you do…” the Varapau murmured, its voice fading. It retreated, its body beginning to merge with the nearest tree, as if seeking refuge in the forest. “The mark… will destroy you… and all it touches.”

Tetanus stood panting, sword still raised, blood trickling from his wounded shoulder. The roots around him receded into the earth, and the forest fell silent, as if in mourning.

He lowered his sword, the weight of the battle and the Varapau’s words crashing over him. The mark on his chest pulsed, less intense now, almost painful, and he didn’t know if it was adrenaline or something deeper, something the ent seemed to understand better than he did.

With no game to bring back to the camp, Tetanus cleaned his sword on the grass and checked his shoulder. The wound wasn’t deep, but it stung. He needed to return before Tiradentes started asking why he’d taken so long. Looking around, he saw the severed arm of the creature on the ground and decided to take it, just in case.

Tetanus emerged from the forest aching, his shoulder throbbing where the Varapau had struck him. His two-handed sword, now clean, weighed heavily on his back, and the creature’s severed arm—a twisted branch covered in moss and bark—dragged in his other hand. The light was nearing noon, and he knew his delay would be noticed.

The Last Comradeship Camp came into view. Tetanus crossed an improvised exit leading from the forest into the camp, ignoring the curious stares of some men who noticed the strange branch he carried.

He headed straight for the central campfire, where Tiradentes, Gume, Lâmina, and Farpa were gathered, the commander examining the same rough map as before, now marked with chalk lines.

Tiradentes looked up as Tetanus approached, his expression hardening at the lack of game. “Where’s the food, kid?” he asked, voice firm but tinged with concern. “And what the hell is that you’re carrying?”

Gume, chewing a piece of dry bread, laughed but his eyes widened at the branch in Tetanus’s hand. “Hold up… that’s not just any branch, is it?” He stepped closer, examining it with a mix of curiosity and wariness. “Man, that looks like Varapau stuff.”

Lâmina, tossing a single gold coin up and down, sometimes letting it fall, stopped abruptly. “Varapau?” She stood, eyes narrowing at the branch. “You’re kidding, Gume. Those are legends. Forest guardians, tree protectors… nobody sees a Varapau and lives to tell.”

Farpa approached, eyes wide. “My grandpa told stories about them!” he exclaimed, voice trembling with excitement. “Says they show up for people who mess with the wrong trees. Did you cut an old tree, Tetanus? Was that it?”

Tetanus shook his head, tossing the Varapau’s arm onto the ground near the fire. It landed with a dry thud, and nearby mercenaries drew closer, murmuring among themselves. “Didn’t cut any tree,” he said, voice hoarse, shoulder still burning. “I was hunting, like you ordered, boss. Then this… thing showed up. Looked like a living tree, tall, thin, with eyes glowing like gold. Said I was a threat because of…” He hesitated, touching his chest instinctively where the mark pulsed. “Because of something I carry. Don’t know how, but it knew.”

Tiradentes frowned, crossing his arms. He crouched, examining the branch carefully, fingers tracing its bark and moss. “Varapau,” he murmured, more to himself than the others. “Not a legend, Lâmina. Rare, but real. Forest guardians, older than the empire itself. They only appear when they think the land’s in danger.” He looked up at Tetanus, his gaze piercing. “What’d it say exactly, kid? About this ‘threat’ you carry?”

Tetanus swallowed hard, feeling all eyes on him. He didn’t want to talk about the mark, not with so many ears around. “Didn’t say much beyond that,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “Don’t know what it meant. Just know it came at me, and I had to fight. Cut off one of its arms, and it… merged with a tree, vanished. But at least we’ve got firewood now!” He let out a goofy laugh, then noticed Zara’s serious stare.

Gume whistled low, impressed. “Man, you’re really crazy!”

Lâmina, still suspicious, crossed her arms. “And you’ve got no idea why it attacked you? Just because of this ‘something’?” Her look seemed to pierce through him, as if she knew he was hiding something.

Farpa, meanwhile, was buzzing with excitement. “You’re like a legend now, Tetanus! Killed a forest guardian and seven Sacis! Bet they’ll tell stories about you in taverns!”

Tiradentes raised a hand, silencing the group. “No tavern stories,” he said, voice sharp. “Last thing we need is more attention. Varapaus don’t show up by chance. If it went after you, Tetanus, it sensed something.” He paused, eyes fixed on the mercenary. “You hiding something, kid?”

“Just brought what was left of it, boss. Don’t know why it attacked me. Swear.” He pointed to the branch, trying to shift focus.

Tiradentes sighed, clearly unconvinced but unwilling to press further. “Fine. But no game means we ration what we’ve got.” He stood, kicking the branch aside. “Keep that, Tetanus. Might be useful, or at least proof you’re not making this up. And get that shoulder treated. I don’t want my best swordsman limping when the rebellion starts.”

Tetanus nodded, picking up the branch and wrapping it in cloth again. As he headed to the healer’s tent, he felt Gume, Lâmina, and Farpa’s eyes following him.

The camp was quieter than usual. The central campfire burned low, illuminating only the nearest faces, the rest shrouded in shadows. Tetanus, Gume, Farpa, and Lâmina sat around a crate used as a makeshift table, a game of truco spread out between them.

Gume tossed a card with a sly grin. “Three. Take that, Farpa.”

Farpa rolled his eyes, throwing a bronze coin onto the “table.” “You cheat, Gume. Always cheat.”

“Can’t cheat at truco.” Gume shrugged, winking at Lâmina, who ignored him, studying her cards with a calculating look.

Tetanus was distracted, fingers tapping the crate’s edge. His shoulder still ached, but the healer said it wasn’t serious—just a deep cut that would heal in days. What really bothered him were the Varapau’s words.

The mark will destroy you… and all it touches.

“Hey, Tetanus!” Farpa nudged his arm. “You playing or what?”

Tetanus blinked, snapping back to reality. “Oh, yeah. Here.” He tossed a random card, not thinking much.

Lâmina raised an eyebrow. “Two?”

“He’s still thinking about the ‘wood,’” Gume laughed, scooping up the coins. “Wanna talk about it, man?”

Tetanus shrugged, avoiding their eyes. “Not much to say. Thing showed up, I cut a piece off, it disappeared.”

“But why’d it attack you?” Farpa leaned forward, eyes gleaming with curiosity. “Did you do something to the forest? Cut a sacred tree? Curse Mother Nature?”

“Didn’t do shit,” Tetanus grumbled, grabbing the cup of cheap cachaça beside him and taking a swig. The burn in his throat helped drown his thoughts.

Lâmina watched him for a moment, then tossed her cards onto the “table.” “Enough games. Tetanus is hiding something.”

Silence fell over the group.

Gume frowned. “That true?”

Tetanus felt the weight of their stares. He didn’t want to lie, but he couldn’t tell the truth either. “The Varapau said something about… a mark.” He touched his chest instinctively but stopped halfway, as if catching himself.

Farpa’s eyes widened. “A mark? What kind?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Tetanus said too quickly. “Just said I was a threat. Don’t know why.”

Lâmina crossed her arms. “Bullshit. You know.”

Gume looked between them, then sighed. “C’mon, Lâmina. If he doesn’t wanna talk, he doesn’t talk. Everyone’s got secrets.”

“Secrets are dangerous,” she shot back, eyes locked on Tetanus. “Especially now, with the rebellion coming. If there’s something that could screw us, I wanna know.”

Tetanus clenched his fists. “It won’t screw anyone.”

“Prove it.”

They stared each other down, the tension almost palpable, Lâmina nearly lunging at him.

Then Zara appeared, her imposing silhouette lit by the fire. “What’re you lot arguing about?”

All eyes turned to her.

Farpa, ever the excitable one, raised a hand. “Tetanus killed the Varapau and won’t tell us how!”

Zara looked at Tetanus, her green eyes studying him. “Oh, yeah?”

Tetanus felt his face heat up, unsure if it was the cachaça or the memory of the stream.

“No big deal,” he mumbled.

Zara gave a slow smile. “Sure it wasn’t.” She leaned down, picking up a truco card and examining it. “But if you’re so keen on stories, why not talk about the rebellion?”

The mood shifted instantly.

Gume lowered his voice. “Speaking of… when do we strike?”

Zara glanced around, ensuring no unwanted ears were listening. “Tiradentes will announce tomorrow. But the plan’s simple—invade Ouro Preto through the docks, take the guard barracks, and seize the prince before he can react.”

Lâmina whistled low. “Risky. I like it.”

“Everything’s risky,” Zara replied. “But if it works, the city’s ours.”

Tetanus stared into the fire, imagining the chaos to come. Deep down, he wondered if the Varapau was right—if he truly was a threat to all he touched. If so, he couldn’t risk endangering everyone he cared about.

Farpa broke the silence with a grin. “So tomorrow we’re either heroes or corpses. Cool.”

Gume laughed, raising his cup. “At least we’ll die famous.”

Tetanus said nothing. He just raised his cup too, pretending the mark on his chest wasn’t pulsing stronger with every passing minute.

The day dawned with a heavy silence in the camp. Tetanus woke to a sharp crack, like wood splitting. He leapt up, hand instinctively reaching for his sword.

Something was wrong.

The branch he’d brought—the Varapau’s arm—was gone from where he’d left it. Instead, thin, dark roots spread across the ground like crawling veins, leading to the camp’s center. There, where there had only been a piece of dead wood, a tall, slender figure was slowly reforming, its twisted limbs rebuilding.

The creature had returned.

“SHIT!” Gume shouted, jumping back as the creature rose, its amber eyes blazing with renewed fury.

The forest guardian let out a sound—part roar, part creak of ancient trees—and before anyone could react, one of its branch-arms lashed out like a whip, striking an unsuspecting mercenary and hurling him into a tent.

Chaos erupted.

“ARM YOURSELVES!” Zara bellowed, drawing her sword and charging.

Tetanus was already moving, two-handed sword in hand, heart racing. The Varapau turned toward him, its eyes locked on him as if recognizing its true enemy.

“You should not have returned,” the creature’s voice echoed, deep as distant thunder.

“Didn’t ask you to grow back, you piece of firewood!” Tetanus retorted, swinging a blow that severed one of the smaller branches reaching for him.

Gume and Lâmina took positions at his sides, weapons ready. Farpa, meanwhile, was running toward the fire, grabbing a burning piece of wood.

“Distract it!” Farpa shouted, dipping an arrow into the flames.

The Varapau attacked again, its limbs stretching like wooden serpents. Lâmina dodged a precise strike, spinning and slicing a root trying to grab her feet. Gume, less agile, took a hit to the chest and fell back, coughing.

“Gume!” Tetanus charged, stepping between his friend and the creature. His sword swept in a wide arc, cutting another branch, but the Varapau seemed inexhaustible.

Then a whistle cut through the air.

Farpa’s flaming arrow flew like a comet, embedding in the Varapau’s torso. For a second, nothing happened.

Then the fire spread.

The dry wood caught almost instantly, flames climbing the branches like a fuse. The Varapau let out an agonized scream, a sound from the forest’s depths, and thrashed, trying to extinguish the flames with its own arms—but that only spread the fire further.

“GET BACK!” Zara ordered, pulling Tetanus away.

Tetanus retreated, watching the creature burn. The Varapau staggered, its amber eyes fixed on him until the last moment.

“The mark… will consume all…” were its final words before its body collapsed into embers and ash.

The camp fell silent, only the crackle of the fire burning the creature’s remains breaking the air.

Farpa lowered his bow, panting. “Well… that was new.”

Lâmina looked at Tetanus, eyes narrowed. “It mentioned the mark again. What the hell is that?”

Tetanus didn’t answer. He just stared at the Varapau’s ashes, feeling the weight of that invisible curse in his chest pulse once more.

Zara approached, placing a hand on his shoulder. “We need to talk. Now.”

The camp erupted in commotion. Mercenaries swarmed Farpa, slapping his back and laughing in celebration.

“The kid took down the beast with one arrow!” one shouted, raising a bottle of cachaça.

“Hell of a shot, boy!” another added, ruffling Farpa’s head with dirty fingers.

Farpa, with his gap-toothed grin and shining eyes, puffed out his chest. “No big deal! Just did what I had to!” He raised his bow like a trophy, and the men around roared in approval.

As the celebration spread, Zara grabbed Tetanus’s arm with vice-like force.

“You. With me. NOW.” Her fingers dug into his flesh, and her green eyes left no room for argument.

Without another word, she dragged him away from the fire, toward the camp’s outer tents, where the mercenaries’ noise no longer reached. The smell of damp earth and smoke lingered, mixed with the bitter scent of the Varapau’s charred remains.

When they stopped, Zara shoved him against a fallen log, crossing her arms.

“Talk.” The command snapped like a whip.

Tetanus rubbed his arm where she’d gripped him. “Talk about what?”

“Don’t bullshit me, kid.” She leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “The Varapau attacked the camp because of you. And before it died, it mentioned the mark again. I’ve seen that damn thing on your chest. Now I wanna know what the hell it is.”

Tetanus’s heart raced. He tried to look away, but Zara grabbed his chin, forcing him to meet her gaze.

“No running from this.” Her voice was lower now, almost a harsh whisper. “If this is a threat to the rebellion, I need to know. Obey your captain!”

Tetanus swallowed hard. He knew Zara wouldn’t let it go. And deep down, he was tired of carrying this secret alone.

“I didn’t choose this,” he said, the words spilling out like a forced confession. “The mark’s always been with me. Since I can remember. But I don’t know what it does… just that bad things happen around me.”

Zara released him, studying his face for lies. “Bad things like what?”

“People dying.” He looked at his hands, as if they might be stained with blood. “Accidents. Things that shouldn’t happen. The Varapau… it said the mark is from the Anti-God. That it destroys everything it touches…”

In a flash of memory, Tetanus recalled Father Arture but didn’t want to bring it up.

Zara was silent for a long moment. Then, to his surprise, she let out a low, humorless laugh.

“Damn, Tetanus. You couldn’t have a simple past, could you? Had to be some ancient curse.” She ran a hand through her red hair, sighing. “Tiradentes can’t know.”

Tetanus blinked. “What?”

“If he finds out you’re carrying a cursed mark that draws trouble, he’ll send you packing.” Her eyes gleamed with determination. “And we need you for the rebellion.”

He didn’t know what to say. He’d expected anger, fear… not this.

“Why are you helping me now, out of nowhere?”

Zara looked at him for a second, then, without warning, yanked him close by his collar.

“Because I like underdogs,” she spat, before crushing her lips against his in a forceful kiss.

When they parted, Tetanus was breathless.

“Now let’s move before they notice the hero’s gone,” she said, giving his face a light slap, as if nothing had happened. “We’ve got a war to win, so you’re gonna raise that cup and smile like you don’t have a damn cursed secret.”

Before he could respond, she was already striding back to the fire, leaving him stunned, the taste of gunpowder and cachaça lingering on his lips.

Chapter 11: Towards Rio da Sangria

Last Comradeship Camp, Minas Gerais — 1662

The buzz in the Last Comradeship camp grew as the night wore on, the central campfire crackling with renewed vigor, fed by fresh logs. Mercenaries crowded around, raising mugs of cachaça and celebrating Farpa’s feat, whose flaming arrow had destroyed the Varapau. The kid, now the center of attention, spun his bow in the air while retelling the story for the third time, embellishing with each version.

Gume laughed loudly, downing his tenth mug, while Lâmina, leaning against a stake, watched with a restrained smile, her scimitar resting on her lap. Tetanus, still reeling from Zara’s unexpected kiss and the conversation about his mark, forced a smile, holding a mug he hadn’t sipped from.

Zara, at his side, seemed at ease, drinking with the other mercenaries and laughing at a crude joke, but her green eyes occasionally met Tetanus’s, as did her hand on his arm.

He tried to focus on the celebration, but something nagged at him. Tiradentes, who should’ve been leading the festivities or at least planning, was nowhere to be seen. The commander’s absence was a discordant note in the camp’s joyful chaos.

“Where’s the boss?” Tetanus muttered to Zara, keeping his voice low to avoid attention.

She frowned, scanning the camp. “Good question,” she replied, her tone hardening. “He was with the map earlier, talking to the miners. Haven’t seen him since.”

Before they could speculate further, a horse whinnied at the camp’s entrance, the sound cutting through the air like a warning. A scout, covered in dust and sweat, dismounted in a hurry, nearly tripping as he ran toward the fire. His face was pale, eyes wide with panic. The mercenaries fell silent, the festive mood evaporating like smoke.

“Captain Zara!” the scout shouted, breathless, stopping before her. “It’s Tiradentes… he’s been taken!”

A murmur of shock rippled through the camp. Zara grabbed the scout by the collar, pulling him closer. “Taken? What do you mean, taken? Speak clearly, man!” Her voice was a mix of fury and urgency.

The scout swallowed hard, hands trembling. “I was in Ouro Preto, watching the taverns like the boss ordered. Heard the royal guards talking… the prince knows about the rebellion! Someone talked, I don’t know who. They grabbed Tiradentes on the trail to the city.” He paused, his face contorting. “They’re taking him to Rio da Sangria. Said they’ll execute him in the public square, to make an example!”

The silence that followed was sharp, broken only by the fire’s crackle. Gume dropped his mug, the liquid spilling into the dirt. “Execute the boss?” he growled, hand already on his halberd. “Those bastards…”

Lâmina stood, scimitar in hand, eyes flashing. “How’d they find out? Did someone here betray us?” She looked around, as if she could spot the traitor among the stunned mercenaries.

Farpa, still holding his bow, looked lost, his heroic glow faded. “What do we do now? Without Tiradentes…” For the first time, Tetanus saw him without his smile or enthusiasm.

Tetanus immediately thought of Rastro—had he spilled about the rebellion too? He scanned the camp, but Rastro was nowhere in sight, which only deepened his suspicion.

Zara released the scout, who fell to his knees, gasping. She turned to the mercenaries, climbing onto a crate to be heard by all. Her voice cut through the air like a blade. “Listen up! Tiradentes is the heart of this rebellion, and we’re not letting him die on a gallows in Rio da Sangria!” She pointed to the horizon, where the road to Ouro Preto vanished into the dark. “We’re making a plan, now. We get him back before they reach the coast. But nobody, nobody, breathes a word of this outside the camp!”

The mercenaries roared in approval, but Tetanus saw doubt on some faces. Without Tiradentes, the Last Comradeship felt like a headless army. He approached Zara, voice low. “How do we get him out? Rio da Sangria’s far as hell, and the prince must’ve beefed up the escort.”

Zara looked at him, raising her monocle, the firelight glinting off it. “Don’t know yet, but we’ll figure it out.” She paused, eyes narrowing. “And you, Tetanus, especially you—keep your mouth shut. If the prince is after Tiradentes, he’ll want anything to dismantle us. Especially you.”

Tetanus nodded, the weight of responsibility crushing him. Gume and Lâmina approached, the former gripping his halberd tightly, the latter with a calculating glint in her eyes. “If we’re going after the boss, we need a plan fast,” Lâmina said. “Ouro Preto’s crawling with guards, and the road to Rio da Sangria’s a snake pit.”

“I’m going with you,” Farpa declared, raising his bow, though his voice trembled. “Tiradentes believed in me. I won’t let him down.”

Zara placed a firm hand on Farpa’s shoulder. “You stay here, kid. We need someone to hold the camp.” She looked at Tetanus, Gume, and Lâmina. “You three, with me. We’ll gather the best men and plan the route. The scout will tell us everything he saw in Ouro Preto.” She turned to the scout, still catching his breath. “And you, I hope you’ve got more details, because your life depends on it.”

As the camp mobilized, Tetanus’s mind grew heavier, remembering Tiradentes calling him son, trusting him. He couldn’t fail now.

Zara slapped his shoulder, snapping him out of his thoughts. “Stop daydreaming, Tetanus. Grab that beam you call a sword and come on. We’ve got a commander to save.” She strode off, shouting orders, while Tetanus adjusted his armor, the sword’s weight on his back making him sigh.

“How long till the execution?” Gume asked, chewing a piece of dried meat.

“Three days,” Zara replied. “If we ride straight and cut through, we can make it in time.”

“And then?” Tetanus crossed his arms. “How do we get Tiradentes out of a whole city?”

Zara grinned, a humorless gesture. “By making a bigger mess.”

“You’re kidding.”

She pointed to Rio da Sangria’s port on the map. “There’s a ship loaded with gunpowder docked there. If we reach it, the explosion will distract the guards enough for us to act.”

Gume clapped his hands. “You’re talking about blowing up half the port?”

“I’m talking about putting on a show,” Zara corrected. “Besides, the prince loves a spectacle. Let’s give him one he’ll never forget.”

Tetanus studied the map, his mind racing. Something didn’t add up. “Who gave Tiradentes up?”

The group fell silent.

“It was Rastro,” Tetanus said, crossing his arms. “He’s always been a traitor. And after I beat his ass that day, he probably went straight to the prince.”

Lâmina shook her head. “Rastro’s been gone for days. No one knows where he is.”

“Which means,” Gume added, “the scum could be anywhere. Even in Rio da Sangria, laughing in our faces.”

Zara folded the map with a sharp motion. “Doesn’t matter who it was. What matters is Tiradentes is running out of time, and we’re his only shot.” She looked at each of them. “Ready?”

Gume chuckled. “Never.”

Lâmina drew her scimitar, checking its edge. “Ready.”

Tetanus took a deep breath, feeling the mark on his chest pulse. “Let’s go.”

Zara nodded. “Then it’s now. Grab what you need. We leave before dawn.”

As they dispersed, Tetanus glanced back at the camp one last time. Farpa sat by the fire, shoulders slumped.

He turned and followed the others, preparing for the journey.

That night, under a starry sky, four figures, plus eight other mercenaries, rode out from the camp toward Rio da Sangria.

 

Empire of Brazil — Road to Rio da Sangria — 1662

The night swallowed the trail as the twelve mercenaries rode toward Rio da Sangria, the sound of hooves echoing like muffled thunder in the dark.

Tetanus led the group, mounted on a muscular horse, its black coat gleaming faintly under the moonlight. His two-handed sword swayed on his back, its familiar weight a comfort against the urgency consuming him.

Zara rode to his right, face set, eyes alert, scanning the horizon. Gume, with his halberd strapped to his horse’s flank, grumbled about the cold, while Lâmina, to Tetanus’s left, kept her scimitar sheathed but her hand never far from the hilt. The other eight mercenaries, handpicked by Zara, rode in tight formation, the silence between them broken only by the creak of saddles and the snorting of horses.

They rode relentlessly, the pace unforgiving. Every hour lost was a step closer to the gallows for Tiradentes. The main road to Rio da Sangria was guarded, so Zara had chosen to cut through lesser-known trails, plunging into a wild region where the forest grew denser and more hostile.

The plan was simple: reach the port before the ship carrying Tiradentes sailed, blow up the gunpowder shipment, and use the chaos to rescue him. But the forest now surrounding them inspired little confidence.

Forest of the Dry Corpses

The trees began to change, living trunks giving way to a landscape of dry, twisted branches, like exposed bones under the gathering mist on the ground. The Forest of the Dry Corpses, as some called it, was a place avoided even by the bravest. The air was heavy, a fetid stench of decay mixing with the dampness. Tetanus felt the mark on his chest pulse, a warning he tried to ignore, gripping the reins tighter.

“This is giving me the creeps,” Gume muttered, voice low, as if afraid to wake something. “These trees look like they’re watching us.”

“Shut up, blockhead, not now,” Lâmina snapped, but her voice carried tension. “It’s just a forest. Focus on the mission.”

Zara raised a hand, signaling to slow down. “Stay sharp,” she said, adjusting her monocle to see through the mist. “Something’s off here.”

Before anyone could respond, a sharp crack came from the treetops, like branches snapping under an invisible weight. Tetanus pulled his reins, his horse whinnying in protest. He looked up, his yellow eye narrowing in the dark. Then chaos erupted.

Dry corpses fell from the trees like rotten fruit, their twisted forms hitting the ground with sickening cracks. Others emerged straight from the trunks, as if the wood were vomiting them. Skeletal creatures with desiccated skin stretched over bones, empty eye sockets glowing faintly. Their mouths opened in silent agony, and their movements were swift, inhuman, like drunken spiders. An army of undead, born from the cursed forest, surged toward the mercenaries.

“SHIT!” Gume shouted, halberd in hand as a dry corpse leapt onto his horse. His blade sliced through the air, decapitating the creature, but more came, climbing the horses and clawing with nails sharp as knives.

Tetanus swung his two-handed sword, the wide arc felling two dry corpses trying to reach him. His horse reared, nearly throwing him, but he held fast, slicing another creature crawling up the animal’s flank. “Stay together!” he shouted, but chaos had already taken hold.

Zara fought like a storm, her short sword cleaving through dried limbs with deadly precision. “Don’t stop! Cut and move!” she ordered, but the less experienced mercenaries didn’t stand a chance. One was dragged from his horse, screaming as three dry corpses tore him apart with claws and teeth. Another tried to flee, only to be swallowed by the mist, his scream cut short.

Lâmina spun her scimitar in lethal arcs, staying close to Tetanus, but even she seemed overwhelmed. “Where did these things come from?!” she growled, slicing a dry corpse in half, only to see another emerge from a nearby trunk.

Gume, now on foot after his horse was brought down, swung his halberd, but brute force wasn’t enough against their sheer numbers. “Tetanus, do something!” he roared as a dry corpse sank its claws into his arm.

Tetanus felt the mark pulse, hot, almost burning. He didn’t know what was happening, but the forest seemed to react to him, as if the dry corpses were drawn to the spiral on his chest. He cut down another monster, the impact reverberating through his arms, and shouted to Zara, “We’ve got to get out of here! They keep coming!”

Zara, covered in dust and blood, nodded. “To the trail! Now!” She carved a path, felling dry corpses with swift strikes, and the four—Tetanus, Zara, Gume, and Lâmina—rushed to their horses. Of the other eight mercenaries, some had been torn apart in the mist, while others, driven mad, fled screaming into the forest, vanishing into the darkness.

None of them had signed up to face supernatural monsters.

Tetanus mounted his horse, miraculously still standing, and pulled Gume onto the saddle behind him, the horse protesting under the weight. Lâmina and Zara galloped ahead, cutting down any dry corpse blocking the path. The mist seemed alive, trying to swallow them, but they forced their way through, hooves crushing bones and rotten wood. The dry corpses’ screams echoed behind, a chorus of agony and suffering that made Tetanus’s hair stand on end.

When they finally emerged from the dead forest, the open trail revealed itself under the starry sky, the clean air a relief after the stench of decay. The four stopped, panting, their horses trembling with exhaustion. Tetanus looked back, the mist still swirling at the forest’s edge, but the dry corpses didn’t follow.

“What the hell was that?” Gume asked, his arm bleeding, his halberd stained with viscous black liquid. “Those things… they looked dead but moved!”

Lâmina, wiping her scimitar on her thigh, said, “Dry corpses. Heard stories. Souls trapped in cursed trees, brought back by who-knows-what.” She glanced at Tetanus, eyes narrowed. “And they seemed real interested in you.”

Tetanus felt the mark pulse again and looked away. “Don’t know why,” he lied, voice tense. “Just know we lost half our men. More than half, honestly.”

Zara, still mounted, her face a mask of contained fury, said, “Eight men dead or driven mad. That wasn’t in the plan.”

Gume, clutching his wounded arm, tried to lighten the mood. “Relax, man. We’re still alive, right? We’ll get the boss and give those bastards payback.”

Lâmina sheathed her scimitar, expression hard. “We’d better not hit another forest like that. Zara’s plan better work.”

Zara spurred her horse, signaling to move. “Let’s go. Two days left. No stopping till the port.” She gave Tetanus a final look, as if challenging him to prove he was worth her trust.

The group rode under a moonless sky, the darkness swallowing the trail as exhaustion weighed on their shoulders. The escape from the forest had drained them, the horses even more, the four marked by cuts, bruises, and the loss of the other eight mercenaries.

The urgency to reach Rio da Sangria before Tiradentes’s execution kept them moving, but even Zara, with her iron determination, knew they needed rest.

“Enough,” she announced, pulling her horse’s reins in a clearing surrounded by rocks and sparse bushes. “If we keep going like this, we’ll drop dead before the port. We camp here. One night, no more.”

Gume dismounted with a groan, rubbing his wounded arm. “Finally, a sensible idea, captain. My ass is numb as hell.”

Lâmina leapt off her horse lightly, scimitar swinging at her hip. “Keep your eyes open. This place isn’t the Forest of the Dead, but it doesn’t smell right either,” she said, scanning the darkness beyond the clearing.

Tetanus tied his horse to a tree, his body already numb from nearly a day and a half of riding. He helped set up camp in silence, raising a makeshift tarp and lighting a small fire with dry twigs. Zara assigned watch shifts, but no one protested when she told Tetanus to rest first. “You look like shit, kid. Sleep. We need you whole tomorrow.”

Exhausted, Tetanus lay under the tarp, his two-handed sword a few steps away, out of immediate reach. The cold ground seemed to sap his body heat, but exhaustion won, and he fell into a heavy sleep, darkness swallowing his thoughts.

In his dream, the world was warm, hazy, the edges blurred as if he lay under a paradisiacal veil. Lâmina was above him, her loose hair falling like a curtain, her dark eyes gleaming with an intensity he’d never seen. She was naked, her skin glistening under an impossible light, moving over him with an urgency that made his body respond without hesitation. He felt her heat, the pressure of her hips, the brush of her skin against his. The mark on his chest burned, not with pain but as if fueling desire, intensifying every touch. He tried to reach her, but his hands wouldn’t obey, bound by an invisible force. The pleasure grew, but something was wrong. The weight on him was too real, oppressive, crushing him to the ground.

Tetanus opened his eye, heart racing, but his body wouldn’t move. He was trapped, paralyzed, the clearing around him indistinct in the dark. The fire had dwindled to embers, Gume, Lâmina, and Zara sleeping soundly, their soft snores breaking the silence. But something was on him. It wasn’t Lâmina. It was something else.

A hunched creature, with gray skin and hair like steel wool, crouched on his chest.

The Pisadeira.

Her eyes were black with white pupils, glowing with a malevolent moonlight, and her thick, twisted nails hovered over him, scratching his chest. She laughed, a hoarse, guttural sound, as her deformed feet stomped deliberately on his stomach, each impact stealing his breath.

The mark on Tetanus’s chest burned, as if recognizing the creature.

Tetanus tried to scream, but his voice wouldn’t come. Sleep paralysis held him, his body heavy as lead, as the Pisadeira leaned closer, her grotesque face inches from his. “Bearer…” she hissed, her voice like wind over dry bones. “You’re done for, kid… Kueh Ke Ke Ke Ke!”

Rage surged within him, mixed with panic. He couldn’t lie there, helpless, as the creature crushed him. With an effort that felt like tearing his muscles, Tetanus focused on the mark, on its hot, living pulse.

He didn’t know how, but something snapped, like an overstretched rope. His right hand moved, slowly at first, then gaining strength. With a muffled roar, he grabbed the Pisadeira’s wrist, her nails scratching his skin as he shoved her aside.

His body responded, the paralysis dissolving like mist. Tetanus rolled out from under the tarp, falling to his knees, air rushing back in gasps. The Pisadeira rose, dragging herself with clumsy movements, her twisted feet thumping the ground with dry cracks. “You don’t escape, kid!” she snarled, lunging with outstretched nails, ready to tear.

His sword was out of reach, propped against a nearby rock. No time. Clenching his fists, Tetanus stood, adrenaline burning away fatigue. “Come on, you wretched hag!” he shouted, dodging a swipe of her nails, which sliced the air with a sharp sound.

The Pisadeira was fast but clumsy, her movements erratic. Tetanus took advantage, landing a hard punch to her face. The impact was like hitting rotten wood, but she staggered back, still grinning grotesquely. He pressed forward, throwing another punch to her chest, feeling something crack under his knuckles. The creature screamed, lunging again, but he sidestepped, landing a third punch to the side of her head.

No matter the chaos, no one else woke.

The Pisadeira clawed his arm, leaving gashes like deep knife wounds. Tetanus ignored the pain, his rage only fueled.

With a yell, he grabbed her straw-like hair, yanking her down and driving his knee into her face. The impact made her collapse, and before she could rise, Tetanus kicked her chest with all his strength, sending her crashing against a rock.

The Pisadeira let out a final moan, her body trembling as if falling apart. Then, like smoke in the wind, she dissolved into the air, leaving only an echo of her scream.

Tetanus stood panting, his arm bleeding from scattered cuts. He looked at the others, still sleeping soundly, oblivious to what had happened.

He grabbed his sword, ensuring it was within reach this time, and sat against a rock, body trembling with adrenaline. He decided he’d never again sleep with his sword out of reach.

The morning sun bathed the clearing in golden light, dispelling the last traces of the night’s chill. Tetanus, who’d barely slept after the Pisadeira encounter, rose with a heavy body, muscles still sore from the forest battle and the blows he’d landed on the creature.

Zara was already up, giving light kicks to Gume’s body. “Wake up, idiot. And you there, Tetanus, leaning against that rock like a hungover drunk,” she remarked without looking up. “Sleep well?”

Tetanus rubbed his face, feeling deep bags under his eyes. “More or less.”

He didn’t mention the nocturnal encounter. No one seemed to have noticed anything, and he didn’t want to sound like a myth-slaying lunatic. Again.

Gume stretched with a groan, his wounded arm now wrapped in a dirty cloth. “What kind of shitty camp is this? Not even coffee to start the day?”

Lâmina, already up and packing, shrugged. “We lost our supplies with the other idiots in the forest. Want to eat? Hunt.”

Zara sheathed her dagger and looked at the group. “We split up. Tetanus and I will look for fruit or anything quick to grab. Lâmina, Gume, you go after game. If you find a stream, bring water.”

Tetanus, re-equipping his sword, spoke up, “I think I’d rather go with Lâmina. You two seem more experienced together, you know? I’m worried she might get hurt…” He glanced to ensure Lâmina wasn’t listening.

Gume grumbled something about “woman’s work,” but a look from Zara silenced him.

“Got it,” she said, grabbing an empty sack and motioning for Gume to follow. “Come on, big guy!”

As the two vanished into the woods, Tetanus and Lâmina exchanged a look.

“Let’s go,” she said, adjusting her weapon.

Tetanus straightened his armor and followed, his steps silent on the damp foliage. The forest here was livelier than the dry corpses’ domain, but it still carried a whiff of decay and morning mist.

They walked in silence for a while until Lâmina broke the ice.

“You okay?”

Tetanus raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“Since this morning. You’re too quiet, friend.”

He hesitated. More or less, he thought.

“Had a weird dream last night,” he admitted, avoiding her gaze.

Lâmina stopped and turned to him, her dark eyes curious. “What kind of dream?”

Tetanus felt his face heat up. Shit, he thought, turning to face her.

“Dunno… just a dream.”

She crossed her arms. “Spit it out, Tetanus. We’re in the middle of nowhere, away from everyone. If not now, when?”

He took a deep breath. “You were in it.”

Lâmina didn’t seem surprised. “Oh yeah? What was I doing?”

Tetanus swallowed hard. “You were… on top of me.”

This time, Lâmina was speechless. She stared at him for a long second, lips slightly parted. Then, to his surprise, she laughed.

“Damn, Tetanus. At least dream of me naked, not clothed.”

He nearly choked. “You were naked.”

She stopped laughing, eyes narrowing. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

Lâmina studied his face, searching for lies. Then, without warning, she turned and kept walking. “Interesting…”

Tetanus stood still for a second, unsure whether to follow or keep talking. He decided to catch up, but the tension between them was palpable now.

“You… dream like that about everyone?” she asked after a while, her voice lower.

“No,” he replied too quickly.

She smiled but didn’t look back. “Good to know.”

The silence returned, but it was different now. Less awkward, more… charged with some tension, almost sexual.

Lâmina broke the ice again. “My dad was Asian.”

Tetanus looked at her, surprised by the shift. “That why your eyes are slanted?”

She nodded. “Came on a merchant ship, ended up staying. My mom was a washerwoman in Ouro Preto. He taught me ronin fighting skills before he died.”

“And your mom?”

“Died of rat fever when I was little.” She shrugged, as if it were no big deal, but Tetanus saw the shadow cross her face.

“So you’re alone.”

“Was. Until I found the Last Comradeship.” She looked at him. “You? Got family?”

Tetanus thought of the witch, a complicated relationship, but didn’t answer. “Got no one.”

Lâmina didn’t press. They kept walking until she stopped near a shallow stream. “Water. At least we’ve got that.”

As they filled their canteens, Lâmina looked at him again. “You think my tits are small?”

Tetanus nearly dropped his canteen. “What?”

“Simple question.” She raised an eyebrow. “Everyone thinks so. Want your opinion.”

“I… don’t know. What kind of question is that?”

“You know. You dreamed about them, didn’t you?”

Tetanus felt the blood rush to his face. “They weren’t small in the dream.”

Lâmina laughed. “In dreams, everyone’s perfect. I want to know in real life.”

He looked at her, at a loss for words.

“Look, Tetanus, we’ve been friends for a while. You can give them a look for me, you know? Just as a friend.”

“…”

“…”

She held his gaze, then, deliberately, lifted her shirt.

Her breasts were firm, not large, but perfect in their simplicity. The dark nipples contrasted with her pale skin, and she displayed them shamelessly, her eyes defiant.

“Go on, touch,” she said, voice steady.

Tetanus hesitated, but seeing she wouldn’t back down, he reached out, touching lightly. They were soft, warm. She didn’t flinch, just watched as he carefully felt them, as if measuring.

“Well?” she asked.

“They’re… good,” he admitted, voice hoarse.

Lâmina smiled, satisfied, and lowered her shirt. “Good to know at least you don’t complain.”

She turned and resumed filling her canteen, as if nothing had happened.

Tetanus stood there, his hand still tingling with her feel. He didn’t know what to say.

Lâmina glanced over her shoulder. “So, friend. We still need to hunt something before Zara thinks we’re up to something else.” Wink.

He followed her, head spinning.

The trip to Rio da Sangria had just gotten a lot more interesting.

Tetanus and Lâmina continued along the stream, the earlier tension lingering but now mixed with a strangely comfortable camaraderie.

“Look there,” Lâmina whispered, pointing to fresh tracks in the wet earth near the stream. Large paw prints with deep claw marks. “Jaguar. Recent.”

Tetanus nodded, his yellow eye narrowing as he scanned the surroundings. “Dangerous, but it’s food.” He gripped his sword, ready to draw, but Lâmina raised a hand, signaling to move carefully.

“Let me take it first,” she said, drawing her scimitar with a fluid motion. “You step in if it comes at me.”

They followed the tracks, moving silently, senses sharp. The forest seemed quiet, birdsong muffled by a low hum of insects. Then a deep growl cut the air, and Tetanus saw amber eyes glinting among the bushes. The jaguar emerged, a majestic beast, its spotted coat gleaming in the filtered light, muscles taut. It was huge, nearly man-sized, its teeth flashing as it opened its mouth, growling in challenge.

Lâmina didn’t hesitate. She charged, her scimitar arcing precisely toward the jaguar’s flank. The beast dodged with terrifying agility, its claws raking the ground as it leapt aside. Tetanus drew his sword, positioning to flank it. “Watch out!” he shouted as the jaguar lunged at Lâmina, its paws slicing the air.

Lâmina rolled aside, her scimitar grazing the jaguar’s face, drawing a roar of fury. Tetanus seized the opening, swinging his sword in a downward arc, but the beast was too fast, retreating into the bushes with a bound. “It’s toying with us!” Lâmina growled, wiping sweat from her brow.

Before Tetanus could reply, a shout echoed from the woods, followed by the sound of snapping branches. Gume burst through, halberd raised, with Zara close behind, sword in hand. “Found you!” Gume bellowed, panting. “And that big cat too!”

The jaguar, now surrounded, hesitated, its amber eyes flicking between the mercenaries. Zara gave it no chance. She charged with a yell, her short sword aiming for the beast’s neck. The jaguar dodged, but Gume was ready, driving his halberd into its flank. The impact made it stagger, and Tetanus capitalized, swinging his sword in a wide arc that cut deep into its chest. Lâmina finished it, plunging her scimitar into the beast’s heart, and it collapsed with a final roar, convulsing before going still.

The four stood panting, the jaguar’s blood staining the earth. Gume wiped his halberd on the grass, laughing. “Hell of a hunt! This’ll make a fine barbecue.”

Lâmina sheathed her scimitar, glancing at Tetanus. “Not bad, friend.”

Zara, ever practical, was already tying the jaguar’s legs with rope. “Good work, but no time to admire it. We take this back to camp and eat fast. Still got ground to cover to Rio da Sangria. Gume, Tetanus! You carry it!”

Tetanus helped Gume haul the jaguar, its weight demanding effort even for two. He exchanged a look with Lâmina, who just shrugged, as if saying, “It’s just a jaguar, relax.”

Back at the clearing, the camp was quiet except for the fire’s crackle, which Gume had revived with more twigs. Zara and Lâmina prepared the jaguar efficiently, cutting the meat into chunks roasted on makeshift spits. The smell of grilling meat filled the air, a relief after days of scarce rations. They ate quickly around the fire, conversation limited to a few words. The weight of their mission—rescuing Tiradentes before his execution—still loomed over them.

Gume devoured his portion, juice dripping down his chin. “But how do we find the boss in all that chaos?”

Zara wiped her hands on her pants. “The scout said he’s on a prison ship docked at the port. The gunpowder will distract the guards, but we need to be quick. Get in, grab Tiradentes, get out before the prince notices.”

Lâmina poked the fire with a stick, her gaze distant. “And if Rastro’s there? If he’s the one who sold out the boss, he might be waiting for us too. Could be in cahoots with the prince.”

“If he’s there, I’ll handle him,” Tetanus said, voice cold.

Zara eyed him, narrowing her eyes. “No personal vendettas, Tetanus. Focus on Tiradentes.” She stood, tossing dirt on the fire to douse it. “We’re done here. Saddle up and move. A day and a half to the port, and we can’t waste more time.”

As they broke camp, Tetanus helped tie up the remaining jaguar meat to carry. Lâmina approached, assisting with the ropes, her fingers brushing his for a moment. “Don’t dream about me again, huh,” she whispered with a half-smile. “At least not without sharing the details.”

Tetanus hid a smile, the tension easing for a second. “No promises.”

With the horses ready, the four mounted, leaving the clearing behind as they resumed their journey to Rio da Sangria.

Chapter 12: Unborn the Prince of Lies

Empire of Brazil — Port to Rio da Sangria, Rio da Sangria — 1662

The setting sun stained the horizon a sickly blood-red as Tetanus, Zara, Gume, and Lâmina finally reached the port leading to Rio da Sangria, the last stop before the city. The salty sea air mingled with the stench of fish and damp ropes, while seagulls screeched above the crowded docks. After a day and a half of relentless riding, the four were exhausted, their faces caked with dust and sweat, their clothes torn from the forest battles. Their horses, however, had suffered more: the animals collapsed on the beach sand, legs trembling, foam dripping from their mouths. There was no forcing them further.

Tetanus dismounted, the weight of his two-handed sword on his back heavier than ever. He scanned the port, where ships swayed gently in the waves, but his heart sank as he realized the ship described by the scout—a galleon with dark sails—was gone. Only an empty horizon where it should have been. “Shit…” he muttered, voice hoarse, fists clenched.

Zara, still mounted, adjusted her monocle to a zoom frequency, scanning the sea. “It’s sailed,” she confirmed, her tone sharp as a blade. “We’re too late. The ship’s already on its way to Rio da Sangria.”

Gume, leaning on his halberd like a crutch, groaned. “Now what? The horses are done, and we’ve got no boat. The roads are crawling with the prince’s guards. What, we gonna swim there?”

Lâmina, cleaning her scimitar on her cloak, glanced at the group. “On foot, we won’t make it in time. And if we try stealing a boat, the guards will nab us before we leave the port.” She pointed to the torches glowing along the coast, where royal patrols marched in tight formation.

Tetanus felt the mark on his chest pulse, hot and insistent, as if responding to his frustration. He looked to the sky, searching for an answer, any sign.

That’s when he saw it.

A colossal shadow crossed the clouds, blocking the fading sunlight. Black wings, wide as a ship’s sails, sliced through the air with a deep hum, and a figure descended toward the beach, kicking up a gust of wind that sprayed sand into the mercenaries’ faces.

“What the hell is that?!” Gume shouted, raising his halberd, while Lâmina took a defensive stance, scimitar ready.

Zara, however, just watched, eyes narrowed through her monocle. “Hold,” she said, voice firm but tinged with awe.

The creature landed a few meters away, its claws sinking into the sand with a muffled thud.

It was a giant crow, larger than any horse, its black feathers gleaming with an almost metallic sheen. Its eyes, big as fists, glowed with supernatural intelligence, and its head tilted slowly, fixing on Tetanus. The mark on his chest pulsed harder, almost painfully, as if recognizing the creature.

Tetanus stepped forward, ignoring the alarmed looks from the others. Something pulled him, a connection he didn’t understand but couldn’t ignore. He extended a hesitant hand and touched the crow’s beak, cold and smooth as polished stone. The creature didn’t flinch; instead, it lowered its head further, letting Tetanus stroke the soft feathers of its neck. A deep, almost purring sound came from the crow, and the mercenaries exchanged stunned glances.

“You’re… petting a giant bird?” Gume asked, voice a mix of disbelief and fear. “You gone mad, brother?”

“He won’t hurt us,” Tetanus said, eyes locked on the crow. He wasn’t sure how he knew, but the certainty was absolute. “He’s here because of me.”

Zara dismounted, approaching cautiously. “What do you mean, because of you?” She glanced from the crow to Tetanus, eyes narrowing. “This has to do with your secret, doesn’t it?”

Tetanus didn’t answer directly. Instead, he leaned toward the crow, voice low. “You know where Tiradentes is, don’t you? Can you take us to him?”

The crow let out a low croak, almost a response, and turned its head toward the sea, in the direction of Rio da Sangria. Its wings spread partially, a silent invitation. Tetanus looked at the others, resolve hardening his face. “It’s our only shot. The roads are blocked, and we’ve got no boat. He can take us.”

Lâmina sheathed her scimitar, but her expression was wary. “Ride that thing? What if it decides we’re dinner?”

Gume laughed nervously. “If it wanted to eat us, it would’ve done it already. Look at the size of that beak!”

Zara hesitated, but time was against them. “Fine,” she said at last. “I trust you. This time.” She climbed onto the crow’s back, gripping its thick feathers. Gume and Lâmina followed, still reluctant, while Tetanus mounted near the creature’s head.

“Better hold on tight!” Tetanus shouted.

With a powerful beat of its wings, the crow took off, the wind roaring around them as they soared above the port. Below, the guards’ torches gleamed like fallen stars, none daring to look up.

The crow flew fast, cutting through the night sky toward Rio da Sangria, the sea glinting below like a dangerous promise. Tetanus clung to the crow’s neck, Zara right behind him, holding on tight.

His mark pulsed in sync with the wingbeats, and he knew, whatever this creature was, it was tied to the curse he carried. If it was truly a curse.

Empire of Brazil — Rio da Sangria, 1662

The giant crow sliced through the night sky, the salty sea wind whipping their faces as Rio da Sangria emerged on the horizon, a sprawl of flickering lights like embers in the dark. The crow descended smoothly, landing on a grassy hill outside the city, far from the guards’ torches. Its red eyes gleamed at Tetanus one last time, as if conveying a silent message, before it took flight again, vanishing into the clouds with a deep croak.

“That was… weird,” Gume muttered, wiping sweat from his brow, his halberd shaking in his trembling hands.

Lâmina, already descending the hill, checked her scimitar. “Less talk, more action. Sun’s almost up, and the execution’s at dawn.” She glanced at Tetanus, who still felt the mark pulsing in his chest. “You okay, friend?”

Tetanus nodded, his two-handed sword steady on his back. “Let’s go. No time.”

Zara led the group as they ran through Rio da Sangria’s dark alleys. The city was a maze of narrow streets, the air thick with the smell of fish, gunpowder, and sweat. The voices of merchants and sailors echoed, mixed with the distant sound of drums—a harbinger of the public execution. Zara kept a brisk pace, guiding them through backstreets to avoid patrols. “The ship’s docked at the main port,” she whispered. “But if Tiradentes is already in the square, we’ve got to get there before the rope.”

The streets opened to reveal the central square, where a crowd was already forming under the pale dawn light. In the center, a crude wooden gallows stood, surrounded by a cordon of elite royal guards—towering, armored men armed with spears and arquebuses, keeping the crowd at bay. Tetanus’s stomach churned as he saw a figure being dragged by a hooded executioner, hands bound.

It was Tiradentes, his scarred face visible even from a distance, his gaze unwavering despite the restraints. The crowd pelted him with rotten fruit, feces, and dead pets as he was dragged forward.

“There!” Zara pointed, voice tense. “We go in from the west side, fewer guards. Gume, Lâmina, you start the chaos. Tetanus, with me to grab him.”

But before Tetanus could respond, something caught his eye. In the corner of his vision, a familiar figure slipped through a side alley, his face marked by old scars and a cruel smile.

Rastro. Rage exploded in Tetanus’s chest, his mark pulsing like fire. Without thinking, he broke from the group, ignoring Zara’s muffled shout. “Tetanus, get back here!”

He ran through the alley, boots pounding the cobblestones, sword swaying on his back. Rastro, sensing the pursuit, sped up, turning corners and toppling crates to slow him. But Tetanus was faster, fueled by a hatred that burned hotter than exhaustion. He caught Rastro in a narrow street, where the mercenary tripped on a mooring rope. Tetanus grabbed him by the collar, slamming him against a wooden wall.

“You filthy rat!” Tetanus snarled, fist raised. “You sold out Tiradentes!”

Rastro laughed, blood trickling from a cut on his forehead. “So what, kid? The prince pays well. Better than dying for a lost cause.” He spat, trying to draw a dagger, but Tetanus was quicker.

With a yell, Tetanus punched Rastro’s face, the impact echoing in the alley. The mercenary fought back, his dirty nails scratching Tetanus’s arm, but Tetanus’s rage was a living force, fueled by the mark.

He yanked the dagger from Rastro’s hand and tossed it away, landing another punch that broke the traitor’s nose. Rastro staggered but still fought, kicking Tetanus’s leg. It wasn’t enough. Tetanus drew his two-handed sword, its weight familiar in his hands, and with a single strike, cleaved Rastro’s chest, the steel tearing through flesh and heart.

Rastro collapsed, his cruel smile gone, blood pooling on the cobblestones. Tetanus stood panting, hatred still pulsing in his veins. The mark burned, as if approving the act. He had no time for guilt or relief—the sound of drums in the square snapped him back to reality.

He ran back, the streets now buzzing with movement as the crowd grew restless. The central square came into view, and what he saw froze his heart. An army of royal guards, at least fifty strong, formed a corridor of spears and arquebuses, guarding the path where Tiradentes was dragged. The executioner, a burly man in a stitched leather mask, pulled the rope around the commander’s neck, while the crowd shouted, some in support, others in protest.

Zara, Gume, and Lâmina were hiding behind a fish barrel, watching the scene. Zara shot Tetanus a furious look when he rejoined them. “Where the hell were you?” she hissed.

“Rastro,” Tetanus said, voice cold. “He’s not a problem anymore.”

Zara narrowed her eyes but didn’t press. “Focus now. Look at this.” She pointed to the square. “The gunpowder ship’s over there, on the left dock. But with this army, we can’t get through without a fight.”

Gume, gripping his halberd, gave a humorless laugh. “Fight? Against that? We’ll be minced meat.”

Lâmina, scimitar in hand, seemed to weigh their odds. “If we blow the gunpowder now, the chaos might give us a shot. But we need a way past the guards.”

Tetanus looked at Tiradentes, now steps from the gallows.

“Let’s do Zara’s plan,” he said, voice steady despite exhaustion. “I might be able to distract the guards.”

Zara grabbed his arm, her green eyes flashing. “No stupid heroics, Tetanus. You stay with us. We need you alive to get Tiradentes off that rope.”

He nodded, but deep down, he knew something else had plans for him.

A black crow cut through the sky like a living shadow, its wide wings reflecting the first glint of the dead sun on the horizon. Tetanus followed its flight, watching as it circled a pavilion adorned with royal banners—there was the prince, seated on an improvised throne, surrounded by elite guards.

The prince was young, but his face was marked by arrogance and power. He wore a gold-embroidered silk doublet, his hands adorned with gleaming rings. He watched the scene with a smug smile, as if Tiradentes’s execution was just another spectacle for his amusement.

Tetanus felt the mark on his chest pulse, as if reacting to the prince’s presence.

“If we grab him…” Tetanus muttered to himself, fingers curling into fists.

Zara, still hidden behind the barrels, looked at him. “What?”

“The prince.” Tetanus pointed to the pavilion. “If we grab him, the guards won’t touch the gallows. He’s our only bargaining chip.”

Lâmina gripped her scimitar tighter. “You’re insane. Look how many guards are around him!”

“We’ve got no choice,” Tetanus replied, voice hoarse. “The gunpowder ship’s too far. If we try for it, Tiradentes will be dead.”

Zara studied the scene, her monocle adjusted for a better view. “He’s right. But how the hell do we get to the prince?”

Gume laughed nervously. “Oh, just march up and ask politely, right?”

Tetanus didn’t answer. Instead, he looked at the crow, now perched on a tavern roof near the pavilion, its red eyes fixed on him.

“I’m going alone,” he said, decided.

“No!” Zara grabbed his arm. “It’s suicide.”

“Not if I’m quick.” Tetanus met her gaze, determination burning in his eyes. “Distract the guards. Make noise, draw attention. I’ll go by the rooftops.”

Before Zara could protest, he turned and melted into the crowd, blending with the spectators gathered for the execution. The crow, as if understanding, took flight again, guiding him through the shadows.

Tetanus ran behind vendors’ stalls, leaping over crates and barrels to reach a wooden ladder leading to the tavern’s roof. His muscles ached, but adrenaline kept him moving. When he reached the top, the crow was there, as if waiting.

“Thanks,” he muttered, unsure if the creature understood.

The rooftop gave a direct view of the prince’s pavilion. At least ten guards stood between him and the target, but none looked up—all eyes were on the gallows, where Tiradentes was climbing the steps, the executioner adjusting the rope around his neck.

Tetanus took a deep breath.

“Now.”

He leapt from the tavern roof, landing with a dull thud on the royal pavilion, the impact jarring his knees. The canvas roof gave way under his weight, tearing as he fell into the chamber where the prince watched the execution.

The elite guards, caught off guard, raised their spears, but Tetanus was already moving, his two-handed sword slicing the air with a deadly thud. The blade met the first guard, cleaving through armor and chest in one strike. The second tried to fire an arquebus, but Tetanus spun, decapitating him before he could pull the trigger. The third and fourth charged together, spears forward, but he dodged, using the sword’s weight to crush one’s skull and bisect the other. The pavilion floor ran red, the guards’ bodies collapsing like cut puppets.

In the center of the room, the prince was on his feet, his gold-embroidered doublet gleaming under torchlight. His young, arrogant face twisted in shock and rage. “You worm!” he shouted, drawing a thin, ornate sword, more ceremonial than practical. “How dare you?”

Tetanus didn’t answer, teeth grinding in fury, charging with his sword swinging in an arc the prince barely blocked. The noble’s thin blade groaned under the impact, and Tetanus capitalized, kicking the man’s chest to send him crashing into a wooden table, which splintered on impact. The prince tried to rise, swinging his sword desperately, but Tetanus, with a roar, drove his blade through the man’s chest, steel piercing silk, flesh, and bone.

The prince gurgled, eyes wide, before collapsing, lifeless.

Tetanus breathed heavily, blood dripping from his sword.

…

A sudden impact hit his neck, a sharp pain making him stagger. He spun, vision blurred, only to see a shadow moving too fast. Another blow to the back of his head and a quick cut behind his legs dropped him to his knees, his sword clanging to the floor.

A cold laugh echoed in the room, and a new figure emerged from the pavilion’s shadows.

Clad in a black cloak embroidered with silver threads, he was taller, handsome, and imposing, his pale face marked by a cruel smile. His blue eyes gleamed with dangerous intelligence, and he held a golden rapier, stained with Tetanus’s blood.

“You really thought I’d be here, exposed like a fool?” he said, voice smooth but dripping with contempt. “That was just a lackey, a decoy to lure rats like you. I know far more than you and your little band of goat shit could ever imagine.”

Tetanus tried to rise, but the prince kicked his sword away, stomping on his chest. He snarled, grabbing at the prince’s leg, but the man was quick, striking him inches below his other eye. The world spun, and Tetanus tasted blood again.

“Your friends?” the prince continued, laughing as he crouched to face Tetanus. “Already caught. Zara, Gume, Lâmina… all caged like the dogs they are.” He grabbed Tetanus by the collar, dragging him with surprising strength to the pavilion’s window, which overlooked the central square. “Look, bearer of the mark. See what happens to traitors.”

Tetanus, face pressed against the fogged window, saw the scene he dreaded.

In the square, the crowd roared, a chorus of support and revolt. Tiradentes stood on the gallows, the rope around his neck, the executioner adjusting the noose with cold precision. The commander’s eyes, however, showed no fear—only fierce determination.

Tetanus tried to scream, but the prince gripped his neck, forcing him to watch.

“You thought you could change this?” the prince whispered, his hot breath against Tetanus’s ear. “The mark you bear is a beacon, boy. It draws chaos, and I knew you’d come.” He laughed, low and cruel. “Now, watch your leader die.”

The drum sounded, a single deep beat. The executioner pulled the lever, and the trapdoor beneath Tiradentes opened. The rope snapped taut, the commander’s body convulsed briefly, then hung still, swaying in the dawn breeze. The crowd erupted, some cheering, others wailing. Tetanus felt something inside him break, the mark pulsing with a pain beyond the physical. He screamed, a hoarse, rage-filled sound, but the prince only laughed, throwing him to the floor.

“You’re next, bearer,” the prince said, pointing his rapier at Tetanus’s chest. “But first, I think you’ll be useful in the castle dungeons.”

He gestured, and two guards entered the pavilion, their armor clinking as they approached to seize Tetanus.

As they hauled him up, he vowed to himself that the prince would pay. For Tiradentes, for his friends, and for every drop of blood spilled in that square.

???? — Unknown Dungeon — 1662

Tetanus awoke with a throbbing headache, his thoughts still clouded from the blow he’d taken. Opening his eyes, he found himself in a dark, cold cell, lit only by a small barred window on the opposite wall. He tried to move but realized his arms were bound above his head to a wooden pillory, leaving his muscular, naked body exposed and vulnerable.

He tried to kick at something, anything, but the cell was empty save for the cold, damp stone floor. Tetanus hung there, wondering where he’d been taken and what awaited him.

Then he heard footsteps approaching from the other side of the iron door. It creaked open, and a figure entered. She was a short woman, perhaps five feet tall, with spiky hair in a short fringe and an enigmatic expression. She carried a long, narrow tool resembling forceps in one hand and a black leather whip in the other.

Tetanus tensed at the sight of her tools but couldn’t help noticing her peculiar attire.

It was a tight outfit, reaching just above her knees, made of dark material with black straps crisscrossing her body, leaving vulnerable areas like her breasts, vagina, and buttocks exposed.

She smiled wickedly, noticing his gaze on her voluptuous silhouette.

“You must be Tetanus, then,” she purred, stepping closer. “I’m Himiko, your jailer here. I’ve heard a lot about your skills and experiences. I bet a hero like you has plenty to show me…”

Himiko stopped right in front of him, raising the forceps, its sharp tip grazing Tetanus’s semi-erect glans. She smiled, feeling the quickened pulse beneath the cold metal.

“Mmm, I can already feel how eager you are to be my experiment,” she teased, wrapping her free fingers around the base of his member and squeezing lightly. “Let’s see how much you can take before you crumble and beg for more, shall we?”

With that, she began tracing the forceps’ tip along his rigid length, moving slowly up and down, teasing without ever fully touching.

Tetanus tensed as the forceps grazed his glans. His member pulsed, growing harder under the torturer’s touch. He tried to focus to keep control, but the situation was intensely provocative.

“I’ve got no interest in your sick plans,” Tetanus shot back firmly. “I won’t give in to your perverse whims. I’d rather suffer any torture than help someone like you and that prissy rat.”

Himiko laughed, a shrill, provocative sound, clearly enjoying his resistance. “Oh, you’ll give in, darling. They all do in the end. We just need to find the right pressure point.”

She set the forceps aside and took the whip, trailing its soft leather tips across the mercenary’s chest. She teased the sensitive skin around his nipples before landing a sudden, sharp lash across his chest.

Tetanus let out a grunt of pain and surprise, his body jerking against the pillory’s restraints. Pain radiated through his ribcage, but he didn’t let a sound escape. Instead, he clenched his teeth and glared at the torturer with pure determination.

Himiko smiled cruelly at his reaction to the whip. “The prince wants some information about that mark you carry,” she explained, trailing the leather tips across Tetanus’s defined abs. “And for some reason, he prefers you alive to give it. So, I’ll have to find other ways to… persuade you to cooperate.”

She raised the whip and landed another sharp blow, striking Tetanus’s thighs. He growled in pain, his body writhing against the restraints, but kept his mouth shut, determined not to give her the satisfaction of hearing him scream.

Himiko continued whipping him methodically, leaving red welts and streaks of blood on his bronzed skin. She alternated between body parts, never lingering too long in one spot. The sound of the whip cracking against flesh echoed in the cell, mingling with Tetanus’s muffled groans.

“Come on, big boy,” she taunted, raising the whip again. “Don’t be so stubborn. Tell me what the prince wants to know about your mark, and we can end this. It’ll be much worse if you keep resisting…” She purred.

Tetanus clenched his teeth, the pain burning his skin, but he remained unshaken. “You masochistic bitch…” he growled, staring her down defiantly. “I won’t give you or the prince the satisfaction of seeing me break. Do your worst, but you’ll never make me betray my principles.”

Himiko’s wicked smile widened. “So brave,” she mocked, raising the whip again. “But everyone has a limit, don’t they?”

She whipped him harder, the blows growing faster and more intense. The mercenary’s body became increasingly covered in red welts and streaks of blood.

He stayed silent.

After a while, Himiko lowered the whip, panting, and wiped sweat from her brow. “You’re tougher than I thought,” she admitted reluctantly. “But we’re not done. We’ve got plenty of time, and soon enough, you’ll be begging to tell me what the prince wants.”

She continued, “Maybe we’ll have to resort to more… persuasive methods to make you cooperate, darling.” She tossed the whip aside and stepped closer, trailing a finger across Tetanus’s sweaty, aching stomach, feeling the hot welts left by the lashes.

Then her hand reached his rigid, pulsing member, wrapping her fingers around it and squeezing lightly. He let out a low, involuntary groan at the sudden touch, his body reacting despite the pain.

“Well, well, what have we here?” Himiko teased with a sly smile, feeling the throbbing erection. “Looks like someone’s enjoying the pain. Delicious…”

She began stroking Tetanus with slow, calculated movements, sliding up and down his rigid length. Her thumb circled his sensitive glans, spreading the precum already leaking.

Tetanus clenched his teeth, trying to resist the pleasure. He didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing her touch aroused him. But the more she stroked, the harder it became.

Himiko smiled at his internal struggle, feeling his member pulse and harden further in her hand. “Don’t fight it, darling,” she purred, speeding up her hand. “Your body wants this, even if your mind won’t admit it. You’ll give in to the pleasure soon enough.”

She continued stimulating him skillfully, pushing him closer to the edge. Then, abruptly, she stopped and withdrew her hand, leaving Tetanus panting and needing more.

“But maybe it’s better to use this hard cock for my own pleasure,” she declared with a wicked smile. “Let’s see how long you last before you break and give me what I want.”

With that, Himiko pinned Tetanus to the floor, straddling him and spreading her legs before kneeling over his rigid, pulsing member.

Slowly, she lowered herself onto him, enveloping him with her vagina. She moaned as she felt every inch of his thick, hard member fill her, her body adjusting around him.

“Oh, this feels so good,” she sighed, beginning to move up and down. “Let’s see how long you last…”

Himiko rode him with increasing vigor, her breasts bouncing with each movement. The wet sound of her filled the room, echoing through the cell.

At the same time, she grabbed the whip and began lashing his thighs and abdomen, leaving painful red welts on his already battered skin. But she didn’t stop there—she whipped herself too, moaning with pleasure at the mix of pain and ecstasy.

With her other hand, she took the forceps and clamped them around Tetanus’s neck, squeezing tightly. The pressure was intense but not enough to stop his breathing. She wanted him conscious to savor every second of the torture.

“That’s it, darling,” she moaned, riding harder and faster. “Feel my pussy around that trunk of yours. You don’t want me to stop, do you?”

Tetanus grunted, a mix of pain and pleasure, his body stimulated from all sides. Pain and pleasure burned his skin, overwhelming him.

The torturer continued her assault, whipping herself and Tetanus simultaneously. She rode with frenzied fury, determined to reach her climax. Her body trembled and writhed with pleasure.

“Come on, darling,” she moaned, her face flushed and sweaty. “Give me what I want. I want to feel you cum inside me. I want to see you break and give me what I need!”

Despite her manipulation and attempts to extract information, Tetanus held firm.

With a high-pitched moan, she reached her climax, her body trembling and convulsing in ecstasy, lost in the moment. She kept riding and writhing, savoring every second of her intense orgasm, her body drenched in sweat.

Finally, after hours, Himiko stopped moving and sat still atop him. She was panting, a satisfied smile on her face.

“That was… incredible,” she declared, still catching her breath. “But you still haven’t given me what I want.”

She climbed off him, beginning to kick him with her pointed slippers.

As the night wore on, Tetanus had endured the peak of pain his body could withstand. He struggled to breathe, growing dizzier by the moment.

Yet he kept resisting.

Finally, tiring of the torture, Himiko, with a satisfied smile, headed for the door, pausing to look back.

“Until tomorrow, darling,” she said in a sweet, provocative tone. “I hope you’re ready for more. This doesn’t end here. Not until you decide to talk, of course.”

With that, she left, locking the door behind her, leaving Tetanus alone.

He remained there, his entire body aching, closing his eyes as exhaustion overtook him. His body was sore and tired, but his mind stayed alert. He didn’t want to sleep, fearing what might happen if he did.

But despite his efforts, sleep consumed him entirely.

Chapter 13: Tetanus Goes to Hell

Empire of Brazil — Unknown Dungeons, 1666

Four years.

Four years of darkness, pain, and humiliation in the bowels of this dungeon.

Tetanus, now a grown man standing two meters tall, was unrecognizable from the man who once faced guards and princes.

His body, lean but sculpted with muscles hardened by deprivation and resilience, was a map of scars. Whip marks crisscrossed his back and chest like winding rivers, mingled with deep blade cuts and burns from red-hot irons. Makeshift bandages, torn from filthy rags, wrapped around his arms and torso, stained with dried blood and pus.

His hair, now falling in disheveled purple strands down to his waist, tangled and dirty, bore witness to the time he spent chained. The mark on his chest, the spiral of the Anti-God, still pulsed, calmer this time, as if it had accepted becoming part of his very flesh.

Tetanus’s mind, however, was another story. Himiko, the torturer, had broken something within him. Not his will to fight, but his sanity, shattered by years of physical and psychological torment. Yet his body endured, driven by a force he didn’t fully understand. Perhaps it was those years of torture, forcing him to survive on insects and his own urine.

In the damp corners of his cell, he had found unlikely allies: the rats. The filthy creatures, the insects crawling through the dungeon’s stones, digging tiny tunnels in the walls and ceiling, became his only companions. Tetanus had learned to understand their squeaks, their movements, and, over time, with the help of his new “slaves,” they gnawed at the chains binding him, nibbling at the wooden pillory holding his hands above his head, weakening the restraints bit by bit, year after year.

The iron door creaked on yet another of the three hundred and sixty-five days of relentless torture. Himiko entered, as she did every day. The woman carried the same metal-tipped whip and the pincers Tetanus had learned to hate.

Her eyes gleamed with that mix of cruelty and sadistic pleasure that had haunted him for four years. “Good morning, my little dog,” she purred, cracking the whip in the air. “Ready for another session? The prince still wants to know about that mark of yours, and I swear you’ll agree to spill everything, even if it takes another four years.”

Tetanus didn’t respond. His single yellow eye, now burning with deep hatred, fixed on her, but his mind was elsewhere.

He heard the rats squeaking in the corners, a sound Himiko ignored but which to him was as clear as a command:

Now, master...

The torturer raised the whip, delivering a blow that tore through the air and struck Tetanus’s chest, ripping a piece of bandage and opening a new wound. He didn’t scream, merely ignored the pain, his body trembling—not from pain, but from the mark, pulsing with an energy he felt growing, as if responding to something beyond the cell.

Before Himiko could strike again, a sound echoed in the corridor—a series of deep croaks, as if mocking Tetanus’s suffering, so profound they made the dungeon walls vibrate.

Himiko stopped, her brow furrowed, turning toward the door. “What the hell is that? Interrupting my fun.” She muttered, taking a step toward the corridor.

It was the opening Tetanus had been waiting for. With a primal roar, he forced his hands with all his strength, his muscles straining to their limit. The restraints, weakened by years of the rats’ work, gave way with a snap, the wooden pillory breaking like twigs.

Himiko spun around, eyes wide, but Tetanus was already on her. He knocked her to the ground with a single movement, his weight crushing her against the floor. The pincers flew from her hand, and the whip was torn away, flung to the corner of the cell.

“No… you…” Himiko tried to scream, but Tetanus silenced her with a brutal punch to the mouth, dislocating her jaw. She thrashed, her nails scratching his chest, but Tetanus’s rage was an unstoppable force now. He delivered another punch to her stomach, making her cough blood, then grabbed her throat with both hands, his calloused fingers squeezing tightly. Himiko gurgled, her eyes rolling back, and in a few seconds, her body went limp, the cruel glint extinguished forever.

“You masochistic bitch, I should fuck your filthy pussy like you forced me to all these years, but fuck you instead. I’ll see you in hell,” he spat on her.

Tetanus stood, panting, blood dripping from his first opponent in years. He looked at Himiko’s body, the filthy cell reeking of sex, feces, and piss.

“Well. That took a while,” he said, his voice deeper, almost unrecognizable, laced with a coldness he hadn’t had before.

Wasting no time, he searched for the key the torturer carried, unlocking the cell’s iron door. The dungeon corridor stretched before him, damp and dark, lit only by sparse torches.

Tetanus ran, barefoot, his body still naked, moving with surprising agility for someone so marked by torture. He kicked down every door he found, the rotten wood splintering under his feet, but each cell was empty—only rusted chains, forgotten bones, and the stench of death. No sign of his friends. The hope of finding them alive was fading, but Tetanus refused to give up.

The dungeon corridor was a maze of cold stone and darkness, the torches on the walls casting shadows that danced like mocking specters.

Tetanus moved slowly, his bare feet stepping in fetid puddles.

Each step echoed in the oppressive silence, but he didn’t hesitate. The pain that would have once brought him to his knees was now just background noise, dulled by years of torment that had hardened his flesh and mind. The mark on his chest pulsed faintly, like an exhausted heart, but still alive.

Four years of torture had transformed Tetanus. His body, lean but sculpted with muscles defined by constant struggle and survival, moved with mechanical precision. Those scars were medals of a war he hadn’t chosen, one that had barely begun in earnest.

His mind, fractured by Himiko’s sadistic sessions, no longer felt the weight of trauma. The horror, the fear, the humiliation—all had been consumed by the rage and willpower that now drove him through that filthy dungeon.

As he moved down the corridor, Tetanus kicked open the cell doors, the rotten wood giving way easily under the force of his kicks.

Each cell revealed only desolation: rusted chains, scattered bones, the smell of death ingrained in the stones. There was no sign of them, and with every door broken, the hope of finding them dwindled, but none of that mattered. If they were dead, he would avenge them. If they were alive, he would find them. But now, he needed something to cover his body and continue his escape.

At the end of the corridor, he found a small room, more a storage chamber than a cell. In the corner, a skeleton lay slumped against the wall, its bones yellowed by time, draped in tattered clothes, along with a cloak sewn to a hood.

It was a mercenary’s uniform, perhaps from some forgotten prisoner, with a torn leather vest, linen pants, and boots barely holding together. Tetanus approached, ignoring the musty stench, and carefully stripped the clothes from the skeleton, the fabric creaking as if protesting being worn.

He donned the vest, which was tight across his broad shoulders, and the pants, snug around his thighs. The boots, though worn, were better than the cold floor. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

His body seemed to have learned to ignore suffering, turning it into fuel. His mind, though fractured, was a sharpened blade, focused on a single goal: escape that dungeon and make the prince pay.

He picked up a rusted chain from the floor, wrapping it around his fist as an improvised weapon. It wasn’t his old two-handed sword, but it would do.

Tetanus was now alone, with only the company of the vermin around him.

The corridor ended in a steep stone staircase leading to a reinforced trapdoor. Tetanus paused, hearing the distant sound of voices—guards, perhaps. He had no idea where he was; his sadistic captor had never mentioned it. He just wanted to escape. He climbed the steps slowly, the chain clinking in his fist.

Tetanus ascended the stone steps with firm strides, the rusted chain wrapped around his right fist, the cold metal against his calloused skin. The air grew heavier with each step, thick with the smell of dampness and the odor of an unknown place. He reached the top of the stairs, where a reinforced iron trapdoor blocked the way. Without hesitation, he tested the latch, which gave way with a low creak, revealing the trapdoor. Tetanus pushed it with his shoulder, the rotten wood groaning before opening into the inner courtyard of an unknown castle.

The light of a smiling moon bathed the courtyard, revealing high stone walls and a worn dirt floor. Dark towers rose in the background, their silhouettes cutting into the starry sky. Tetanus had no idea where he was—the dungeons had isolated him from the world for four years, and this castle could be anywhere in Brazil or beyond. The silence was broken only by the crackling of torches on the walls and the sound of boots against the ground. Guards patrolled the courtyard, their armor clinking softly.

Tetanus crouched in the shadows, his eyes fixed on two guards walking a few meters away. They spoke in low voices, oblivious to his presence. The first was short, with a spear resting on his shoulder; the second, taller, carried a sheathed sword and wore reinforced leather armor.

Tetanus tightened his grip on the chain, adrenaline surging through his veins.

Moving like a predator, he advanced through the shadows, his shod feet barely touching the ground. The first guard didn’t notice when the chain wrapped around his neck. Tetanus pulled hard, the metal biting into flesh, and the man collapsed without a sound, eyes wide as he suffocated.

The second guard turned, hand reaching for his sword, but Tetanus was faster. He swung the chain like a whip, striking the man’s face with a crack that broke his nose. Before the guard could cry out, Tetanus grabbed him, crushing his trachea with a precise punch. The body fell beside his companion, blood pooling on the cobblestones.

Tetanus didn’t waste time. He dragged the bodies into the shadows, away from the torches, and began stripping the taller guard. The leather armor was tight, pressing against his broad shoulders, but it offered more protection than the tattered vest he’d found in the dungeon. He adjusted the straps with quick fingers, feeling the familiar weight of armor, even if it wasn’t his own.

The guard’s sword, a straight and well-balanced blade, was sheathed at Tetanus’s waist, while he kept the improvised chain. He slung the guard’s belt over his shoulder, checking for anything useful—a small pouch with coins and a flask of water, which he tied to his waist.

The courtyard was empty now, but the castle’s high walls were an obstacle. Tetanus scanned the surroundings, his eyes narrowed in the darkness. Climbing directly would be suicide—the stones were smooth, and the torches would reveal any movement. But in the distance, he spotted a tall tree, its canopy brushing the edge of the outer wall. It was his best chance.

He ran across the courtyard, staying in the shadows, his heart beating steadily but controlled. Reaching the base of the wall, he found a pile of wooden crates, likely used to store supplies. Tetanus quickly stacked a few, creating an improvised platform.

But before leaving, Tetanus looked back at the castle. That place had been his personal hell for four years. He couldn’t just walk away. Not without leaving a mark.

He approached, grabbing one of the torches lighting the courtyard. The flames danced, reflecting in his single yellow eye, now filled with cold fury.

“Time to return the favor,” he muttered, his voice hoarse.

Moving quickly, he tossed the torch through the windows, into the rooms, onto anything that looked flammable.

The fire spread fast, flames licking the walls like hungry tongues. Smoke began to rise, filling the corridors with an acrid smell. Tetanus didn’t wait to see the chaos unfold. He knew that in minutes, the entire castle would be ablaze.

With a leap, he grabbed a ledge in the stone, his muscles protesting but holding his weight. He climbed with precise movements, using cracks and dents in the wall for support. The cold night wind hit his face, carrying the smell of salt and forest.

Reaching the top of the wall, he looked down. The tree was a few meters away, its thick branches swaying slightly. Tetanus didn’t think twice. He took a running start and jumped, his body cutting through the air. The branches caught him with a crack, the leaves cushioning his fall, but a limb snapped under his weight, and he tumbled through the canopy, hitting the ground with a thud. Pain exploded in his back, but he ignored it, standing quickly.

The terrain outside the wall was a slope covered in grass and rocks, descending into a dense forest, while the castle burned behind him.

Tetanus stood, the sword at his waist, the tight armor creaking with every movement, the chain within reach, the pouch tied to his waist. He looked back at the castle one last time, its towers collapsing in flames and smoke.

Facing the pale sky, he raised his arms, letting out a liberating scream that echoed across the field. Now, it was time to move on.

His new goal: figure out where the hell he was and where to go next.

The forest swallowed Tetanus with its dense darkness, twisted branches brushing his back as he advanced. It felt almost like home, the ground covered in damp leaves and exposed roots, the air heavy with the smell of earth and decay.

He walked cautiously. The night was silent, except for the occasional rustle of a small animal or the snap of a twig under his feet. Tetanus didn’t know where he was going, only that he needed to get away from the castle and find a place to spend the night.

After hours of walking, the forest began to thin, bidding him farewell, the trees giving way to an open field bathed in the silvery light of the moon, below the hill where the castle he’d escaped from stood.

Unknown Village

Ahead, he spotted the ruins of an abandoned village, wooden and stone houses crumbling, roofs sagging under the weight of time. The wind whistled through the buildings, carrying an emptiness that seemed to echo Tetanus’s desolation, his eyes scanning every shadow for threats.

The streets were deserted, the broken cobblestones covered in moss. Doors hung crooked on their hinges, and shattered windows revealed dark interiors filled with dust and cobwebs. Tetanus passed through a central square, where a dry fountain lay cracked, a headless saint statue toppled beside it. Something caught his eye on the wall of a house still standing: a piece of white paper, stuck with sticky resin, fluttering in the wind.

He approached, frowning. Paper was rare, something only the wealthy or clergy used, and this one seemed strangely intact for such a dilapidated place. The moonlight revealed its contents, and Tetanus felt a chill that didn’t come from the cold or wind.

Pasted on the wall of a ruined house, a piece of white paper, held by sticky resin. The image on it was too strange to ignore.

“HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN?”

The drawing showed a smooth face, without lips, bald, with empty eyes and a serious expression. The figure wore something the text called a “suit and tie,” garments Tetanus had never seen. There was something deeply wrong with that image—as if the man on the paper was staring directly at him, despite being just ink on paper.

He read the rest, his fingers touching the words, too mechanical, as if they hadn’t been written by something human:

“During the night, thousands of people report dreaming of this figure in a suit and tie. If you see this ‘suited one’ in your dreams, do not panic. Contact us: 669-6969-66-99.”

Tetanus frowned. What the hell was a “suited one”? And who, in their right mind, would write something like this in an abandoned village?

The face on the paper seemed to follow his movements. He felt a chill down his spine, the mark on his chest pulsing faintly, as if it recognized something.

Without thinking twice, he tore the paper from the wall, folded it, and stuffed it into the pouch. Something about it disturbed him, but it also intrigued him. If thousands of people were dreaming of this creature, maybe it wasn’t just a delusion.

He continued exploring the village, his boots crushing broken glass and animal bones. The houses were empty, but not entirely abandoned—in some, furniture was covered with cloths, as if the residents had left in a hurry. In others, plates still sat on tables, covered in dust and mold.

Tetanus felt the air grow heavier as he entered an eerily intact but strangely abandoned tavern. Someone—or something—had haunted this place before everyone fled. And now, that same something was spreading, invading the dreams of people elsewhere.

He looked at the sky. The moon still hadn’t moved from its place. He had no intention of spending the night there.

But as he turned to leave the tavern, a sound made him stop.

A hiss.

It wasn’t an ordinary hiss, like that of a rat or other vermin; it was a low, hoarse hiss, as if someone were trying to speak with a throat full of water.

It came from inside one of the houses.

Tetanus drew his sword.

Someone—or something—was still occupying the village.

Tetanus froze, his single eye narrowing toward the hoarse hiss coming from inside the house. The sound was unsettling.

He began to advance slowly. The door to the house next to the tavern was ajar, the hiss growing louder, mingled with a slow dragging, as if something were moving across the floor.

Tetanus pushed the door with the tip of his sword, the wood creaking on its rusted hinges. The darkness inside was almost solid, but moonlight filtered through a broken window, revealing a figure standing in the center of the room.

It was him. The “suited one” from the poster.

The man—or whatever it was—wore a strange, tight black suit with a black strip hanging from its neck. A suit and tie, exactly as described. Its face was identical to the drawing: bald, with hair slicked back, without lips, the skin smooth and pale as wax, the sunken eyes gleaming with a void that seemed to suck in the surrounding light. It didn’t move, but the hiss came from it, a sound that seemed to scrape at Tetanus’s soul.

“Who are you?” Tetanus growled, raising his sword, the chain clinking in his fist.

The suited one didn’t respond.

Its eyes locked onto Tetanus, and in a blink, it advanced, moving with supernatural speed, as if gliding through the air. Tetanus tried to strike, but the suited one raised a hand, and an invisible force hit Tetanus like a punch to the chest.

He staggered, the sword falling from his hands, and felt something tighten around his throat, as if invisible hands were strangling him. He clutched his own neck, trying to fight the pressure, but there was nothing to grasp.

The air wouldn’t come, his lungs burned, and the suited one merely watched, its face expressionless, as the hiss intensified.

Tetanus fell to his knees, his vision darkening, pounding the floor in desperation for one last breath, but the suited one’s force was relentless. The world spun, and then, darkness.

…

…

…

Hell

Tetanus opened his eyes with a scream trapped in his throat, his body drenched in sweat. The heat was unbearable, as if he were inside an oven. The air burned his lungs, and his eyes watered, irritated by a pulsing red light around him.

He was naked, his equipment—the sword, the armor, the chain, the pouch—gone, as if they had never existed.

He stood, the ground beneath his feet rough and hot, a surface of cracked black stone that seemed to burn his skin.

He looked around. He was in the middle of a colossal ravine, jagged rock walls rising to a sky that wasn’t a sky—just a pulsing red expanse, like clotting blood. The heat made the air shimmer, and the smell of sulfur and charred flesh filled his nostrils.

He knew where he was, as he had read in passages from the Bible at the orphanage, or at least what this place seemed to be: hell. Or something worse.

Tetanus took a step, the scorching ground hurting his bare feet. He tried to ignore the pain, as he had done for years in the dungeon.

But then, something pierced his right foot. He grunted, looking down, and saw a rusted nail driven through his sole, the blood sizzling as it touched the hot ground. He yanked the nail out with a tug, the pain searing but familiar, and tossed the metal aside. The wound bled, but he had no time to tend to it.

The ravine stretched ahead, the narrow path flanked by giant teeth that seemed to pulse in grotesque gums embedded in the walls, like a monstrous portal.

At the same time, he heard distant sounds—muffled screams, cries of pain, and something like the roar of beasts.

Tetanus clenched his fists, his body tense, but his mind remained sharp. He didn’t know if he was dead, trapped in a nightmare, or somewhere in between.

He scanned his surroundings, his anxiety growing the longer he lingered. As he walked, limping slightly from the wound in his foot, his eyes fixed on the red horizon, determined to face whatever this place threw at him.

Tetanus passed through the pulsating teeth portal, the infernal heat scorching his naked skin. Each step hurt, the wound in his foot throbbing, but he ignored the pain—he had endured far worse.

The ground beneath his feet shifted to an even rougher surface, as if made of crushed bones. The ravine opened into a vast plateau, a nightmarish landscape that defied sanity.

Ahead, he saw the architects of hell, deformed creatures with long, skeletal limbs, their eyeless faces covered in masks of stitched human flesh. They worked with terrifying efficiency, stacking colossal bricks to build walls that stretched into the red sky.

But the cement they used wasn’t mortar—it was babies, their fragile forms crushed under the bricks with a wet, nauseating sound. The children’s screams, brief and cut off, echoed before being silenced, their bodies reduced to a bloody paste that sealed the stones.

Dozens of these babies were stored in sacks or piled beside the architects, waiting as if they were mere cement.

Tetanus stopped, his stomach churning, turning his gaze away.

He had seen horrors throughout his life, but this was beyond human cruelty. He couldn’t allow himself to feel—not now. His mind forced him to keep going, limping across the uneven terrain, his eyes fixed on finding a way to escape this place or, at least, to understand why he was here.

Further ahead, he reached the edge of a gigantic pit, its size making Tetanus feel like an ant, a fetid abyss exuding a stench so intense his eyes watered even more.

The pit was filled with a viscous, dark liquid, people struggling on the surface, their faces contorted in despair as they sank slowly, their hands reaching for something they’d never grasp. From above, more people were thrown into the depths.

Their moans were a chorus of agony, sending a chill through Tetanus as he realized some still stared at him, as if begging for help he couldn’t give.

He looked away, forcing himself to move forward, but the sound of guttural laughter made him stop.

Above, on stone platforms suspended on the ravine’s walls, legions of demons stirred. They were grotesque creatures, with twisted horns piercing their own eyes, scaly skin, and eyes glowing like embers.

They were busy, their claws tearing the clothes and flesh of hundreds of blonde women, who screamed as they were violated in a frenzy of violence. The demons laughed, oblivious to Tetanus’s presence, their bodies moving in a feverish rhythm that made the air vibrate with malevolent energy.

Tetanus clenched his fists, rage swelling in his chest. He wanted to fight, to tear those creatures from their victims, but he was unarmed, and he certainly couldn’t take on an entire legion of rapist demons.

He forced himself to look away, limping away from the pit and the platforms, following a path that descended even deeper into hell.

Hell — Depths

Tetanus limped along the tortuous path of the ravine, his wounded foot leaving bloodstains that evaporated behind him. The heat was a living presence, pressing his naked body like an invisible hand, sweat streaming in rivers that stung his old scars.

The red sky pulsed above, a sickly heartbeat mocking his existence. The air was saturated with sulfur, rot, and something worse—a smell of despair that permeated everything.

The hell’s walls narrowed, the rock now studded with rusted iron spikes, each dripping a viscous black liquid that hissed as it hit the ground. Tetanus passed carefully, avoiding the spikes, but the space was so tight that some grazed his skin, leaving thin cuts that burned like fire.

Ahead, the path opened into a vast underground chamber, lit by an orange glow from lava rivers running in deep grooves in the floor. The heat here was even more intense, making the air shimmer like a mirage.

In the chamber’s center, a colossal stone wheel turned slowly, driven by creaking chains pulled by hooded creatures with deformed bodies, their muscular arms stretched to the limit. Strapped to the wheel, people screamed as they were crushed by it, their bodies ground into a bloody paste that dripped into the lava rivers below.

The screams were cut off abruptly, replaced by new faces that appeared, as if the wheel were fed by an endless source of suffering. Tetanus saw men, women, even children, their eyes wide with terror before being reduced to nothing.

He looked away, bile rising in his throat, but another sight awaited. On the banks of the lava rivers, demons with eyeless faces and mouths full of serrated teeth dragged chained prisoners.

They forced them to plunge their hands into the lava, the smell of burning flesh filling the air as the prisoners screamed, their arms dissolving into ashes. Some begged, crying and pleading for forgiveness, but the demons only laughed, their voices like metal scraping stone, and tossed the mutilated bodies into piles where other crawling creatures devoured them alive, piece by piece, defecating and urinating on their corpses.

As he crossed the chamber, dodging lava pools and avoiding the demons’ gazes, another scene caught his eye: a hooded figure overseeing the chaos, holding a chain that bound a group of chained souls. They were forced to dig the stone with their own hands, which were severed, ending in bloody stumps as they tore at rock and earth.

The hooded figure whipped anyone who stopped, the whip’s tips studded with blades that shredded flesh. Tetanus noticed some of the souls had familiar faces—not his close companions, but mercenaries he’d known years ago, now reduced to eternally tortured souls. He didn’t know if they were illusions or remnants of his memories, but the sight hit him like a punch.

He kept limping toward a stone arch. The ground beneath his feet trembled, as if hell itself protested his presence. As he passed, he heard a whisper, low and hissing, from a crack in the wall. It was a voice, or several voices, speaking in unison: You don’t belong here… but you can’t leave either…

Tetanus ignored it, quickening his pace, but the whisper followed, crawling in his mind.

Reaching the arch, he looked back one last time. The chamber was a spectacle of cruelty, an endless cycle of pain and destruction.

He passed through the arch, entering an even darker corridor, where the smell of sulfur gave way to something worse—a void that seemed to swallow even Tetanus’s last drop of hope.

Tetanus limped through the dark corridor, which ended at a smooth wall, where a rusted iron door stood, etched with symbols that seemed to writhe under the pulsing red light. In the center was a rusty lever. Tetanus hesitated, fists clenched, but the distant screams and roars of beasts reminded him that stopping wasn’t an option.

He pulled the lever with force, and the door creaked, revealing an elevator—a twisted metal cage, suspended by chains that vanished into the ceiling.

He stepped inside, the cage’s floor trembling under his weight. There were no buttons or levers inside, but as soon as the door closed, the cage began to descend with a jolt, the chains creaking as if groaning. Inside the elevator, music played, like a demonic soundtrack from another world. (Korn — Twist)

The heat intensified as it descended, the air growing so thick Tetanus could barely breathe.

The cage stopped abruptly, the door opening with a clang. Tetanus stepped out, limping, and found himself in a room that seemed out of place in that abyss of horrors.

The floor was polished marble, reflecting the light of bone chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. Red and gold tapestries covered the walls, embroidered with scenes of suffering that seemed to move when he looked away. In the center of the room, a figure swept the floor with a broom of black bristles.

It was a succubus, her deep red skin gleaming as if oiled, voluptuous curves barely covered by leather strips that revealed more than they hid. Curved horns adorned her head, and a thin tail swayed behind her, ending in a knife-sharp point.

She raised her golden, gleaming eyes, and a slow smile formed on her lips. “Well, well,” she purred, her voice laced with seduction, like poisoned honey. “Such a… robust mortal.” She leaned the broom against the wall, approaching Tetanus with a provocative sway of her tail. “What do we have here? A lost warrior? I could help you… relax.” Her fingers brushed Tetanus’s bare chest, her sharp nails tracing lines that made his skin tingle.

Tetanus glared at her, his yellow eye cold as ice. “Keep your hands off, demon. Where am I?” His voice was a low growl, leaving no room for games.

The succubus laughed, a sound like broken bells. “So direct. I like that.” She stepped back, her tail whipping the air. “You’re in the Hall of the Seven Princes. They want to see you.” She pointed to a double ebony door at the back of the room, carved with faces twisted in agony. “And believe me, mortal, you don’t want to keep them waiting.” She winked, licking her lips, but Tetanus ignored her, heading toward the door. His wounded foot throbbed, but he didn’t want to give the succubus the satisfaction of seeing him seem weak.

He pushed the doors, which opened with a low groan, revealing an even more opulent chamber. Seven thrones lined up in a semicircle, each occupied by a figure exuding power and centuries of malevolence.

The air felt heavier here, as if their presence doubled the gravity. Tetanus stood before them, naked and bloodied but unyielding, his eye fixed on the seven princes of hell, each embodying a deadly sin.

In the center, Gluttony dominated the scene. A giant, obese Asian man, so large he seemed fused to his stone throne. His body was a mountain of flesh, his belly opening into a grotesque mouth full of teeth that chewed human bones nonstop, while he himself didn’t eat. A skirt of human bones hung from his waist, clinking with every movement. His small eyes gleamed with insatiable hunger.

To his left, Envy was a gaunt figure, draped in tattered rags that barely covered her slender body. A crow mask hid her face, but her voluptuous breasts under the rags suggested she was female. Her hands were covered in gloves studded with knives, the blades glinting as she flexed them, as if eager to cut something—or someone.

Beside her, Sloth was a shapeless mass, almost indistinct, slumped in a throne covered with blankets and a fan at its side. Its form was vague, as if it refused even to maintain a defined appearance, its half-closed eyes exuding an apathy that seemed to drain the room’s energy.

Wrath, to Gluttony’s right, was a two-meter-tall Arab man, muscles defined under skin marked by scars. He held a flaming sword, the flames licking the air without consuming the blade. A black-maned lion roared softly at his side, its eyes fixed on Tetanus as if he were the next prey. Wrath’s presence was a contained storm, ready to erupt.

Greed, beside Wrath, was tall and lanky, dressed in royal garments that seemed out of place in hell. His body, however, was grotesque—sacks of skin hung from him, filled with coins, jewels, and precious stones that clinked with every movement. He clutched them with long fingers, counting and recounting his “treasure” in a nervous tic, his eyes gleaming with a sickly obsession. His throne was a pile of gold, but each piece was stained with dried blood.

Pride, the most majestic, occupied the highest throne. His beauty was supernatural, his face perfect like an angel’s, but with black wings of broken feathers and a crown of thorns bleeding on his forehead. He didn’t look at Tetanus, his eyes fixed on some point beyond, as if a mortal were unworthy of his attention. His throne of pure crystal reflected the red light, but internal cracks made it seem on the verge of collapse.

Finally, Lust, a dark-skinned woman whose beauty was almost painful to behold. She was naked, her body covered by severed hands that moved as if alive, caressing her breasts and sliding between her legs, pleasuring her as she moaned softly. Her eyes roamed Tetanus’s naked body, assessing him with predatory desire. “Such a… resilient mortal,” she murmured between moans, licking her lips. “You must be fun to play with.”

Tetanus faced the seven princes, his yellow eye flashing with a mix of hatred and defiance. “What do you want with me?” he growled, his deep voice cutting through the heavy air.

Pride finally turned his face, his gaze sharp as a blade. “You don’t ask questions here, mortal,” he said, his voice echoing like low thunder. “You were brought because you’re an anomaly. A mistake. And we will decide what to do with you.”

Gluttony laughed, the mouth in his belly chewing a femur with a crack. “Maybe he’s… tasty,” he said, his voice gurgling.

Envy hissed, the knives in her gloves scraping together. “He has something he doesn’t deserve. I feel it.”

Tetanus clenched his fists. “If it’s a fight you want, I’m ready.”

The air in the chamber of the seven princes was suffocating, saturated by the weight of their presence.

Gluttony licked his lips, the mouth in his belly chewing incessantly; Envy kept hissing until Pride broke the silence.

He descended from his cracked crystal throne, his black wings of broken feathers dragging across the floor like a living cloak. Each step echoed with an authority that made the air vibrate, and the blood dripping from his thorn crown left a red trail on the marble. He stopped before Tetanus, his supernatural beauty almost blinding, but his eyes were cold, as if seeing through flesh and bone to something deeper.

Tetanus held his gaze, refusing to back down.

“Your existence is an affront,” Pride said, his deep, resonant voice seeming to come from every corner of the room. “A mortal who survived life’s greatest adversities, the persecution of faith, and never succumbed to insanity, not even in hell itself. Your life is suffering and pain, and that… that pleases us.” He tilted his head, the thorn crown cutting deeper into his forehead, blood streaming like tears. “But you don’t belong here.”

Tetanus gritted his teeth, his hoarse voice cutting through the air. “Then why am I here? What do you want with me?”

Pride raised a hand, silencing him. “You will be our hunter.” He paused, his eyes gleaming with a malevolent purpose. “You will return to the world of the living, but not as a free man. Your existence now has a purpose: to hunt souls for us. Every life you take, every drop of blood you spill, will be an offering to the princes. Refuse, and the hell you’ve seen so far will be just the beginning.”

Gluttony laughed, the mouth in his belly gurgling. “He’ll feed us well,” he murmured, gnawing on a human thigh.

Lust licked her lips, her eyes roaming Tetanus. “Bring me beautiful souls, mortal,” she whispered between moans. “I’ll reward you… in my own way.”

Wrath, holding the flaming sword, merely grunted, the lion at his side roaring softly. Greed counted his jewels, his eyes gleaming with avarice, while Sloth remained motionless, as if it didn’t care.

Tetanus opened his mouth to respond, but Pride raised his hand again, and a wave of darkness engulfed Tetanus.

He felt the floor vanish beneath his feet, the heat of hell dissipating, replaced by a cold void. The last thing he saw was Pride’s perfect face, his eyes burning with a promise made. “You will hunt, or be hunted,” he said, and then everything faded.

Chapter 14: The Beheaded Wizard

Empire of Brazil — Unknown Road — 1666

Tetanus awoke with a jolt.

His body lurched forward, his head slamming against something hard. A sharp pain shot through his temples, and he opened his eye with a grunt, his blurred vision slowly adjusting.

Wood. He was lying on a rough wooden floor, swaying with the uneven motion of wheels rattling over stones. A cart.

He sat up instinctively, muscles tensing, his hand reaching for the sword at his waist—

—but it wasn’t there. He was clad only in filthy rags, his body still scarred from the dungeon, but missing the gear he swore he’d recovered.

“Ah, you’re awake.”

The voice came from the front of the cart. Tetanus turned his head and saw an old man with a gray beard and a straw hat, holding the reins of a scrawny donkey. Beside him, a girl, maybe twelve, stared at Tetanus with wide eyes, her mouth slightly agape.

“Found you collapsed in the middle of the road, lad. It was getting dark, and rain was coming. I don’t leave souls suffering on the road, so I tossed you in here.”

Tetanus didn’t respond. His eye scanned the surroundings—dense forest on both sides, a gray sky promising a storm, the dirt road rutted and uneven. None of it was familiar.

The girl kept staring, more curious than afraid.

“Your eye…” she murmured.

The old man raised a hand as if to swat her. “Quiet, girl. Don’t comment on others’ flaws!”

“It’s not a flaw,” Tetanus growled, his voice hoarse from disuse.

The old man frowned but didn’t press. “Well, you’re awake now. You can hop off if you want. Or stay till the next village, if you’ve got coins to pay for the ride.”

Tetanus ignored the hint. He leaned against the cart’s side, his knuckles white from gripping the wood.

Hell. The Seven Princes. That cursed deal he hadn’t even had time to question or accept. Was it all a dream?

Tetanus looked at his chest, searching for something. There it was, as always—the spiral mark of the Anti-God, still moving slowly, like a second heartbeat.

No. It hadn’t been just a dream. He didn’t know if the old man had noticed the mark on his chest.

The girl tugged at the old man’s sleeve. “Grandpa, he’s bleeding.” She pointed to the sole of Tetanus’s foot.

He looked down. A rusty nail pierced his sole, just like in hell. Blood trickled slowly, mixing with the cart’s dust.

The old man sighed. “Bad luck, eh, lad? Here, hold on.” He grabbed a dirty rag from the bench and tossed it to Tetanus. “Wrap that up before it festers.”

Tetanus caught the rag but didn’t move to cover the wound. Instead, he yanked the nail out with a sharp tug.

The girl winced. “Ouch!”

The old man snorted. “Well, at least you’re tough. That helps these days.”

Tetanus ignored them, staring at the road ahead as he wrapped his foot. The cart crept along, the donkey’s hooves slapping the muddy road. Tetanus gazed at the dense forest lining the path.

Among the trees, he saw them—faces.

They seemed carved from the darkness between the trunks—large, red eyes fixed on him, mouths twisted into smiles too wide, watching the cart with malice.

The girl played with a cloth doll, oblivious to what Tetanus saw, and the old man muttered under his breath, distracted.

Tetanus clenched his fists. “Where are we going?” His voice was rough, cutting through the air.

The old man shrugged. “Euclides da Cunha. Half a league from here.”

“What year is it?”

The old man raised an eyebrow but answered, “Year of Grace 1666, lad. Did you hit your head or something?”

Tetanus swallowed hard. Four years. Four years since he’d been thrown into that dungeon. The world had moved on without him. “And what state are we in?”

“Holy Bahia of All Saints, for God’s sake.” The old man spat on the road. “You a foreigner or just messing with me?”

Tetanus ignored the question. “Is there work around here?”

The old man scratched his beard, thoughtful. “Well… if you’re the brave type—or crazy—they’re hiring explorers for a job. Ruins of an abandoned imperial dungeon showed up nearby. They say there’s stuff in there… stuff worth a good sack of gold. But they also say those who go in don’t usually come back.”

Tetanus felt a chill down his spine. A dungeon. Like the one he’d just escaped. “Who’s hiring?”

“Some Baron of Alcântara. Rich guy, likes collecting weird artifacts.”

Tetanus nodded, his fingers brushing the mark on his chest. He couldn’t do anything without gear, but like any good Brazilian, he could improvise when needed.

“And my equipment?” he asked, looking at the old man. “I had a sword, armor, everything…”

The old man laughed. “Lad, when I found you, you were naked as a stray dog. I just covered you with those old rags so you wouldn’t scare the girl.”

The girl looked at him, then murmured, “But you have a pretty eye…”

The old man rolled his eyes.

Tetanus didn’t respond, staring back at the eyes watching him from the forest as the cart plodded forward, the donkey’s legs sinking into the forming mud.

The gray sky darkened further, and the first heavy, cold raindrops began to fall, pattering on the cart’s canvas roof.

The rain intensified, turning into a downpour that soaked the road and made the donkey bray and balk in protest.

The old man pulled the reins, stopping the cart under the canopy of a large tree offering some shelter. “Damn rain,” he muttered, tying the reins and climbing down with a tired grunt.

“Let’s camp here till it passes. No use pushing the beast in this mud!” He looked at Tetanus, pointing to the forest. “Help gather some dry twigs, lad. And you, Ana, stay put and don’t touch anything.”

Tetanus climbed down, his foot sinking into the mud. He ignored the old man and walked toward the forest, drawn to the faces watching him. Rain streamed down his face, soaking the rags covering his body.

They were shapeless creatures, their bodies like liquid shadow, their red, bulging, cross-eyed gazes staring into the void. Long, twisted fingers pointed at him, beckoning.

He approached, the figures unmoving, just staring, their mouths stretching into foolish grins.

“What do you want?” Tetanus asked, voice low but firm. There was no answer, only the sound of rain and the pulsing of the mark on his chest. He took another step, nearly touching the forest’s edge, when a shrill scream cut through the air from the camp.

Tetanus spun on his heels, adrenaline surging, and ran back, the mud slowing each step. When he reached the camp, the scene froze him.

Ana stood by the cart, rain streaming down her pale face. In one hand, she held a sword—his sword, the one he swore he’d lost.

In the other, she held the old man’s head, his eyes open in a silent scream, blood dripping and mixing with the mud. The old man’s headless body lay a few meters away, his gray beard caked with dirt.

The girl twisted her neck 150 degrees backward. Ana’s eyes were no longer a child’s. They glowed a vivid red, identical to the figures in the forest, and her mouth contorted into a smile that wasn’t hers.

“Hunter…” she whispered, her voice distorted, as if multiple voices spoke at once. “Why did you do that?” She raised the sword, its blade gleaming in the rain, pointing it at Tetanus.

Tetanus stepped back as the girl—or whatever it was—advanced, the old man’s head swinging in her hand like a trophy.

Ana lunged, the sword that once belonged to Tetanus flashing as it sliced toward him. The old man’s head was tossed aside.

Tetanus acted on instinct. His muscles, hardened by years of torture, reacted with brutal precision. He raised his hand, calloused fingers closing around the blade before it struck. The pain of the metal cutting his palm was ignored, rage overriding any sensation.

“Possessed now, you crazy bitch?!” he snarled.

With a grunt, he yanked the sword hard, wrenching it from her hands. The force made Ana stumble, and Tetanus capitalized, delivering a powerful kick to her chest. The impact sent her sprawling into the mud, her small body sliding across the wet ground.

She tried to rise, her body twisting grotesquely, like a newborn calf struggling to stand.

Tetanus spun the sword in a fluid motion, the blade slicing through the air in a streak of light. Ana’s head rolled, severed from her body, and a shrill, supernatural scream tore through the sky, echoing across the forest before fading. Her body collapsed, lifeless, blood mixing with the rain and mud.

Tetanus stood for a moment, panting, the sword dripping blood in his hands. He looked at Ana’s head, its red eyes now dull, mouth agape in a silent scream. With a grunt of disgust, he lifted it by the hair and tossed it away, the skull vanishing into the forest’s darkness.

The spiral mark of the Anti-God on his chest pulsed, as if approving the act, and a cold weight settled in his soul.

He approached the bodies of the old man and the girl, the rain washing the blood from his hands. He grabbed a soaked blanket from the cart and threw it over the corpses, covering them not out of respect but practicality—he didn’t want to look at them anymore.

The forest around him seemed alive, the demonic faces still watching from the trees, but now they were retreating, fading into the darkness.

Tetanus returned to the cart, the rain soaking the rags covering his body. He rummaged through it, tossing aside sacks of grain and rusty tools.

Under a loose board at the cart’s bottom, he found a chest locked with a crude padlock. With a single sword strike, he broke it, the metal snapping.

Inside was his gear: reinforced leather armor, a pouch with a few coins, and a water flask. But the rusty chain, his improvised weapon, was gone.

The old man, that bastard, had likely stolen it to sell or use. Tetanus spat into the mud, anger rising, but there was no time to dwell. The old man was dead anyway.

He donned the armor, quickly tightening the straps over his broad shoulders. The pouch was tied to his waist, and he checked the flask, still intact. The sword, now bloodied, was sheathed. He was equipped again.

Tetanus approached the donkey, trembling in the rain, its eyes wide with fear. He cut the reins with his sword, freeing the animal. “Go,” he grunted, giving its flank a light slap. The beast brayed and bolted down the road, vanishing into the dark. Tetanus didn’t need a slow cart; he’d move faster and less visibly on foot.

The rain kept falling as Tetanus headed toward Euclides da Cunha. The road wound through low hills, the dense vegetation giving way to open fields and, eventually, the first buildings of the village.

The village was surprisingly large but eerily underpopulated, with mud-and-wood houses lining a main dirt street, now turned to mud by the rain.

Thatched roofs dripped, and the smell of smoke and cooked food mingled with wet earth. The few people in the streets—merchants, farmers, women carrying baskets—stopped to stare at Tetanus as he passed. His imposing figure and gear drew looks of curiosity, fear, and suspicion. A man with a fruit cart muttered something to another, pointing at Tetanus, but he ignored them.

The old man had mentioned a Baron of Alcântara hiring explorers for an abandoned dungeon. Tetanus needed to find him.

He didn’t know if he was equipped enough for the mission, but the promise of gold, perhaps an ally, or even answers drove him forward.

He stopped at a tavern in the village center, a wooden building with a crooked sign reading “Tame Ox Tavern.” The door was ajar, laughter and clinking mugs spilling into the street.

Tetanus entered, rain dripping from his armor, his foot leaving wet prints on the wooden floor. The interior was dimly lit, candles flickering on rough tables. A group of men played cards in a corner, while others drank cheap beer, their voices loud and hoarse.

Silence fell like a stone when Tetanus entered. He didn’t care, striding to the counter where a short, bald tavern keeper cleaned a mug with a dirty rag.

“I’m looking for the Baron,” Tetanus said, his deep voice echoing in the quiet. “Where is he?”

The tavern keeper looked up, hesitant, sizing Tetanus up as if deciding whether he was a threat or just mad. “The Baron?” he replied, scratching his chin. “Not just anyone walks in asking for him. Who are you, and what do you want with the man?”

“My name doesn’t matter,” Tetanus cut in, his yellow eye fixed on the keeper. “I heard he’s hiring explorers for a dungeon. I want to know where he is and what he wants exactly.”

The keeper snorted, but the mention of the dungeon made the men at the tables murmur, some exchanging nervous glances. “The dungeon, huh?” he said, lowering his voice. “The Baron’s at the big house, top of the hill, end of the main street. But listen, lad, it’s not just gold in that dungeon. They say it’s cursed, full of things that don’t belong in this world. The last group that went… well, no one saw them come back.”

Tetanus didn’t react, just nodded. “And what does the Baron want from there?”

“Artifacts,” the keeper replied, hesitant. “Old things, from the first colonists, or maybe older. He’s obsessed with relics, especially ones with… power, let’s say. But no one knows exactly what he’s after. Just that he pays well. And that those who go either die or disappear after.”

Tetanus turned without another word, leaving the tavern under the patrons’ stares. The rain had eased as he walked up the main street, climbing the hill toward the manor. The building was imposing, stone and wood, with tall windows and a reinforced iron gate. Armed guards with spears patrolled the entrance, their eyes tracking Tetanus as he approached.

“Stop there,” one guard ordered, spear raised. “Who are you, and what do you want?”

“Tetanus,” he replied, voice firm. “Here to see the Baron. About the dungeon.”

The guards exchanged glances, but the one who spoke lowered his spear, still wary. “Wait here.” He went through the gate, leaving Tetanus in the rain.

Minutes later, the guard returned with an imposing middle-aged man dressed in fine but worn clothes, an embroidered vest, and a silver-handled cane. His face was pale, with deep blue eyes that seemed to carry a hidden weight.

“You’re the adventurer?” the man asked, his voice tinged with an accent Tetanus didn’t recognize. “Pierre Labatut, Baron of Alcântara. My men say you’re here about the dungeon. Speak, what brings you, and why should I negotiate such a mission with your… barbarism?”

Tetanus met the Baron’s gaze. “I’ve survived worse than your dungeon,” he said, voice sharp. “I want to know what’s in there, what you really want, and how much you’re paying.”

Labatut smiled, a cold, sarcastic laugh climbing his throat. “Big shit, I’m a former French army general.” He gestured for the guards to open the gate. “But come in, Tetanus. Let’s negotiate what I want from those dungeons. And the payment, of course.”

Euclides da Cunha, Baron’s Manor — 1666

Tetanus crossed the iron gate, the guards watching warily, spears still in hand but keeping their distance.

Pierre Labatut, the Baron of Alcântara, walked ahead, his cane tapping rhythmically as he climbed the steps to the manor’s main entrance. The building was grand, with polished stone walls and tall, opaque glass windows, but there was an air of decay—subtle cracks in the walls, mold creeping in corners, and a palpable darkness.

Inside, the main hall was lit by iron chandeliers, their flames flickering and casting dancing shadows on faded tapestries covering the walls. The wooden floor creaked under Tetanus’s weight, and the smell of burning wax mixed with mold.

Labatut gestured to a carved wooden chair, but Tetanus stayed standing, his wary gaze fixed on the Baron, hand near his sheathed sword. He didn’t trust the man with his foreign accent and cunning eyes.

“Sit, if you like,” Labatut said, settling into a plush armchair, his cane resting beside him. “Or stand there like a rabid dog. I don’t care. Let’s get to it.” He crossed his legs, his blue eyes studying Tetanus like he was inspecting a delivery. “You asked about the dungeon. I’ll tell you what I know.”

Tetanus crossed his arms, his leather armor creaking. “Talk. What’s in that dungeon, and what do you want from it?”

Labatut leaned forward, fingers drumming on his cane. “The dungeons were discovered half a century ago, at the height of the colonial period. It was a cursed place, a hell on earth. The Portuguese used it as a prison for the worst criminals—murderers, rapists, madmen. But that wasn’t all. In its depths, there were mines, not just for gold or silver. Rare minerals, things that glowed unnaturally.” He paused, his gaze distant, as if seeing something beyond the hall. “When Brazil became independent and Dom Pedro II took power, the dungeon was sealed. No one knows why, but records say something escaped from there, something that scared even the toughest of the Empire. Since then, it’s been forgotten… but what lingers cannot be forgotten.”

“And what do you want me to bring back?” Tetanus asked bluntly.

Labatut smiled. “Artifacts. Relics. Anything unusual. If you don’t understand it, you bring it.”

He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “And if you find something like a book or tome, bring it intact. No matter the cost. That’s worth more than any gold.”

Tetanus frowned. “And how much are you paying for this? I’m not risking my skin for vague promises.”

Labatut laughed, the sound echoing in the hall. “One artifact in particular. Something not of this world. A dark, square object with an… alien look, let’s say.” He leaned forward, voice low as if afraid of being overheard. “I won’t bore you with details, because I don’t have them. I only know it’s valuable, and it’s in the dungeon’s depths. Bring it to me, and I’ll make you a rich man.”

Tetanus snorted, uncrossing his arms. “Rich, huh?” He stepped forward, his yellow eye fixed on the Baron. “It’s not just money I want, and going into a place like that unprepared… Weapons, supplies, maybe backup. That costs gold, and I don’t have any. I want an advance to gear up properly.”

Labatut raised an eyebrow, amused but not surprised. “You’re bold, I’ll give you that. A former French army general, and here I am, negotiating with a scarred barbarian.” He laughed again. “No need for gold in hand. Tell the village shops you’re my envoy, and they’ll provide what you need—weapons, provisions, anything. But don’t abuse my generosity.”

He stood, walking to a table with a parchment roll. He unfurled it, revealing a crude map drawn in black ink with tight, scrawled notes. “This is the way to the dungeon. A few kilometers north, hidden in the hills. Follow the map, and don’t get lost.”

Tetanus took the map, studying the winding lines and strange symbols marking the path. He folded it and tucked it into his pouch, his mind already planning the next steps. “And the payment?” he asked, voice firm. “How much is this artifact worth to you?”

Labatut sat back down, cane resting on his knee. “Enough money to let you spend it on half the world’s whores and stop annoying me.”

Tetanus turned to the door. “I’ll get what I need in the village and head out. If this artifact’s so important, it better be worth the risk.”

Labatut nodded, his cold smile returning. “Bonne chance, monsieur.”

Tetanus left the manor, the guards now distracted at the entrance as a light drizzle fell over the village.

He pushed open the blacksmith’s door, a rusty bell jingling above. The interior was stifling, lit by a brazier crackling in a corner, casting flickering shadows on walls lined with weapons and tools.

Two merchants stood behind a rough wooden counter: a burly man with a long beard and two missing fingers, and an older woman with a wrinkled face but sharp, lively eyes. A group of local Bahians, likely customers, chatted loudly near a shelf of knives but fell silent when Tetanus entered, their eyes fixed on the newcomer.

“I’m Pierre Labatut’s envoy,” Tetanus said, his deep voice cutting through the silence. “I need equipment. He said you’d provide.”

The burly merchant, presumably the shop’s owner, scratched his beard, sizing Tetanus up. “The Baron’s envoy, huh?” He exchanged a look with the woman, who frowned. “Alright, lad. What do you want?”

Tetanus pointed to a chainmail armor hanging on a wooden stand. It was well-crafted, the iron rings intricately linked, gleaming in the brazier’s light. “That armor,” he said, then pointed to a large silver sword with a broad blade and reinforced hilt on a shelf. “And that sword.”

The woman approached, grabbing the chainmail with a grunt. “Heavy, but it takes a beating. You seem the type who needs it.” She handed the armor to Tetanus, who swapped it for his old leather one, quickly adjusting the straps over his broad shoulders. The metal’s weight was reassuring, sturdier than leather. He took the sword, testing its balance with a quick spin. The blade sliced the air, and he nodded, satisfied.

As the merchants wrapped additional supplies—a spare canteen, ropes, and a hunting knife—Tetanus leaned on the counter, his yellow eye fixed on them. “You known the Baron long?” he asked, voice casual but intentional. “He sent others to this dungeon?”

The burly merchant hesitated, glancing at the woman before answering. “You’re at least the twentieth,” he said, voice low, as if afraid of being overheard. “The Baron’s always sending people to that cursed dungeon. Strong men, mercenaries, adventurers… they go, and none come back. Or if they do, they disappear after talking to him.”

The woman crossed her arms, eyes narrowed. “There’s something off about that Frenchman. He’s not just a relic collector. The locals here talk… ugly things. They say he was a cruel general, tortured prisoners during the war, burned whole villages in the backlands. And there’s a legend…” She paused, glancing at the other Bahians in the shop, now listening intently.

A thin farmer with sun-weathered skin spoke up, voice trembling. “The monster Labatut, that’s what they call him. They say he’s not human anymore. That he makes pacts with things from hell. Out in the backlands, folks say he appears at night, eyes glowing like fire, taking anyone who crosses his path. And that dungeon…” He crossed himself quickly.

Tetanus listened to the legend of the monster Labatut in silence. Labatut wasn’t just an eccentric rich man—there was more.

“And no one’s ever brought anything back?” Tetanus asked, taking advantage of the lull in the rain.

The burly merchant shrugged, uneasy. “Some brought trinkets. Stone pieces, broken jewelry, things like that. But never what the Baron really wants. And like I said, they disappear after.” He leaned over the counter, voice a whisper. “If you’re going to that dungeon, lad, be careful. The Baron’s not trustworthy. And that place even less.”

Tetanus nodded, filing the words away. He took the supplies, slinging the canteen and rope onto his belt and sheathing the silver sword. “Thanks for the warning… I noticed this place has fewer people than I expected.”

The woman replied, “This village… it was thriving before Labatut came, had about ten thousand people. Now there’s less than five hundred. That Frenchman must be making everyone disappear.”

“Alright… thanks for the gear. Keep the old armor. It’s a gift.”

He left the blacksmith, his mind on the merchants’ words. The rain had stopped, but the sky remained heavy, dark clouds looming like a bad omen. Tetanus glanced at Labatut’s map, mentally tracing the path to the dungeon in the northern hills.

He trekked through the hills north of Euclides, Labatut’s map in hand. The air grew heavy, a faint stench of rot intensifying as he neared his destination.

After hours of walking, he spotted the dungeon’s entrance, hidden among jagged rocks and covered in twisted vines. The iron gates, rusted and ajar, loomed like menacing bars against the hillside. Swarms of blowflies buzzed, drawn by an overwhelming stench of rotting flesh emanating from within.

Tetanus wrinkled his nose, his stomach churning, but he pressed forward, shouldering the gates open. The metal screeched loudly, echoing in the silence as he entered, the dungeon’s darkness swallowing the daylight.

 

Imperial Dungeons

The interior was chaos. The stone walls were cracked, covered in moss and dark stains that looked like dried blood. The dirt floor, littered with debris, was strewn with broken bones and twisted metal scraps, as if the dungeon had been abandoned in a hurry. Tetanus felt a wave of weakness wash over him, a sudden, supernatural hunger draining his energy, as if the place itself was sapping his vitality. He gritted his teeth, ignoring the sensation and moving forward, hand always on his sword’s hilt.

Ahead, a tattered flag of the Brazilian Empire hung on a wall, swaying slightly despite the lack of wind. Its faded colors—green, yellow, and blue—were stained with filth, the imperial crest barely recognizable. Tetanus passed it without a glance.

He followed a narrow corridor, the stench of rot growing stronger, until he reached what seemed to be an abandoned kitchen. Rotten wooden tables were overturned, rusted pots scattered on the floor. In a corner, he found a sack of dried flour, hardened by time but still edible. He took it, knowing any supplies could be useful.

Suddenly, a heavy sound echoed through the corridor—slow footsteps accompanied by a grotesque dragging, as if something massive was moving.

Tetanus acted on instinct, slipping behind an overturned table, hiding in the shadows. He held his breath, heart pounding, as the thing entered the kitchen.

It was a mutant jailer. Its form was colossal, about four meters tall, its deformed muscles stretching its skin to near tearing. A small, ill-fitting armor seemed fused to its body, the metal embedded in its flesh as if part of it. But what sent a chill down Tetanus’s spine was what hung between its legs.

Its penis, like a third leg, swollen and grotesque, was so large it dragged on the floor, leaving a viscous trail. The creature reeked of a foul mix of sweat, rot, and something inhumanly acrid. Its small, sunken eyes glowed with white light, and it carried a giant axe, big enough to cleave a man in half with one swing.

Tetanus stayed still, knowing that fighting this thing here, without a plan, would be suicide. The jailer stopped in the kitchen’s center, sniffing the air with a guttural grunt, its head turning slowly side to side. Tetanus remained hidden, imagining that being caught by the jailer could lead to a fate worse than death.

The jailer’s breathing echoed, heavy and hoarse, as it rummaged through barrels with hands the size of plates. Tetanus stayed frozen, his hand slowly opening and closing around his sword’s hilt.

The monster was too close. Too close. A heavy step. Another followed. The stench of rotting flesh and fetid sweat filled the air. The creature was so near that Tetanus felt its grotesque penis brush against his arm.

Tetanus had an idea.

With a swift move, he grabbed the sack of moldy flour from his pouch and hurled it at the jailer’s face. The white powder exploded in the air, coating the creature’s bulging, cross-eyed gaze.

“GRRRAAAAGH!”

The jailer roared, its massive hands rubbing its blinded face. Tetanus didn’t wait—he slid across the wet floor, passing under the monster’s enormous, crooked legs.

His sword’s blade flashed. A quick, precise strike of steel against flesh severed the jailer’s grotesque penis with a wet sound, the organ flopping to the floor like a dead fish.

The abomination howled in pain, a shrill, bestial sound that shook the walls. It spun, blind with pain and fury, its arms flailing like a crazed windmill.

Tetanus rolled across the floor as the jailer’s giant axe smashed into a cabinet. A second swing followed.

Tetanus’s sword sliced behind the creature’s joints, the blade tearing through tendons like a knife through butter.

The jailer collapsed, its useless legs folding unnaturally.

Before it could scream again, Tetanus climbed onto its chest, striking the wrist of the arm holding the axe, stopping it from reacting.

“Sleep, ugly.”

The sword plunged into the monster’s mouth, piercing deep into its throat, through flesh, as the creature let out a final gurgling scream.

The jailer’s body convulsed, muscles twitching violently before going still. Tetanus pulled the blade free, black blood gushing in thick waves. He wiped the sword on the corpse and stood, listening for more sounds. None came.

A hall led to another room, its door different from the others—ajar, its bars twisted as if something massive had tried to rip them off. Tetanus pushed it open with his foot.

Inside, rotting wooden shelves leaned precariously, laden with dusty books and clouded glass vials. The air was heavy with mold and something else—like flayed skin, but not from an animal.

Tetanus approached the central shelf, where a thicker volume stood out. Its cover was an eerie pink, with faint veins visible beneath the surface. When he touched it, the texture was soft, almost alive.

“The Birth of a God”

The letters were embossed in gold, but it was the dedication below, written in dark red ink, that made him clench his teeth:

“In the skin of the faithful, we write the truth.”

A bible made of human skin.

Tetanus opened the book, and a loose page fell, sliding under the shelf. He crouched to retrieve it, but the paper slipped further into the shadows, out of reach. He didn’t pursue it. He tucked the book into his pouch—not out of devotion, as he’d abandoned faith long ago, but because something in that text might be worth gold to the Baron.

Leaving the cell, he found a narrow staircase leading upward. The steps creaked under his weight, but he climbed anyway.

The upper floor was a circular room with cell doors arranged in a semicircle. In the center, a corpse lay slumped on a table—or so it seemed.

The body was mummified, its skin clinging to bones like old parchment. It wore tattered remnants of what might have been an explorer’s uniform, with a belt of rusty keys hanging from its waist.

Tetanus approached cautiously, fingers closing around the belt. As he pulled, a dry sound echoed—a snap of closed eyelids. The thing opened its eyes.

Dried eyelids tore open, revealing white, rolling orbs that fixed on him. Its mouth opened in a hoarse screech, and bony fingers twitched, scratching the table.

Tetanus didn’t wait for it to rise. His sword sliced the air, burying into the creature’s skull with a wet crack. The ghoul convulsed, its arms spasming, but Tetanus twisted the blade, splitting the skull in half.

The body fell back onto the table, still at last.

He yanked the keys from the belt, examining them quickly. Some bore worn symbols—cell numbers, perhaps.

At the corridor’s end, he found a metal door, different from the others. It was solid, with iron reinforcements and a wide, rusted lock still intact. Tetanus tested the keys, one by one, until one with a circle symbol clicked into place. He turned it, the mechanism groaning as if resisting, and shouldered the door open. The metal gave way slowly, revealing an open-air courtyard.

The air was cold, thick with the same rotting stench permeating the dungeon. The gray light of the overcast sky barely lit the space, but it was enough to reveal a grisly scene: a row of hanged corpses dangled from thick ropes tied to warped wooden beams.

There were dozens, maybe more, swaying slightly despite the lack of wind. Some were in advanced decay, their skin dark and swollen, while others were mummified, with sunken eyes and mouths gaping in silent screams.

Hundreds of blowflies buzzed around, the ground below stained with dark fluids dripping from the bodies, killing the grass beneath. Tetanus crossed the courtyard, searching for another exit.

On the far side, he spotted another iron door, smaller but equally reinforced. He tested the keys again until one with a chessboard symbol fit the lock.

The door opened with a low groan, revealing a dark corridor descending into the dungeon’s cells. The smell of mold and death was even stronger here.

The cells were a maze of rusted iron doors, open or broken, their interiors empty save for shattered chains and scattered bones. Tetanus searched each cell carefully, looking for clues or anything useful. Some had desperate scratches on the walls, as if someone had tried to claw through stone. Others bore inscriptions in languages he didn’t recognize, or perhaps from prisoners of other nations, carved with enough force to leave marks.

At the corridor’s end, he found a different area: an empty space with a circular hole in the floor, wide enough for a cart. Thick chains hung from the edges, descending into the darkness but not reaching the bottom. It looked like a lift or platform used to transport prisoners or haul minerals from the dungeon’s depths.

Tetanus approached, peering into the abyss below. The darkness was so dense it seemed solid, and a faint whisper, like muffled voices, rose from the depths, making the mark on his chest pulse harder.

“Deeper… you must go deeper…”

He didn’t hesitate. He took the rope from his belt, tying one end to a chain fixed to the wall. He tested its strength with a firm tug and, satisfied, began to descend.

The rope creaked under his weight, the air growing colder and damper as he plunged into the darkness. The stench of rot gave way to something more mineral…

After what felt like an eternity, his feet touched the ground. He was in a cavern complex, the natural rock walls gleaming with veins of a strange mineral emitting a faint, greenish glow, illuminating the space with a ghostly light. The floor was uneven, covered in broken stalactites and fetid water pools.

The silence was broken only by dripping water and a distant, slow dragging sound echoing through the caverns. The mark on his chest burned, as if it knew he was closer to the artifact.

Tetanus advanced through the cavern complex, the greenish glow of the mineral veins lighting his path, casting long, distorted shadows. The air was damp, thick with the smell of wet stone and something organic, like decaying fungi.

After navigating a narrow tunnel, he reached a carved stone bridge suspended over a black abyss with no visible end. The bridge was ancient, cracked and moss-covered, with rusted chains dangling from its sides, swaying in the cold draft rising from below.

Tétano testou a estabilidade com o pé, sentindo a madeira firme sob suas botas, atravessando com cuidado, do outro lado, o túnel se alargava, levando a uma caverna maior, onde o brilho esverdeado se intensificava, revelando algo inesperado.

Tetanus tested the stability with his foot, feeling the firm wood under his boots, crossing carefully, on the other side, the tunnel widened, leading to a larger cave, where the greenish glow intensified, revealing something unexpected.

 

Uderground City

It was a strange and unsettling sight. Rudimentary structures of stone and wood sprawled across the cavern, illuminated by luminescent fungi growing in large colonies on the walls and ceiling.

The inhabitants, dozens of them, moved among the structures, their bluish skin glimmering under the faint light. They were humanoid but emaciated, with hairless, gaunt bodies and large, opaque eyes adapted to the darkness.

The males displayed abnormally long penises, thirty to forty centimeters, hanging shamelessly, while the females had sagging breasts, their loose skin stretched over visible bones. Nudity was irrelevant here—some couples openly copulated in dimly lit corners, showing no shame, while others bartered in an makeshift market, trading fungi, dried mushrooms, and hardened meat for shiny objects or carved stones.

Tetanus stopped at the city’s entrance, sword still in hand but lowered. The inhabitants noticed him immediately, turning their heads in unison, their opaque eyes fixed on him.

To his surprise, they didn’t seem hostile. A group approached, led by an older figure with wrinkled bluish skin and a chain of bones around their neck. “Stranger…” the creature said, its voice raspy but understandable, in archaic Portuguese. “We haven’t seen outsiders in ages. What brings you to the depths, one-eyed man?”

Tetanus relaxed his stance but kept his guard up. “Passage,” he replied, voice deep. “And supplies, if you have them. I’ll pay with coins.”

The old cavern dweller tilted their head, curious, and gestured for Tetanus to follow to the market. The other inhabitants watched, some whispering in a guttural language Tetanus didn’t understand.

At the market, he traded some of the coins he’d recovered from the cart for strips of dried meat wrapped in fungal leaves. The taste was bitter, but he stored the supplies in his pouch, knowing the dungeon’s supernatural hunger could worsen.

The inhabitants were oddly friendly, offering him water from an underground spring and even a glowing mushroom, which he declined with a wave.

While eating a piece of the dried meat, Tetanus decided to take a chance. “I’m looking for something,” he said, his yellow eye fixed on the old dweller. “An artifact. Dark, square, with an… otherworldly look. Know anything about it?”

The mood shifted instantly. The old dweller stepped back, their opaque eyes wide, and the other inhabitants stopped what they were doing, hands tightening around stones and crude tools.

“The Black Cube…” the old one whispered, voice trembling. “You must not touch it! It’s cursed! It brings death!” Before Tetanus could respond, a stone flew at him, striking his chainmail with a clang. Another followed, and soon the air was filled with projectiles, the inhabitants screaming in fury, their voices echoing like a demonic chorus.

Tetanus acted on instinct.

His silver sword flashed as he raised it, charging the nearest group. The first inhabitant, a skinny male wielding an improvised spear, fell with a clean strike, the blade severing his neck.

Blue blood spilled onto the ground, glowing under the fungal light. Others came, men and women, shouting and throwing stones, but Tetanus was an unstoppable force.

Each sword strike was precise, cleaving limbs, piercing chests, decapitating. A group tried to surround him, but he spun, his blade tracing a deadly arc that left bodies strewn across the market. The old dweller tried to flee, but Tetanus caught up, driving his sword into their back. The old one’s scream was muffled by the sound of breaking bones.

In minutes, the underground city was silent, save for the drip of water and the echo of final moans. The ground was covered in bluish bodies, their blood forming glowing pools.

Tetanus stood, panting, his sword dripping viscous liquid. The mark on his chest burned like fire, and he felt a weight grow in his soul. He hadn’t wanted this—a massacre—but mentioning the “Black Cube” had turned them into enemies, and he couldn’t risk leaving survivors to pursue him.

He took advantage of the sword’s luminescence from the blood and used it to light his surroundings, scavenging the market for more dried meat and the coins he’d traded.

The city was empty now, the glowing fungi flickering as if mourning the carnage. Tetanus searched for clues about the artifact. In one of the structures, he found markings on the stone—carved symbols, one vaguely resembling a cube with spiraling lines.

A tunnel at the city’s far end descended further, and he followed it, arriving at a vast chamber with walls covered in spiral carvings.

In the center, on a black stone pedestal, was the Black Cube. It was exactly as Labatut described: a square object the size of a clenched fist, its surface so dark it seemed to swallow the surrounding light. Faint lines, almost imperceptible, ran across it, moving like living veins, as if the thing had its own electric energy.

Tetanus approached, the mark on his chest vibrating in sync with the artifact. He reached out, hesitant, and when he touched the cube, the air around him changed. Gravity seemed to halt, time slowing, and an oppressive silence swallowed all sound. The entire chamber seemed to hold its breath.

He yanked the cube from the pedestal and placed it in his pouch, its weight oddly light for its appearance. The moment he stored it, the air shifted instantly, as if gravity had paused, and the walls began to tremble.

Tetanus ran back to escape the place, but then another whisper echoed in his head, a deep, guttural, hoarse voice from the depths: “Deeper… you must come… hunter…”

The ground shook slightly, and Tetanus spotted wooden platforms descending deep into the cavern’s abyss.

He began descending the wooden platforms carefully, the wood creaking dangerously under his weight.

 

Ancient Pit

 

The greenish glow of the caverns gave way to near-total darkness, broken only by occasional sparks from minerals in the walls. The air grew colder, the smell of sulfur stronger, and the voice calling him became clearer, more insistent.

“Here… here… HERE! RIGHT HEEEEERE!!!!”

When his feet touched the ground, he was in a pit of corpses, standing atop a mountain of burned bodies—millions, perhaps, some penetrating others in a final act of love before whatever had happened there.

The walls were covered in ancient ruins—broken columns, shattered statues, and carvings of symbols resembling those in the human-skin bible.

In the center of the cavern, buried among debris, he saw something that made him question his sanity.

A decapitated head, medium-sized, with features suggesting an Arab man. Its skin was marked by rough lines of age, a thick black beard covering the chin, with a dense mustache under the nose. The teeth were yellowed, stained with sulfur, and the eyes, open and glowing with supernatural light, fixed on Tetanus.

“FINALLY!” the head shouted, its deep voice laced with sarcasm, echoing through the cavern.

“A MAGGOT with the balls to come down here! BOW BEFORE ME, for I am Al-Yasiin! The prince of flames! The herald of lies! The God of enlightenment!”

A few seconds passed.

“Hmph. Expected more, but I’ll take it. All you maggots do is dig, after all. Tetanus, is it? What a ridiculous name. Ke ke ke ke!” He laughed, a harsh, acidic sound that made Tetanus clench his fists.

“What the hell are you?” Tetanus growled, pointing his sword at the head, the mark on his chest pulsing in response to its presence.

“I am Al-Yasiin, you ignorant fool,” the head shot back, its eyes gleaming with disdain. “God of enlightenment, as I said, or at least I was, until those bastards…” He paused, his mouth twisting into a sarcastic smile. “But you, with that stinking Anti-God mark on your chest, seem like the kind of useful maggot I need… listen well. I want, I CRAVE to kill the new gods, to rip out their spines, make them choke on their own shitty ideology! So, what do you say to helping me get out of here?”

Tetanus frowned. “Why would I help you?” he asked, voice sharp. “And how do you know who I am?”

Al-Yasiin laughed again, his yellowed teeth glinting. “I know because I’m a god, you cyclops. Even without my old body, I see the world, feel the flames of fate. And you, with that infernal pact, are caught in a dance with forces you don’t understand. Take me with you, kid, and I’ll help you survive. Maybe even share some nice little secrets.” He winked, the gesture almost comical on a severed head. “Or would you rather wander until you succumb to forces you can’t comprehend?”

Tetanus hesitated. He definitely didn’t trust Al-Yasiin—the so-called “god” had an arrogance that grated, and his intentions were dubious at best. But something in the head’s voice, perhaps the promise of the revelations he craved, made him act.

He grabbed Al-Yasiin’s decapitated head by the hair, stuffing it into his pouch amid the head’s complaints and curses.

“Good choice, cyclops,” Al-Yasiin said, voice dripping with irony. “Now climb up before something worse shows up. And please, don’t trip. That’d be embarrassing.”

Chapter 15: Chaos in Euclides da Cunha

Forest Path — 1666

The road back to Euclides da Cunha felt longer than Tetanus remembered. The Black Cube in his pouch weighed little, but its presence was oppressive, as if the object were whispering in his mind in an ancient tongue.

Al-Yasiin’s head, meanwhile, didn’t stop grumbling from inside the pouch, cursing every ten seconds of delay that kept them from civilization.

“By all the hells!” Al-Yasiin’s muffled voice complained. “You’re taking so long it’s like you’re trying to drive me mad before we get there!”

Tetanus simply ignored the complaints of the decapitated head he carried.

When they finally reached the tavern, the sun was setting, painting the village in shades of orange and casting long shadows. The same bald tavern keeper stared at him as he entered, eyes wide at Tetanus’s state—covered in dried blood, dirt, and something that looked like the bluish fluid of the cavern dwellers.

“Room,” Tetanus said, tossing a few coins onto the counter.

The tavern keeper grabbed the coins, bit one out of habit, and nodded, throwing him a rusty key. “Upstairs, last door on the right.”

Tetanus climbed the creaking stairs, entered the room, and locked the door behind him. The space was small, with a narrow bed, a cracked wooden table, and a nearly spent candle. He tossed the pouch onto the bed and pulled Al-Yasiin out, setting him upright on the table like a macabre ornament.

The decapitated god’s head looked around, nose wrinkled in disdain. “What a disgusting place. Smells like piss and cheap booze.”

“Fuck off,” Tetanus replied, sitting on the bed and taking a deep breath, his mind swirling with everything that had happened in the last few hours. “Now talk. What’s this Black Cube?”

Al-Yasiin sighed, as if dealing with an impatient child. “It’s a cosmic mistake, maggot. A piece of another world that shouldn’t be here.” His eyes gleamed with a strange fervor. “It fell from the sky like a meteor, centuries ago, when this land was just wilderness and naked natives. The locals found it, worshipped it as a god, and then… well, it started calling things.”

“What kind of things?” Tetanus pressed.

“Abominations. Creatures that don’t belong in this world. Things that make even my old kingdom look like a nursery.” Al-Yasiin frowned. “The cube is a kind of door that shouldn’t exist.”

Tetanus pulled the artifact from the pouch, holding it up to the faint candlelight. The black surface seemed to absorb the flame, the lines on it pulsing faintly, like veins under skin.

“And why does the Baron want it?”

“Because he’s a greedy idiot,” Al-Yasiin said. “Thinks he can control the cube’s power, use it to… I don’t know, rule the Empire? Get rich? The man’s a maggot with maggot dreams. But one thing he doesn’t know is that the cube doesn’t obey any maggot. It corrupts.”

Tetanus stored the cube again, his fingers tingling after touching it. “And why should I keep it?”

“Because I need it,” Al-Yasiin growled. “And you need me. That pact you made with the Princes of Hell? They won’t let you slip away so easily, cyclops. But I know their tricks. I know all the tricks.” His lips curled into a chilling smile. “Take me with you, give me the cube when I need it, and I’ll teach you how to survive this whole mess.”

Tetanus stayed silent for a moment, briefly wondering how Al-Yasiin knew about his pact, but at this point, he didn’t question anything anymore.

Trusting Al-Yasiin would be the last sensible thing to do. But he didn’t have many options either.

“Fine,” he finally said, standing. “But if you try to screw me over, I’ll toss you into the first river I find.”

Al-Yasiin laughed, a hoarse, toothy sound. “Fair enough. Now put me by the window. I want to see the sunset. Been centuries since I saw one.”

Tetanus grabbed the head and placed it on the windowsill, where the last rays of sunlight bathed the freckled face of the ancient god.

Outside, the village of Euclides da Cunha carried on its quiet life, oblivious to the greater horror Tetanus carried in his pouch.

Tetanus let out a dry laugh as he lay on the bed, almost in disbelief, staring at Al-Yasiin’s head on the windowsill.

“Killing gods?” He rubbed his face with a rough hand. “You’re talking like I’m some legendary hero. I’m nothing but a fucked-up mercenary who survived his own ruin.”

Al-Yasiin rolled his eyes, lips twisting into a sarcastic smile.

“Oh, sure, because ordinary mercenaries carry pacts with the Seven Princes and cosmic artifacts in their pouches, right?”

Tetanus ignored the jab. He stood, walking to the room’s window, where the last light of what passed for day painted the village blood-red.

“I have friends. Or… had.” His voice grew rougher as he mentioned them. Farpa, Gume, Zara, Lâmina. Names that stung like knife wounds. “Four years rotting in a dungeon while they—who knows what happened to them, trapped. If they’re even alive.”

Al-Yasiin watched Tetanus with a calculating gaze.

“So you want to ditch the cube and go chasing after your lost little buddies?” He laughed, a harsh, humorless sound. “How touching. But let’s not forget the tiny detail: YOU don’t have a choice.”

Tetanus turned, his yellow eye glinting with restrained fury.

“Everyone seems to think I don’t have a choice. The Princes of Hell threw me into this shit, and now you show up, another voice telling me what I have to do!”

“Oh, poor little mercenary with no autonomy,” Al-Yasiin mocked. “You already chose when you accepted the pact with the Princes of Hell, when you took the cube. Every step led you here, from your birth with the Anti-God’s mark, your fate was sealed. Now you want to run? Like a chicken? Cluck-cluck-coward!”

“I didn’t run from anything!” Tetanus slammed his fist into the wall, cracking the wood. “But I’m not going to go around like an obedient dog, whether for the Princes or a decapitated head!”

The room fell silent for a moment, only the sound of Tetanus’s heavy breathing echoing.

Al-Yasiin studied him, and then, surprisingly, his expression shifted. The arrogance gave way to something more calculated.

“Alright, cyclops. Let’s make a deal.” He tilted his head (as much as a head could). “You want to find your little friends? Fine. I’ll help you. But the cube stays with us. Don’t give it to the Baron. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, and if that artifact falls into the wrong hands…”

“Whose wrong hands? Yours?” Tetanus cut in.

“No. Theirs, you maggot-brained fool,” Al-Yasiin scowled. “The Princes of Hell aren’t the only ones hunting this little cube. There are worse things out there.”

Tetanus crossed his arms.

“And how do you suggest I find my friends?”

“The Baron could be useful,” Al-Yasiin admitted. “He has contacts, eyes all over the Empire. But don’t tell him about the cube. Lie. Say the dungeon was empty. That you found nothing.”

“And if he doesn’t believe me?”

“Then you kill him, and we get out of here,” Al-Yasiin replied, as if it were obvious. “But first, ask for information. Mercenaries like yours… someone knows where they are. We just need to ask the right people.”

Tetanus stayed silent, weighing his options. He didn’t like political games. He didn’t trust Al-Yasiin. But the thought of finding his friends… that was worth the risk.

“Fine,” he finally said, grabbing the head and stuffing it back into the pouch, ignoring Al-Yasiin’s protests. “Tomorrow, I’ll talk to the Baron. But if this is a trap…”

“Oh, please,” Al-Yasiin’s muffled voice came from inside the pouch. “If it was a trap, I’d have burned you alive by now.”

Tetanus smirked, humorless.

“Doubt it.”

He snuffed out the candle and threw himself onto the bed, staring at the dark ceiling, replaying every year of his life that had led him here—fights, betrayals, discoveries, friends, enemies, and losses, so many losses.

Euclides da Cunha, Tame Ox Tavern, 1666

Tetanus woke with a start, another nightmare. The image of crows from his dream remained vivid: black wings blotting out the sky, beaks tearing into his flesh, and a guttural voice whispering his name.

He rubbed his face, feeling the spiral mark on his chest pulse. The pouch beside the bed was quiet, but he knew Al-Yasiin wouldn’t stay silent for long.

A soft knock at the door made him lift his head. He rose, walking slowly to the door and opening it cautiously.

A skinny boy, likely the tavern keeper’s helper, held a tray with a plate of hard beans, a piece of dried meat, and a glass of murky water. “Your food,” the boy muttered, avoiding Tetanus’s gaze before scampering down the hall.

Tetanus took the tray, closed the door, and devoured the food quickly, without savoring it. The beans were cold, the meat too salty, but he didn’t care—he needed energy for what lay ahead.

As he chewed, he grabbed the pouch, opened it, and looked at Al-Yasiin’s head, which stared back with a sarcastic smile. “Sleep well, maggot?” the head asked, its voice as acidic as ever. “Or did the crows peck you down to the bone?”

Tetanus swallowed the last piece of meat and wiped his hands on his pants. “How do you know about the Baron?” he asked. “You said he’s messing with the wrong stuff. What do you know about him?”

Al-Yasiin laughed, his yellowed teeth glinting in the faint dawn light filtering through the window. “I know things. Labatut’s a name that’s echoed in the shadows for years. He was a general once, but now he’s a relic collector, obsessed with power he doesn’t understand. He has contacts in dark places. But in the end, he’s just a maggot thinking he can control the Black Cube. And you will be too, if you hand it over to him.”

Tetanus stuffed the head back into the pouch, slinging it over his shoulder. He checked the silver sword in its sheath, glanced at the Black Cube in the pouch one last time, and left the room, descending the tavern’s creaking stairs.

The tavern keeper watched him from the corner of his eye but said nothing. The main street of Euclides da Cunha was quiet, with fewer people each day.

Tetanus walked straight to Pierre Labatut’s grand house at the top of the hill. At the iron gate, the guards recognized him, but their faces were tense, as if they feared what he’d brought from the dungeon. “The Baron’s waiting,” one said, opening the gate.

Tetanus nodded and knocked on the manor’s door, the sound echoing through the stone courtyard. A malnourished black youth opened the door, leading him to the same grand room where he and Labatut had spoken before. The dark tapestries and iron chandelier still cast dancing shadows, but the air felt heavier now, thick with a tension Tetanus could feel on his skin.

Pierre Labatut sat in his cushioned chair, the silver-handled cane resting on his knee. His deep blue eyes gleamed as he saw Tetanus, a cold smile curling his lips.

“You’re back,” he said, his voice calm but tinged with surprise. “Few return from that dungeon. What did you bring, Tetanus?”

Tetanus stayed standing, his hand already tense near the sword’s hilt. Al-Yasiin’s muffled voice began whispering from the pouch, almost inaudible: “Kill him, kill him, kill him!”

Tetanus ignored the head, keeping his gaze fixed on the Baron. “No artifacts,” he lied, voice firm. “The dungeon was empty. Just bones and monsters. But I didn’t come here empty-handed. I want information.”

Labatut raised an eyebrow, his cold smile unwavering. “Information? Interesting. And what kind of information does a man like you seek?”

“My friends,” Tetanus said, choosing his words carefully. “They were mercenaries, like me. Part of a group in Minas Gerais, called The Last Comradeship. Four years ago, they vanished. I want to know where they are, if they’re alive. You have contacts, Baron. You must know something.”

Al-Yasiin’s voice kept whispering, more insistent: “Kill him now, cyclops! Don’t trust this maggot!” Tetanus clenched his teeth, struggling to stay composed.

Labatut leaned back in his chair, tapping the cane against the floor in a slow rhythm, his eyes studying Tetanus. “The Last Comradeship…” he murmured, as if tasting the name. “A name I’ve heard, yes. Mercenaries from Minas Gerais, right? Tough men and women, but it seems they got into trouble with the Empire. Or with someone dangerous.” He paused, his gaze narrowing. “Why so much interest, Tetanus? And why should I help you without seeing what you brought from the dungeon?”

The tension in the air thickened, the silence between Labatut’s words heavy with suspicion.

Amid it all, Al-Yasiin kept whispering: “Kill him, kill him, end this!” Tetanus gripped the sword’s hilt, muscles taut, feeling closer to an inevitable clash.

Without taking his eyes off Labatut, Tetanus slowly opened the pouch, ignoring Al-Yasiin’s grumbling, and pulled out the human-skin bible he’d found in the dungeon.

The pinkish cover, with faint veins pulsing beneath the surface, looked even more grotesque under the chandelier’s flickering light.

He tossed the book onto the polished wooden table between them, the impact echoing in the silent room. “Found this,” Tetanus said, voice firm but cautious. “*The Birth of a God*. Not what you wanted, but it’s something. In exchange, I want to know more about my friends. Where are Farpa, Gume, Zara, and Lâmina?”

Labatut leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with icy interest as he examined the bible. He reached out, his long, pale fingers brushing the cover, and Tetanus noticed a slight tremor in his expression, as if the Baron recognized the object’s value. “Fascinating…” Labatut murmured, opening the book carefully, the pages crackling like dry parchment. “A rare relic… You have no idea what you’ve brought, Tetanus.” He looked up, the cold smile returning. “But it’s not the artifact I asked for. The Black Cube. You swear you didn’t find it?”

Tetanus held the Baron’s gaze. “Just carrion and dick-swinging monsters, like I said,” he replied, voice dry. “But if you want more, give me something in return. My friends. What do you know about them?”

Labatut closed the bible with a snap, leaning back in his chair.

“The Last Comradeship…” he said, his tone almost thoughtful. “Yes, I know of one. Gume, the big black guy, right? A man with the strength of a bull. The Empire took him, Tetanus. Forcibly recruited into the imperial army in exchange for his freedom. They saw potential in him—a warrior who could crush rebels without blinking. But he had no choice, of course. The Empire never makes kind invitations.”

Tetanus felt a knot in his stomach, the image of Gume—the friend who always laughed loudly, even in the worst situations—now chained to the Empire, making him clench his fists. “And the others?” he asked, voice more urgent.

Labatut raised a hand, as if asking for patience. “Information comes at a cost, my friend. You brought this bible, and that’s a start. But if you want more, I need something more… substantial. Let’s make a deal. Meet me at midnight, at the abandoned chapel on the north side. Bring whatever else you found in the dungeon, and I’ll tell you what I know about your friends.”

Al-Yasiin’s voice erupted from the pouch, still muffled but furious: “Kill him now! He’s stringing you along! Don’t trust this maggot!” Tetanus pressed the pouch against himself, silencing the head.

“Midnight, then,” Tetanus said, voice sharp. “But you’d better have something useful, Baron. I don’t like wasting time.”

“Don’t worry, Tetanus. I always keep my end of the bargain.” He waved a hand, dismissing him. “Until then.”

Tetanus turned to leave through the front door, Al-Yasiin’s voice still whispering: “You’re really that dumb, huh? He knows you’re lying! Kill him before he kills you!”

Euclides da Cunha, Abandoned Chapel, Midnight, 1666

The night in Euclides da Cunha was thick, the starless sky covered by dark clouds that seemed to swallow the moonlight. Tetanus walked the steep path leading to the abandoned chapel atop the northern hill, the cold wind cutting through his dirty chainmail.

Al-Yasiin’s head, tied to his waist, wouldn’t stop grumbling. “This is a trap, maggot,” the decapitated god’s muffled voice hissed. “Labatut’s not just some old man with a cane. He reeks of cosmic rot. You should’ve killed him in that mansion, like I said!”

The chapel loomed ahead, a crumbling stone structure with a collapsed roof and broken stained-glass windows reflecting the faint light of a lone torch burning inside.

He gripped the silver sword’s hilt, feeling the weight of the impending encounter, and pushed open the chapel’s broken door, the creak echoing into the darkness.

Inside, the torchlight illuminated Pierre Labatut, standing in the chapel’s center, his silver-handled cane planted in the ground like a spear. His blue eyes glowed with an unnatural intensity.

“Punctual,” he said, his voice smooth but laced with menace. “I’m impressed, Tetanus. Few have the courage to come here at midnight.”

Tetanus stood at the entrance, hand on his sword, body tense. “The information,” he said, voice dry. “Where are my friends?”

Labatut laughed softly, pulling a folded document from his coat and tossing it onto the dusty floor between them. “Gume, your big guy. He’s in Salvador, serving in the imperial army. A fort under construction on the coast. The document has the details. But…” He tilted his head, gaze sharp. “You know I didn’t come here just for that. The Black Cube. I know you have it, Tetanus. Hand it over now.”

Al-Yasiin’s voice erupted from the pouch, a furious whisper: “I told you, cyclops! Kill him! He’s playing you!” Tetanus slowly crouched, picking up the document and storing it in the pouch without taking his eyes off Labatut.

“I don’t have any cube,” he lied. “You’ve got the skin book. That’s all I found.”

Labatut sighed, the sound heavy with impatience. “Don’t lie to me, mercenary. I can feel it.” He struck the cane against the ground, the sound echoing like thunder. “Give me the Black Cube, or you won’t leave this chapel alive.”

Before Tetanus could respond, Labatut made a quick gesture, and two figures emerged from the shadows behind him.

Assassins, clad in dark cloaks, their faces hidden by leather masks. One carried a curved dagger, the other a chain with weighted ends. They moved with supernatural speed, surrounding Tetanus in a blink.

Tetanus acted on instinct. The silver sword flashed as he drew it, slicing the air in a precise arc. The first assassin, with the dagger, lunged, but Tetanus dodged, his blade tearing through the man’s chest with a wet sound. The man fell, blood pooling on the stone floor.

The second spun the chain, aiming for Tetanus, but he rolled aside, the chain striking a column and raising a cloud of dust. Tetanus charged, driving his sword into the assassin’s throat before he could react. The body crumpled, lifeless, as Al-Yasiin laughed loudly from the pouch: “That’s it, cyclops! Chop them to pieces!”

Tetanus turned to Labatut, panting, the sword dripping blood. But the Baron didn’t seem concerned. He tossed the cane to the ground, and then something horrific began to happen.

His human form contorted, bones cracking like dry branches. His skin stretched and tore, revealing a grotesque body that grew to seven meters tall, covered in shaggy black fur. His feet swelled into round, deformed stumps, supporting a hunched, grotesquely muscular frame. His hands elongated, ending in massive claws that scraped the floor. His hair, now long and wild, fell over his shoulders, the transformation retaining the sideburns of its former bearer, and in the center of his forehead, a single red eye glowed, fixing on Tetanus.

His teeth, large as elephant tusks, jutted from his mouth, curving outward like horns. The monster Labatut was real, an abomination cloaked in human skin.

“You don’t understand what you carry, mercenary!” Labatut’s voice, now a guttural roar, echoed through the chapel. “The Black Cube is mine! Hand it over, or I’ll rip your soul out with it!”

Tetanus took a step back, sword raised, the mark on his chest burning so intensely he groaned in pain. Al-Yasiin, still in the pouch, shouted: “This is what I warned you about, you idiot maggot! He’s not human! Kill him now!”

The abandoned chapel trembled with Labatut’s roar, the stone walls creaking under the pressure of his monstrous form. Tetanus tasted the metallic tang of fear on his tongue but didn’t hesitate. He’d faced worse.

Or at least, that’s what he tried to believe.

The monster charged with absurd speed for its size, its giant claws slashing through the air toward Tetanus. He rolled aside, feeling the rush of air as the claws passed inches from his face. The silver sword gleamed as he counterattacked, driving it into the monster’s flank.

Black blood spurted, but Labatut laughed, a deep, distorted sound that echoed like thunder.

“Silver tools?” he spat, yanking the sword from his body like it was a thorn. “That won’t kill me, you insolent fool!”

Tetanus didn’t respond. Instead, he spat on the ground and drew his hunting knife, aiming for the red eye in the monster’s forehead.

Al-Yasiin shouted from the pouch: “The eye, cyclops! Stab the damn eye!”

Labatut sensed the intent and roared, slamming a deformed foot into the ground. The impact cracked the chapel’s floor, throwing Tetanus back. He crashed into a wall, pain exploding in his back, but he was up in an instant, teeth gritted.

The monster charged again, its claws gouging deep furrows in the stone floor. Tetanus waited until the last moment, then dove aside, letting Labatut barrel past. With a swift move, he drove the knife into the monster’s deformed knee, twisting the blade.

Labatut howled in pain, staggering but not falling. Instead, it spun with a sudden lurch, striking Tetanus in the chest with a blow that sent him flying. He crashed into the chapel’s stone altar, feeling something break inside him. Blood filled his mouth.

“Get up, you maggot!” Al-Yasiin bellowed. “He’s strong, but you’re smarter! Use the environment!”

Tetanus quickly scanned the room. The chapel was in ruins, but there were still useful things—fallen iron chandelier, rotten wooden beams, scattered debris.

Labatut advanced again, frothing with rage, his massive teeth glinting in the faint light.

Tetanus grabbed a sharp piece of wood from the floor and hurled it at the monster’s eye.

Labatut dodged at the last moment, but the distraction was enough. Tetanus darted aside, grabbing the heavy iron chandelier and, with a grunt, hurled it like a spear at the monster’s chest.

The metal struck true, embedding in the dark, furry flesh. Labatut screamed but still didn’t fall.

“Need more silver, you idiot!” Al-Yasiin snarled.

Tetanus had no time. The monster was furious now, attacking wildly, smashing columns and walls with its blows.

Then Tetanus spotted Labatut’s silver cane, discarded on the floor during the transformation.

He dove for it, rolling between the monster’s claws, and grabbed the cane. He felt the weight of the precious metal, the handle etched with ancient runes.

Labatut noticed and roared frantically. “GET BACK HERE, YOU LITTLE BRAT!”

Tetanus leaped, driving the cane’s sharp end straight into Labatut’s red eye.

The monster shuddered, an agonized scream escaping its throat. Its body began to convulse. Still, it didn’t fall—blinded in its only eye, the monster Labatut resisted.

The monster Labatut, now blind in its single red eye, which oozed viscous pus down its furry forehead, let out a roar that made the chapel’s stones tremble. With a sudden lurch, it spun its massive body, giant claws slashing the air, and charged toward the chapel’s broken window.

The impact of its escape shattered what remained of the stained glass, shards flying like deadly confetti. The monster vanished into the night, its roar echoing as it descended the hill toward Euclides da Cunha.

“Damn it!” Tetanus spat, ignoring the throbbing pain in his chest where Labatut had struck him. Al-Yasiin’s voice erupted from the pouch, frantic: “Go after him, cyclops! He’ll destroy the village! Kill that thing before it summons something worse!”

Tetanus needed no urging. He grabbed the silver sword from the ground, sheathed his hunting knife, and ran after the monster, the pouch slapping against his thigh as he descended the steep path.

The village was in chaos when Tetanus arrived. The dirt streets, once quiet, now echoed with screams of panic.

In the central square, Labatut held a man by the neck, the poor soul’s body already limp, his head crushed between the monster’s claws. Blood and pus dripped from Labatut’s ruined eye, mingling with the dark fluid oozing from his toothy maw. He roared, hurling the corpse into a house, which collapsed in a cloud of dust.

Tetanus charged, the silver sword gleaming under the faint light of scattered torches.

“Hey, you bastard!” he shouted, drawing the monster’s attention. Labatut turned, the empty eye socket leaving a trail of pus, and let out a guttural bellow, charging at him. Tetanus rolled aside as a claw tried to crush him, feeling the ground shake with the impact. He countered, driving the sword into the monster’s furry flank, but the blade barely pierced the thick flesh. Labatut spun, its makeshift tail—a mass of fur and twisted flesh—striking Tetanus and throwing him into a market stall.

Al-Yasiin’s voice came from the pouch, laced with sarcasm even amid the chaos: “Great plan, cyclops! Die crushed in a dried fish stall! Try the eye again, you donkey!”

Tetanus stood, spitting blood, and saw something unexpected. Some villagers, armed with hoes, stones, and even pots, began appearing in the streets, shouting and hurling objects at Labatut. An old man threw a stone that hit the monster’s head, while a woman tossed an iron pot that bounced off its shoulder. They did no real damage but distracted the creature, giving Tetanus a chance.

He ran, using a wrecked cart as a springboard to leap onto Labatut’s back. The monster thrashed, trying to reach him with its claws, but Tetanus grabbed the long, wild hair, climbing to the nape.

With a shout, he drove the silver sword into the space where the ruined eye still bled, twisting the blade with all his strength. Labatut roared, the sound so loud it made the villagers cover their ears, and staggered, its round feet faltering as it tried to balance.

Tetanus didn’t stop. He yanked the silver sword, still embedded in the eye, and, with a brutal thrust, drove it deeper, feeling the metal scrape something solid—perhaps the creature’s larynx. Labatut let out a final scream, a sound blending rage and despair, and finally collapsed, its massive body crushing what remained of the central square.

The ground shook with the impact, and a cloud of dust rose, blanketing the village in silence for a moment.

Tetanus slid off the monster’s body, panting, his chest burning with the spiral mark. The villagers approached slowly, some still clutching their makeshift weapons, their faces pale with fear and relief. Al-Yasiin, from the pouch, seized the moment: “Not bad, cyclops. You’re not *that* useless. Now grab a trophy! Show you’re the alpha male!”

Tetanus ignored the taunt but approached the monster’s head. The teeth, large as elephant tusks, still gleamed under the torchlight. He chose one, a curved, yellowish horn, and used his hunting knife to pry it free with a wet snap.

The tooth was heavy, curved, the size of a man. Tetanus held it as proof of what he’d faced. The villagers stared, some muttering words of gratitude, others simply in shock. Tetanus didn’t care for their admiration.

He grabbed the pouch, checking that the Black Cube and Gume’s document were still there, now with a new goal in mind. Onward to Salvador, where Gume was held by the imperial army.

Tetanus stood still for a moment, Labatut’s curved tooth in hand, its weight almost as oppressive as the Black Cube in his pouch.

The central square of Euclides da Cunha was in ruins, debris scattered and the monster Labatut’s grotesque body sprawled like a furry, lifeless mountain. The stench of black blood and pus mingled with the smell of dust and charred wood. The villagers, still gripping their hoes and pots, kept their distance, their faces wavering between relief and terror.

Al-Yasiin’s voice broke the silence, muffled from the pouch: “Not bad, cyclops! Killed the beast and got a souvenir. Now, how about getting out of this hole before more trouble shows up? That cube in your pouch isn’t exactly subtle, you know.”

Tetanus nodded silently, unable to deny the truth in his words. The Black Cube seemed to pulse more intensely now, as if Labatut’s death had awakened something within it.

He stepped away from the monster’s body, heading toward the Tame Ox Tavern. The main street was quiet, save for the murmurs of villagers beginning to gather, trying to comprehend what they’d just witnessed.

Tetanus didn’t look back. He needed a plan, supplies, and above all, a horse to reach Salvador. The document about Gume, tucked in the pouch, was his only solid lead, but he knew the Empire wouldn’t release his friend without a fight.

At the tavern, the bald tavern keeper stood at the door, eyes wide as he clutched a broom like a weapon. “You… you killed that thing?” he asked, voice trembling. Tetanus merely grunted, carrying the creature’s tooth as he passed, climbing the creaking stairs to his room. He locked the door, tossed the pouch onto the bed, and pulled out Al-Yasiin, setting the head on the cracked table. The decapitated god stared at him, the sarcastic smile still fixed on his lips.

“So, cyclops, what’s the plan?” Al-Yasiin asked, eyes glinting with a mix of curiosity and provocation. “Gonna race to Salvador after your big buddy? Or finally listen to me and figure out what that cube can really do?”

Tetanus pulled the document from the pouch, unfolding it carefully. It was a military report, sealed with the Brazilian Empire’s crest—a crown over a green and yellow shield. It stated that Gume, identified as “the black man of immense strength,” had been taken to a fort under construction on Salvador’s coast, under the command of a captain named Marshal Deodoro Fonseca.

The text mentioned Gume had been “rehabilitated” after serving a sentence for unspecified crimes, but Tetanus knew “rehabilitated” was just a euphemism for forced servitude. He clenched his fists, crumpling the paper. Gume, as Tetanus knew him, didn’t deserve this.

“Salvador,” Tetanus muttered, more to himself than Al-Yasiin. “I’ll get Gume. Then I’ll find the others.”

Al-Yasiin laughed, the harsh sound filling the room. “So noble, cyclops. But you’re forgetting one detail: the Black Cube. It won’t leave you alone. And now that you’ve killed Labatut, others will sense it. Their lackeys, or worse. You think you can just carry that thing around like it’s a bottle of cachaça?”

Tetanus took the Black Cube from the pouch, holding it in his hand. “What does it do, exactly?” he asked, voice low, almost wary. “You said it’s a door. To where?”

“It’s not just a door, maggot. It’s a key. To places you don’t want to know, but that’ll find you if you keep carrying it. It calls abominations, Tetanus. But it can also lead you to my enemies—the gods who reduced me to this.” He gestured to himself with a chin movement. “My tormentors. If you want freedom, want your friends, you need power. And the cube is power. But only if you know how to use it.”

Tetanus stored the cube. “And how do I use it?”

“Patience, cyclops,” Al-Yasiin said, the smile returning. “First, Salvador. Find your friend. But don’t give the cube to anyone. And, for the love of the hells, stay sharp. Because whatever Labatut was, he wasn’t alone. Others will come.”

Tetanus nodded, but suspicion still weighed in his chest. “I’ll get a horse,” he said, standing. “I leave at dawn.”

Al-Yasiin laughed again. “A horse? Good luck, cyclops. In this backwater, you’ll have to steal one. And if you’re stealing, get a good one. None of that nag nonsense.”

Tetanus ignored the taunt, but a corner of his mouth curved into a half-smile.

Chapter 16: Cangaceiros

Euclides da Cunha — 1666

The morning sun rose over Euclides da Cunha, casting a pale golden hue over the ruins of the central square. The monstrous body of Labatut still lay there, cold, swarmed by flies and vultures circling above, waiting for their chance to feast.

Tetanus descended the tavern stairs, the monster’s curved tooth hanging from his belt like a macabre trophy. The pouch containing Al-Yasiin and the Black Cube was slung across his back, and the document about Gume was safely tucked inside his doublet. He hoped to leave without further talk, but the town had other plans.

In the street outside the tavern, a crowd of villagers had gathered. The old man who’d thrown the stone, the woman with the iron pot, the bald tavern keeper, curious children, and even the two guards now merely watching over the town—all stared at him with a mix of admiration and fear.

“He’s the man who killed the demon Labatut!” someone shouted.

“Saved us all!” another added.

Tetanus ignored the comments, but before he could move on, an old man in a wide-brimmed hat approached, holding the reins of a dark brown, muscular horse with intelligent eyes and a thick mane.

“Take him, sir,” the old man said, extending the reins with trembling hands. “He’s the best horse in the village. My name’s Benício, and this is Trovão. He’s fast as the wind and loyal as a dog. Take him as thanks.”

Tetanus hesitated. Horses like this weren’t given away for free, not even out of gratitude. He looked at the animal, which met his gaze with an unusual calm, as if it already knew it was his.

“Don’t need gifts,” Tetanus grunted.

“It’s not a gift,” Benício said, smiling to reveal rotted teeth. “It’s a debt paid. That monster killed my grandson. You did justice. Take Trovão. He’ll carry you far.”

Al-Yasiin grumbled from the pouch: “Take the damn horse, you prideful bastard. Or you planning to walk to Salvador?”

Tetanus took a deep breath and grabbed the reins. The horse didn’t flinch at his scent of blood and sweat, merely snorting in his presence.

“Thanks,” Tetanus said, the word feeling strange in his mouth, unused to gratitude.

The villagers stepped back, some murmuring blessings, others just watching as he mounted the horse, which seemed eager to run, its hooves pawing the dirt as if testing the ground.

“Where’s he going now?” a child asked loudly.

“To kill more monsters!” another replied, eyes shining with awe.

Tetanus neither confirmed nor denied. He simply pulled the reins, turning the horse toward the dirt road leading out of the village.

But before leaving, he glanced back one last time at Labatut’s body. That monster had once been a man. A man with ambitions, now reduced, thanks to him, to rotting flesh under the sun.

“Salvador,” he muttered to himself.

With a snap of the reins, he set off.

Brazilian Empire — Sertão Toward Salvador, 1666

The sun, even dead, burned with a cruel gaze in the cloudless sky, casting a dry heat that made the air shimmer over the cracked earth of the sertão. Tetanus rode Trovão, the horse’s hooves kicking up small clouds of red dust with each steady step.

“This damn sun!” Al-Yasiin’s muffled voice complained from the pouch, irritated. “How does a lifeless world still roast us like this? And your brilliant idea to cross the sertão with a half-assed canteen? Congrats, cyclops, you’ll be a dried-out corpse before you reach Salvador!”

Tetanus ignored him, eyes narrowed against the blinding glare as he held an improvised map he’d stolen from Labatut’s mansion before leaving. It was a yellowed parchment, marked with rough lines indicating dry rivers, abandoned villages, and, far off, the coast of Salvador, where Gume was supposedly held by the imperial army. The journey would be long—days, maybe weeks—and the water in his canteen was already half-gone, warm and tasting of rust.

The heat was relentless, sweat dripping down his forehead, soaking the cracked leather of the saddle. His chainmail, still stained with dried blood and pus from previous battles, felt like an oven against his skin, but he didn’t remove it—the sertão was treacherous, full of bandits, beasts, and worse, and any lapse could mean death. Tetanus kept the silver sword sheathed, the hunting knife strapped to his belt.

By midday, the sun was so high there were no shadows to hide in. Trovão snorted, white foam forming at the corners of its mouth, but the horse didn’t falter. Tetanus stopped near a lone cactus, dismounting with a grunt of pain—his ribs still throbbed from Labatut’s blows.

He sliced the cactus with his knife, extracting the moist pulp and squeezing it against his mouth, the bitter liquid soothing his parched throat. He shared the rest with Trovão, who licked his hand gratefully.

“You’re more useful than that talking head,” Tetanus muttered to the horse, patting its neck.

“I heard that, you maggot!” Al-Yasiin shot back from the pouch. “At least I know where you’re going! Want a tip? There’s a dry well about two leagues from here, but sometimes nomads hide water in the rocks. If you’re not a complete moron, you might find it.”

Tetanus raised an eyebrow but didn’t reply. He stored the map, mounted again, and rode in the direction Al-Yasiin indicated, senses sharp. The sertão was silent but not empty. At times, he saw distant shapes—maybe bandits, maybe mirages—hallucinations of a paranoid mind.

Tetanus carried on like this for days, sleeping with his hand on the sword’s hilt, waking to nightmares of his past and guttural voices.

Days dragged on, the water ran out, and Tetanus survived on what he could: fibrous roots, small lizards roasted over makeshift fires, and dew collected from leaves at dawn.

Trovão held strong, but even the horse began showing signs of weakness. Al-Yasiin, to his surprise, occasionally offered useful advice, like avoiding certain paths where “the air smelled of death,” though not without a dose of sarcasm. The decapitated head also started spending more time “sleeping,” exhausted from the long journey and Tetanus’s company.

Tetanus spotted the glimmer of the sea in the distance, a silver line marking Salvador’s coast. The fort where Gume was held couldn’t be far. But as he drew closer, it still felt so distant.

The sun sank toward the horizon, painting the sertão blood-red, as if the color seeped from the cracked, dry earth. Tetanus dismounted Trovão, legs stiff from hours of riding, body aching from the weight of the chainmail and accumulated exhaustion.

He chose a spot near a cluster of gnarled rocks, where the wind wasn’t as fierce, to set up camp. The horse snorted, exhausted, and Tetanus tied its reins to a rock before getting to work.

With precise movements, he gathered dry twigs and cactus spines, lighting a small fire with his flint. The flame crackled weakly, casting dancing shadows on the surrounding rocks. Tetanus sat, chewing a fibrous root he’d dug up, its bitter taste nearly unbearable but enough to stave off hunger.

As twilight approached, he looked up at the sky. A dozen vultures circled above, their black wings silhouetted against the purpling sky. Vultures weren’t uncommon in the sertão, but something was off about these.

They flew in perfect circles, slower than normal, as if not searching for carrion but watching something—or someone. “Bad omen,” Tetanus muttered, spitting the chewed root onto the ground. He drew the silver sword, resting it beside him, and checked the hunting knife at his belt. If something came, he’d be ready.

Exhausted, Tetanus lay near the fire, using the pouch as a pillow and keeping his hand on the sword’s hilt. The fire’s warmth was a faint comfort against the sertão’s biting night cold. He tried to stay alert, but fatigue won, and his eyes closed, dragging him into uneasy sleep.

The dream came like a fever, hot and disorienting. Tetanus found himself in a different sertão, where the sky was a black void, devoid of stars or moon, just a liquid darkness that seemed to drip onto the earth. He stood, but his feet didn’t touch the ground—he floated, trapped in a space that defied the world’s laws.

Then, he saw a hunched figure, clad in black leather that absorbed the scant light around it, soaring through the sky like a predator, a giant vulture. It was tall, gaunt, with long, disproportionate limbs ending in curved claws. Its face was a pale blur, but from a distance, he could see eyes glowing like distant embers. Its mouth opened in a smile with seismic canine teeth, unnaturally longer than normal, like bone needles.

It was a vampiric creature, but this presence was something older, wrong, as if torn from a primordial nightmare.

The hunched creature kept circling, like the vultures he’d seen earlier, its tattered leather wings flapping soundlessly.

Tetanus tried to draw his sword, but his hands were empty, his body heavy as if submerged in mud. The creature descended, hovering inches from him, the stench of old blood and rot filling his nostrils. Its face was wrinkled, deformed to the point of being unrecognizable, strands of white hair hanging to the sides, bloodshot and swollen eyes, and a pointed nose.

Tetanus woke with a start, body drenched in sweat despite the night’s cold. The fire had dwindled to embers, and Trovão whinnied softly, restless, eyes fixed on something beyond the rocks. Tetanus grabbed the sword, standing quickly, his yellow eye scanning the darkness.

The sky was still full of vultures, more now, perhaps two dozen, their circles tighter, as if waiting for something.

Al-Yasiin frowned, his eyes glinting in the ember light. “Sleeping again, are we? From the way you’re shaking, it’s not something you want to meet awake. Better hurry to Salvador. Whatever it is, it’s probably after you…”

The night dragged on like a corpse pulled by ropes. Tetanus stayed awake, the silver sword resting across his knees, fingers twitching toward the hilt at every suspicious sound. The vultures didn’t leave—they lingered, black silhouettes against the starry sky, as if they knew death hadn’t finished its work.

Al-Yasiin kept “sleeping” in the pouch, occasionally muttering obscenities in his dreams. Trovão, meanwhile, stayed alert, ears twitching at every nocturnal rustle.

When the sun finally rose, painting the sertão a decrepit orange, Tetanus was already up, brushing dust from his doublet and gathering his few belongings. The fire had reduced to cold ashes.

“Let’s go,” Tetanus muttered, mounting Trovão with a grunt. The horse snorted, eager to move, as if it too felt the weight of that endless night.

They set off, leaving the makeshift camp and the vultures, which finally began to disperse.

The sun was high when Tetanus spotted a dark shape in the middle of the path. At first, he thought it was a fallen log or a dark stone, but as he drew closer, the form became clear: a body.

A man’s corpse, to be precise.

He wore tattered leather and wool, worn boots suggesting he wasn’t just any traveler—perhaps a mercenary, bandit, or messenger. But what caught Tetanus’s attention was how he’d died.

His head had been severed.

Cruelly and hastily, as if the killer had been in a rush. The neck was mangled, the spine exposed at a grotesque angle. The rest of the body was looted—pouches turned inside out, money taken.

Tetanus dismounted, examining the corpse carefully. The blood was still fresh, dark and sticky, but there were no signs of a struggle around it. No footprints or tracks.

“Someone didn’t want him talking,” Al-Yasiin observed, voice muffled by the pouch. “Or just wanted to borrow what he was carrying.”

Tetanus nudged the body with his foot, searching for clues. Nothing. Just a crumpled piece of paper tucked under the corpse, stained with blood. He picked it up, unfolding it carefully.

It was a fragment of a map, showing part of the coast near Fear Island, a dreaded isle in the Bahian archipelago. Something was marked in red ink—a treasure, perhaps, or a hideout.

“Interesting,” Al-Yasiin murmured. “But we don’t have time for this.”

Tetanus silently agreed, tucking the map fragment into his boot. He looked at the corpse one last time, the vultures already circling lower, one landing in front of Tetanus, as if waiting for permission to feast.

“Whoever did this…” he began but stopped. It didn’t matter anyway—a dead man left in the sertão was nothing unusual.

Tetanus mounted Trovão again and rode off, leaving the corpse to the vultures, red dust trailing behind the horse’s hooves. He held the reins with one hand, the other resting near the silver sword’s hilt, senses sharp for any sign of danger.

Suddenly, Trovão whinnied, ears twitching nervously. Tetanus narrowed his yellow eye, spotting dark shapes on the horizon. At first, they seemed like mirages, but they soon resolved into mounted figures, moving fast, their silhouettes stark against the blazing sky.

There were at least fifteen, riding in formation, circling like predators closing in on prey. Al-Yasiin cursed softly, recognizing the pattern. “Shit,” he grumbled from the pouch. “Cangaceiros. And not amateurs. This is gonna suck. Nice knowing you.”

Before Tetanus could respond, the first shot rang out across the sertão. A bullet whizzed past his head, kicking up dust a few meters away.

“Hit and retreat,” Al-Yasiin muttered. “An Arab Bedouin or Moorish tactic, used to wear down the enemy without direct engagement. Bastards copying my people.”

Tetanus spurred Trovão, trying to break the circle, but the cangaceiros were fast, their horses agile and well-trained. They fired muskets and crude pistols, the sound of shots mixing with hoarse shouts and wild laughter.

Tetanus dodged a second shot but wasn’t quick enough for the third. A searing pain exploded in his left thigh, hot blood streaming down his leg as he grunted, clinging to the saddle. Before he could react, another shot hit his right shoulder, the impact nearly knocking him off. He gritted his teeth, vision blurring, but kept Trovão moving, reaching for the sword.

Then something hissed through the air—a lasso, thrown with deadly precision, wrapped around his chest, tightening like a snake. With a violent yank, Tetanus was ripped from the saddle, hitting the hard ground with a thud, dust rising around him.

Trovão whinnied, rearing, but one of the cangaceiros already held its reins, calming the horse with a skill that irritated Tetanus. He tried to stand, hand reaching for the knife, but the pain in his wounds made him hesitate.

The cangaceiros closed in, their horses forming a tight circle. They wore worn leather, wide-brimmed hats adorned with coins, medals, and animal bones, and carried bandoliers full of ammunition. Their weapons—muskets, pistols, and machetes—gleamed in the sun, and their faces, partially covered by scarves, showed cruel smiles.

Then, one cangaceiro stood out, advancing slowly. He was tall, lean, with a presence that silenced the others. A black cloth completely covered his face, even his eyes, making his features impossible to discern. His hat, decorated with jingling coins and dark feathers, swayed with each step of his horse. Bandoliers crossed his chest, packed with bullets, a pistol rested in its holster, next to a coiled lasso at his waist.

“Careful, cyclops. This one’s not just a bandit. He reeks of a pact too…” Al-Yasiin said.

He dismounted with almost feline grace, left hand on his hip, right hand holding the pistol, pointed directly at Tetanus’s forehead. A vulture, as if summoned by some supernatural signal, swooped from the sky and perched on his shoulder, its red eyes fixed on Tetanus, claws digging into the cangaceiro’s shoulder.

“What’s a guy like you doing in the middle of the sertão?” the leader’s voice was deep, muffled by the cloth, but heavy with authority. He tilted his head, as if trying to see through the black veil. “Chainmail, silver sword, good horse… you’re no ordinary traveler. And that pouch…” He pointed the pistol at Tetanus’s pouch, lying a few meters away in the dust. “What’s in there that’s worth two bullets and still keeps you alive?”

Tetanus spat blood onto the ground, pain throbbing in his thigh. “Just a mercenary,” he grunted, voice hoarse.

The leader laughed, a dry sound that made the vulture on his shoulder flap its wings. “Mercenary, huh?” He took a step forward, pistol still aimed. “Nobody crosses the sertão alone without a reason. And you smell like trouble, one-eyed man. You know where you are, old-timer? In Meia-Noite’s territory. The liveliest devil in the sertão…”

“Heading to Salvador. To save a friend… from the imperial army. Don’t want a fight.”

Tetanus clenched his teeth, the Anti-God’s spiral mark on his chest burning like embers. If he resisted, he’d take lead until dawn.

The leader was trouble, no doubt: his calm, his presence, the vulture on his shoulder—all suggested he wasn’t just a common bandit.

Tetanus spat blood again, the metallic taste filling his mouth. Meia-Noite’s pistol didn’t waver, the black barrel aimed at his forehead like a third eye. The vulture on the cangaceiro’s shoulder pecked at the air, eager.

“Save a friend, huh?” Meia-Noite laughed, voice muffled by the black cloth. “And what’s a mercenary stinking of hell want with an imperial soldier?”

Tetanus didn’t break eye contact. “He’s not a soldier. He was forced in. And I’m getting him out.”

The cangaceiros exchanged glances, some murmuring among themselves. Meia-Noite tilted his head, as if studying a chess piece.

That’s when Al-Yasiin decided to intervene.

“Hey, scarf-face!” the decapitated head’s voice echoed from the pouch, making several cangaceiros step back, crossing themselves. “How about a deal? You want to rob a bank in Salvador, don’t you? This idiot here’s gonna cause a hell of a stir at the imperial fort. Distracted guards, open gates… almost like someone planned it.”

Meia-Noite froze for a moment. Then, slowly, he lowered the pistol.

“Interesting…” He walked to the pouch, lifting it with the tip of his dagger and staring at Al-Yasiin. “And why would a… decapitated head scheme with bandits like us?”

“Because I hate the Empire more than I hate you,” Al-Yasiin said, flashing yellowed teeth. “And this cyclops here is dumb enough to be useful.”

Tetanus growled but didn’t retort. The pain in his wounds throbbed, and he knew he didn’t have much choice but to go along. Meia-Noite spoke calmly, but couldn’t hide a hint of surprise.

Meia-Noite laughed, a hoarse sound, almost internal. He gestured, and one of his men tossed a canteen and a roll of dirty bandages at Tetanus’s feet.

“Drink. And stop that blood,” he ordered. “We’ve got a fort to break into and a bank to rob. And you, mercenary, are gonna be the sacrificial goat this time.”

Tetanus grabbed the canteen, pried off the cap with his teeth, and poured the burning liquid down his throat. It was cheap cachaça, mixed with something stronger. It didn’t matter—the alcohol seared like fire but cleared the fog of pain.

As he bandaged his wounds, he stared at Meia-Noite. The cangaceiro leader was already back on his horse, the vulture still perched on his shoulder, watching Tetanus with hungry eyes.

“We ride in one hour,” Meia-Noite announced. “Grab your horse and move before I change my mind.”

Tetanus took a deep breath. He’d entered the sertão to rescue a friend. Now, he was tangled in a potential bank heist, a pact with the Princes of Hell, and carrying an artifact that could end the world.

Meanwhile, Al-Yasiin, inside the pouch, chuckled softly, as if already foreseeing the bloodbath to come.

Chapter 17: Bank Robbery

Brazilian Empire — Sertão Toward Salvador, 1666

Tetanus sat in the shade of a rock, canteen still in hand, the fiery liquid dulling the searing pain in his thigh. He tore the dirty bandages with his teeth, wrapping them first around his thigh where the bullet had struck the flesh. Thanks to his armor, the wound wasn’t fatal, but it still hurt like hell.

His shoulder was worse—the bullet was still lodged near his clavicle, and every movement made his teeth grind. He took another swig of cachaça, poured some over the wound, and, using his hunting knife as an improvised probe, bit down on a piece of leather to muffle his scream as he dug out the bullet. The metal came out with a wet sound, covered in blood, and Tetanus tossed it into the dirt, panting, sweat mixing with the dust on his face.

“Not bad, cyclops,” Al-Yasiin muttered from the pouch, his voice muffled but with a tone of reluctant approval. “Survived two bullets and still knows how to stitch his own flesh. Maybe you’ll stay alive long enough to face a god.”

Tetanus ignored the head, bandaging his shoulder with the remaining strips. He stood, staggering, and checked on Trovão, who was grazing calmly a few meters away, left untouched by the cangaceiros during the skirmish. The horse looked as exhausted as he felt but strong enough for the journey.

Tetanus mounted with a grunt of pain, gripping the reins tightly, and glanced at the cangaceiros, who were already preparing to move out. Meia-Noite, his face still hidden by the black cloth and the vulture perched on his shoulder, made a curt gesture, pointing to the trail ahead. “One hour,” he repeated, his voice sharp. Tetanus nodded, spurring Trovão and following the group, red dust rising under the hooves as the sertão swallowed the horizon.

The journey to Salvador was a blur of heat, dust, and tense silence. The cangaceiros rode in formation, keeping Tetanus in the center like a useful prisoner, but they didn’t provoke him further. The pain in his wounds kept him alert, and Al-Yasiin, surprisingly, stayed quiet most of the time, perhaps sensing the moment wasn’t for sarcasm.

The shimmer of the sea finally appeared, a silver line growing closer each day until, after an hour of riding, the walls of Salvador loomed in the distance, the imperial fort rising like a shadow against the gray sky.

Salvador — Bahia

The setting sun painted Salvador’s streets in shades of orange and shadow, the salty sea air mingling with the smells of fish, leather, and smoke. Tetanus dismounted Trovão, his thigh and shoulder still throbbing but functional.

The city was a chaos of movement: merchants shouting, carts creaking, imperial soldiers patrolling the walls with muskets slung over their shoulders. The cangaceiros dispersed at the city’s entrance, blending into the crowd, but Tetanus spotted half a dozen of them in the distance, positioned near a warehouse by the docks, hands on their machetes, eyes alert under their adorned hats.

Before he could approach, a lone cangaceiro stepped out of the shadows, blocking his path. The man was solidly built but not fat, with a hunched posture, and his face looked literally melted, like hardened wax after a fire. The left side was a ruin of dripping stalactites, his eye sunken in a misshapen socket, while the other half held a hard, almost monstrous expression. He raised a hand, signaling Tetanus to stop.

“Easy, outsider,” he said, his voice raspy, as if his throat had been burned too. “Meia-Noite’s coming soon. He’s working out the plan. Gathering more men.”

Tetanus stopped, his yellow eye fixed on the cangaceiro. “Plan for what?”

The man with the melted face gave a crooked half-smile, his teeth glinting. “To take the city, obviously. Wasn’t that the deal? You’ll know when he gets here. Meia-Noite doesn’t like repeating himself.” He pointed to the warehouse, a wooden and stone structure with broken windows and a smell of salt and mold. “Go in there. He’ll find you.”

Tetanus hesitated but nodded, leading Trovão by the reins to the warehouse. The door creaked as he pushed it open, and a gust of wind slammed it shut behind him, stirring dust in the air.

The interior was dark, lit only by slivers of light filtering through the gaps in the planks. Before he could get his bearings, a shadow moved atop a stack of crates. Meia-Noite descended with the same feline grace as before, his black-clad figure, even his hands and feet, exuding a sinister aura.

“You really want to get into this, tough guy?” Meia-Noite asked, his deep voice cutting through the silence. He leaned against the stack, pistol in its holster but his hand always ready to draw in a flash. “This isn’t just a fight at the fort. It’s bigger than that.”

Tetanus crossed his arms, ignoring the pain in his shoulder. “Get to the point, Meia-Noite. What do you want?”

The cangaceiro chuckled softly. “The governor of Bahia, Marshal Deodoro Fonseca, is a tyrant. He enslaves, kills, and robs the people in the Empire’s name. I want him gone, but it’s not just about money.” He paused, the black cloth seeming to absorb the light. “There’s a document in Salvador’s central bank, signed by imperial big shots. It proves Fonseca’s been skimming gold for himself. With that paper, he’s done. I’m a wanted man here, so I need someone like you to do the dirty work more efficiently.”

Tetanus raised an eyebrow. “And where do I come in?”

Meia-Noite pointed a gloved finger at him. “You want your friend, the big guy at the fort. I’ve seen him—he’s in the city, standing guard. I want the document. My plan’s simple: my men and I hit the bank while you cause chaos at the fort, distracting the guards. You grab your giant friend—don’t ask me how, but know that if he attacks my men, we fight back. In the middle of it all, I get the document. Everyone walks away happy.” He tilted his head. “Or would you rather face the Empire alone, with two bullet holes and a talking head in your pouch?”

Tetanus clenched his teeth, weighing the words. Al-Yasiin muttered something inaudible from the pouch, but Tetanus didn’t need the head to know the plan was risky. Still, Meia-Noite offered a chance—maybe the only one—to reach Gume without facing an entire army, especially since the army would be distracted by two simultaneous attacks.

“Alright, I guess,” he replied, voice dry. “One more thing. Will the kingdoms brand me an outlaw for this?”

Meia-Noite stared back, his featureless face unreadable. “Well, let’s just say not many kingdoms like the Marshal, and stealing a slave—even one with battle value like your friend—isn’t that big a deal. In the end, you just won’t be able to set foot in Salvador again. Better have a plan to get out.”

The cangaceiro laughed again, the sound echoing in the warehouse. “Get ready. Tonight at midnight, Salvador’s gonna burn.” He turned, vanishing into the shadows.

 

Outskirts of Salvador

The cangaceiros’ camp was hidden in a narrow valley, a few kilometers from Salvador’s walls. Low fires lit faces marked by sun and violence, as men sharpened machetes, counted bullets, and laughed at crude jokes. Tetanus sat on a rock, watching them while wiping a dirty cloth along his sword’s blade.

“All of you armed to the teeth like that?” he asked, gesturing to the rusty muskets and flintlock pistols some carried.

A younger cangaceiro, wearing glasses, yawned before answering. “Firearms are rare. We steal ‘em when we can.” He raised a short-barreled blunderbuss, its metal stamped with the Empire’s crest. “This one came from a captain who didn’t need it anymore.”

An older man with a cloudy eye added, “And when we can’t find ‘em, we make our own.” He opened a leather sack, revealing crude pistols cobbled together with twisted iron barrels and roughly carved wooden grips. “Not pretty, but they kill just the same.”

Tetanus nodded. They were dangerous weapons—for both the shooter and the target.

Meia-Noite emerged from the shadows, as always, without a sound. The vulture that followed him like an eagle perched on a nearby branch, watching with its red eyes.

“It’s time,” he said, his voice cutting through the moment’s “peace.”

The cangaceiros stood, their faces hardened with a reckless courage, as if eager for war.

The city was quieter than Tetanus expected. Curfew had begun, and only a few drunks and soldiers patrolled the narrow streets. He moved through the shadows, avoiding guard posts, until he spotted Meia-Noite leaning against a wall near the market.

The cangaceiro leader seemed part of the darkness, his black cloth still despite the fetid breeze. Tetanus approached, keeping his voice low: “So, how do we start this party?”

Meia-Noite didn’t answer with words. In a fluid motion, he drew his pistol, aimed skyward—at the church tower’s bell nearly nine hundred meters away—and pulled the trigger.

The bell took a sharp hit, its metallic clang cutting through the night’s silence, echoing like thunder, signaling the start of the war.

“Right now, the boys are already moving in,” Meia-Noite said, holstering his pistol and vanishing into the dark.

Tetanus didn’t wait. He ran toward the fort, hearing the first alarm cries behind him. The sertão’s hell had reached Salvador.

From every alley, corner, and shadow, the cangaceiros emerged. Not just the twenty or thirty he’d seen at the camp—there were two hundred, a frenzied horde of men, women, and things that barely seemed human. Mounted on horses, wielding machetes, hatchets, and firearms, they flooded Salvador like a river of leather and gunpowder.

Some carried torches, hurling them into houses, warehouses, or onto rooftops. Others charged at soldiers, shouting insults while firing muskets into the air. The chaos was perfect.

Tetanus didn’t look back, moving quickly, knowing he had little time before the fort’s full guard was mobilized. Meanwhile, the cangaceiros tore through the streets, spreading terror and setting fire to everything in their path.

The smell of gunpowder and blood soaked the air as Tetanus advanced through the burning street, leaping over bloodied bodies and shattered barricades. The sounds of combat echoed across Salvador, mingled with musket shots and the clash of blades. He turned a narrow corner and suddenly faced a chaotic scene: a line of cangaceiros crouched behind burning barrels and carts, aiming rifles at a formation of imperial soldiers advancing in tight ranks.

And at the front of the army, standing out like a colossus, instantly recognizable to Tetanus, was Gume.

The man had grown even larger since Tetanus last saw him—two meters and forty centimeters of muscle and steel, his black skin visible through the heavy armor he wore. His double-bladed axe, a weapon so massive a normal man could barely lift it, rested lightly in his hands. His eyes, once full of laughter, were now cold as stone—until they landed on Tetanus, lingering for long seconds on his distinctive features: the purple hair, the single yellow eye.

“TETANUS?!” Gume’s voice boomed like thunder, making even the soldiers around him hesitate.

“What the hell are you doing here, brother? I thought you were dead!”

There was no time for Tetanus to smile at the reunion; no room for sentiment in this situation. “Came to get you out of this shit, big guy. Marshal Deodoro’s got you caged in Salvador’s army! But tonight, the city’s falling—let’s get the hell out!”

Gume glanced at the soldiers around him, then at the cangaceiros behind Tetanus, now aiming their weapons at the guards. He took a deep breath, as if casting off years of servitude in a single exhale.

“Alright…”

In a fluid motion, Gume swung his giant axe backward, cleaving through three nearby soldiers like straw dolls. The impact was so brutal the bodies flew, crashing into their comrades and breaking the formation.

“FIRE!” Tetanus shouted, drawing his sword and charging the enemy line.

The cangaceiros, seeing the advantage, unleashed a volley from their rifles before drawing machetes and rushing into close combat. The street became a meat grinder—men screaming, blades flashing, blood streaming from severed necks.

Tetanus fought alongside Gume, the two moving like a storm. Gume carved a path with his axe, smashing shields and skulls with brutal swings, while Tetanus exploited the gaps for quick, precise killing blows with his sword.

“Where we headed, brother?” Gume roared, hurling a soldier against a wall with the axe’s haft.

“Central bank!” Tetanus replied, driving his blade into an enemy’s throat. “There’s a nutcase called Meia-Noite there—he’s robbing the governor. We disappear in the chaos!”

Gume laughed—a deep, wild sound Tetanus hadn’t heard in years. “Damn, brother, you only pick weird friends, huh? Meia-Noite’s the most wanted outlaw in the northeast! But if he’s with you, I’m in!”

They pressed forward, leaving a trail of bodies behind. The cangaceiros followed, shooting and shouting, torching everything in their path. Salvador was no longer a city—it was a graveyard of unburied bodies.

 

Salvador — Central Bank

While Salvador’s streets burned in chaos outside, Tetanus and Gume ran side by side, their boots crunching over shattered glass and charred wood, as Meia-Noite’s cangaceiros kept the imperial army occupied.

Gume, with his double-bladed axe (oh, the irony) slung across his back, moved like a living wall, his size intimidating even the cangaceiros following them. Al-Yasiin, in Tetanus’s pouch, swayed with each step, unusually quiet—or perhaps bored.

They reached the central bank, a sturdy stone building with reinforced iron doors, now ajar, the hinges bent as if forced open.

Tetanus pushed the gate, which creaked loudly. Gume followed, using his weight to bar the entrance with a fallen wooden beam he found. The sounds of the cangaceiros looting the city dulled, but the echo of a clash inside the bank cut through the air—metal against metal, followed by a deep, inhuman roar.

Inside, the scene was pandemonium. Meia-Noite, with his feline agility, dodged blows from an iron golem, a creature summoned by magic and employed as the bank’s guardian.

The golem, just over two meters tall, was a mass of welded metal plates animated by a supernatural force, its eyes glowing a sickly blue. It swung an arm like a hammer, smashing the stone floor with each blow, while Meia-Noite evaded, his black cloth fluttering like a living shadow.

“Watch out, big guy!” Meia-Noite shouted upon seeing Gume and Tetanus. “This thing doesn’t die easy!”

Gume didn’t hesitate. With a roar, he unslung his axe and charged, moving so fast the air seemed to groan. The golem turned, raising an arm to block, but Gume swung in a brutal arc, the blade’s edge slicing through the iron plates like rotten wood. The golem staggered, sparks flying, and Gume finished it with a second blow, decapitating the creature. The metal head rolled across the floor, its blue eyes fading as the body collapsed with a crash.

Meia-Noite wiped sweat from his brow, as if the cloth could sweat, and pointed to the back of the hall. “Nice work, giant. But the real prize is there.” He gestured to the banker, a fat, trembling man hiding behind a polished wooden counter, guarding an iron door adorned with mystical symbols pulsing faintly.

Tetanus and Gume approached as Meia-Noite vaulted the counter in a swift move, grabbing the banker by his sweat-soaked collar. “Give me the code, sixteen tons!” Meia-Noite growled, pressing the pistol to the man’s temple. “And don’t try lying. You’re the worst liar I’ve ever seen, and I’m not patient.”

The banker swallowed hard, eyes wide, face pale as bone. “I… I don’t…” he stammered, but the pressure of the hot barrel made him crack. “It’s… 9-3-7-1! That’s it, I swear by the saints!”

Meia-Noite released him, shoving him against the counter, and gestured to Tetanus. “Go on, tough guy. Open that door. The document’s inside, and your friend’s free once I have what I want.”

Tetanus approached the door, fingers hovering over the bronze panel where carved numbers glowed under the mystical light. He began turning the dials, aligning the numbers—9, 3, 7…—when Al-Yasiin, from the pouch, decided to intervene.

“Two! Four! Seven! Ten! Twelve! Fifteen! Seventeen! Twenty! Eighteen! Thirteen! Fourteen!” the head shouted, voice dripping with sadistic glee, as if reveling in the confusion.

“Shut up, you bastard!” Tetanus growled, pausing to recall the sequence. “9-3-7… what’s the last one?”

“One, you idiot!” Meia-Noite snapped, while Gume laughed loudly, the sound echoing in the hall. “You’ve got a lot to explain when we’re out of here!”

“Seventeen! Twelve!” Al-Yasiin kept spouting random numbers. Tetanus clenched his teeth, patience wearing thin, and finally aligned the last number, 1. The door emitted a deep click, followed by a groan, opening slowly to reveal a descending staircase shrouded in darkness.

Meia-Noite brushed past Tetanus, already heading down the steps. The mystical door began to close behind them.

There was no turning back now; the only way out was to find another path ahead. Tetanus exchanged a look with Gume, who gripped his axe with a mix of relief and readiness for whatever came next.

“This mystical door doesn’t sit right with me. Never been back there,” Gume muttered, voice low. “And this Meia-Noite… you trust him, brother?”

“No,” Tetanus replied, adjusting the pouch where Al-Yasiin still chuckled softly. “But he’s what we’ve got now. Let’s get that document he wants and get out.”

 

Central Bank — Underground Vault

The staircase was narrow, the damp stone walls exuding a smell of mold and salt. Gume had to squeeze to fit, and the mystical light from the door above didn’t reach the lower steps.

Tetanus, Gume, and Meia-Noite descended under the faint glow of a torch Meia-Noite had grabbed from the street before the bank raid. Their footsteps echoed, mingling with distant dripping water and the muffled screams of the chaos still consuming Salvador outside.

“Stay sharp, cyclops. Places like this always have traps. Or do you think the Empire leaves gold and secrets unguarded for adventurous maggots like you?” Al-Yasiin taunted.

“Shut up,” Tetanus shot back. Meia-Noite led the way, his black cloth unmoving, pistol in his free hand, moving with the caution of someone who’d raided places like this before.

The staircase ended in a wide corridor flanked by locked iron doors and niches where broken statues of imperial saints watched with empty eyes. Before they could explore, a group of imperial guards—five, armed with muskets and sabers—burst from a side door, shouting orders.

“Intruders! Protect the vault!” the leader, a hooded man in steel plate armor, bellowed.

Meia-Noite reacted first, firing his pistol before anyone else. The shot hit the leader in the chest, dropping him instantly, but the others charged. Gume roared, swinging his axe in an arc, striking two soldiers, blood spraying the walls.

Tetanus dove into the fight, his silver sword parrying a saber before plunging into another guard’s neck. The last tried to thrust with a spear, but Meia-Noite reached him first, driving a dagger through his chin with deadly precision.

The corridor fell silent, save for the sound of bodies hitting the floor and blood dripping onto the stone.

“Quick and dirty. Just how I like it,” Meia-Noite said, wiping the dagger on his own face, leaving a diabolical blood-smeared grin. “Let’s go. The document’s further in.”

They began searching the rooms along the corridor, kicking down doors and rummaging through crates and cabinets. Most held useless papers—receipts, tax records, shipping lists—but in a small, dusty room, Tetanus found the first of four yellowed papers, each bearing a cryptic inscription in red ink.

He gathered them, passing them to Gume and Meia-Noite, who joined to read under the torchlight.

“They’re clues,” Tetanus said, frowning. “For a code.”

The papers bore the following messages, written in elegant but enigmatic script:

1. Red never follows yellow.
2. Blue always comes before green.
3. Green is not the first.
4. Yellow is not the last.

Meia-Noite snorted, his black cloth trembling with impatience. “A color-coded lock. Typical Empire. They love these games.” He pointed to the end of the corridor, where a massive bronze door, etched with four colored circles—red, yellow, blue, green—pulsed with the same mystical light as the entrance. “That’s gotta be the treasury. The document’s there.”

“So, what’s the order?” Gume asked, scratching his head inside his helmet with his free hand, axe resting on his shoulder. “These clues are a mess.”

Tetanus reread the papers, his brain working despite the exhaustion and pain in his wounds. “Let’s break it down. Green’s not first, so rule out green at the start. Yellow’s not last, so yellow doesn’t close. Red never follows yellow, so red can’t come right after yellow. And blue comes before green, so blue has to be earlier in the sequence…”

“Sounds like blue’s a good start,” Meia-Noite suggested, tapping his fingers on his pistol. “Blue, then green, to follow the second clue.”

Tetanus nodded but hesitated. “But red and yellow still need to fit. Red can’t come after yellow, and yellow can’t be last… So the order has to be blue, green, red, yellow.”

“Or blue, red, green, yellow,” Gume added, frowning. “Both sequences seem valid.”

“We’ve got one shot, big guy,” Meia-Noite said, pointing at the door. “These mystical doors usually punish mistakes. Fire, poison gas, or worse. Pick one.”

Al-Yasiin, of course, couldn’t resist. “Red, yellow, blue, green! Or maybe green, red, yellow, blue!” the head shouted from the pouch, laughing. “Want me to guess more, you maggots?”

“Shut up!” Tetanus and Meia-Noite snapped in unison, while Gume stifled a laugh. Tetanus took a deep breath, approaching the bronze door. He turned the colored circles, aligning them in the sequence that seemed most logical: blue, green, red, yellow. Each circle clicked into place, the mystical light pulsing stronger.

For a moment, the silence was absolute. Then the door shuddered, emitting a low sound like muffled thunder, and began to open, revealing a vast chamber lit by torches that ignited on their own. Piles of gold, jewels, and locked chests gleamed in the back, but what caught their attention was a central table, where a single document sealed with the Empire’s crest rested.

Meia-Noite moved forward, snatching the paper with a quick motion, oblivious to everything around him. “This is it,” he murmured, checking the seal. “The proof that takes down the Marshal.” He looked at Tetanus and Gume. “You did your part. Now find a way out. This place won’t stay quiet for long.”

Gume glanced around. “And how do we get out? That door locked behind us.”

“There’s always another way,” Meia-Noite said, already moving to a side wall where a crack suggested a hidden passage. “But stay sharp. The Empire doesn’t leave its treasures unguarded…”

The air in the treasury chamber grew heavy, as if the bank itself were holding its breath. Meia-Noite was already examining the side wall, his gloved hands pressing the stones for a hidden mechanism.

“We need to move. Now,” he said, voice tense.

Gume rummaged through the dead guards’ pockets, grabbing a handful of gold coins and stuffing them into his belt. “Not leaving here empty-handed, brother.”

Tetanus looked at Al-Yasiin, who dangled in the pouch with a wicked grin.

“Can you do something useful, or are you just gonna keep mocking us?”

The decapitated god’s head rolled its eyes. “Of course I can, maggot. But it’ll cost me.”

“What do you want?”

“A new body when we find one. And some of the gold here.”

Tetanus cursed but nodded. “Whatever. Just get us out.”

Al-Yasiin began chanting in an ancient, guttural tongue, like stones being crushed. His eyes glowed a fiery yellow, and the wall at the back of the chamber trembled. Stones shifted, revealing a narrow, dark passage.

“Mana’s gone. Ten seconds,” Al-Yasiin said. “Then it seals forever!”

Meia-Noite dove into the passage first, followed by Gume, who grabbed a chest before going. Tetanus opened the nearest chest, grabbing whatever was inside without looking, then ran for the passage as the wall began to close. At the last moment, he leaped through, the passage sealing with a boom behind him.

The darkness was absolute, but then—

A tug at the navel, the sensation of the world spinning.

They landed on their knees in a Salvador street, the smell of smoke and blood filling the air. The city still burned, but they were near the port, far from the bank.

“By all the hells!” Gume grumbled, standing and brushing dust from his armor. “That head’s packing some serious witchcraft.”

Meia-Noite was already up, the document secured inside his coat. “The port. Now.”

They ran through the alleys, avoiding the last clashes still raging in the city. The port was chaos—sailors shouting, merchants trying to save their goods, imperial soldiers forming barricades.

A drunken captain, wearing a tattered coat and clutching a rum bottle, leaned against the mast of a weathered but seaworthy ship.

“Looking for passage, my noble adventurers?” he said with a broken, toothless grin. “I’ll take you anywhere… for a price.”

Meia-Noite glanced at Tetanus and Gume, then at the ship. “Looks like our only option.”

Tetanus tossed the sack of coins to the captain, who caught it midair and opened it, eyes gleaming.

“Heh! Welcome aboard!” he shouted, stumbling toward the deck. “Next stop: anywhere but this shithole!”

Gume laughed, clapping Tetanus on the back. “At least the drunk’s honest. And damn, it’s good to see you again, friend!”

As the ship sailed, leaving Salvador’s flames behind, Tetanus looked to the horizon. They’d escaped this mess alive, thanks to a decapitated head and a bit of audacity.

Al-Yasiin let out a loud cackle one last time as the ship pulled away from the port.

Chapter 18: One Piece

Captain Biriba’s Ship

The ship swayed under the night sky, its sails taut against the wind as waves crashed against the crudely built wooden hull. In the damp hold, lit by a single swinging lantern, the group gathered around a cracked wooden table, where maps and empty rum bottles rolled with each lurch of the vessel.

On the deck above, the drunken captain—who had introduced himself as “Captain Biriba”—slurred incoherent orders to a ghostly crew (which, as far as Tetanus could tell, consisted of two sailors as drunk as he was). The helm spun on its own occasionally, as if the ship were choosing its own course.

“So…” Gume began, flicking a cockroach that dared climb the table. “Where the hell are we even going now?”

Meia-Noite, leaning against a barrel, gloved fingers drumming on his pistol holster, shrugged while staring out at the waves through a porthole. “Away from Salvador, tough guy. That’s what matters now.”

“Damn it.” Tetanus rubbed his face, a sudden realization hitting him. “Trovão… I left my horse behind.”

Gume made a sympathetic face. “Well, I’m sorry about that.”

Al-Yasiin, precariously balanced on the table, laughed. “Priorities, maggots. We escaped an army, a burning bank, and a botched teleport, and you’re crying over a horse?”

Tetanus ignored the taunt. Instead, he pulled out the map fragment he’d kept tucked in his boot—a yellowed, blood-stained scrap stolen from a corpse in the sertão. First, though, he quickly checked his pouch, feeling the cold weight of the Black Cube still there, intact.

“Still here…” he thought to himself.

“What’s that?” Meia-Noite leaned forward, the black cloth hiding any expression, but curiosity clear in his voice.

“Something I picked up along the way…” Tetanus spread the map on the table, pointing to a red mark. “Fear Island. Ever heard of it?”

Gume frowned. “Cursed place in a cursed land. They say it’s haunted. Nobody who goes there comes back.”

“Perfect.” Al-Yasiin laughed, eyes gleaming. “Exactly the kind of place where interesting things are hidden.”

Meia-Noite studied the map in silence for a moment, then looked up. “BIRIBA! Change course! We’re heading to Fear Island!”

“What?” Gume crossed his arms, muscles tensing. “You gone mad? We just escaped a war, and you want to go somewhere worse?”

“Exactly. Because it’s worse, no one will look for us there,” Meia-Noite replied. He pointed to a corner of the map, where a faded symbol resembling an X stood out. “This isn’t just a map. I see more profit in this.”

Tetanus felt the mark on his chest burn faintly after a long time dormant. He didn’t like this; Meia-Noite was the suicidal type.

“Captain!” he shouted, quickly climbing the ladder from the hold.

Captain Biriba was sprawled on the deck, hugging a rum barrel, but he raised his head with a broken grin, not having heard much of what Meia-Noite had said earlier. “Speak, my noble passenger!”

“Change course. Fear Island.”

The captain froze. For a moment, it seemed the drunkenness had left him. “…You joking, right?”

“Not at all. I’m Meia-Noite, terror of the sertão. You think I’d be playing, old man?!”

Biriba looked at the others, then at the dark sea ahead. Finally, he let out a hoarse laugh and raised his bottle. “To hell with it! But I’m charging double!”

The ship turned, its bow pointing toward the black horizon. Meia-Noite spun around and darted back to the hold, watching Gume pry open the chest he’d carried on his shoulders since the bank heist.

“Time to see what those bastards were hiding,” Gume growled, slowly opening the chest.

With a creak, the chest revealed stacks of gold coins, gem-encrusted necklaces, and a few documents sealed with the Empire’s crest.

“Holy shit,” Gume whistled, grabbing a handful of coins and letting them slip through his thick fingers. “This could buy a fortune in cachaça!”

Meia-Noite picked up one of the documents, inspecting the broken seal. “More proof against the governor. Useful if we ever need leverage.” He tucked the papers into a hidden compartment in his hat.

Tetanus wasn’t interested in the gold. Instead, he pulled his pouch closer and checked the Black Cube again—still there, faintly pulsing like a dormant heart. Satisfied, he retrieved the other item he’d grabbed in haste from the bank: a small bronze artifact covered in faded runes, centuries old, resembling a compass but with needles that spun on their own, pointing in random directions.

“What’s that thing?” Gume asked, leaning in to look.

“No idea. But it seemed important enough to be locked up with the treasure.”

Tetanus then grabbed Al-Yasiin by the head and placed him on the table in front of the artifact.

“Hey! Watch the merchandise, maggot!” Al-Yasiin grumbled.

“What does this do?” Tetanus asked, pointing at the object.

Al-Yasiin glanced at the artifact, then at Tetanus, and let out a short laugh. “Oh, this little thing? It’s like a magical compass. Shows where the veils between worlds are thinnest.” His eyes gleamed with sudden interest. “Where’d you find this?”

“In the bank. It was with the gold. You must’ve been too distracted to notice.”

“Idiot maggots,” Al-Yasiin laughed. “They didn’t know what they had. This thing’s worth a fortune.”

Meia-Noite approached slowly from the corner. “And how’s it work, head?”

“You spin it like this…” Al-Yasiin said, and before Tetanus could stop him, the head blew a puff of sulfurous dust toward the artifact.

The artifact vibrated, its needles spinning wildly before stopping abruptly, all pointing in the same direction: east. Toward Fear Island.

“Nice,” Al-Yasiin grinned. “Looks like our destination’s confirmed.”

Gume looked at the artifact, then at the invisible horizon beyond the ship’s hull. “I’ve got a real bad feeling about this.”

Tetanus nodded silently, grabbing Al-Yasiin’s disheveled hair and tying the head to his waist with a rope from the deck.

“Now you stay there,” Tetanus grunted.

---

The night fell over the ship like a heavy cloak, painting the sky in shades of purple and black. The wind blew cold, carrying the salty smell of the sea and the sickly sweet aroma of spilled rum on the deck. The three men settled near the mainmast, where a swinging lantern cast dancing shadows over their battle-scarred faces.

Gume finally removed his helmet, revealing a face carved by time and combat with scars. His close-cropped hair was shaved in patches, and his broad, repeatedly broken nose gave him the air of a hardened veteran. He rubbed his neck, muscles cracking, and grabbed a rum bottle Biriba had dropped, downing it in one gulp.

“Four years, huh, brother?” Gume belched. “They got me. I was out in the wild when they nabbed me. Thought I was just another screwed-up black guy. Then they threw me in the army.” He laughed, a hoarse sound. “At least they gave me a shiny new axe and some fancy armor.”

Tetanus leaned against the mast, fingers brushing the mark on his chest. For the first time, he showed it to Gume, pulling down his jacket.

“They wanted to know what this was,” he said, voice low, almost soft. “Spent four years trying to pry the answer out of me… a lot happened, I’d rather not say, but nothing worked. It just made me tougher.”

Gume studied the mark, eyes narrowing. “Looks like something from another world.”

“It is.”

Meia-Noite, sitting a few steps away, watched in silence, as if studying the mark from afar.

“And the others?” Tetanus asked, pulling his jacket back up. “Zara. Lâmina. Farpa. Any news?”

Gume shook his head, his face grim. “Nothing. Zara and Lâmina were taken too, no idea what happened to them. And Farpa…” He hesitated. “Might not be with us anymore. Heard the king’s men raided Ouro Preto after everything.”

Tetanus nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. They’d been family to him. Now, they were just fragments scattered by the wind.

Al-Yasiin, tied to Tetanus’s waist, chuckled softly. “Sentimentalism’s for weaklings. You’re alive. And you’re with me. That’s more luck than you deserve.”

Gume looked at the decapitated head, then at Tetanus. “This thing’s getting weirder by the minute, huh?”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

Meia-Noite finally stood, stretching his arms. “Alright. Tomorrow we hit Fear Island. Better rest.” He turned to leave but paused, looking at Tetanus. “That mark on your chest… does it hurt?”

Tetanus stared at the cangaceiro. “Only when something real specific’s about to happen… I don’t really know.”

Meia-Noite let out a dry laugh. “Well, maybe you just need to learn to control it. Better sleep now to have energy for tomorrow.”

With that, he vanished into the deck’s darkness, leaving Tetanus and Gume alone under the stars.

Gume raised the empty bottle to the sky, as if toasting their departed comrades. “Cheers, brother. At least we found each other.”

---

The chill of dawn had settled over the ship, Biriba’s uneven snores mixing with the creak of the planks. The hold was quiet, save for the constant slosh of water against the hull and the flicker of a nearly spent lantern.

Tetanus had curled up in a corner, wrapped in a thin, damp blanket, the weight of the journey and memories pulling him into a restless sleep. Gume slept leaning against a barrel, his axe still within reach, while Meia-Noite had vanished to some secluded corner, likely lying with his hat over his face.

The air was heavy, laden with salt and something else… something that smelled like rotting seaweed.

The ship rocked gently, lulled by the rhythm of the waves, until the night’s silence and gentle sway were shattered by a strange sound invading the hold’s depths.

*Schlick.* *Schlup.* *Schlurp.*

Something wet and viscous slithered across the wooden floor, snaking like a giant finger searching in the dark. Tetanus opened his eye, still half-asleep, only to see a tentacle sliding above him.

Thick as a man’s arm, covered in pulsating suckers, it crept toward him. He froze, instincts screaming, but before he could react, the thing wrapped around his sword.

*CRACK.*

The leather scabbard snapped under the pressure.

“What the fu—?!”

Tetanus leaped back, but it was too late. The tentacle yanked the sword from its holster, retreating like a whip, taking the blade with it.

“WAKE UP, DAMN IT!” he roared, kicking Gume square in the chest.

The giant woke with a grunt, eyes wide with confusion.

“What the hell—”

*BOOM.*

The ship lurched violently, as if something massive had struck the hull. Rum bottles fell, shattering on the floor. Al-Yasiin, tied to Tetanus’s waist, screamed, “HOLY SHIT, IT’S A KRAKEN!”

Tetanus was already up, eyes fixed on the hold’s porthole.

Outside, in the night’s darkness, a massive eye—the size of a wagon wheel—stared through the fogged glass. Its vertical black pupil dilated as the monster saw him.

*BOOM.*

Another blow. This time, the ship tilted dangerously, throwing both men to the floor.

“CAPTAIN!” Gume roared, clutching a barrel to keep from sliding.

Up above, Biriba was shouting something unintelligible, followed by the sound of old wood splintering. Meia-Noite appeared from the shadows, pistol already in hand.

“You think we’re in some fisherman’s tale?!” he growled, aiming at the porthole.

The tentacle returned. Another *CRASH* echoed.

The porthole shattered, and three more tentacles burst in, grabbing everything in sight—barrels, ropes, the table itself. One coiled around Gume’s leg, yanking him violently toward the sea.

“NOT TODAY, YOU BASTARD!” Gume grabbed his axe and drove the blade into the tentacle.

*SCHLORP.* A jet of black liquid sprayed, and the kraken recoiled, releasing him with a violent spasm that hit the hold’s ceiling again.

Tetanus panicked—his sword had been taken by a sea monster from coastal legends, and now it was him and his companions against the tentacles of a giant marine beast.

“I need my blade!” he shouted, leaping toward the deck’s ladder while Meia-Noite fired repeatedly behind him, covering his back. The shots hit one tentacle, making it writhe, but not wounding it enough.

“That won’t kill this thing!” Meia-Noite yelled, reloading.

On the deck, the scene was chaos.

Captain Biriba, miraculously sober, wrestled with a tentacle trying to rip the helm away. The two drunken sailors clung to the mast, one wielding a rusty machete, the other struggling to reload an old cannon on the lower deck.

The kraken was colossal—bigger than the ship itself. Its shiny black body rose from the dark waters, countless tentacles—some thick as ancient trees, others thin as branches—coiling around the hull, crushing the wood under pressure. Its broad, swollen head had a peculiar shape, like a deformed phallus, with a single massive eye at the tip.

---

Tetanus burst onto the deck like a hurricane, the salty air hitting his face as chaos unfolded around him.

The kraken—oh, what an abyssal abomination!—rose from the black waters like a nightmare incarnate, its colossal, bulbous body floating at the surface, covered in reddish, glistening skin pulsing with bluish veins, as if the ocean itself had vomited a creature from ancient legends.

Its “head”—if you could call it that—was a grotesque, swollen protrusion, elongated and resembling a deformed penis, ending in a circular mouth filled with rows of serrated teeth spinning like rusted gears. The single, colossal yellowish-green eye blinked with malevolent intelligence, reflecting the ship’s flickering lanterns.

Countless tentacles sprouted from its body, some thick as centuries-old tree trunks, others agile and thin as whips, all adorned with suckers that lashed the air with a nauseating sound, leaving red, pulsating marks on the creaking hull.

“My sword! Where the hell’s my sword?!” Tetanus shouted, running across the slippery deck, dodging snapped ropes and rolling barrels like dice in a chaotic tavern. His eyes scanned the chaos, searching for the glint of the blade the tentacle had stolen.

Below, in the hold, a crash echoed as a massive tentacle—this one covered in curved, hook-like spines—burst through the cracked floor, coiling around the open treasure chest Gume had left. Gold coins jingled like maddened bells as the tentacle hoisted it into the air, crushing the wooden lid with a deafening *crack*.

“NO! THE TREASURE, DAMN IT!” Gume roared from the hold, his voice thundering over the crashing waves. He leaped to grab the chest, but the tentacle whipped him away, sending him crashing against the wall with an impact that shook the entire ship.

Al-Yasiin, still tied to Tetanus’s waist, swung wildly as the man ran. The decapitated head’s eyes widened, its maniacal laugh cut by a hoarse scream: “THAT THING’S AFTER THE CUBE! THE KRAKEN KNOWS, MAGGOT! IT WANTS THE BLACK CUBE!”

Tetanus ignored the chattering head for a moment, diving through the hatch to the ship’s kitchen—a cramped, foul-smelling cubicle filled with rusty pots and dried fish scraps. Anything can be a weapon, he thought, lungs burning. But before he could search the shelves, a thin, slimy tentacle slithered through the door, wrapping around his leg like a treacherous snake.

“You son of a bitch!” Tetanus growled, feeling the tug dragging him backward. The suckers tore at his boot, ripping the leather with a wet, repulsive sound.

At that moment, the sky above erupted in fury. Heavy clouds, previously harmless, unleashed a sudden, violent storm. Lightning sliced the horizon, illuminating the kraken in blinding flashes, while thick rain, like the tears of enraged gods, pounded the deck, turning it into a slippery quagmire. The wind howled, whipping the torn sails, and the ship groaned like a wounded beast.

Tetanus reached out, his fingers closing around a rusty kitchen knife and a bent fork—pathetic weapons, but the only ones within reach. He drove the knife into the tentacle, feeling the soft flesh give way with a spurt of foul black ink, but the monster didn’t let go. Instead, it pulled with brutal force, launching Tetanus through the air like a rag doll.

His pouch slipped from his shoulder, falling to the soaked floor with a dull thud, the Black Cube rolling out in a shadowy glimpse. Al-Yasiin screamed something incoherent—“NO, YOU MAGGOOOOT!”—but another tentacle, this one more agile, whipped out of nowhere and snapped the rope tying the head to Tetanus’s waist, dragging it into the depths of the waves, where it sank, gurgling curses.

Tetanus landed hard on his back on the deck, rain hammering his face, but the main tentacle didn’t stop. Now coiled around his shirt, it pulled with grotesque insistence, tearing the fabric of his jacket as if deliberately stripping him. The suckers clung to his skin, sucking and stretching, exposing the pulsing scar on his chest. The mark burned like fire under the icy rain, and Tetanus thrashed, knife still in hand, as the kraken seemed to… savor the moment.

With a guttural roar, the kraken freed Tetanus from his shredded shirt, leaving it crumpled on the deck, revealing his bronzed skin and taut muscles. Without blinking its flickering yellow eye, the monster began to envelop him in a massive embrace with its tentacles.

Tetanus felt the kraken’s cold, scaly skin against his own, his breath cut by the stench of putrid sea and corroded metal it exuded. Thick tentacles wrapped around him like bars, pinning his limbs and preventing escape.

Smaller, agile tentacles began to move, touching, exploring, caressing his skin with a sinister sensuality. They found the tense muscles of his groin, and Tetanus felt a gentle, persistent pressure there, as if the tentacles sought to stimulate him, teasing him.

His erection came quickly under the cold, firm touch of the kraken. The tentacles sensed the change in his body and responded by intensifying their grip, wrapping around his genitalia in a soft, steady hold that made him arch his back.

Tetanus screamed in frustration and arousal, struggling hopelessly against the monster’s powerful embrace but soon realizing he was giving in to its perverse game. Their bodies moved in sync, the kraken pressing his erect member against the rough, hard texture of its abdominal shield, while longer tentacles coiled around his head, sucking the air from his mouth.

Tetanus felt the first thermal contraction ripple through the creature’s circumference, a wave of heat spreading slowly across its scaly skin, as if it were preparing for an explosion of pleasure.

Then, the kraken began to penetrate him from within, a tentacle probing his entrance, thrusting gently back and forth.

Tetanus felt his insides invaded—what a terrible moment to be violated by a sea monster, his human body reduced to a mere vessel for the kraken’s lust.

The kraken moved rhythmically, and with each motion, Tetanus groaned and writhed, the tentacles tightening around his limbs and torso, preventing escape or resistance.

Tetanus slipped into a trance, lost in the creature’s movements and the intense sensations overwhelming him. His body became a mere instrument of the monster’s lust, his spirit submerged in the madness of the moment.

*BOOM!*

The cannon’s roar echoed across the deck like iron thunder, cutting through the storm-soaked air. One of the drunken sailors—the one who’d gone below to the lower deck—had finally managed to reload the rusty old cannon positioned at the hull’s edge. The iron ball, fired with fury, struck the kraken’s bulbous body dead-on, tearing through its scaly skin and exploding a cloud of black ink and viscous flesh chunks into the air. The monster roared, a guttural, primordial sound that made the surrounding waves churn as if the entire sea trembled in pain.

The kraken convulsed, its tentacles writhing in violent spasms. The pressure around (and inside) Tetanus suddenly loosened; the appendages that held and penetrated him recoiled with a repulsive *schlorp*, freeing him in a gush of mucus and sticky fluids.

Tetanus fell to his knees on the slippery deck, panting, his body trembling with a mix of rage, humiliation, and residual arousal he hated to acknowledge. The mark on his chest burned like embers, pulsing in sync with his racing heartbeat.

“You… abyssal bastard!” Tetanus growled through clenched teeth, staggering to his feet, still clutching the knife in one hand and the bent fork in the other. The torrential rain washed sweat and mucus from his bare torso, but it couldn’t douse the blazing fury in his eyes.

The kraken, distracted by the smoking wound in its flank, turned its colossal eye toward the cannon, momentarily ignoring the man it had just defiled. That was its fatal mistake. Tetanus seized the moment, sprinting across the tilted deck like a crazed predator. He leaped onto a rolling barrel, dodging a tentacle that lashed blindly, and climbed the mainmast with feline agility, using the torn ropes for support.

“Come here, you freak!” he shouted, launching himself through the air toward the monster’s grotesque head. The howling storm wind propelled his leap, lightning illuminating the scene in flashes.

Tetanus landed on the kraken’s oily, pulsating skin, driving the bent fork into the soft flesh around its circular mouth. The monster thrashed, trying to shake him off, but Tetanus held firm, using the fork as an anchor while stabbing repeatedly with the knife into the swollen protrusion.

*Schlick! Schlick!*

Each strike released gushes of thick black blood, dripping like oil down the kraken’s skin, mingling with the rain.

Tetanus roared in hatred, climbing higher, ignoring the suckers trying to latch onto his bare legs. He aimed for the creature’s single eye, the vulnerable point where the iris trembled in panic.

With a primal yell, he plunged the knife into the center of the slitted pupil, twisting the blade to deepen the wound. The kraken convulsed violently, its tentacles flailing uncontrollably, smashing parts of the ship’s hull like twigs.

The monster began to collapse, its colossal body sinking slowly into the churning waters, its weight dragging the ship with it. Wood groaned and splintered everywhere; the mainmast snapped in half with a deafening *crack*, torn sails flying like ghosts in the wind.

The storm intensified, as if the sea and sky conspired against them—lightning struck close, illuminating the chaos, while giant waves battered the already compromised hull, flooding the deck bit by bit.

“TETANUS! Get out of there!” Gume shouted from the hold, emerging up the ladder with his axe in hand, but it was too late. The ship tilted dangerously, saltwater flooding the hold like a ravenous torrent.

Tetanus didn’t stop. Clinging to the dying kraken, he continued to butcher the creature, driving the knife and fork into any exposed flesh, tearing pulsating veins and spilling viscera into the sea.

The monster let out a final, agonized wail, a sound like the lament of a fallen god, before its body sank fully, dragging Tetanus with it for a moment—but he broke free at the last second, swimming furiously back to the capsizing deck.

*CRASH!*

A colossal wave struck the ship’s side, completing its destruction. The hull split in two, barrels and debris flying everywhere. Biriba shouted useless orders as he was dragged into the depths, the sailors vanishing in the waves.

The ship capsized with a final roar, flipping belly-up like a dead animal, leaving Tetanus unconscious as everything went dark.

---

Fear Island

Sand. He was covered in sand. In his mouth, his eye, inside his soaked clothes that clung to him like a second skin. With a groan, he jolted upright, spitting out the salty taste of the sea.

“Damn it…”

The first thing he saw was the ocean. Calm waves now, lapping gently at the black sand beach. The second thing was the ship—or rather, what was left of it. Twisted wood scattered along the shore like the bones of a dead animal.

“Awake, maggot?”

The voice was Al-Yasiin’s. The decapitated head was buried in the sand up to its neck, black curly hair full of shells and seaweed. It looked furious.

“If I had arms, I’d dig myself out!”

Tetanus scanned his surroundings. Gume lay a few meters away, his metal armor partially wrecked, his broad chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. Meia-Noite was farther off, leaning against a broken mast, hatless and—more importantly—without his pistol.

“Where are we?” Tetanus asked, brushing sand from his arms.

“Where do you think?” Al-Yasiin grumbled. “Fear Island, you animal. The kraken threw us right to your destination.”

Tetanus looked at the dense forest starting just beyond the beach. Twisted trees, dark leaves, a silence that seemed to swallow even the sound of the waves.

“Great.”

Gume woke with a grunt, sitting up suddenly.

“What the hell was that?” He touched his chest, where the armor was dented. “Feels like I got run over by a bull.”

“Close enough,” Tetanus said, extending a hand to help the giant up. “The kraken dumped us here. I think.”

“And Biriba?”

“Dead. Or fish food.”

Meia-Noite approached, his face still covered by the black cloth, which by now seemed like his actual face, but without his weapon, he looked less threatening.

“Lost my pistol,” he said, as if announcing a relative’s death.

“And I lost my sword,” Tetanus rolled his eyes. “Welcome to the losers’ club,” he said sarcastically.

Gume looked at his own axe, still strapped to his back.

“At least I’ve still got my baby.” He swung it through the air, testing its weight.

“Good for you, maggot,” Al-Yasiin shouted arrogantly. “Now someone get me out of here, or I’ll have to watch you die upside down?”

Tetanus sighed, digging out the head and tying it back to his waist with a wet rope.

“Happy?”

“Not really. But it’s a start.”

Meia-Noite looked at the forest.

“So… that’s where we’re going.”

No one needed to ask what he meant. The heavy air, the smell of rotting earth, the island’s unnatural silence—everything screamed that this wasn’t an ordinary forest, nor an ordinary island.

Al-Yasiin grinned, his sharp teeth glinting. “Welcome to Hell, my dear maggots.”

Tetanus looked at his empty hands, then at the forest.

“I need a weapon, fast.”

“You think the island’s gonna hand you one?” Gume laughed.

“No.” Tetanus started walking toward the ship’s wreckage. “But the dead always leave something behind.”

Tetanus kicked through the debris with his feet, black sand sticking to his still-soaked boots. Among splinters of wood and rotten rope, something glinted under the dim light of an overcast sun.

“Ah… this’ll do.”

He bent down and pulled out a rusty harpoon, its tip still sharp enough to pierce flesh. It wasn’t his sword, but it would get the job done. Farther along, half-buried in the sand, was the magical compass—intact, its needles spinning slowly, as if drowsy.

“Find anything useful?” Gume asked, approaching with heavy steps that sank into the sand.

“Sort of.” Tetanus shook the sand from the compass and watched the needles align toward the forest. “It’s pointing that way.”

“Great,” Meia-Noite said, appearing behind them. “Then that’s where we go.”

Al-Yasiin let out a muffled laugh, swinging at Tetanus’s waist. “You’re all crazy. But we’ve gotta start somewhere.”

The group moved toward the forest, the black sand giving way to twisted roots and thick leaves that seemed to occasionally grab at their steps. The air grew heavier, the smell of rotting flesh mingling with ancient mold.

The compass led them to a grotesque rock formation—a cave opening like the maw of a colossal beast, its stalactites and stalagmites resembling sharp teeth. The entrance oozed a viscous, purple liquid, sticky like congealed blood.

“This… doesn’t look natural,” Gume said, his face wrinkling, fingers tightening on his axe’s handle.

“Nothing here is,” Meia-Noite said, stepping forward without hesitation.

“Wait.” Tetanus raised the harpoon, sniffing the air. “Something’s off.”

“Everything here’s off, maggot,” Al-Yasiin laughed. “But if you want answers, that’s the way.”

Gume swallowed hard, sweat beading on his forehead. “I don’t like tight spaces.”

“Relax, big guy. This place is still big enough for your mom’s fat ass to fit through,” Al-Yasiin taunted. “If we die, it’ll be quick.”

“Then yours wouldn’t fit?” Gume shot back.

“Quiet! This isn’t helping! Let’s go in!” Meia-Noite snapped, reining them in.

---

Entering the Cave

The cave was damp, its walls pulsing faintly, as if breathing. The floor was covered in a spongy substance that squelched underfoot, and the air was thick with a sweet, rotten odor, like honey mixed with decaying flesh.

The deeper they went, the more the space opened, until they reached a circular chamber, its arched ceiling resembling the ribs of a giant beast. In the center, bound by thick, dark veins climbing the walls, was a massive, pulsating organ—a deformed heart the size of a barrel, beating with a slow, wet thud.

“What the hell is that?” Gume took a step back, his face pale.

Tetanus approached, harpoon raised toward the thing. The heart seemed to watch him, its veins twitching like nervous fingers.

“Doesn’t matter.” He drove the harpoon into the organ’s center.

…

Pus and dark purple liquid sprayed, hissing as it hit the floor. The heart convulsed, its veins snapping like broken ropes before shriveling, drying up in seconds. The entire chamber shook, as if something screamed in distant agony.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Al-Yasiin said, but surprisingly, there was a hint of admiration in his voice.

“Why? What was it?” Meia-Noite asked, fingers closing on the empty space where his pistol should’ve been.

“Part of the Vermin God,” the head grinned, eyes glowing in the dark. “He sleeps, but his body spreads across the world. Hearts like this keep his flesh alive.”

“How many are there?” Tetanus stared at the harpoon in his hand, the purple liquid clinging like oil.

“Three,” Al-Yasiin laughed. “You killed one. Two left.”

“And if I destroy them all?”

“No one knows. Maybe he wakes up. Maybe he dies for good. Or maybe something worse happens.”

Gume looked around, the walls now covered in inscriptions that hadn’t been there before—ancient runes, drawings of human teeth, and fat, repulsive blowflies.

“This place is watching us.”

“It always was,” Meia-Noite touched one of the inscriptions. “…Let’s keep going. The compass still points deeper.”

Tetanus looked at the withered heart on the floor, then at the dark tunnel that seemed to plunge further into the island’s bowels.

“Damn it,” Gume took a deep breath. “We gotta face more of those things?”

“Probably.” Tetanus slung the harpoon over his shoulder and started walking. “But at least now I’ve got a weapon, right?”

The group pressed on through the dark tunnel, their footsteps echoing with the constant drip of water from the damp walls. The magical compass in Tetanus’s hand vibrated faintly, its needles spinning with increasing urgency, always pointing downward, as if the artifact knew something valuable awaited in the depths. The air grew more oppressive, laden with a metallic smell, like blood mixed with fresh earth. The runes on the walls seemed to shift in the corner of the eye, whispering inaudible secrets.

“This is getting tighter,” Gume grumbled, ducking to avoid hitting the uneven ceiling. His axe scraped the rocks, sparking occasionally to light the path.

“Shut up and walk, big guy,” Al-Yasiin mocked from Tetanus’s waist. “Or you want me to carry you?”

Meia-Noite, in the lead, raised a hand for silence. “Look.”

The tunnel opened into another chamber, smaller than the last but lit by an ethereal glow from luminescent fungi covering the walls like bluish veins. In the center, on a stone pedestal carved with ancient Christian symbols—inverted crosses and stylized fish—rested a rolled parchment, yellowed by time, sealed with a wax seal untouched for centuries.

“The treasure…” Tetanus murmured, approaching cautiously. He broke the seal with the harpoon’s tip and unrolled the parchment, revealing elegant Latin script with marginal illustrations of waves and feet walking atop them.

“Let me see that, maggot,” Al-Yasiin demanded, eyes wide with excitement. Tetanus untied the head and placed it on the pedestal. The decapitated head blinked, focusing on the text. “Oh, this is good. Very good. It’s a parchment attributed to Jesus Christ himself. Or at least, a relic claiming to be. Talks about miracles… specifically, walking on water.”

Gume tilted his head, confused. “Walking on water? Like, not sinking?”

“Exactly, you brute,” Al-Yasiin laughed, his voice echoing in the chamber. “It’s an ancient blessing. Whoever reads and understands the words can invoke the power to cross rivers, seas, or any liquid surface like it’s solid ground. Useful for escaping empires or water monsters, huh?”

Meia-Noite took the parchment, examining it carefully. “Convenient. But how’s it work? Gotta recite something?”

“Yeah, a simple prayer. But careful: it’s temporary, and it only works if you believe… or something like that. Christian relics are full of this spiritual conversion crap.”

Tetanus nodded, tucking the parchment into his pouch. “Could be useful. But let’s get out before—”

A tremor shook the chamber, dust falling from the ceiling like fine snow. Behind them, the tunnel they’d entered began to close—rock walls moving like contracting muscles, grinding smaller stones in the process. A low roar, like a beast waking, echoed from the depths.

“Shit! The cave’s closing!” Gume shouted, swinging his axe uselessly at the approaching rock.

“No way back!” Meia-Noite confirmed, scanning the chamber. The only path was a steep decline leading deeper into darkness. “Only forward… or down!”

“I warned you destroying the heart would wake something,” Al-Yasiin cackled. “Run, maggots!”

With no options, the group plunged down the decline, slipping and stumbling over wet rocks as the chamber behind them collapsed in a roar of dust and debris. The air grew colder and damper as they descended, the sound of running water growing like an inviting whisper.

After what felt like endless minutes of tortuous descent, the tunnel leveled out, opening into a vast underground cavern lit by bioluminescent crystals hanging from the ceiling like fallen stars.

In the center, a subterranean river of dark, murky water snaked through, bubbling with sulfur-scented bubbles. The current was strong, carrying organic debris—bones, rotten leaves, and what looked like chunks of flesh.

“Doesn’t look drinkable,” Gume remarked, approaching the bank cautiously.

Tetanus raised the harpoon, the compass now still, its needles pointing directly at the river. “The relic… maybe we need to cross.”

But before they could discuss, the water exploded in a spray of foam. A creature emerged from the depths, colossal and grotesque: an aberrant mix of salmon and axolotl, with the elongated, scaly body of a giant fish, covered in pulsating, pink external gills like an aquatic salamander. Its eyes were multiple, lined along its flattened head, glowing with primal hunger. Its mouth opened in a semicircle of needle-sharp teeth, and razor-like fins sliced the water as it thrashed, half in the river, half out, blocking their path.

“What the hell is that?!” Meia-Noite shouted, his northeastern accent slipping through, backing away as the creature let out a piercing screech that echoed off the cavern walls.

“A guardian, probably!” Al-Yasiin yelled from Tetanus’s waist. “Kill that Salmoxolotl before it eats us!”

The creature struck first, lunging forward with surprising speed, its fins whipping the air toward Gume. The giant raised his axe in time, blocking the blow with a metallic clang that sent sparks flying. Tetanus leaped to the side, driving the harpoon into the creature’s scaly flank, tearing out a chunk of pink flesh that bled viscous red liquid.

“Let’s finish this!” Tetanus growled, as Meia-Noite, unarmed, grabbed a sharp rock from the ground and hurled it at one of the creature’s eyes, blinding it with a wet pop.

Gume swung his axe in a wide arc, slicing through a pulsating gill, making the creature writhe in pain and dive back into the river, only to resurface with renewed fury, its tail thrashing the water and creating waves that pushed them back. The battle intensified, the river bubbling as if more dangers were about to rise from the depths.

---

The cavern echoed with the creature’s shrill screeches, the sound reverberating off the crystalline walls as the group fought with ferocity. Tetanus, harpoon firm in hand, dodged the razor-sharp fins that sliced the air like guillotines. His eyes tracked the beast’s erratic movements, searching for an opening. The creature, a scaly nightmare with pulsating gills and multiple eyes, attacked with blind fury, but its agility waned as blood poured from its wounds.

“Aim for the eyes, Tetanus!” Meia-Noite shouted, throwing another sharp rock that bounced off the creature’s forehead, distracting it momentarily. Even unarmed, Meia-Noite had good aim.

Tetanus seized the opening. With a leap, he scaled a slippery rock by the river, positioning himself above the monster’s flattened head. The creature turned, its eyes glinting with malice, but Tetanus was faster. He drove the harpoon with full force into one of the larger eyes, piercing it with a wet pop. A jet of viscous fluid sprayed, and the beast roared, thrashing wildly as two more eyes were struck by precise harpoon blows.

Blinded, the creature began crashing into the cavern walls, its fins slicing only air, directionless.

“Now, Gume!” Tetanus yelled, leaping back as the creature writhed in agony.

Gume charged like a bull, axe raised high. With a guttural shout, he brought the blade down on the creature’s scaly neck, cutting deep. The flesh parted with a wet sound, and the monster collapsed into the river with an impact that sent water exploding in waves. Its gills stopped pulsing, and the body floated, inert, as green liquid mingled with the current.

“Done,” Gume panted, wiping sweat from his brow with his forearm. “What a bastard of a beast.”

Tetanus approached the corpse, still holding the bloodied harpoon. “Let’s not waste it…”

He cut strips of the still-warm scaly flesh, using the rusty knife he’d recovered from the kraken fight. The smell was strong, but the texture seemed edible enough for desperate times. He wrapped the strips in a torn cloth and stowed them in his pouch.

“That’s disgusting, maggot,” Al-Yasiin grumbled, swinging at Tetanus’s waist. “But smart. You’ll need food if you want to survive this island.”

Meia-Noite, examining the river, pointed to the current. “The compass points that way. But crossing this is gonna be a problem. This river looks… a bit deep.”

“Not it won’t,” Al-Yasiin interrupted, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Give me the parchment, Tetanus. I know what to do.”

Tetanus hesitated but untied the head and placed it on a flat rock, handing over the parchment. Al-Yasiin, with his hoarse, commanding voice, began reciting the Latin words in an almost hypnotic cadence. The syllables echoed in the cavern, and the air seemed to vibrate with a subtle energy.

The parchment glowed faintly, its letters pulsing as if alive. When Al-Yasiin finished, he looked at the group with a crooked smile. “Done. You can now walk on water.”

“For real?” Gume asked, eyeing the river suspiciously.

“Test it, big guy,” Al-Yasiin taunted.

Meia-Noite went first, taking a hesitant step onto the river’s surface. To nearly everyone’s astonishment, his feet didn’t sink. The water rippled under his boots, holding him as if it were solid ground. “It works,” he said, with a rare note of surprise.

Tetanus and Gume followed, Tetanus holding Al-Yasiin tightly. The group crossed the river with careful steps, feeling the current press against their legs but not giving way.

On the other side, they found a narrow passage descending further, lit by more luminescent fungi.

The passage led to a secret chamber, unlike anything they’d seen. The walls were smooth, almost polished, covered in mosaics depicting stormy seas, sinking ships, and an ethereal female figure rising from the waves.

In the center, perched atop a rock surrounded by a natural pool, was a woman. Her skin was translucent, like crystal-clear water, and her hair flowed like black seaweed, shimmering with silver and blue reflections. Her curvaceous body, with large breasts suggesting she’d once nursed, exuded an otherworldly aura. Her large, pupilless eyes fixed on the group with a mix of curiosity and authority.

“The Mother of Water…” Al-Yasiin whispered, his tone blending respect and caution.

“Mortals,” the Mother of Water’s voice echoed, liquid and deep, as if rising from the ocean’s depths. “You’ve defiled the flesh of the Vermin God, invaded my domain, and killed my child. But I’m not here to punish you. Answer three riddles, and I’ll guide you out of this cursed island. Fail, and your souls will belong to me forever.”

Tetanus gripped the harpoon’s handle, while Gume exchanged a nervous glance with Meia-Noite. “What choice do we have? Speak,” Tetanus said, voice firm, though his chest burned with the mark reacting to the entity’s presence.

The Mother of Water smiled, almost warmly. “First riddle: I am what gives life but also drowns. I am in everyone, but no one owns me. What am I?”

Gume furrowed his brow, scratching his head. “Water?”

The Mother of Water nodded, her hair rippling. “Correct. Second riddle: I guide without hands, speak without a voice, and show without eyes. What am I?”

Meia-Noite answered quickly, pointing to the magical compass in Tetanus’s hand. “A compass.”

The entity tilted her head, pleased. “Correct. Final riddle: I burn without fire, cut without a blade, and weigh without form. What am I?”

The group fell silent. Tetanus felt the mark on his chest pulse stronger, as if trying to tell him something. He closed his eyes, thinking of the tortures he’d endured, the losses he carried. And finally…

“Pain,” he said at last, voice low.

The Mother of Water smiled, this time with what seemed like respect. “You understand more than you realize, mortal. You’ve passed the test.”

She raised a hand, and the cavern trembled slightly. A passage opened in the opposite wall, revealing a tunnel ascending, with faint sunlight visible in the distance. “This path will lead you to the surface.”

Tetanus moved forward, as Gume and Meia-Noite prepared to follow. “Let’s get out of this shit,” Tetanus muttered, gripping the harpoon tightly.

---

Tetanus pressed on, his heart pounding with the hope of escaping the cursed cave. Gume and Meia-Noite followed, their heavy steps echoing through the cavern. But before they could reach the tunnel’s opening, Tetanus felt an inexplicable force pull him back.

He turned and saw the Mother of Water rise from the rock, her shimmering black seaweed hair floating around her like a halo. Her translucent skin glowed with blue reflections, and her large, pupilless eyes fixed on him with a somber expression.

“You will not leave, Tetanus,” the entity’s voice echoed in his ear. “Because you killed my child. And now you will give me new life.”

Tetanus tried to resist, but his legs gave out. He collapsed onto the wet sand, staring at her with fear and revulsion. The Mother of Water knelt behind him, placing her hands on his shoulders, her sharp, shell-like nails making him shudder.

“You don’t understand,” she said with a tone of sadness. “My child was a mistake, a failed abortion in this cave. But you, Tetanus, are perfect. You have strength, vitality, and pain. So much pain.”

She leaned over him, her mouth nearly brushing his nape. Tetanus felt a chill run through him as her soft, cold lips grazed his skin.

“I will absorb that pain from you,” the Mother of Water whispered. “And I will turn it into life. You will impregnate me, Tetanus.”

Tetanus felt his member harden against his will, desire and revulsion mixing into an indescribable emotion. He closed his eyes and groaned as the Mother of Water pulled him back, throwing him onto the soft sand. He looked up and saw her face lean over him, her mouth almost touching his.

She bent over him, her wide thighs brushing against his body.

Tetanus closed his eyes, groaning as the Mother of Water positioned herself over him. She slid her lips down his neck to the mark on his chest, where she began to lick and kiss the warm skin, scratching his shoulder.

Tetanus arched his body, groaning loudly as he felt the entity’s cold, sharp tongue touch his flesh. She began to rub against him slowly.

He opened his eyes and saw the Mother of Water settle over him, her glistening, wet vagina pressing against his erection. Tetanus shivered as she lowered herself onto him, enveloping his member with her warm, tight walls.

“Come inside me,” she whispered, moving atop him with a slow, deliberate rhythm, “come and fill me with your life.”

Tetanus groaned and embraced the Mother of Water’s body, penetrating her deeply. He felt her wet, warm texture envelop him, moving inside her, their groans and sighs blending into an obscene sound of skin against… water?

“Yes,” she moaned, arching over him, “come inside me, come. Fill me with your life and your sweet pain.”

Tetanus felt his orgasm approaching rapidly, the pressure and pleasure building within him. He gripped her hips, moving harder inside the Mother of Water, who moaned and sighed around him.

“Now,” she commanded, her pupilless eyes locked on Tetanus’s with urgency, “now come for me!”

With a grunt, Tetanus released, flooding the entity’s interior with his essence. He felt her walls contract around him, squeezing and drawing out every drop of his seed.

When he finally stopped moving, the Mother of Water remained still for a few seconds, absorbing all he’d given her. Then, slowly, she began to rise, her glistening, pure body now marked by the presence of the man who’d impregnated her.

“You did well,” she said, satisfied, looking at Tetanus with pride. “Now, go. Let me carry your life within me until it’s time to give birth.”

Tetanus stood, dressing himself again, moving forward, his heart pounding with what had just happened, the idea that something now carried his seed.

The narrow tunnel spiraled upward, its damp walls glowing with a phosphorescent light that pulsed in sync with the island’s breath. The air was heavy, laden with a salty, sweet smell, like high tide mixed with rotten honey. Meia-Noite led the group, each step echoing on the wet rocks.

The light at the tunnel’s end grew, but it wasn’t sunlight—it was a ghostly greenish glow from a curtain of lichen hanging at the entrance. Tetanus raised the harpoon and parted the mossy veil, revealing…

---

Dream Forest

It wasn’t the same forest as before.

The trees were more twisted, their bark white like birch. The ground was covered in a low mist that clung to their ankles like cold fingers. Above, the sky was no longer the dead sky they knew—it was a sickly yellow, like diluted pus.

“What kind of hell are we in now?” Gume exclaimed, fingers tightening around his axe.

“Probably a hippie nightmare…” Meia-Noite observed the horizon, where distant mountains twisted like the spines of buried creatures.

Tetanus looked back. The cave entrance had vanished, replaced by a solid rock wall covered in runes bleeding black liquid.

“She tricked us…”

“Or gave us exactly what she promised,” Al-Yasiin laughed, playing devil’s advocate. “You got out of the cave, didn’t you?”

“So we’re trapped here?” Gume exclaimed, stepping forward.

“No.” Tetanus raised the magical compass. Its needles spun wildly but briefly pointed to a nearly invisible trail among the trees. “The compass wants us to go there.”

“Of course it does,” Meia-Noite adjusted the black cloth on his face. “Everything here wants something from us.”

“And the Cube?” Gume asked.

Tetanus touched his chest, where the mark burned.

“It’s still here. Somewhere, I can feel it…” Tetanus moved his hand from his chest. “We’d better find it before someone else does.”

With no other choice, they began walking forward…

Chapter 19: The Woodsman

Fear Island — Dream Forest — 1666

As they walked, the forest floor seemed to pulse as if it had a life of its own, a psychedelic delirium that defied logic and senses. The trees, with bark as white as polished bones, were marked by thousands of drawn—or perhaps carved—eyes in spiraling patterns, each glowing with a faint yellowish shimmer, as if truly watching the group’s every step.

The creeping mist clung to the boots of Tetanus, Gume, and Meia-Noite, cold and sticky, while grotesque insects, the size of small animals, buzzed through the air or crawled among the trunks.

“This place is giving me the creeps,” Gume muttered, his axe gripped tightly as he crushed a mutant mushroom underfoot. The fungus, as large as a plate, exploded in a cloud of luminescent spores that floated in the air. “This is like we smoked opium—without smoking anything!”

“Get it together, big guy,” Meia-Noite replied, narrowing his “gaze” as he watched the branches above, where a long-legged insect danced in a hypnotic pattern. “Everything here is weirder than the last.”

Tetanus raised the compass, its needles spinning frantically before pointing to a winding trail to the left. “That way,” he said, his voice tense. “Let’s move before we get lost in this psychedelic mess for good!”

The group rounded a corner, the twisted branches forming a natural arch that looked like a mouth about to close. That’s when they saw it: a crouched figure among the trees, shrouded in dancing shadows. It was tall even when hunched, slender, with long legs bent awkwardly as it held a bulky potato sack, something wriggling inside.

Muffled whimpers, like a child crying, escaped the coarse fabric, accompanied by a brutal, rhythmic sound.

*Thwack.*

*Thwack.*

*Thwack.*

The figure began beating the sack with a wooden club, each strike accompanied by a moan of pleasure.

Tetanus froze, the group halting behind him, their blood running cold. He recognized that silhouette. A buried memory from his childhood, locked in some dark corner of his mind, surged like a knife wound. Before he could speak, the figure stood, turning theatrically to face them.

It was Jackrabbit.

Oh, what a sight...

The creature stretched at least three meters tall, its long legs clad in striped silk pants. Its appearance hadn’t changed much from what Tetanus remembered over the years. He was still the same flamboyant rabbit. The coat, a faded purple like dried violets, was worn at the cuffs but still in good condition, swaying lightly with its movements. And the face—actually, a smooth wooden mask, stained with a comically large rabbit smile, frozen in a disturbingly joyful expression.

Jackrabbit tilted his head, scratching his sack—not the potato one, but the other, with an exaggerated, almost theatrical gesture. “Well, well, well…” His mellifluous voice carried a singsong tone that danced in the air. “What a nostalgic little face we have here.” He pointed a long, sharp finger at Tetanus, the nail painted glossy black. “Haven’t we met before, sweetie? Your face reminds me of a little boy I met years ago… so small, and so alone~”

Tetanus felt the mark on his chest burn but kept his face impassive, gripping the harpoon’s handle. “No,” he replied, his voice cold as iron. “You must be mistaking me for someone else.”

Gume and Meia-Noite stayed behind, silent, hands ready on their weapons. Gume looked ready to explode, his face contorted with a mix of disgust and tension, while Meia-Noite observed the creature with deadly calm, as if calculating every move.

Al-Yasiin, hanging from Tetanus’s waist, whispered low enough for only Tetanus to hear: “It’s Jackrabbit, you maggot. A ‘sack-hair,’ spawn of the Trickster God. He’s got as much of a thing for kids as a Spaniard does for his sister. Watch out for this bastard—don’t let his cheery act fool you. He’s a slave to the moon.”

Jackrabbit laughed, a high-pitched, dissonant sound like broken bells. He slung the potato sack over his shoulder, the muffled whimpers inside growing fainter. “Tch, tch. What a dull bunch. Not even a chuckle?” He took a step forward, his shoes snapping in the mist.

“Tell me, my darlings, don’t you have any… little ones around? Something to trade for my goods?” He shook the sack, and the movement inside stopped for a moment, as if whatever was inside had finally died.

Tetanus stepped forward, pointing the harpoon at the creature’s chest. “We’ve got nothing for you. Get out of the way.”

Jackrabbit sighed, exaggeratedly dramatic, clutching his chest as if offended. “How rude! Well, I suppose I can’t force the fun.” He stepped back, revealing only a rabbit’s tail behind him, along with prominent curves.

As he retreated, he whistled a dissonant melody.

“Until next time, sweeties~ And if you find any kids, know I’m always open to trades~”

With a final wave, Jackrabbit vanished among the twisted trunks. The group stood in silence for a moment, the air heavy with the tension of the encounter.

“What the hell was that?” Gume finally exploded, his axe trembling in his hands. “He’s carrying a kid in that sack? Why didn’t we do anything?!”

“It’s obvious,” Al-Yasiin replied, his tone mixing disgust and fascination. “Jackrabbit’s a hunter of young souls. The Trickster God made him to spread chaos, but even he can’t control his own creation. That queer rabbit definitely likes to ‘eat’ kids. And not in the culinary way.”

“Better not go after him,” Tetanus said, his voice firm but his eyes still fixed on where the creature had vanished. “The compass is pointing forward. Let’s stick to it.”

Meia-Noite nodded, adjusting the cloth on his face. “He’ll be back. Goats like that always come back… I know.”

---

After navigating a cluster of mutant mushrooms, the group stopped before an unexpected sight: a century-old tree, wide as a house, its massive trunk seeming to swallow the light around it. Carved into its bark was a crude wooden door with rusty hinges, swaying lightly in the breeze. Above it hung a wooden sign with crooked, poorly painted red letters: Seu Gama’s Bar.

“This is a joke, right?” Gume muttered, eyeing the sign with suspicion. “Who puts a bar in the middle of a forest?”

“Someone who wants very specific customers,” Meia-Noite replied, already ducking to pass through the low door. “Let’s see what’s inside.”

“If there’s booze, I’m not complaining,” Al-Yasiin added with a muffled laugh from Tetanus’s waist.

Tetanus crouched, the harpoon scraping the doorframe, and entered, followed by Gume, who had to bend nearly to the ground to fit. The bar’s interior was a surreal delirium, lit by lanterns of glowing fungi hanging from the ceiling, casting a greenish light that created dancing shadows.

 

Seu Gama’s Bar

Anthropomorphic insects filled the space, their grotesque forms acting like patrons of any ordinary tavern. A pair of giant cockroaches played cards at a chipped wooden table, smoking cigars that released purple smoke. A two-meter-tall scorpion in a leather vest drank a viscous liquid from a cracked glass, laughing loudly with a companion that looked like a centipede with crooked glasses. In the corner, a colossal beetle with serrated horns and a reinforced leather belt watched everything with gleaming eyes, clearly the bouncer.

Behind the counter, a stout frog with warty skin and a pristine white suit stretched over his broad frame polished a glass with a dirty rag. Black suspenders held up his pants, and an unlit cigar hung from his mouth. The waitress, a humanoid fly with translucent wings and a stained apron, buzzed between tables, balancing trays of drinks that smelled of fermentation and something… alive. In the back, on a makeshift stage, a slender praying mantis tap-danced to a psychedelic tune played by a band of grasshoppers strumming instruments made of bark and webs. The melody was hypnotic, with notes that seemed to crawl into the mind.

“Holy shit,” Gume whispered, eyes wide. “This is worse than Biriba’s hold.”

Tetanus, showing no reaction, approached the counter, the harpoon resting on his shoulder to seem less threatening. The frog raised his bulbous eyes, sizing up the group with a slimy smile. “Welcome to Seu Gama’s Bar, outsiders. What’ll it be? We’ve got spore liquor, sap beer, and something we call ‘Nightmare Tonic.’” He let out a hoarse, deep laugh from his swollen mouth.

“Information,” Tetanus said bluntly. “We lost something important. A black cube, fist-sized, pulsing like it’s alive. Anyone here seen it?”

The frog, apparently Seu Gama, tilted his head, scratching his chin with a sticky paw. “A black cube, huh? My insect buddies have eyes all over this forest. They see everything, know everything. But information ain’t free, my friend.” He extended a paw, expecting payment.

Tetanus exchanged a glance with Gume and Meia-Noite, who rummaged through their pockets. Nothing. The gold from the chest was lost to the kraken, leaving only wet rags and makeshift weapons. Tetanus sighed, frustrated. “We don’t have money. But maybe we can trade something.”

Seu Gama laughed, the gurgling sound echoing in the bar. “No money, no chit-chat. But…” He pointed to a sign behind the counter: First drink on the house! “Feel free to have a drink and think about life. Maybe you’ll find a way to pay later.”

With no better options, the group accepted. The fly waitress brought three mugs of a frothy liquid that smelled of honey and rot. They settled in a corner, at a table reeking of alcohol, keeping their eyes on the bar’s giant-eyed patrons. Gume took a hesitant sip and grimaced. “This tastes like fermented shit.”

“Drink and shut up,” Meia-Noite muttered, spinning his mug without touching the liquid. “We need a plan. If these insects know about the cube, we’ve got to figure out how to get it out of them.”

“Maybe we can… persuade someone,” Tetanus suggested, his eyes fixed on the beetle bouncer, who seemed to be watching them back. Something deep inside vibrated coldly, as if the Black Cube were calling, hidden somewhere in this psychedelic forest.

The bar grew increasingly crowded, the air heavy with the scent of fermentation and mold. Tetanus watched the drunken insects’ movements as Gume finished his drink with a grimace.

“We need money. Fast,” Tetanus whispered, his eyes on the stage where the praying mantis danced, his leather pouch hanging on a nearby hook.

“I saw a bag full of coins behind that curtain,” Meia-Noite murmured, nodding slightly toward it. “Looks like it belongs to the dancer.”

“Good,” Gume grinned, rubbing his hands. “Tetanus and I cause a distraction, you grab the money.”

Meia-Noite nodded in agreement.

Gume stood abruptly, knocking over the table with a crash. “DAMN IT, THIS DRINK IS SHIT!” he roared, feigning drunkenness.

Several insects turned, irritated. The beetle bouncer twitched its mandibles, tensing and approaching.

“Who’s complaining about my bar’s drinks?” Seu Gama huffed, his deep, thick voice laced with suspicion, his eyes gleaming.

Tetanus stepped forward, pretending to hold Gume back. “Sorry, he doesn’t know what he’s saying when he’s drunk.”

“I KNOW EXACTLY WHAT I’M SAYING! THIS TASTES LIKE POTOO PISS!” Gume continued, overacting, throwing a punch into the air that nearly hit a nearby cockroach.

The distraction was enough. While all eyes (and there were many) were on Gume, Meia-Noite slipped through the shadows, quick as lightning and smooth as a breeze. His gloved hands found the praying mantis’s pouch, and with an imperceptible move, he took a single coin.

It was unlike any coin they’d seen. Instead of the imperial crest, it bore the image of a crowned insect with multiple eyes and mandibles.

King of Insects, maybe? Meia-Noite thought but had no time to ponder.

He returned to the counter and slid the coin to Seu Gama.

“Talk. The Black Cube.”

The frog picked up the coin, examined it with interest, and smiled, his eyes blinking in a rhythmic delay. “Good deal.” He lowered his voice. “The woodsman passed through here yesterday. Big, ugly thing, reeking of rot. He was carrying something square and dark. Might be what you’re after. But he took it to his cabin.”

“Where’s this cabin?”

“In the heart of the forest.” Seu Gama pointed to the back door. “Follow the river, turn left at a giant mushroom. Best coordinates you’ll get.”

Before he could finish, a gunshot rang out.

*BANG!*

A jug of beer exploded behind the counter, spraying sticky liquid everywhere. Gume, in his exaggerated act, had bumped into the drunken scorpion, who drew a rusty pistol and fired upward in rage.

“SON OF A BITCH!” the scorpion yelled, reloading.

Chaos erupted like a pressure cooker, the air filling with angry buzzing, mandible clicks, and the sound of shattering glasses. The drunken scorpion, its stinger raised like a spear, aimed the rusty pistol at Gume, its faceted eyes gleaming with fury. “You spilled my drink, you big idiot! I’ll fill you with lead!”

Gume, still feigning drunkenness but now with a real spark of adrenaline in his eyes, raised his axe. “Come try, needle-tail!” He spun, hitting a nearby table with his shoulder, sending cockroaches and centipedes flying in panic. One hit the beetle bouncer, who roared like thunder, charging with its serrated horns ready to impale.

Tetanus, quick as ever, grabbed a makeshift chair of tree bark and hurled it at the scorpion, deflecting the next shot, which exploded a fungal lantern, plunging part of the bar into greenish shadow. “Let’s get out now!” he shouted, dodging a punch from a giant cockroach that flew at him. He stabbed the harpoon into the ground to steady himself, kicking another insect trying to grab his leg.

Meia-Noite, seizing the chaos, leaped over the counter with the grace of a living shadow, his black gloves sliding over the sticky wood. Behind the counter, Seu Gama crouched, cursing in a guttural tongue, but Meia-Noite ignored the frog and pried open a hidden compartment—an emergency stash, likely for days like this.

His hands closed around an old, rusty but functional shotgun, with scattered shells nearby. He shoved two into the barrel and jumped back, firing into the air to amplify the chaos.

*BANG!* The ceiling of roots shook, dropping dust and spores that made several insects cough and stumble in panic.

“Back door! Now!” Tetanus roared, dodging a horn swipe from the beetle that cracked the wall in front of him. He pulled Al-Yasiin tighter at his waist, the decapitated head muttering curses about “incompetent maggots.”

Gume, the furious giant, needed no more encouragement. He charged like a maddened buffalo, ignoring the insects throwing themselves in his path—a centipede coiled around his leg, but he kicked it away like trash. With a primal roar, he slammed his shoulder into the back door, a flimsy slab of wood and webs, which exploded into splinters and dust. “LET’S GO, DAMN IT!”

The group dove through the exit, Meia-Noite covering the rear with another shot that hit the beetle’s shoulder, making it recoil with a pained roar. They ran through the psychedelic forest, the creeping mist whipping their legs, the trees’ eyes blinking furiously as if reporting their escape. Insects buzzed behind them, but the bar’s chaos slowed them, and soon the sounds of fighting and gunfire faded into the humid air.

They hid behind a cluster of giant mutant mushrooms, panting, their backs against the pulsing bark of a tree that seemed to whisper above them. Tetanus checked his harpoon, Gume wiped sweat from his brow, and Meia-Noite reloaded the stolen shotgun with the shells he’d grabbed.

“Good work, maggots!” Al-Yasiin laughed, swinging at Tetanus’s waist. “But next time, keep me out of the line of fire.”

Meia-Noite, still catching his breath, adjusted the black cloth on his face and looked at his companions. “The frog talked before the chaos. Some lumberjack took the Black Cube to his cabin in the heart of the forest. Follow the river, turn left at a giant mushroom. That’s the best lead we’ve got.”

Tetanus nodded. “Then that’s where we’re going. Before those insects come after us… and thanks for the help, Meia-Noite.”

Meia-Noite sighed, adjusting the hat strapped to his head. “We’re in this shit together anyway. You’ve helped me before. I just hope we get off this island in the end.”

The group stayed crouched behind the mutant mushrooms for a few more minutes, ears attuned to the distant buzzing of enraged insects. The forest whispered around them, its twisted leaves trembling as if laughing softly. Tetanus raised the magical compass—its needles spun wildly but consistently pointed east, toward what Meia-Noite had described.

“Let’s do this,” Tetanus murmured, standing cautiously. “The river can’t be far.”

Gume nodded, while Meia-Noite slung the stolen shotgun over his shoulder.

They pressed on along the winding trail, the mist now thicker, coiling in spirals like ghostly hands. Smaller insects buzzed around but didn’t attack directly—perhaps the bar’s chaos had distracted the other locals. The air smelled of rotten honey and sulfur, and luminescent mushrooms sprouted from the ground like living lamps, pulsing in hypnotic rhythms that made them dizzy.

After what felt like hours—the time in the Dream Forest was a treacherous illusion—the sound of running water echoed ahead. They emerged onto a muddy bank where a murky river snaked through the vegetation. Bubbles rose to the surface, bursting with an acidic smell, where deformed fish occasionally leaped, their multiple eyes gleaming like fake jewels.

“The river,” Meia-Noite confirmed, pointing left. “Now, the giant mushroom.”

They followed the bank, soon spotting the landmark: a colossal mushroom, house-sized, with a red cap speckled with white spots that pulsed like eyes or veins. Smaller insects crawled at its base, but the group passed quickly, turning left down a narrow trail deeper into the forest.

The trail led to a shadowy clearing where the mist thinned enough to reveal a crude cabin, built of twisted logs and covered in living moss that writhed like delighted larvae on a corpse. Smoke rose from a makeshift chimney, and the air carried a scent of burning wood mixed with something rotten. The doors and windows were irregular, as if the cabin had grown there rather than been built.

“This is it,” Tetanus whispered, stopping behind a tree. He felt the mark on his chest burn intensely, an unmistakable sign that the Black Cube was near. “The woodsman must be inside.”

Gume gripped his axe, muscles tensing. “Want to go in swinging? Or got a better plan?”

Meia-Noite studied the cabin silently, fingers tapping the shotgun. “Let’s scout first. Could be a trap.”

Al-Yasiin chuckled softly. “Trap or not, the cube’s calling. I can feel its energy from here. But be careful. It’s not like I can do much besides cheer for you to screw up.”

Tetanus nodded and crept closer, peering through a cracked window. Inside, a colossal shadow moved in the darkness: definitely the woodsman, a deformed, brutish figure, a massive axe embedded in a table. On the same table, the Black Cube pulsed faintly, casting a shadowy light on the creature’s grotesque face.

“He’s there,” Tetanus murmured, stepping back. “And the cube too…”

The group moved cautiously through the clearing, approaching the cabin like shadows in the dissipating mist. Tetanus led, harpoon raised, followed by Gume with his axe ready for battle, and Meia-Noite at the rear, the stolen shotgun aimed at the irregular windows.

Before they could reach the door, it creaked with a prolonged groan, opening slowly to reveal giant, calloused feet descending the steps.

From within emerged the woodsman, a colossal figure, perhaps two and a half meters tall, so deformed it seemed molded by the forest’s own madness, with purplish, wrinkled skin like rotten tree bark.

He wore only a long, faded purple coat, tattered at the edges, dragging on the ground like a shroud. In one thick hand, he held a rusty axe, its notched blade stained with dark sap, as if it had cut more than wood.

His face was a living nightmare: severely deformed, with a mouth—an irregular, drooling slit filled with crooked teeth—where his eyes should have been, and his eyes—two red, bloodshot orbs without eyelids—inverted on the lower part of his face, blinking out of sync. He was naked beneath the open coat, exposing a broad body, a swollen belly, and a grotesque, long penis swinging freely between his legs, like a living, pulsating root ending in a bulbous, swollen tip.

The woodsman long, black hair fell in greasy strands to his shoulders, tangled with leaves and dead insects, and a thick, matted beard covered what remained of his chin, nearly reaching his chest.

The woodsman stopped at the threshold, staring at the group with those inverted eyes, the “mouth” on top of his head twisting in a guttural sound that seemed like muffled laughter. He said nothing, only tilted his head slightly, as if sizing them up like firewood to chop. Then he began advancing slowly, each step echoing like the creak of old logs, the axe dragging on the ground. His penis swayed with the movement, a repulsive detail that made Gume swallow hard.

“What the hell is this thing?” Gume whispered, his dark face flushing, the giant axe trembling slightly in his hands.

“Doesn’t matter,” Tetanus replied, voice steady, positioning the harpoon for a throw. “He’s between us and the cube. We take him down.”

Meia-Noite aimed the shotgun, finger on the trigger. “Careful. Slow doesn’t mean weak.”

The woodsman stopped a meter from the group, his red eyes glowing with contained fury, the drooling mouth on his head twisting into a snarl.

“GET OUT OF HERE! THIS FOREST ALREADY HAS ENOUGH WORMS!” His voice was a hoarse thunder, laced with an unexpected intelligence for such a grotesque creature. He stood still for a moment, the rusty axe dangling at his side, as if waiting for the group to retreat.

Tetanus, harpoon steady, stared down the monster without backing off. “We’re not going anywhere without the cube,” he said, voice cold but muscles tense for the fight.

Gume gripped the axe handle, ready to strike, while Meia-Noite raised the shotgun, eyes narrowed beneath the black cloth. “Last chance, freak. Step aside.”

The woodsman tilted his head, his long beard dripping with drool. Then, with surprising speed for his size, he raised the axe. “YOU’LL LEAVE HERE IN A BODY BAG!”

Meia-Noite fired, the shot cutting through the air with a boom. The lumberjack, with impossible agility, twisted his body to the side, the bullet hitting a tree behind him, exploding into splinters and luminescent spores.

Without hesitation, he charged, swinging the axe in a brutal arc that sliced the mist like a blade of wind.

The battle erupted into chaos. Tetanus lunged forward, trying to drive the harpoon into the woodsman purplish chest, but the creature was too agile. The monster’s axe came down with force, and Tetanus only had time to partially dodge. The rusty blade struck his left arm with a horrific *crunch*, slicing through muscle and bone in a devastating blow.

Tetanus screamed, searing pain shooting through his body, stumbling back as the harpoon fell from his hands. He looked at his arm, now hanging by threads of flesh and tendon, blood gushing onto the damp earth.

“TETANUS!” Gume roared in desperation, charging with his own axe. The lumberjack spun, blocking the blow with the axe handle, the impact forcing both to stagger back.

Tetanus, vision blurred by pain, clenched his teeth and grabbed his nearly severed arm. With a primal roar, he yanked it off, tossing the bloody limb to the ground. Blood spurted, but he refused to pass out.

“AAAARRRRRRRRGHHHH!” he screamed louder than ever, collapsing to his knees, clutching the stump with his other hand, his face paling.

Meia-Noite, with disturbing calm, seized the distraction. He aimed the shotgun at the woodsman right arm, which held the axe, and pulled the trigger.

The shot exploded the creature’s limb into a shower of purplish flesh and bone shards, the axe flying off and disappearing into the mist. The lumberjack merely grunted, a sound echoing among the trees, his inverted eyes wide with fury and pain.

The air in the clearing grew thick with the stench of blood, rotten sap, and burnt gunpowder. The woodsman, now a mutilated abomination, remained standing, even with his right arm blown to pieces and the axe lost in the mist.

His bulbous, pulsating penis, swinging obscenely between his legs, began to tremble violently, as if it had a life of its own. With a wet, repulsive sound, it detached from the creature’s body, falling to the ground.

Before the group could react, the thing began crawling across the earth, moving like a living creature, its pulsing veins propelling it toward Meia-Noite. Small, slimy tentacles sprouted from its tip, stretching like hungry fingers, reaching for the cangaceiro’s throat.

“What the hell is this?!” Meia-Noite shouted, stepping back as he raised the shotgun. The thing lunged, quick to wrap around his face. The tentacles brushed the black cloth covering his mouth, but Meia-Noite was faster. He pulled the trigger with a deafening *BANG*, the shotgun blasting the creature into a shower of purplish flesh and viscous fluid that splattered the ground and nearby trees. The stench was unbearable, like rotten meat mixed with sulfur.

“SWALLOW THAT!” Meia-Noite yelled, wiping the cloth on his face with a trembling hand as the remains of the monstrous penis twitched on the ground before going still.

Meanwhile, Gume charged the lumberjack with blind fury, his axe swinging in brutal arcs. “DIE, YOU BASTARD!” He landed a devastating blow on the creature’s left shoulder, severing what remained of the arm in a gush of purple blood. The lumberjack staggered but, impossibly, stayed alive, his deformed head snarling as it tried to attack with punches, its crooked teeth snapping in the air.

Tetanus, still on his knees, fought the excruciating pain where his left arm had been. Blood soaked the ground, but he gritted his teeth—this wasn’t the time to die.

Meia-Noite ran to him, tearing a piece of his own coat and wrapping the stump in a makeshift bandage, tying it tightly to stop the bleeding. “Hold on, you bastard! Don’t die now!”

The woodsman drooling mouth snapped, spitting black sap as it grunted with infernal determination. Gume dodged a clumsy attack, the ground shaking with the creature’s impact, and countered, driving his axe into the lumberjack’s purplish chest. The blade sank with a wet sound, but the monster only laughed—a hoarse, gurgling sound.

Tetanus, with superhuman effort, stood, the world spinning in his vision. He grabbed the harpoon with his right hand, ignoring the pain that made him tremble, and limped forward. With a hoarse groan, he drove the harpoon into the woodsman thigh, tearing through muscle and tendon. The creature fell to one knee, finally incapacitated, its body shaking as it tried to rise again.

“FINISH HIM, GUME!” Tetanus shouted, collapsing to the side, his strength nearly gone.

Gume didn’t hesitate. He raised the axe with both hands, muscles bulging with effort, and brought it down repeatedly on the woodsman. Each strike opened deep wounds, spurting purple blood and chunks of flesh that writhed on the ground like living worms.

The monster’s head finally rolled, severed from the body, but its eyes continued to blink for a few seconds before going dark.

Still not satisfied, the woodsman remained alive, even without its head, an immortal determination to keep existing.

Gume spotted a fallen torch near the cabin, likely dropped during the fight. He grabbed it, the flames still alive, and with a roar of fury, plunged it into the woodsman open chest. The fire spread quickly, consuming the purplish flesh with a nauseating hiss. The monster let out a final groan, a sound that seemed to echo from the forest’s depths, before collapsing into a smoldering pile of ash and charred bones.

Tetanus, panting and pale, sat against a tree, the stump still bleeding despite Meia-Noite’s makeshift bandage. Gume, covered in purple blood and sweat, looked at the incinerated body of the woodsman.

“Dead…”

Meia-Noite, wiping the shotgun clean of the penis’s fluid, pointed to the cabin. “Let’s get inside before more shit happens.”

Tetanus nodded, standing with difficulty, supported by Gume. “The cube… we have to get the cube…” he murmured, staggering toward the cabin.

“We’ve got a lot to do, actually!” Al-Yasiin retorted.

Chapter 20: Into the Hillbilly Hell

Fear Island — The Woodsman’s Cabin — 1666

The group burst through the open door of the cabin, the air inside heavy with an oppressive stench—a mix of woodsmoke, smoked meat, and something sweeter, rotten, like fruit decaying in a damp cellar. At first glance, the cabin seemed like the home of a rustic backwoods family: a rough wooden table in the center of the main room, with chipped plates and a rusty pot on a makeshift woodstove; mismatched chairs around it, one with a straw hat hanging on its back; shelves lined with dusty jars of preserves and farming tools leaning against the walls.

But the details revealed a darker, occult nature: symbols carved into the wooden beams, spirals and inverted eyes that seemed to blink in the flickering light of a lantern; human bones dangling from the ceiling as decorations, some still with scraps of dried flesh; and, in the corner, a makeshift altar with melted candles surrounding a deformed skull, stained with dried blood, hinting at cannibalistic rituals where flesh was more than just food.

Tetanus, leaning on Gume’s broad shoulder, staggered inside, his face pale as wax, the stump of his left arm dripping blood despite Meia-Noite’s makeshift bandage. The pain was a constant flame, radiating through his entire body, but he forced his legs to move. “The cube… it’s there,” he murmured, pointing with his good hand to the table, where the Black Cube pulsed faintly, like a sleeping heart wrapped in shadows.

“You first, then the cube,” Gume growled, dragging Tetanus aside, ignoring the artifact for a moment. “This is bleeding too much. Meia-Noite, find something to tie it better!”

Meia-Noite quickly searched the shelves, grabbing a dirty rag—likely a kitchen cloth—and a bottle of something that smelled like strong alcohol, perhaps homemade cachaça mixed with rotten herbs. “Here. This is gonna hurt like hell, but it’ll clean it.” He poured the liquid on the stump, and Tetanus roared in pain, teeth clenched, body writhing.

“Damn it, that burns worse than fire!” Tetanus shouted, sweat streaming down his face. “I can take it… just do it quick!”

Gume, with trembling hands despite his strength, helped wrap the rag around the wound, tying it tightly. “You’re tough as nails, brother. Losing an arm and still standing… but if this doesn’t stop…”

Al-Yasiin, slung at Tetanus’s waist, chuckled softly, his eyes gleaming with malice. “Oh, how dramatic. Lost an arm? Big deal. I lost my whole body and I’m still here, yapping. But careful, maggot—if you die, who’s gonna carry me?”

“Shut up, you decapitated bastard,” Meia-Noite snapped, tightening the bandage further. “He’s not dying. Not here, not now. But we need a place for him to rest. There’s a room in the back.”

They dragged Tetanus down a narrow hallway, passing an open door that revealed more horrors: walls stained with what looked like claw marks from something dragged by force, dried blood, and an even stronger stench of decay.

The “family” room was small and grim, with a straw bed covered in a filthy sheet, a broken dresser, and a cracked window letting in the forest’s mist. Under the bed, something stood out in the dim light: a disfigured female corpse, its pale skin stretched over bones, the face mutilated as if gnawed by animals—or worse, by the woodsman himself. Its empty eyes stared into nothingness, one arm outstretched as if begging for help that never came.

“Shit…” Gume muttered, shoving the corpse further under with his foot to hide it better. “This bastard was a real cannibal. Look at this.”

“Don’t look. Just lay me down already…” Tetanus grunted, collapsing onto the blood-stained bed with a groan, his exhausted body sinking into the uneven mattress. The blood still seeped through the bandage, but slower now. He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing heavily. “Get the cube… keep it safe, don’t leave it there.”

Meia-Noite nodded, heading back to the main room while Gume stayed by Tetanus’s side, keeping watch. “Rest, brother. We’ll handle the rest. If you get worse, I’ll carry you in my arms if I have to.”

Tetanus gave a weak laugh, the pain clouding his vision. “Just… don’t let me die here. There’s still too much shit to deal with…”

Al-Yasiin, now placed on the dresser to “keep watch,” chuckled. “Oh, how touching. Priorities, maggots.”

The group settled as best they could in the grim room, the silence of the forest outside broken only by the distant crackling of the woodsman’s burning body, as Tetanus slipped into a restless sleep. Gume stayed awake through the night, eyes open, watching the surroundings, while Al-Yasiin kept vigil from the dresser, though he didn’t seem to care much.

Tetanus, lying on the filthy straw bed, had sunk into a restless sleep, the pain in his stump pulsing in waves that mingled with the weight of exhaustion. Al-Yasiin, on the dresser, kept his eyes open, their malicious gleam reflecting the lantern’s faint light, as if mocking the others’ suffering even in silence.

Meia-Noite, however, couldn’t sleep. His senses, honed by years of fighting, picked up something wrong in the air. He rose suddenly, shotgun gripped tightly, the black cloth over his face adjusted to muffle any sound of breathing. The room was dark, except for the yellowish light leaking through the cracked window, illuminating the disfigured corpse that had fallen from under the bed, its presence mocking their attempt at rest. Gume was snoring, Tetanus murmured in his troubled sleep, and Al-Yasiin merely watched, saying nothing.

A low, rhythmic sound echoed through the cabin—*tap, tap, tap*—like heavy footsteps dragging something across the wooden floor.

Meia-Noite stood alert, his eyes narrowing beneath the cloth. He moved silently, like a shadow, shotgun raised as he followed the sound down the narrow hallway.

He passed through the main room, its dim light dancing on walls covered in occult symbols. He noticed crooked portraits of saints hanging on the walls, their faces disfigured, their eyes painted to seem like they watched passersby. In the corner of the makeshift kitchen, pieces of human flesh—arms, legs, a headless torso—were scattered among trash, gnawed bones, and cracked jars of preserves, the stench of rot nearly making him gag beneath the cloth.

The sound of footsteps came again, clearer now, from outside.

Meia-Noite carefully opened the cabin door, shotgun ready, stepping into the mist-shrouded clearing. The forest around seemed alive, the trees’ eyes blinking in sync, as if conspiring.

A few meters ahead stood a black goat, motionless, its cross-eyed red eyes glowing like embers in the darkness. The creature stared at him for a long moment, head tilted, before slowly turning and trotting into the forest, its hooves echoing in the mist.

Meia-Noite hesitated, but something in the goat’s gaze—an unnatural intelligence—compelled him to follow. He advanced, senses sharp, navigating the twisted vegetation.

The branches seemed to bend to touch his cloth, and the mist clung to his ankles like invisible hands. The goat moved quickly, always ahead, its dark back nearly blending with the forest’s shadows. Meia-Noite sped up, ignoring the growing unease in his chest.

Suddenly, the ground beneath his feet gave way.

A sharp crack echoed, and the earth opened like a hungry mouth. Meia-Noite tried to grab a nearby branch, but it was too late. He fell into a shallow but deadly pit, lined with wooden spikes sharp as blades. They pierced his body in multiple places—

Chest,

Abdomen,

Legs—

Tearing through the cloth with cruel precision. Blood gushed, mixing with the damp earth. Meia-Noite let out a silent scream, blood flooding the inside of his rag mask and dripping to the ground. His eyes lost their spark as life drained away, the black goat watching impassively from above before vanishing into the mist.

Meanwhile, in the cabin, Tetanus was trapped in a nightmare.

In his dream, he saw the woodsman, still alive, his purplish skin pulsing like an exposed heart. The creature held him with impossibly large hands, its inverted eyes gleaming with malign lust.

Tetanus felt the monster’s weight against his body, its grotesque penis pressing intrusively, attempting to violate his anus, while the drooling mouth laughed and whispered unintelligible words. Tetanus tried to fight the sensation, but his arms—now only one—had no strength, and the pain in his stump mingled with the horror of being violated.

Even accustomed to the feeling, the trauma of feeling defiled from within was overwhelming, and nothing could cleanse it.

Never. Never. Never…

The nightmare was so vivid he could smell the rotten sap and the semen leaking out as his insides tried to resist. The woodsman’s guttural moans mixed with Tetanus’s pained grunts.

Suddenly, Tetanus saw himself in his own dream, watching himself being violated in the third person, and in his peripheral vision, a familiar face he’d tried to bury for years.

He saw Father Arture, multiple smooth, filthy faces surrounding him. Even as he tried to ignore them, he couldn’t—the face followed him from every angle.

“Tetanus! Wake up, damn it!” Gume’s voice cut through the nightmare, and Tetanus opened his eyes, panting, body drenched in cold sweat. The faint light of dawn filtered through the cracked window, illuminating the grim room. Gume was beside him, prodding him with the axe handle, his expression worried. “You were screaming, brother. What the hell was that?”

Tetanus took a deep breath, the pain in his stump now a numbing burn. He touched the wound, feeling the absence of his arm like an inexplicable void.

“Just… a bad dream,” he murmured, voice hoarse. His stomach growled loudly, a cruel reminder that he hadn’t eaten in a while. He sat up with difficulty, head spinning, and glanced at the bag beside the bed. The Black Cube was there, pulsing softly, safe. He sighed, relieved, but Meia-Noite’s absence made him frown.

“Where’s the cangaceiro?”

Gume looked around, confused. “He was here when I fell asleep. Probably went to piss or something.”

Al-Yasiin, still on the dresser, spoke in a serious tone. “Doubt it. He’s not the type to abandon gold… or the cube.”

Tetanus stood, leaning against the wall, dizziness threatening to topple him. “Let’s look for him… it’s true… he wouldn’t just vanish.”

They left the room, Gume carrying the axe over his shoulder and Tetanus leaving the harpoon behind—he lacked the strength to carry it and still didn’t feel well enough. The cabin was silent, except for the dripping of something wet in the kitchen corner, where pieces of human flesh lay scattered.

The stench of rot was overwhelming, rivaling the worst taverns and filthy alleys Tetanus had known in his travels.

They exited the kitchen, the stench of decay even stronger in the “sunlight” of the dead day—a sickly sweet mix of decomposing flesh, mold, and something metallic, like old blood. The main room was as they’d left it, a scene of domestic horror frozen in time.

Then Gume kicked an old armchair in the corner, making it creak and shift forward. “Check this out.”

Beneath the armchair, hidden by a worn, stained rug, was a heavy wooden trapdoor, secured by a rusty bolt. The strongest stench of rot seemed to emanate from there.

“What the hell is this?” Gume muttered, covering his nose with his arm.

“Only one way to find out,” Tetanus said, his stomach churning again, but a steely determination taking hold. Maybe Meia-Noite was down there, injured—or worse.

Gume looked at him, worried. “You good for this, brother?”

“No choice…” Tetanus grabbed a short knife they’d found in the kitchen—a stained, dull blade, but better than nothing—and tucked it into his belt. “Open it.”

Gume forced the bolt with a metallic creak and pulled up the heavy trapdoor. An unbearable stench exploded outward, so dense it felt physical. It was the smell of death in its purest, most concentrated form—carrion, shit, semen, and despair.

Tetanus gagged, stepping back. Gume vomited on the floor, spitting out what little was in his stomach.

“Fuck…” he coughed, eyes watering. “What the hell’s down there?”

Gume lit a lantern from the table, its flickering flame barely illuminating the darkness below. A steep, rotten wooden staircase descended into a black abyss.

“MEIA-NOITE!” Gume shouted, his voice echoing in the void below. “You there?”

Only silence answered, followed by the sound of labored breathing and a wet dragging noise.

Tetanus descended first, carefully, the steps creaking under his weight. Gume followed close behind, axe ready.

The Beast’s Basement

Tetanus descended the creaking staircase cautiously, each step groaning as if it might collapse at any moment. Gume came behind, jumping lightly onto the last step to avoid breaking the fragile stairs with his bulk, landing with a thud that echoed in the small, claustrophobic basement.

The stench was indescribably foul—a reek that seemed to clutch the soul and twist it. Both tied torn rags over their noses, but the fabric did little against the rot permeating the air.

The basement was a cramped space, its damp walls covered in black mold and something that looked like pulsing, living flesh in the cracks. The floor was sticky mud, speckled with broken bones, scraps of dried skin, and dark stains that could be blood or worse. The lantern’s light flickered, casting distorted shadows that seemed to move on their own.

Tetanus gripped the knife tightly, his eyes scanning for any sign of Meia-Noite, while Gume held the axe over his shoulder and the lantern in his other hand, his face twisted in disgust, a rag tied over his mouth and nose.

“This is worse than hell’s asshole, so damn cramped… what a nightmare…” Gume muttered, voice muffled by the rag. “Meia-Noite’s not here, Tetanus. Let’s go back.”

“Not until we’re sure,” Tetanus replied, voice hoarse, moving forward carefully. His feet sank into the fetid mud, something crunching under his boots.

Then the lantern’s light revealed a message on the wall, written in dried blood, the letters crooked and uneven, as if scrawled by trembling fingers:

“I lay with the black goat; he filled my insides more than any man, more than my husband. I tasted his seed. I let the beast corrupt me…”

Tetanus stopped, his stomach churning as he read it. “What the fuck is this?” he whispered, the mark on his chest pulsing as if responding to the profanity of those words.

Gume stepped closer, eyes wide. “She… fucked a goat?” He nearly retched, trying to shake off the disgust. “This family’s more fucked up than I thought…”

Further along, another wall bore equally disturbing messages, also in blood: “He was more man than you ever were. Twice the size, to be exact.” And, in larger, almost triumphant letters: “It was the best fuck of my life!”

“Goddamn, these people are sick,” Gume said, voice trembling with a mix of rage and disbelief. “This is pure devil shit.”

They pressed on, the basement opening into an even smaller adjacent room, where the lantern revealed a scene frozen in horror.

Seated in a rotten wooden chair was the corpse of an old woman, likely the woodsman’s wife. Her skin was gray and wrinkled, her eyes sunken in dark orbits, her mouth open in a silent scream. She wore a tattered, blood-stained dress, her bony hands clutching a broken rosary, fingers curled like claws. The floor around her was covered in black feathers and hoofprints, as if something had circled the chair before her death.

“This just keeps getting worse,” Tetanus murmured, approaching cautiously. He noticed a worn leather diary on a makeshift table nearby, surrounded by melted candles forming an irregular circle. Near the diary was a framed portrait of the woodsman—his face from when he was a normal human being, but still sinister, his eyes completely obscured, his beard long and black, his long hair pulled back...

The diary seemed to pulse with a malevolent energy, as if it were an extension of the island’s madness.

Gume picked up the diary, hesitant, and began flipping through its yellowed pages. The handwriting was sloppy, written in haste and despair, but legible enough. He read aloud, voice trembling:

“The beast of the night came. A black goat with eyes that burn like embers. It invaded our home, our lives. My wife… she gave herself to it. Said it was more man than I’d ever be. It fucked her womb, corrupted her soul. I saw her moan like a whore, laughing as the beast took her. My manhood was stolen. My daughter… I couldn’t take it. Rage consumed me. I violated her, broke her innocence, and then killed her with my own hands. My wife, shamed, slit her own throat. I can’t bear it anymore. The forest calls me. I’ll hang myself from the tallest tree, where her eyes can see me.”

Gume slammed the diary shut, face pale. “This bastard… he… his daughter, and his wife killed herself because of it. And this goat… what the hell is this goat?”

Tetanus stared at the woman’s corpse, the mark on his chest burning with an intensity that made him grit his teeth. “Maybe this goat’s tied to Meia-Noite’s disappearance. He’s not here, but these hoofprints…” He pointed to marks in the basement’s mud, leading to a seemingly solid wall. “There’s more here.”

Al-Yasiin, tied to Tetanus’s waist with Gume’s help, let out a fiery sigh. “That goat doesn’t sound like just some animal that likes married women. Could be a servant of the God of Vermin or maybe the Trickster God—seems his type. This island’s their chessboard, and you’re the pieces. Meia-Noite probably fell into a trap.”

Tetanus clenched his single fist, knife still in hand. “Then we go after him. We don’t leave anyone behind.”

Gume nodded, eyes brimming with tears. “And you, Tetanus? You’re half-dead. How’re you gonna keep going?”

“I’ll manage,” Tetanus replied, voice firm despite his weakness. He grabbed the diary and stuffed it into the bag with the Black Cube, which pulsed as if responding to the touch. “Let’s get back outside. Digging deeper is our best lead.”

Tetanus and Gume emerged from the basement, the stench of death still clinging to their clothes and noses, leaving behind the intimate horror and stepping into the clearing around the cabin.

Gume was doing him a favor, carrying the bag with the Black Cube and the woodsman’s diary. Al-Yasiin, tied to Tetanus’s waist, kept a rare silence, his eyes fixed on the forest as if expecting something to emerge from the shadows.

Outside the cabin, Gume spotted the woodsman’s rusty axe, tossed in a corner of the ground, its blade still stained with Tetanus’s blood.

He bent to pick it up, testing its weight. It was a one-handed weapon, lighter than his own axe, with a short handle and a blade that, despite the rust, still cut with deadly ease—Tetanus knew that the hard way.

“Here. This might come in handy,” Gume murmured, handing the woodsman’s axe to Tetanus, who took it with a nod, the pain in his stump a reminder of the price paid.

“Let’s find Meia-Noite,” Tetanus said, voice hoarse, pointing to the hoofprints and boot tracks mingling in the clearing’s damp earth. The marks led into the forest, vanishing among the twisted trunks. “He wouldn’t disappear without a reason.”

Gume slung his own axe and the lantern at his waist, his cracked and worn armor from the kraken fight hanging in pieces, offering little protection. “If he fell into a trap, we’ll need to be careful.”

They followed the tracks, the forest around them pulsing with a malevolent energy. After a few minutes, the trail led to a pit hidden by leaves and mist, a cruel trap lined with wooden spikes sharp as knives. At the bottom, among the bloodied spikes, lay the body of Meia-Noite—or what should have been Meia-Noite.

Tetanus and Gume stopped at the edge, looking down, stomachs churning. There was no real physical body. What remained was a pile of rags, the cloth covering his face torn and hanging, revealing… nothing. Beneath the clothes, there was no flesh, no bones—just a vague silhouette and what should have been blood on the ground, like a solid shadow that dissolved into smoke when touched by light. The cangaceiro’s hat, still intact, was caught on a spike, stained with dried blood.

“What the fuck…?” Gume whispered, eyes wide. “He… wasn’t human?”

Tetanus clenched his fist, the pain in his stump forgotten for a moment. “I don’t know what he was. But he was still one of us.”

Tetanus carefully descended into the pit, ignoring the dizziness, and retrieved Meia-Noite’s hat. He searched the rags, looking for anything useful. He found a folded, yellowed, stained document hidden in a secret compartment in the hat—the same sealed letter with the governor’s crest, filled with coded notes Meia-Noite had partially deciphered. “This… is what he was giving his life for. Evidence to take down the governor.”

Gume looked at the document, confused. “So he died for this?”

“No,” Tetanus said, folding the letter and tucking it into the bag with the Black Cube. “He died for this island. But we’ll finish what he started. For him.”

Al-Yasiin remained silent, watching with a strange glint in his eyes…

“I’ll miss the rag-face. But no time for moping. We move on!”

They followed the goat’s tracks, which continued beyond the pit, winding through the forest. This time, they stepped with extra care. After a tense walk, they found the black goat. This time, it seemed… ordinary.

A generic goat, with short horns and cross-eyed yellow eyes that lacked the malign intelligence from before. It grazed among mutant mushrooms, ignoring the group.

Tetanus, without hesitation, drew the woodsman’s axe. “Fresh meat,” he murmured, advancing.

The goat stood still, naively, seeming to stare at Tetanus with a mocking gaze. With a single blow, Tetanus decapitated it, the head falling with a wet thud. The body collapsed, black blood oozing, absorbed by the forest’s hungry earth.

Gume picked up the decapitated animal’s body, slinging it over his shoulder. “At least we eat today.” He sheathed his giant axe on his back, the cracked armor creaking with the movement.

Meia-Noite’s absence now weighed like a shadow. Tetanus, Gume, and Al-Yasiin kept walking, searching for a safe place to camp and eat. The forest seemed quieter now, as if satisfied with the sacrifice.

After hours of walking, with the pale sun beginning to set in the sickly yellow sky, they spotted a clearing in the distance where human figures moved.

A tribe of natives, their skin painted with marks reminiscent of the Old Gods’ symbols, watched the group cautiously.

Tetanus and Gume raised their hands in a gesture of peace, considering everything. They approached slowly. The natives, armed with wooden spears and bows, exchanged glances and whispers when they saw the decapitated black goat on Gume’s broad shoulder. The tribe’s leader, a tall man with black feathers in his long hair forming a sinister arc, red ritual scars on his chest, stepped forward. His eyes fixed on the goat, and he murmured something in an unknown tongue before bowing, pointing to the trail ahead.

“They’re… letting us pass?” Gume asked, confused.

Al-Yasiin chuckled softly. “Looks like the goat was a problem for them. Probably a servant of the Trickster God, like I said. You killed a local demon. Congrats, you’re officially heroes to a bunch of naked natives now.”

Tetanus said nothing, only nodding to the leader, who returned a look of respect. The group passed through the clearing, the trail leading them deeper into the colony of encampments. The feeling of ancestral eyes on them weighed on their souls.

Native Encampment

The clearing where the tribe was settled was an oasis of order amid the cursed forest’s chaos. Straw and wooden huts were arranged in a circle, with campfires crackling in the center, casting dancing shadows on the natives’ painted faces.

The indigenous people moved with predatory grace, their eyes gleaming with curiosity and caution. Some carried baskets of strange, glowing fruits, while others sharpened spears or wove ropes from luminescent plant fibers. The air smelled of smoke, burnt herbs, and roasting meat—a relief after the forest’s constant stench.

Tetanus, Gume, and Al-Yasiin were led to the center of the encampment, where the leader, a tall, muscular man, awaited, his scars glowing in the firelight. He held a carved staff pulsing with symbols. Beside him stood a young woman, his daughter, named “Slender Moon.” She was strikingly beautiful, with bronze-polished skin, deep purple eyes that seemed to hold ancient secrets, and long black hair with unpigmented braids woven with colorful feathers.

Her clothing, made of leather and woven fibers, clung to a lithe, strong body, drawing looks that Tetanus tried, with little success, to ignore. She stared at him with a mix of fascination and challenge, as if sizing him up.

Meanwhile, two tribe warriors took the decapitated black goat from Gume’s shoulder and began preparing it over an adjacent fire, rubbing luminescent herbs into the sizzling meat, releasing a surprisingly appetizing aroma. Other natives watched, whispering among themselves, clearly relieved by the creature’s death.

Tetanus, with the woodsman’s axe ready to draw near the short knife at his belt, approached the leader, ignoring the dizziness still plaguing him. The stump throbbed less, but he kept his posture firm. “Thanks for the passage,” he said, voice hoarse but respectful. “But we can’t stay. We have business off this island. We need to leave.”

The leader, whose war name was “Stone Claw,” tilted his head, his dark eyes gleaming with supernatural intelligence. “You killed the Black Goat, a monster that haunted our people for generations. It stole our children, defiled our women, poisoned our waters. For that, you are welcome here.” He paused, pointing to a larger hut in the back. “Stay tonight. Eat, rest. But leaving Fear Island… that takes time.”

Gume, already surrounded by warriors offering bottles of a greenish liquor that smelled of fermented sap, let out a loud laugh, clearly oblivious to the situation’s weight. “If there’s booze, I’m staying!” He took a swig, coughed, and laughed louder, slapping a native’s back so hard he nearly fell. His cracked armor clinked with the movement, but he didn’t seem to care, lost in camaraderie.

Tetanus frowned, ignoring Gume’s cheer. “How long to get out of here?” he asked the leader.

Stone Claw sat by the fire, inviting Tetanus to join him. Slender Moon stayed by her father’s side, her purple eyes fixed on Tetanus’s long, purple hair, falling in messy strands over his shoulders. The natives whispered among themselves, pointing at him—his toned abdomen, visible through his torn shirt, and his single gleaming eye, reflecting the firelight like a flame. To them, Tetanus was more than a man; he was almost a divine figure, a demon-slayer with an aura echoing their cultural myths.

“We can build a boat,” Stone Claw explained, voice deep. “I’ll gather our best warriors and craftsmen. The island doesn’t like being abandoned. And there’s a price.” He paused, eyes narrowing. “A Quibungo, a massive monster—” he gestured upward with his hands—“with a mouth on its back, has been stealing our children, devouring them beyond the forest. Kill the Quibungo, and we’ll ensure your escape.”

“Deal done… anything to get out of this place…” Tetanus murmured, his good hand touching the axe’s handle. “This cursed island’s taken too much from us already.”

Stone Claw nodded, satisfied. “You’ll have food, shelter, and protection tonight. Slender Moon will guide you to the hut.” He looked at his daughter, who gave a slight smile, her purple eyes gleaming with what might have been interest in Tetanus.

Gume, half-drunk, raised his bottle in a toast. “Damn, Tetanus, they treat you like a god! And what am I? The divine warrior?” He laughed, pounding his chest, as the natives around him laughed too, impressed by his strength and carefree attitude.

Slender Moon approached Tetanus, her voice soft but firm. “You’re different. Especially you.” She slid her smooth hand through his hair and across his cheek. “The elders say a one-eyed man carries the gaze of the gods. And you killed the Black Goat. That’s no small feat… truly.”

Tetanus gave a tired half-smile, too exhausted to respond with charm. “I just want off this island. And to finish what my friend started.”

Night fell as the encampment came alive with drums and native chants. The black goat, now roasted, was served on wooden plates, the meat surprisingly tasty, seasoned with herbs. Gume mingled with the warriors, drinking and telling exaggerated stories, while Tetanus, guided by Slender Moon, was led to a simple but clean hut with sleeping hammocks and a small fire. Al-Yasiin was placed on a shelf, grumbling about “partying maggots.”

The Hut

Inside the hut, the outside world—the drums, chants, Gume’s laughter—became a distant murmur. The air was warm and thick with the scent of the central fire’s smoke and dried herbs hanging from the ceiling. A hammock of natural fibers hung in a corner, inviting.

Slender Moon moved with fluid grace, filling two gourds with a thick, slightly cloudy liquid from a clay jug. “Manioc wine,” she explained, handing one to Tetanus. “Helps you sleep. And forget…”

Tetanus took the gourd, his fingers brushing hers briefly. Her skin was soft as velvet, a stark contrast to his own calloused, wounded hand. He took a sip. The drink was sweet and earthy, with an alcoholic burn that warmed his throat.

“You fight like a demon from ancient myths,” she said, her purple eyes roaming his body, lingering on the bandaged stump. “Does the pain not consume you?”

“It does,” Tetanus admitted, taking another, larger sip. The wine began to soften the sharp edges of his pain and exhaustion. “But I can’t stop. Never.”

She stepped closer, raising a hand to touch his face, her fingers tracing his jawline, removing the band covering his eye. His scar cut through his eyebrow and ended where his other eye should have been.

“There’s a storm inside you. I can feel it,” her voice a hypnotic whisper. “The God of War and the God of Death vie for your spirit.”

Tetanus didn’t respond. Instead, his good hand found her hip, pulling her gently closer. The tension between them was palpable, charged with curiosity and a primal attraction beyond words.

He buried his face in her hair, breathing in her scent of smoke, earth, and something floral and wild.

Slender Moon didn’t play coy. Her hands explored the tense muscles of his back, the grooves of old scars, the texture of his sweaty skin. She slid her fingers over his defined abdomen, feeling the strength contained there, before her hand found the hot, pulsing mark on his chest.

“This…” she whispered, eyes wide. “This is ancient, a key…”

“It’s a curse. That’s what it is,” Tetanus replied, voice hoarse from the alcohol and her closeness.

“Everything’s a curse or a blessing, depending on who holds the knife’s handle,” she countered, kissing the mark through his dirty clothing.

She guided him to the hammock. The manioc wine coursed through Tetanus’s veins, clouding his mind, dulling the pain, amplifying every sensation. The world narrowed to the hammock’s gentle sway, the warmth of her body against his, the sweet, earthy taste of the wine on her lips.

He kissed her with a hunger that surprised even himself, a hunger not just for flesh but for connection, for a moment of oblivion in this nightmare. His single hand gripped the fabric of her scant clothing, pulling with desperate urgency.

Slender Moon laughed softly, a vibrant, sensual sound. “Haste is the enemy of pleasure, one-eyed warrior.” She pushed him back into the hammock, climbing over him. “Let the moon take care of you…”

She was methodical in her exploration, unraveling his tense muscles with her hands and mouth, drinking from his skin as if he were a rare spring. The wine made his head spin, the pain a distant throb, overshadowed by the pleasure she drew from him with an almost otherworldly skill.

In the drunkenness and ecstasy, Tetanus felt his defenses crumble. For a few hours, there was no Fear Island, no Black Cube, no corrupt governor, no lost friends. Only the hammock’s sway, the fire’s warmth, the taste of wine on a woman with plum-colored eyes, and the sound of his own ragged breathing mingling with hers.

With the wine coursing through their veins and desire growing within her, Slender Moon shed her woven garments slowly, each movement calculated to ignite Tetanus’s imagination and libido.

Her fine fiber dress fell in perfect folds onto the hammock, revealing the dark, silky skin of her spine, the low neckline of her right breast. She loosened her black hair, letting it fall in disordered white waves over her shoulders.

Tetanus followed each gesture with a dry mouth, his single eye fixed on the native’s body. The sight of her, once again clad only in the light of the fire, stunned him. Her full, pale lips, her soft, high breasts, the dark line of her navel—all conspired against his resistance.

As she leaned toward him, her free hand reached for the waistband of his pants, freeing his member with a smooth motion. The fabric slid to his ankles, leaving the hero’s penis exposed and hardened.

Slender Moon showed no hint of embarrassment. Instead, she leaned closer and gave a gentle lick to the tip of his erection, circling her tongue before sucking lightly.

Tetanus nearly exploded in her mouth; he’d never felt pleasure like this before. The sensation of this native taking him with her tongue and teeth was too intense to process, leaving him speechless, only hoarse moans echoing through the hut’s walls.

With a mischievous smile, she released his cock from her mouth, only to straddle him with a fluid motion.

Slender Moon’s hairy vagina engulfed Tetanus’s entire length in one smooth stroke, eliciting a moan of pleasure and shock from him. She began to move atop him, rising and falling with a sensual rhythm that took his breath away.

The soft, warm texture of her pussy enveloped his cock perfectly, the gentle hairs against his skin and the intense heat radiating from within making his blood boil. He could feel every inch of her depths being massaged, stimulated by the way she enveloped and squeezed him with each movement.

Slender Moon began to rock faster, her hips colliding with force at each thrust. She placed her hands on Tetanus’s shoulders and leaned in to kiss him, her tongue invading his mouth with a demand matching the relentless movements on his penis.

Tetanus was lost in a sea of pleasure, his mind clouded by drunkenness and the ecstasy Slender Moon inspired in him. He gripped her hips with his good hand, helping her move with more intensity, desperate for more of the euphoric feeling she gave him.

His orgasm approached rapidly, fueled by the combination of the wine, her beauty, and the pleasure she provided. He knew he wouldn’t last much longer before exploding inside her tight, hot pussy. And in that moment, there was nothing in the world he desired more than to feel the heat of their fluids mingling as she used him as an instrument of pleasure.

Without warning, Tetanus sat up, pushing and forcing Slender Moon onto all fours before him. He knelt behind her, his fingers exploring her round ass with enough force to make her moan.

He spread her wide thighs, opening her scalding pussy even further. Then, with a swift thrust, he began to penetrate, feeling the soft, wet texture of her insides envelop him like a glove.

Slender Moon moaned loudly, her hips moving involuntarily in search of more pressure and stimulation. Tetanus began to thrust, pounding against her with increasing force, each stroke deeper and more intense than the last.

His face was pressed against her nape, their breaths synchronized, each gasp and moan echoing in the enclosed hut. He could feel her heat rising, the tension in her abdomen building as she neared climax.

With a final sequence of rapid, powerful thrusts, Tetanus reached his limit. His orgasm erupted inside the native’s pussy, hot, thick jets of cum flooding her insides and dripping down her thighs. He gripped her back tightly, biting the soft skin of her neck to muffle his cries of pleasure as he ejaculated deep within her.

Slender Moon trembled, her own orgasm overtaking her, the internal contractions of her womb massaging Tetanus’s cock still inside her. She stayed on all fours, her muscles relaxed and sweaty, her breathing heavy and irregular, until the last waves of pleasure passed.

Finally, Tetanus withdrew his wet, swollen cock from Slender Moon’s pussy, watching with satisfaction as the remnants of his semen slowly dripped back onto her skin. He stood, helping her up as well, both stumbling after the intense sexual activity.

Without a word, they settled side by side in the hammock, the heat of their bodies and the scent of sweat-soaked skin creating an intimate, sensual atmosphere. Tetanus rested his head on Slender Moon’s shoulder, listening to her racing heart beating against her chest.

At some point during the long, drowsy vigil that followed, Tetanus fell asleep, his breathing becoming steady and heavy. Slender Moon stayed awake longer, watching the sleeping man beside her and reflecting on what had happened.

She didn’t know exactly when she’d started to like him, but now, with the faint light of dawn illuminating his face, she realized her affection had grown into something deeper.

Chapter 21: The Mind Lies

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.

Chapter 22: Femboy Issues

Fear Island — Native Encampment — 1666

The central clearing of the encampment was shrouded in reverent silence, broken only by the crackling of bonfires and the low, ritualistic chant of the elders. The sky seemed to bend over the tribe, as if the Old Gods themselves were watching what was to come.

The natives formed a circle around Tetanus, who stood in the center. Gume, still bandaged across his chest, watched from the side, leaning on his trusty axe, a proud smile on his face. Al-Yasiin, strapped to Tetanus’s waist, remained unusually silent, its eyes gleaming with a mix of sarcasm and curiosity.

The tribe’s elders, led by an elderly woman, began the ritual. They scattered glowing herb ashes on the ground, forming patterns resembling the eyes of the forest trees. Skin drums echoed in a slow, deep rhythm, like the pulse of an ancient heart.

The woman raised a crown made of animal teeth and black feathers, placing it on Tetanus’s head. “You slew the Black Goat and the Quibungo, demons that haunted us for generations,” she proclaimed, her hoarse voice heavy with authority. “You bear the gaze of the gods, oh one-eyed warrior. Today, we name you the Demon Slayer, guardian of the midnight army.”

The warriors raised their spears, shouting in unison, a sound that made the surrounding forest tremble. Tetanus, though exhausted and weighed down by so many losses, bowed his head in respect, feeling the mark on his chest pulse with an energy he couldn’t tell was a blessing or a curse.

Then, a black crow with eyes red as embers descended from the sky and perched on his head, its light claws gently sinking into his purple braids. The tribe fell silent, eyes wide. Even Al-Yasiin held its tongue, watching with an intrigued glint.

“A sign,” the woman whispered, her eyes fixed on the crow. “The Old Gods acknowledge you. You carry death and life, Demon Slayer.”

Tetanus didn’t know what to say. The weight of the crown, the crow, the tribe’s gazes—it all seemed to crush him, but he stood firm.

“I’m no god… I refuse godhood. I’m just a man who wants off this island,” he said, voice steady. “And I’m taking my comrade with me.” He pointed to Gume, who raised his bottle of greenish liquor in a mocking toast.

The natives, still reeling from the ritual, sprang into action at Tetanus’s command. “Build a boat. Strong, fast, able to withstand the sea. The tall warrior and I are leaving.” He glanced at the forest, where the trees’ eyes stared back, as if mocking his haste. “And quickly.”

The tribe’s warriors and craftsmen mobilized swiftly, cutting sturdy tree trunks and weaving ropes from luminescent fibers. Over the next few days, as the boat took shape, Tetanus and Gume rested, ate, and regained strength with the tribe’s food. Tetanus trained with renewed vigor, eager for what lay ahead.

On the final day before departure, as the boat was completed on the coast, an elder approached Tetanus. Called Smiling Jaguar, he had an otherworldly appearance: skin wrinkled like tree bark, pupil-less white eyes. He pulled Tetanus into an isolated hut, away from the tribe’s curious gazes.

Inside, he opened a hidden chest beneath the floor. Among bones and relics lay an elongated, alien-like skull, with overlarge orbits and a texture that seemed to pulse under the light.

“Stone Claw kept this,” Smiling Jaguar said, his voice a dry whisper. “He said it came from the sky, before the island was cursed. You carry the Black Cube. Maybe you’ll know what to do with it…”

Tetanus touched the skull, feeling an unnatural cold run through his hand. He didn’t know what it was, but the mark on his chest burned, as if recognizing something. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he murmured, promising nothing. He stored the skull in his bag, feeling the weight of secrets he didn’t understand.

Before leaving, Tetanus visited the hut where Slender Moon was recovering. She lay in a hammock, her body still frail, but her purple eyes gleaming with renewed strength. The tribe’s women had cared for her, but the marks of violence were still visible on her skin and in the shadows under her eyes. When Tetanus entered, she forced herself to sit up, her black-and-white hair falling over her shoulders.

“You’re leaving,” she said, her tone one of sad resignation.

Tetanus knelt beside her, his eye meeting hers. “I have to go. There are important things I need to do out there, for all of us.” He touched her hand gently. “But I’ll come back. I promise.”

Slender Moon gripped his hand tightly. “Stay,” she whispered, eyes welling. “The island is cruel, but you’re strong. We can rebuild, together.”

Tetanus hesitated, his heart heavy, but his goal of finding his friends or their whereabouts was stronger. He leaned in and kissed her, slow and full of promises he hoped to keep. “I’ll come back,” he repeated, standing.

On the coast, the boat was ready: a sturdy vessel of reinforced logs and luminescent ropes, built to carry Tetanus, Gume, and their few possessions, designed especially to bear their weight, which may have delayed its construction. Gume, recovered enough to walk, carried his giant axe and a bottle of liquor given as a farewell gift. Al-Yasiin, silent for a long time, finally spoke: “FINALLY!!! MAGGOTS!!! I couldn’t stand this FILTHY island and these tree-hugging naked natives anymore!!!”

The natives sang a farewell hymn, drums echoing as Tetanus and Gume’s boat drifted from the island, an island that had taken more than just a battle comrade. Tetanus looked back one last time, seeing Slender Moon on the beach, her purple eyes fixed on him. He raised his hand in farewell, and she returned the gesture, a lone figure against the sickly horizon.

The raft cut through the gray sea waves, propelled by winds that finally seemed favorable. Fear Island became a distant blot on the horizon, a black, menacing silhouette gradually dissolving into the sea mist. The crow, perched on Tetanus’s head during departure, took flight with a hoarse caw and vanished toward the mainland, its symbolic mission seemingly complete.

The days of travel were marked by heavy silence, broken only by the waves’ sway, Gume’s groans as he adjusted to his broken ribs’ pain, and Al-Yasiin’s occasional remarks about the shoddy quality of native shipbuilding.

Tetanus stayed at the stern, his gaze fixed on the northeastern horizon drawing closer. The crown of black feathers now rested in his bag, a trio of cursed artifacts heavier than any treasure. The memory of Slender Moon on the beach, her purple eyes full of pain and hope, haunted him. The promise he’d made to return echoed in his thoughts, perhaps a thread of humanity amid the whirlwind of violence and darkness his life had become.

When the Bahian coast finally appeared, it wasn’t with the wild beauty of postcards. It was a dirty line of polluted mangroves, ramshackle fishermen’s huts, and the unmistakable stench of rotten fish, open sewage, and imperial decay.

“Welcome back to the Empire, I guess,” Gume grumbled, spitting into the water. “Smells even worse than I remembered.”

They docked on a deserted beach, far from the prying eyes of port authorities. The raft was abandoned to the tides, a wooden relic of an island they’d rather forget.

The first village they reached was a mirror of colonial Brazil’s neglect. Children with swollen bellies and empty eyes played in the mud. Portuguese guards patrolled, while men with sun-scarred, hunger-marked faces mended nets with deformed fingers. Women, aged beyond their years, carried water jugs on their heads. Oppression hung heavy, a palpable mantle over all.

The Kingdom’s rot hadn’t changed. If anything, it had festered further.

“Looks like the governor and his pals are still having fun,” Gume observed, his gaze darkening as he saw drunken Portuguese soldiers stumbling out of a filthy tavern, laughing loudly and shoving a child to the ground.

Tetanus said nothing. He pulled the hood of his tattered doublet over his scarred face and distinctive purple hair. His single hand tightened on the woodsman’s axe handle, now his constant weapon.

Now on solid ground, it was time to pursue their goals. They needed information—any rumors, news of the governor, clues about the whereabouts of their friends, Zara, Lâmina, or any other survivor of their band.

Their first stop was a decaying warehouse by the sea, where the smell of salt, cheap rum, and sweat was as thick as Fear Island’s fog. Shady men played cards at a chipped table, their eyes sizing up the newcomers with suspicion and greed.

Tetanus approached the counter, where a fat, sweaty man scrutinized them with dead-fish eyes.

“Rum,” Tetanus ordered, voice a low hiss. “And news.”

The warehouse man poured cloudy amber liquid into a dirty glass. “News is expensive, friend. As expensive as a missing arm, I’d say.” His eyes fixed on Tetanus’s stump with a mix of curiosity and disdain.

Gume stepped forward, his massive presence filling the small space. “And tongues are free, you piece of shit. But if you prefer, we can negotiate with my axe.” He tapped the giant axe blade on his shoulder.

The man swallowed hard, courage draining from his face. “Easy, mates… what kind of news you looking for?”

Tetanus leaned forward, his yellow eye fixed on the man. “The governor. Salvador. And anyone who’s caused him trouble lately.”

The man glanced around nervously before whispering, “The governor? You mean Marshal Deodoro Fonseca? Fatter and crueler than ever. Taxes are sucking the stones dry. As for trouble…” He lowered his voice further. “Heard talk of a little bitch… patrons been chattering. ‘Knife Mermaid,’ they call her. Robs tax caravans on the road to Cachoeira. No more info than that… maybe try the city’s bounty hunters.” He shrugged. “But could just be another rumor by day’s end, made up to make us feel safe in this city. Who knows?”

Tetanus and Gume exchanged a glance. If money was involved, they might go after this little bandit.

Gume slid a gold coin—stolen from a drunk passed out at a table—across the counter. “More.”

The man snatched the coin like a rat. “They say the governor’s scared of something stolen from him. He’s hired more guards. Fortified the palace gate.” He laughed, a humorless sound. “Who knows? Maybe the devil’s finally come to collect that prince’s bootlicker…”

Tetanus felt the Black Cube pulse in his bag, as if responding to the mention.

They left the warehouse, the salty, rotten air of colonial Bahia welcoming them back to the grim reality they’d left behind. Fear Island was a nightmare of madness, perhaps, but the world of men was a nightmare of corruption and despair.

The warehouse lead took them to the port’s filthiest alleys, where misery and greed mingled in a fetid stew. The bounty hunters’ den wasn’t hard to find: a sunken tavern called “The Drowned Sailor,” from which came drunken shouts and breaking glass.

Inside, the air was a thick mix of cheap tobacco smoke, spilled rum, and unwashed sweat. In a corner, at a slightly less chipped table, sat the man they sought.

Chancellor Malachi was a figure who tried, unsuccessfully, to project faded European elegance amid colonial rot. He wore a worn, stained velvet green coat over a crumpled lace shirt. His wide-brimmed hat, with a wilted feather, sat at a pretentious angle. His face sported a thin, well-groomed mustache and a pointed musketeer beard, but on him, it looked like a caricature. He gestured with a dirty wine glass, speaking loudly to his lackeys.

“Ah… mes amis, life in this backwater is a tragedy of… ah… Homerric proportions!” His French accent was so exaggerated and inconsistent it seemed straight out of a bad play. “But the gold… ah, the governor’s gold smells as sweet as Versailles’ gardens!”

His lackeys, two brutes with faces scarred from fights with clubs and knives, nodded with blank expressions. Behind them, hunched under the low ceiling, was a troll. Short for its kind but still imposing, with warty gray skin, arms reaching past its knees, and a look of deep, loyal stupidity. It growled low as Tetanus and Gume approached.

“Ah… and who do we have here?” Malachi spotted them, raising his glass in a falsely cordial toast. “More lost souls seeking… ah… employment? Or perhaps… ah… the gallows?”

Tetanus ignored the question, his single eye fixed on the fake Frenchman.

“Knife Mermaid,” Tetanus said, cutting to the chase. “You know something.”

Malachi raised an eyebrow, taking a slow sip of wine. “Ah… the legendarry bandit? An elusive ferra, no? Almost as elusive as… ah… proper grammar in this place. What would a creature so… mutilated… want with her?”

Gume stepped forward, his axe clinking against a nearby table, making Malachi’s lackeys flinch. The troll growled louder.

“He’s asking nicely, you pompous prick,” Gume snarled. “Answer straight.”

Then Al-Yasiin whispered, low enough for only Tetanus to hear: “This maggot thinks he’s the cleanest in the pigsty. He’s vain and narcissistic. Compliment his ridiculous hat feather. Ask about his ‘heroic deeds.’ He’ll spill everything if you stroke his ego.”

Tetanus, reluctantly, followed the advice. Calming Gume, he forced a nod toward Malachi’s hat.

“The feather… from a rare bird?” Tetanus asked, his voice sounding odd even to himself. “Must be. Matches the… reputation of a refined man like you. Heard you’re the best at catching tough targets.” He nearly choked on the words, but the effect was instant.

Malachi’s face lit up with a vain smile. He adjusted the feather with a flourish. “Ah, enfin! A man of culturre in this boorrish desert!” He chuckled. “Yes, yes… the feather is from a royal falcon I… ah… tamed with my own hands in the Pyrrenees! As for the Mermaid…” He lowered his voice, leaning forward, his breath reeking of sour wine. “…an interresting story. She’s not just a bandit. She leads a small but… ah… efficient crew. Specializes in stealing the governor’s honest wealth and that of his… ah… friends. A Robin Hood, if you will, but with… ah… a more explosive temper.”

“And where can we find her?” Tetanus pressed, keeping up the act.

“Ah, that’s what everyone wants to know, no?” Malachi grinned, showing teeth so white they gleamed. “She’s a ghost. Strikes on the Cachoeirra road, yes, but in different places. No pattern. They say she hides in the Lost Soul Mangroves, that swampy region to the north. But it’s a treacherrous place… full of… ah… legends and quicksand. Even my men”—he gestured toward the troll—“avoid it. But…” he added, eyes gleaming with greed, “the reward for her, alive, is substantial. The governor wants to make an example. Perhaps we could… ah… form a partnership? You seem capable men, despite the… obvious deficiencies.”

Tetanus ignored the offer. He had what he needed. Lost Soul Mangroves. A place as grim and dangerous as its name.

“Is the governor scared?” Tetanus asked, switching tactics. “Heard he’s beefed up his defenses.”

Malachi laughed, a manic cackle escaping his lips. “Ah, old Deodorro? He’s always been scarred of his own shadow. But lately… yes. Something haunts him. They say something valuable was stolen from him. Something that wasn’t… ah… exactly his to begin with.” His eyes flicked to Tetanus’s bag for a fraction of a second, as if sensing the pulsing Cube inside.

Tetanus didn’t react. He stepped back. “Thanks for the info.” His voice was cold again.

“Ah, but wait!” Malachi stood, his towering six-foot-five frame shedding its pretense for a moment, replaced by greedy urgency. “What about the reward?! The partnership?!”

“Keep your reward,” Tetanus said, turning. “And your fake accent.”

Gume roared with laughter as he followed Tetanus out of the tavern, leaving Malachi fuming and perplexed, his lackeys confused behind him.

Baía de Todos os Santos — Salvador Streets — Brazilian Empire

Salvador’s streets buzzed with the chaos typical of a colonial city, where the luxury of mansions clashed with the misery of alleys. Tetanus and Gume pushed through the crowd, the scorching sun reflecting off their scarred, sweaty skin. Tetanus, hood up, purple braids swaying gently—a constant reminder of Slender Moon—his single eye scanning faces for threats. Gume, beside him, carried his giant axe with a presence that parted the crowd.

While crossing a crowded market where vendors shouted prices for tobacco and dried fish, Tetanus spotted a drunk leaning against a filthy wall, a crooked straw hat over his grimy face. The man muttered to himself, a nearly empty bottle of cheap cachaça in hand, eyes glassy and voice slurred with delirium.

“The Mermaid… she dances with knives… cuts throats like slicing bread…” he mumbled, laughing alone.

Tetanus exchanged a look with Gume, who nodded. They approached, crouching beside the man. “Hey, pal,” Tetanus said, voice low but firm. “You know the Knife Mermaid? Tell us more.”

The drunk raised his eyes, confused, but a glint of interest sparked when he saw the greenish liquor bottle in Gume’s hand. “You… got more of that?” he asked, pointing with a trembling finger.

Gume huffed, reluctant, but Tetanus gave a slight nod. “Give him the bottle, Gume. He talks, we listen.”

“Damn it, that’s my last one!” Gume grumbled but handed the liquor to the drunk, who grabbed it like liquid gold. He took a long swig, choking and laughing, before speaking, voice still slurred.

“The Knife Mermaid… she’s a demon, they say. Hits the governor’s convoys, steals the gold, leaves guards bleeding on the road.” He laughed, spitting liquor. “Governor’s desperate. Offering two hundred gold coins for her head, dead or alive. But no one catches her. Like grabbing smoke.”

Tetanus leaned closer. “Where does she strike? Anywhere specific?”

The drunk shrugged, taking another swig. “They say the Cachoeira road, but also São Félix, even the Recôncavo. She appears and vanishes.” He laughed, eyes glassy.

Gume crossed his arms, impatient. “That’s not much help, old man. Something useful, or I’m taking that bottle back.”

The drunk raised his hands, alarmed. “Alright, alright! Heard she’s got a hideout near Cachoeira, at an abandoned farm. But no one goes there. They say it’s cursed.” He finished the bottle and slumped back, laughing until he passed out against the wall.

Tetanus stood, mind racing. “Cachoeira, again. That’s where we’re going.”

With the drunk’s information, Tetanus and Gume headed to Salvador’s commercial heart, where the Imperial Bank stood like a fortress of white stone, contrasting with the street’s filth. Armed guards patrolled the entrance, and wealthy merchants came and went, carrying sealed papers and wary looks. Tetanus, hood still up, and Gume, with his intimidating presence, drew stares but no one dared stop them.

Inside, the air was cooler but heavy with the metallic scent of coins and candle wax. A banker, a slim man with round glasses and an impeccable vest, looked up from a stack of parchments. “How may I assist you?” he asked, voice nasal, his youthful features framed by long hair past his ears—rather handsome, in Tetanus’s view. He appraised Tetanus’s stump and Gume’s rough appearance with barely concealed disdain.

Tetanus got to the point. “I want a vault. Somewhere to store all kinds of junk.”

The banker raised an eyebrow. “Mystic Vaults of the ArchiMagisterium, yes. Maximum security. Not for the purse of… ahem… adventurers. A level 1 vault costs one hundred gold coins… and only the owner can access it, thanks to the archmages’ enchantments.” He paused, eyeing Tetanus’s clothes. “Do you… have that gold?”

One hundred coins. Half the Knife Mermaid’s reward. They didn’t even have fifty cents.

Gume opened his mouth to protest, but Tetanus cut him off, mind working fast. He knew how to use cheap charm and manipulation, learned a bit from the satanic head.

“One hundred coins is fair for security,” Tetanus agreed, voice smooth, almost hypnotic. The banker looked surprised. “But what if I told you I could pay one hundred fifty soon?” He saw interest spark in the young man’s eyes, his white eyebrows arching. “I’ve got a lucrative deal in the works. I’ll buy the vault today. You issue a contract. If I don’t pay the remaining hundred coins in, say, a week… you lock the vault. The mystic key stops working. The Imperial Bank keeps the contents and the initial hundred I’ll pay. No one loses. You gain a client… or a nice haul.”

The banker hesitated, torn between greed and suspicion. Al-Yasiin whispered: “He’s getting excited, maggot. Push harder. Mention the governor…”

Tetanus leaned over the counter, his eye fixed on the banker’s pale face. “I’m after the Knife Mermaid. The governor wants her, and I’ll deliver. When that happens, a hundred coins will seem like pocket change. Give me the vault, and I’ll pay later. Or do you want to explain to the governor why you didn’t help the man who could take down his enemy?”

The banker swallowed hard, his large glasses slipping on his sweaty nose. “Fine, fine. A level 1 vault.” He handed Tetanus a small black stone amulet etched with softly glowing runes. “Put your blood here. Only you can open it.”

Tetanus cut his good palm lightly with the knife at his waist, letting a drop of blood fall on the stone. The runes glowed brighter, and the amulet vibrated, as if sealing the pact. The banker gestured to a room in the back, where a mystic portal, a pulsing circle of light, awaited. “Place your items inside, sir. Only you can retrieve them.”

Tetanus opened his bag and carefully placed the elongated skull, the black feather crown, and the Black Cube into the portal. Each item vanished in a soft glow, stored in a space beyond comprehension. He felt momentary relief—the objects, with their heavy secrets, were safe, for now.

“Good move, wor—”

“…You’ll need to wait a bit longer; there’s still some paperwork to sign,” the banker said, signaling for them to follow as he slipped behind the counter.

The banker nodded toward a narrow door behind the counter. “If you’ll follow me, sir… only the vault owner. The mystic binding documents require your signature and blood imprint in private, away from interference.” He shot a disdainful glance at Gume and Al-Yasiin dangling at Tetanus’s waist.

Gume stayed behind, arms crossed, making a point to look as intimidating as possible to other clients and guards. Al-Yasiin grumbled: “Watch out, maggot. Bankers are worse than demons—at least demons are honest about the soul-selling part!”

Tetanus followed Oliver through the door into a dark, stuffy corridor. It was then, with the banker ahead, that Tetanus noticed his legs.

Behind the high counter, they’d been hidden. But now, in the corridor’s light, they were impossible to miss. From the waist down, the man’s legs weren’t human. They were goat legs, hairy and ending in black, cloven hooves that clicked distinctly against the wooden floor. He wore no pants, only a long coat that barely covered his thighs, leaving the bizarre sight exposed.

Tetanus paused for a fraction of a second, his brain processing the information. Goat legs. Hooves. A banker. It was so absurdly out of place it bordered on comical. But before any alarm could ring in his mind, his eye—against his will—was drawn upward, where the coat parted slightly with movement, revealing…

…one of the most perfect, well-shaped buttocks Tetanus had ever seen. Round, firm, and with a soft paleness that contrasted sharply with the corridor’s darkness.

A strange, wholly inappropriate heat rose in Tetanus’s neck. His face warmed slightly. What the hell is wrong with me? he thought, confused. Am I finding a man with goat legs… attractive?

The banker must have sensed the stare on his back—or rather, slightly lower. He stopped at a door, turned slowly, and cleared his throat, a faint smug smile on his lips.

“Found something interesting, sir?” he asked, voice smooth but with a hint of teasing. “The Empire’s archmages are known for their… aesthetic modifications. Believe it or not, these help with coin-counting agility.” He gave a light pat to one of his thighs.

Tetanus choked, forcing his eye to meet the young man’s. “Just… admiring the place’s architecture,” he lied, voice hoarser than usual.

The young man laughed, a soft, condescending sound. “Of course. The architecture.” He opened the door, revealing a stuffy office with a desk, a chair, and a single lit candle. “After you.”

Inside, the air smelled of old parchment and ink. Oliver pulled out a dense document filled with fine print and mystic clauses.

“The binding contract. Please read and sign where indicated. The name must be your true one, or what you consider true, for the binding magic to work.”

Tetanus took the quill. His eyes scanned the complex text. It confirmed what Oliver had said: one hundred coins in a week, or the bank would seize the vault’s contents. There were clauses about “potential curses in deposited items” and “dimensional damages,” but he had no choice.

He dipped the quill in ink and, without hesitation, wrote in his firm, slightly uneven hand: Tetanus the Stillborn.

Oliver took the document, examining the signature. His eyes narrowed for a second, but he only nodded.

“Tetanus the Stillborn. An… interesting name.” He blew gently on the ink to dry it. “The contract is sealed.”

He extended a hand for a formal shake, but Tetanus, driven by sudden curiosity and lingering embarrassment, asked:

“And you? What’s your name? All this business, and I don’t even know who I’m dealing with.”

Oliver seemed surprised, then flattered. He adjusted his glasses.

“Oliver,” he said with a flourish. “Oliver de Monte Negro, at your service. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have other clients to attend. Remember: one week.”

His hooves clicked on the floor as he turned to leave, giving Tetanus one last, inadvertent glimpse of that… peculiar “architecture.”

Tetanus left the room, feeling more confused about his own preferences than when he’d entered. He had a mystic vault, a massive debt, and the sudden, disturbing realization that he might have a thing for 17th-century bankers with impeccable buttocks and caprine lower limbs.

Back in the main hall, he found Gume leaning against a wall, holding Al-Yasiin like a live grenade. “Damn, Tetanus, took you long enough! That goat give you trouble? Signing how many contracts, man?!” Gume laughed, handing the decapitated head back.

Al-Yasiin didn’t miss a beat. “He was busy admiring the goat’s ass, big guy. Think that counts as partial zoophilia? Kueh ke ke ke!”

“Doesn’t matter,” Tetanus shot back, securing Al-Yasiin at his waist. “We’re heading to Cachoeira. Two hundred gold coins won’t earn themselves.”

Night fell over the Cachoeira road, a damp, heavy blanket carrying the scent of wet earth and sugarcane. The abandoned farm, said to be the Knife Mermaid’s hideout, was a dark silhouette against the starry sky, its outlines devoured by creeping vegetation and neglect. The place reeked of desolation.

Tetanus and Gume moved like shadows among the skeletons of rotting wagons and broken windmills. The silence was broken only by croaking frogs and rustling insects in the dense surrounding forest.

“You sure this is the place?” Gume whispered, axe ready. “Looks more like a haunt for ghosts than bandits.”

“It’s what the drunk said,” Tetanus replied, his single eye scanning the darkness. “And the smell of recent smoke…”

*ZIIIP!*

An arrow sliced through the air, embedding in the rotten wood inches from Gume’s head.

“SHIT!” the giant shouted, throwing himself to the ground.

Tetanus didn’t think. He crouched and rolled behind a pile of empty barrels, yanking Gume by his armor’s collar. Two more arrows hit where they’d been seconds before.

“Ambush!” Tetanus growled. “She’s watching us!”

They split up, crawling in opposite directions to flank the shooter. Tetanus, agile despite one arm, climbed a fallen tree with his legs and single arm, blending into the twisted branches. From above, he had a better view of the farm’s central courtyard.

Then he saw her. A slender, hooded figure moving with feline grace among the shadows, reloading a short bow. The so-called “Knife Mermaid.”

Tetanus readied himself. As the figure passed under his tree, he leapt.

It was a perfect strike. He landed on her back, wrapping his single arm around her torso and pinning her to the ground with his weight. She(?) screamed, a muffled sound of surprise and rage. In the struggle, in the chaos of the moment, Tetanus’s hand slipped… and squeezed one of the figure’s buttocks through the fabric of their pants.

It was firm. Well-shaped. And the reaction was immediate.

“OW! DAMN IT, YOU BASTARD! TRYING TO RAPE ME?!” a voice shouted, but it wasn’t a woman’s high pitch. It was still high, young, but unmistakably masculine, full of indignation and panic.

Tetanus’s blood froze. No.

With brutal force driven by a horrible premonition, he rolled the figure over and, with a violent tug, yanked off the hood.

Moonlight illuminated a dirty, sweaty, but familiar face. Short, disheveled brown hair. Wide, dark eyes full of fear and fury. And features… fine, almost feminine.

It was Farpa.

His friend. The youngest of the band. The one left behind in Ouro Preto before Tetanus, Gume, Zara, and Lâmina set off to rescue Tiradentes. Now, Tetanus felt a particular pang of guilt for that.

“Farpa?” Tetanus’s voice came out as an incredulous, hoarse whisper. His hand, the same one that had grabbed his friend’s buttock, still rested on his arm, as if unsure what to do.

Farpa blinked, panting, his rage giving way to total confusion. He looked at Tetanus’s face—the purple hair, single eye, scars—and his own face morphed into a mix of shock and disbelief.

“Te… Tetanus?” he choked out. “H-Hellhound! It’s you?!”

At that moment, Gume emerged from the darkness, axe raised to strike. “LEAVE HER TO ME, YOU—” He froze, eyes widening like saucers. “…Farpa?”

Chapter 23: The Coin Conclave

Baía de Todos os Santos — Abandoned Farm

The courtyard of the abandoned farm was cloaked in shadows, the air heavy with the scent of rotting wood and damp earth. The moonlight, filtered through scattered clouds, illuminated Farpa’s face, still smeared with dirt and sweat, his dark eyes glinting with a mix of relief and suspicion.

Tetanus, heart pounding, released his friend’s arm, his hand still trembling from the confusion of the moment. Gume, standing with his giant axe still raised, seemed unable to process the scene, his mouth agape in shock.

Al-Yasiin, strapped to Tetanus’s waist, broke the silence with a low, mocking “ke ke ke.” “Congratulations, maggot. You just groped your own friend’s ass. Who knew you were such a pervert?”

Farpa stood, rubbing the shoulder where Tetanus had pinned him, his face red with indignation. “Damn it, Tétano, what do you think I am? Some damsel for you to grab like that?” He slapped Tetanus’s chest, but the gesture quickly turned into a tight embrace, the two colliding with force, like brothers who’d defied death to reunite.

Gume, still stunned, dropped his axe to the ground and joined them, wrapping both in his massive arms, nearly crushing them. “You damn kid!” Gume laughed, his voice hoarse with emotion. “You’re really alive, you son of a bitch!”

The embrace lasted longer than any of them would admit, a moment of relief amid the Kingdom’s chaos. When they finally parted, they sat in a corner of the courtyard around a makeshift bonfire Farpa lit with dry twigs.

The farm, with its broken windmills and rotting wagons, felt like a living tomb, but for now, it was a refuge. Tetanus sat with his woodsman’s axe beside him, the bag with the mystic vault amulet in his lap, while Al-Yasiin watched constantly with a malicious gleam in its eyes.

“So, you’re the Knife Mermaid?” Tetanus asked, his gaze fixed on Farpa, trying to reconcile the slim, delicate-featured youth with the legend terrorizing Bahia’s roads.

Farpa gave a sheepish half-smile, rubbing his short brown hair. “Not on purpose. After you left me in Ouro Preto, I tried to stick to the plan, you know? Lay low, gather info. But things went south. The governor was after us, and I heard that Zara and Lâmina…” He paused, his eyes darkening. “I don’t know where they are. I’ve got theories that Marechal Deodoro Fonseca sent them to a forced labor camp inland, or worse, to some brothel as sex slaves. I tried investigating, but it’s like looking for a needle in a haystack. So, I started hitting the tax caravans. Stealing the governor’s gold, messing with his plans. Since they mistook my looks for a woman’s, I let the legend grow. The Knife Mermaid was born that way.” He laughed, but the sound was bitter. “It gave me cover to move without getting caught. At least until now…”

Gume shook his head, impressed. “You, a scrawny kid, becoming the governor’s nightmare? Who’d have thought.”

Farpa pointed at Al-Yasiin, who seemed to be enjoying the conversation. “And that decapitated head? How do you explain that?” Farpa asked, frowning at the head, which winked at him with a sarcastic grin.

Tetanus sighed. “Picked it up in an imperial dungeon in Euclides da Cunha. After General Labatut sent me after an artifact in the dungeon, some bastard apparently working for Marechal Deodoro Fonseca and the prince. He was after the Cubo Negro.” He touched the bag where the mystic vault amulet held the artifact. “Labatut turned into a monster, something not even human anymore. I killed him, and this head… well, it talks. And it doesn’t shut up.”

Al-Yasiin laughed loudly. “I’m a God, remember that, maggots. I’m Al-Yasiin, herald of lies, prince of flames, and I want to RIP OUT the SPINE of the Old Gods, kid. And you, with that Mermaid nickname, should thank me for not calling you a little fairy.”

Farpa laughed despite himself, but the conversation’s weight returned quickly. “The Cubo Negro… that’s why the governor’s so desperate. He knows it’s something powerful, something that could change everything. But I don’t know what it is. I just know he’s beefing up his guard, hiring bounty hunters like that fake noble in Salvador. And now you’re here… what do we do?”

Tetanus stared into the fire, the flames reflecting in his iris. “We camp here tonight. Rest, think. Tomorrow, we figure out how to find Zara and Lâmina and how to use the Meia-Noite document to take down the governor. The Knife Mermaid is already causing him trouble. Maybe we can use that.”

Farpa raised an eyebrow, pouting. “And who’s this Meia-Noite? And on top of that, what the HELL happened to your arm? Seems like there’s a lot you still haven’t told me!”

“Yeah… sit down, it’s a long story.” Tetanus sighed deeply, the memory of Meia-Noite’s name heavy.

Gume nodded, taking another swig of liquor. “And if we gotta chop some heads along the way, I won’t complain.” He looked at Farpa, his grin returning. “But damn, kid, you need to ease up on that bow aim. You almost hit me!”

Farpa laughed, tossing a twig at Gume. “Maybe I wasn’t even aiming at you on purpose, big guy.”

The night at the abandoned farm was a cloak of restless silence, broken only by the crackling of the bonfire and Gume’s occasional snoring, sleeping like a mountain of flesh against a broken windmill.

Tetanus, lying in a corner with the woodsman’s axe beside him, fought against sleep, the echoes of Fear Island’s nightmares still fresh in his mind. Farpa, sitting near the fire, couldn’t stay still, muttering to himself, his dark eyes fixed on the flames. He spoke softly, almost as if rehearsing a plan, his words full of urgency. “Zara… Lâmina… they’re alive, I know it. A labor camp, a brothel… we’ve got to find them. Maybe an ambush on the roads, or bribe a guard…” He continued, spinning disjointed strategies, as if the weight of not knowing his friends’ fate kept him awake.

Al-Yasiin grumbled softly. “The kid’s more lost than a blind man in a shootout. Let him talk. At least it’s entertainment.”

Tetanus’s thoughts swirled around everything. When dawn finally painted the sky a pale gray, he stood. Gume woke with a grunt, rubbing his chest, and Farpa, with deep bags under his eyes, looked like he hadn’t slept all night.

Sitting around the fire’s remains, Tetanus broke the silence. “Farpa, that Malachi guy said the Knife Mermaid led a criminal organization. You mixed up with any group like that?” He fixed his gaze on his friend, searching for any sign of a lie.

Farpa shook his head, his face serious. “No. It’s just me. I rob the caravans, mess with the governor, but it’s all solo. Whoever’s spreading that is probably trying to inflate the legend. Or throw people off to catch me.”

Tetanus nodded, satisfied with the answer, but his mind was already elsewhere. He stood, walking to the edge of the farm, where Salvador’s cityscape appeared in the distance, a smear of white mansions and smoke against the horizon. A risky idea began to take shape.

“What if we used the Knife Mermaid to get to the governor?” he said, turning to the group. “I take proof that I ‘captured’ the Mermaid, talk to Deodoro, and see what he knows about Zara and Lâmina.”

Gume raised an eyebrow, scratching his beard. “And what proof you gonna take? The kid’s head?” He laughed but stopped at Tetanus’s serious look.

Farpa frowned but grabbed the short bow he used as the Knife Mermaid and tossed it to Tetanus. “Take this. Everyone knows the Mermaid uses a bow. It might convince them.”

Tetanus caught the bow, feeling the light weight of the wood. “It’s a start. Let’s head to Salvador. You two stay here in case I need backup.”

Salvador’s streets were even more chaotic at noon, the sun scorching the dried mud of the alleys. Tetanus, hood covering his purple braids and Farpa’s bow slung across his back, walked with steady steps. Al-Yasiin, at his waist, was strangely quiet, as if sensing danger in the air.

As he approached the Governor’s Palace, a stone fortress surrounded by Portuguese guards, Tetanus saw a scene that made his blood boil. A guard, armor askew and face red with cachaça, cornered a nun against a wall near the palace. The woman, her habit torn, struggled to break free, but the guard held her wrist, laughing.

“Come on, sister, just a little taste…”

With his free hand, he began lifting the nun’s torn skirt, revealing her thin, pale thighs. She tried to pull away.

The guard laughed louder as he felt the warm nakedness of her thighs, his eager, impetuous fingers sliding over her smooth skin. The nun let out a soft moan, a sound of panic and humiliation mixed with the terror of being violated in public.

Tetanus didn’t hesitate. In two strides, he was on the guard, kicking him from behind, his hand seizing the man’s neck and slamming him against the wall. Before the guard could scream, Tetanus drove his short knife into his throat, blood spurting hot and fast. The nun, trembling, murmured thanks and fled as Tetanus wiped the blade on the man’s uniform. “Scum,” he muttered before approaching the palace gate.

A second, more sober guard blocked his path. “What do you want? No one enters without permission.”

“I’ve got proof of capturing the Knife Mermaid,” Tetanus said, raising Farpa’s bow. “I want to speak with the governor.”

The guard laughed, spitting to the side. “Only Chanceler Malachi has direct access to Marechal Deodoro. Go back to the hole you crawled out of, one-hand.”

Tetanus swallowed his rage, knowing he couldn’t force his way in without a plan. He stepped back, an idea forming. “Malachi, then,” he murmured, heading back to O Marujo Afogado, the tavern where he’d met the bounty hunter.

In the tavern, the air was even thicker with smoke and rum. Chanceler Malachi was in the same corner, his red-feathered hat tilted, his pointed beard gleaming in the candlelight. His two lackeys—the bald one with scars and the one with crooked teeth—played cards, while the troll chewed something that looked like a human bone. Malachi looked up at Tetanus, a smug smile on his face. “Ahh… the one-eyed man returns!” he said, dragging the “r”s in his fake French accent. “What does he desirre from the great Chanceler?”

Tetanus tossed Farpa’s bow onto the table, the sound echoing in the tavern’s din. “You gave me bad info, Malachi. A drunk said the Mermaid was somewhere else, not those mangroves. But I found her.” He tapped the bow. “And I brought this. I want to see the governor.”

Malachi narrowed his eyes, but his smile didn’t falter. “Ahh… a miscalculation, perhaps. But what magnificent proof!” He picked up the bow, examining it with long fingers. “You wish to see the Marrechal Deodorro? Verry well.” He stood, gesturing to his lackeys and the troll, which growled softly. “I shall take you to the palace, one-eyed man. But the reward… we split. Half for me, half for you. A fair deal, no?”

Tetanus nodded, his eye gleaming with caution. “Fair. But no tricks, Malachi.” He touched the axe handle, a clear warning.

Al-Yasiin whispered at his waist: “This smells like federal-level trouble, the heavy kind.”

Malachi laughed, the sound exaggerated. “Ahh… no tricks! Come, my friend. The governor awaits.” He led the way out of the tavern, his lackeys and troll following like heavy shadows.

The Governor’s Palace was as opulent inside as it was imposing outside. Thick Persian rugs muffled footsteps, and crystal chandeliers reflected light from tall windows. The air smelled of beeswax, polished wood, and a faint trace of decay—the scent of power aging poorly.

Malachi, with his nearly two-meter height, walked with an affected posture, his worn green coat looking even more ridiculous against the place’s splendor. Tetanus, with his solid two meters of muscle and scars, followed beside him, noting every detail, every guard, every exit. Their height difference was minimal, but Tetanus carried a far more menacing presence.

Governor’s Palace

They were led to a private office. Marechal Deodoro Fonseca was a man who once cut an imposing figure, but now fat and debauchery had sunken his features into a sea of pale, sweaty flesh. He wore an impeccable but wine-stained imperial uniform. His small, piercing eyes appraised Tetanus with a mix of curiosity and disdain.

“Malachi,” Fonseca’s voice was a guttural growl, his white mustache quivering. “Bring me good news, for God’s sake. This colony is a nest of incompetence.”

“Ahh, Mon Marrechal!” Malachi gave an exaggerated bow, though his accent sounded less grating than when Tetanus first met him. “I bring you the man who capturred the fearsome Knife Mermaid! And as proof…” He presented Farpa’s bow with a flourish.

Fonseca took the bow, examining it with interest. “And the Mermaid herself? Where is she?”

“She… ahh…” Malachi glanced at Tetanus sideways. “She did not survive the encounter,” Tetanus interjected, his voice firm. “But I saw her. Heard her talk about things. About other women. Women working for you against their will.” He fixed his eyes on Fonseca, searching for any reaction. “Zara. Lâmina. Where are they?”

Fonseca froze for a fraction of a second. His eyes narrowed. Then, a wide, false smile spread across his face.

“Zara? Lâmina? Common names, for common women.” He raised a bottle of dark red wine and poured three glasses. “But a man who does a job like yours deserves a reward and a drink. Please, sit.” He pushed two glasses toward them.

Malachi took his glass with an eager smile. Tetanus hesitated. Every fiber of his being screamed it was a trap. But insulting the governor by refusing his hospitality was as dangerous as potentially poisoned wine. He took the glass.

“To your health, and to the end of the bandits plaguing my beautiful Bahia,” Fonseca toasted, taking a long gulp.

Malachi followed, drinking greedily. Tetanus brought the glass to his lips but only wet his tongue. The wine was heavy, sweet, with a metallic, herbal undertone that didn’t seem natural.

Malachi was already woozy, his head swaying. “Ahh… an excellent bouquet, Mon Marrechal…” he mumbled before sliding off his chair and collapsing, snoring instantly.

Tetanus felt a wave of dizziness envelop him, his vision darkening at the edges. He fought it, trying to stand, but his legs wouldn’t respond. The last thing he saw was Deodoro Fonseca’s triumphant, cruel smile before darkness took him.

…

Tetanus woke with a throbbing headache and a taste of rotten metal in his mouth. He was lying on damp, dirty straw. The darkness was nearly total, broken only by a sliver of light seeping through a heavy iron door.

He was in a cell.

Unknown Dungeon

He tried to move but was weak, nauseous. His weapons—the axe, the knife—were gone. His bag too. The vault key. Panic froze his blood. He frantically searched his pockets. Nothing. He had only the clothes on his body. Even the decapitated head was gone.

“Shit,” he growled softly, punching the dirt floor with his single fist.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

From the dark, on the other side of the cell’s stone wall, a weak, hoarse voice replied:

“It’s… useless. They don’t open.”

Tetanus froze. “Who’s there?”

There was a scraping sound. “A… prisoner. Like you.” The voice was feminine, tired, but with a thread of residual strength. “They heard you banging. It’s no use. These cells have mystic locks. Only they can open them.”

Tetanus approached the wall, trying to peer through the crack, seeing only a shadow slumped on the floor, long purple hair, much like his own, cascading over the ground. “What’s your name?”

“Ellara,” the voice replied after a pause. “Ellara de… well, that doesn’t matter anymore. I was a mage of the ArchiMagisterium. Until they turned me into… this.” She gave a weak, bitter laugh.

A mage. A spark of hope ignited in Tetanus.

“Ellara,” he said, voice urgent. “Do you have enough power to get me out of here? I can get help. I’ll come back for you. I swear.”

There was a long silence. Tetanus could almost feel her exhaustion and despair through the wall.

“They… they drain my strength,” Ellara whispered. “For their rituals. To fuel their ambitions. There’s so little left…” Another pause. “But… maybe. Maybe enough for one teleport. Just one person. Not far. Out of the cell, perhaps.”

It was a huge risk. She could be lying. It could be another trap. But it was his only chance.

“Do it,” Tetanus pleaded. “And I swear on my life I’ll come back for you.”

“Why should I trust you?” Her voice was a thread of hope.

“Because I have people to save too,” Tetanus replied, raw sincerity in his voice. “Zara. Lâmina. And I won’t rest until I find them. And until I end Fonseca.”

The silence stretched longer this time. Then Ellara spoke, her voice slightly stronger:

“Step away from the wall. And… if you survive… remember your promise.”

Tetanus stepped back. The air in the cell began to vibrate. A faint amethyst glow emanated from the stones before him, forming runes he couldn’t read. The light intensified, becoming almost blinding, then collapsed into a silent vortex that enveloped him.

He felt a sensation of being pulled and twisted, and then…

The feeling of being squeezed through an infinitesimal tube stopped abruptly. Tetanus fell to his knees in a cold, dimly lit corridor, the damp stone chilling his skin through his clothes. The air still reeked of mold, excrement, and rancid sweat, like a sewer. He was out of the cell but still deep within the palace’s dungeons.

Before he could orient himself, a guard, startled by the sudden appearance of a prisoner, grunted and charged with a short sword.

“Alert! One escaped!” the guard bellowed, his voice echoing down the empty corridor.

Tetanus had no time to think. Instinct took over. He dove forward, under the guard’s clumsy swing, and grabbed the man’s sword-wielding wrist. With a brutal twist and a knee strike, he felt the guard’s bone snap. The man screamed in pain, and the sword fell from his numb fingers.

Tetanus caught the weapon mid-air. It was a simple steel blade, but better than nothing. The guard, now on his knees and screaming, tried to grab his legs. Tetanus didn’t hesitate. He drove the sword into the gap in the man’s armor at the armpit, piercing lung and heart. The screams stopped abruptly.

He was panting, adrenaline burning off the sedative in his bloodstream. He eyed the dead guard’s armor. It was heavy steel, clearly unfit for his larger, broader frame, especially with only one arm to fasten the straps.

But the helmet—a simple metal helm—and the reinforced leather boots… those he could use. He quickly swapped his worn boots for the guard’s, donned the helm, and kept the sword.

Following the corridor, he encountered another guard running toward the noise. This one was less surprised and more prepared. The fight was quick and brutal. Tetanus, using raw aggression and superior strength, parried a blow and buried his sword in the man’s exposed neck between helm and chainmail. The guard fell, choking on his own blood.

Then he heard an anxious whisper from an iron cage embedded in the corridor wall.

“Psst! You! One-eyed man!”

Inside the cage, crouched and in filthy clothes, was Malachi. His feathered hat was gone, and his face was pale, streaked with dried blood. His air of superiority had vanished entirely.

“Please!” he begged, his fake French accent gone, revealing a normal, panic-filled voice. “Get me out of here! The guard… the dead one… he has the key!”

Tetanus looked at him, expressionless. He searched the second dead guard and found an iron keyring.

“Why should I?” Tetanus asked, dangling the keys slowly. “You sold me out to Fonseca.”

“He threatened me!” Malachi whimpered, his long hands gripping the cage bars. “Said he’d kill me! I… I was just trying to survive! Please!”

“Apology first,” Tetanus ordered, voice cold. “And drop that fake accent bullshit.”

Malachi choked, staring at the bloody sword in Tetanus’s hand. He seemed to deflate.

“Okay… okay.” The French accent vanished, replaced by a common Bahian one. “I’m sorry, man. I was a greedy asshole. My name’s not even Malachi… it’s Álvaro.” He spoke fast, eyes full of genuine terror. “I made up that character to impress suckers. Now, please, get me out! They’ll torture me! They’ll kill me!”

Tetanus studied Álvaro for a long moment. The man’s fear was real and pathetic. And an extra pair of arms, even cowardly ones, could be useful. With a sigh, he tried the keys in the cage lock. The third key turned with a heavy *clank*.

The cage door opened, and Álvaro practically fell out, trembling.

“Thank you! Thank you!” he babbled, clutching his tattered clothes.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Tetanus growled. “We still gotta get out of here. And we’re practically naked.” He pointed to the second dead guard. “Put on his armor.”

Álvaro didn’t need to be told twice. With trembling fingers, he began stripping the dark leather armor and doublet from the dead guard. The armor was more adjustable and lighter than steel, fitting his slimmer frame reasonably well, though a bit loose. He looked like a boy in his father’s clothes but was protected.

Tetanus opened the nearest door, revealing a small guardroom with another man, who was downing a bottle of cachaça. The drunken guard barely had time to stand before Tetanus knocked him out with a sword-hilt blow to the temple.

“Let’s go,” Tetanus ordered, grabbing a belt dagger from the unconscious guard and tucking it into his waistband. “And stay quiet, Álvaro.”

“You got it,” Álvaro whispered, his newfound courage (or fear of Tetanus) keeping him focused.

The next door didn’t lead to freedom but to a larger cellblock, a vast hall with dozens of rusted iron doors lining the walls. Smoky torches cast dancing, dim shadows, creating a claustrophobic yet spacious atmosphere.

Almost immediately, two guards, drawn by the noise, emerged from a side passage. One, to Álvaro’s surprise, wielded the conman’s own ornate rapier, its thin blade gleaming in the faint light.

“Take them!” the guard with the rapier shouted, charging.

Tetanus, driven by pure survival instinct, roared and rushed the other guard, his stolen sword clashing against the man’s blade in a shower of sparks. The fight was brutal and short; Tetanus, with raw strength, parried a blow and drove his sword into the guard’s shoulder, making him scream and fall.

Meanwhile, Álvaro, facing his own rapier, seemed to transform. The fear in his eyes gave way to intense, unexpected focus. When the guard lunged with a novice’s thrusting move, Álvaro didn’t retreat. Instead, he ducked and rolled to the side with agility that belied his cowardly persona, wrenching the rapier from the guard’s hands in the same motion.

“Borrowing this!” Álvaro taunted, his voice free of affectation.

The guard, surprised, turned to face him, but Álvaro was already moving. He advanced, not as a noble but as a seasoned duelist. His rapier became an extension of his arm. Thrust, slash, flank. The moves were a whirlwind of steel, so fast Tetanus, even in his own fight, could barely keep up. In less than ten seconds, Álvaro’s rapier found the guard’s jugular, wrist, and femoral artery. The man fell, bleeding from multiple cuts, his shocked expression frozen.

Álvaro raised his rapier, twirling it elegantly before resuming a low, professional guard. He took a deep breath, and for a moment, seemed like another man.

“How…?” Tetanus panted, questioning.

“Long story,” Álvaro cut in, voice serious, no trace of the Malachi persona. “Let’s get out of here first.”

They ran through the hall, passing cells from which came moans and scratches. Then they reached an open pit in the floor, a circular hole leading into darkness below. Skeletal hands with rotting flesh clung to the edges, trying to pull themselves up. Living skeletons, their empty eyes glowing with malevolent light, emitted scraping and growling sounds.

“No thanks,” Álvaro muttered, skirting the pit widely.

They bypassed the sinister opening and descended a narrower side corridor. At its end stood a solitary cell. Its iron gate was heavier than the others, reinforced with steel bars. A rusted metal plaque was affixed above the lock:

CELL 047 — MAXIMUM DANGER PRISONER

The door was slightly ajar, the lock broken from the outside, as if someone had tried, unsuccessfully, to free what was inside.

Curiosity outweighed caution. Tetanus pushed the heavy door, which creaked on its hinges.

Inside, the cell was vast, more a cavern than a prison. In the center, chained to an iron ring in the floor by thick shackles around its ankles, was a Minotaur.

The creature was a colossus of restrained muscle. Its body was covered in oily black fur, and its bovine head had red eyes burning with pure hatred. Its snout snorted, releasing a jet of steam into the cold air. In its hands, it held a battle axe so massive Tetanus could barely lift it with two arms, let alone one.

And then, Tetanus’s eyes were involuntarily drawn downward. Between the beast’s muscular legs, its massive, semi-erect phallus swayed like a club of flesh, a visceral testament to its primal, brutal nature.

The Minotaur roared, a sound from deep in its powerful lungs, making the walls tremble. It began to rise, pulling the chains with superhuman strength, the iron rings in the floor creaking and starting to give.

“Oh, shit…” Álvaro whispered, stepping back, his duelist courage evaporating.

The Minotaur snapped the chain with one final, monumental tug. It was free. It raised the giant axe, its red eyes fixed on the intruders.

There was no time to think. No strategy.

“RUN!” Tetanus shouted, turning and shoving Álvaro out of the cell.

The moment exploded into pure instinct. Tetanus and Álvaro bolted down the narrow corridor, the Minotaur’s deafening roar behind them. Each thud of its hooves on the stone floor was like a war drum, heralding its relentless fury. The stench of sweaty beast and raw rage filled the air, suffocating.

They burst into the main dungeon hall, but the creature was right behind, its colossal mass filling the passage. Escape was no longer an option. They were cornered.

“No way out!” Álvaro screamed, his voice shrill with panic, rapier trembling in his hand.

Tetanus stopped, turning to face the beast. His single eye burned with determination. He had no axe, only a stolen sword and dagger. But he had the fury of a man who’d faced worse nightmares.

The Minotaur charged, blind with rage, its giant axe raised to cleave them. It was a powerful but predictable move. Tetanus, instead of retreating, dove forward, rolling between the beast’s legs at the last possible second.

The Minotaur’s axe came down with titanic force, shattering the stone floor where they’d stood moments before. The impact shook the entire hall, and the creature, unbalanced by the missed strike, stumbled forward.

It was the opening Tetanus needed. He rose behind the beast and, with a guttural yell, drove his sword to the hilt into the back of its knee.

The creature roared in agony, a sound more bovine than monstrous, and fell to its knees. Its massive phallus swung violently with the impact. Álvaro, seizing the chance, overcame his fear and lunged, his rapier finding the Minotaur’s right eye with surgical precision.

The Minotaur threw its head back in a howl of blind pain, its axe flailing wildly. Tetanus gave no quarter. He climbed onto the agonized beast’s back, gripping its black fur, and plunged the dagger repeatedly into the base of its neck, aiming for the jugular.

Hot, black blood sprayed, soaking Tetanus. The Minotaur convulsed for a final moment, its powerful muscles twitching in a death dance, before collapsing with a thud that echoed through the dungeon. The giant axe fell from its limp hand.

Silence, broken only by Tetanus and Álvaro’s panting breaths. The smell of blood and death was thick.

“Holy shit…” Álvaro gasped, staring at the colossal corpse. “We killed a Minotaur.”

Tetanus slid off the beast, wiping blood from his face and retrieving the sword and dagger from its neck. Then, with all his strength, he tore off one of the Minotaur’s horns as a trophy.

“Let’s go! Before more guards show up!”

They were turning to flee when Álvaro spotted something. “Look!”

In a dark corner, near where the first guard had fallen, was a wooden chest reinforced with metal, half-hidden behind barrels. The lock was broken, likely from a prior looting.

Tetanus kicked the chest open. Inside, gleaming in the dim light, was a small pile of gold coins—maybe twenty in total—and, more importantly, two small glass vials containing a bright, viscous red liquid.

“Healing potions!” Álvaro exclaimed, grabbing one. “These are rare!”

Tetanus took the other, feeling its reassuring weight. He pocketed the coins and potion. Every resource was precious.

But the noise of the fight hadn’t gone unnoticed. Four guards appeared at the hall’s entrance, drawn by the Minotaur’s roar and the battle’s clamor.

“Stop! Intruders!” one shouted, brandishing a sword.

Without hesitation, Tetanus and Álvaro exchanged a glance. They were tired, battered, but now had a second wind and a clear goal: get out.

Tetanus charged the guards with his sword, his style now brutal and efficient, leveraging the more open terrain. Álvaro, with his reclaimed rapier and renewed confidence, flanked the men, his blade finding armor joints and exposed throats with deadly precision.

In moments, the four guards lay dead, and the path to the exit stairs was clear.

“Now let’s go!” Tetanus ordered, the two sprinting toward freedom, leaving behind the now-silent dungeon hall, save for the buzzing of flies already nearing the Minotaur’s corpse and the heavy stench of blood.

The feeling of coming full circle and returning to the starting point was demoralizing. The corridor that should’ve led them out opened to a side door Tetanus recognized with a sinking stomach. It was the isolation cellblock. And the door now slightly ajar was Cell 013—Ellara’s cell.

He pushed the door, heart racing. The interior was empty. The dirty straw was disturbed, and the chains that had bound the mage lay open on the floor, not broken but unlocked. There was no sign of a struggle, only an oppressive silence and the faint residual scent of a floral perfume that didn’t match the dungeon’s stench.

“They took her,” Tetanus murmured, voice heavy with frustration.

Álvaro looked around, shrugging. “Look, I got no idea who you’re talking about. Let’s go, this place gives me the creeps.”

Climbing the stairs that finally led out was an agonizing relief. Each step took them further from the stench of death, but the broken promise weighed on Tetanus like a slab. He didn’t mention Ellara to Álvaro. Some debts were his alone to bear.

Álvaro stopped, eyeing the dark tunnels stretching into the city like diseased veins. “This is where I split,” he said, his voice losing some of the seriousness gained in the fight but not fully reverting to the Malachi persona. “I got… some business to handle in these holes. Stuff a guy like you doesn’t want to know about.” He looked at Tetanus, a shadow of genuine gratitude in his eyes. “You got me out of that cage. I won’t forget. If you need something… ask for Álvaro in the low taverns. Not the other guy.” He nodded and, before Tetanus could reply, slipped into the darkness of a side tunnel, vanishing into the shadows.

Tetanus stood alone at the edge of a thick, black stream running through the sewer. A rusted metal bridge crossed to the other side. He began crossing, his feet making the metal creak.

*Skree!*

A giant rat, the size of a dog, leapt from a dark alcove, its red eyes fixed on Tetanus, yellow, sharp teeth bared in a snarl. It reeked of disease and rot.

Without hesitation, Tetanus delivered a hard side kick to the creature’s flank. The giant rat fell into the foul water below with a sickening splash. Instantly, the water began to boil and steam around it. The rat screeched, in acute agony, as its skin and flesh melted rapidly, dissolved by the sewer’s toxic, corrosive effluent. In seconds, only a skeleton remained, sinking slowly into the blackness.

Tetanus didn’t wait to see more. He ran across the rest of the bridge and climbed a rusted iron ladder to the surface, pushing aside a heavy metal grate.

He emerged not onto a street but into a sewer entrance half-hidden behind a pile of rotting barrels. The daylight, even filtered through the opening, was blinding. The air, though laden with the sweet, nauseating smell of garbage and excrement, was still better than the dungeon’s.

He was free. But he was alone, without his weapons, without Al-Yasiin, and with a new debt of honor in mind. Now, he needed to find Gume and Farpa. He oriented himself and started walking toward the city outskirts, where the abandoned farm lay.

It didn’t take long. He spotted them first: Gume, his massive figure impossible to miss, rummaging through garbage barrels near the sewer entrance, his face a mask of worry. And Farpa, more discreet, beneath Gume, his eyes scanning the crowd with urgency.

“Tétano!” Gume shouted, his voice a mix of relief and anger. He closed the distance in a few strides, grabbing Tetanus by the shoulders. “Where the hell have you been? You vanished all night! We’ve been looking for you since sunrise!”

Farpa joined them, his dark face tense with worry. “What happened? You’re covered in blood! That’s… actually the least of our problems.”

Tetanus took a deep breath. He looked at his friends’ worried faces, then spilled everything.

“Fonseca,” he said, the name coming out as a growl. “He captured me. Threw me in the dungeons.” He touched the guard’s helm still on his head and the armor. “I escaped. Killed a Minotaur in the process. Malachi was in the dungeon with me. We reached a sewer. Malachi left. And I got here.”

Gume and Farpa fell silent, processing the information. The story was absurd, but they were used to all kinds of absurdity.

“And the head?” Farpa asked finally. “That Al-Yasiin thing?”

“Well, they took all my gear after the governor drugged us with his wine,” Tetanus admitted, his expression grim, especially worried about the missing bank vault key.

The air in Salvador felt heavier after Tetanus’s confession, the paranoia of knowing Fonseca had outwitted them so easily keeping them moving, blending into the crowd toward the darker alleys.

It was in one of those alleys, where garbage piled up and the stench of urine was strong, that Álvaro emerged from the shadows like a ghost. He still wore the stolen leather armor but now had plain black clothes over it, allowing him to blend into the urban landscape.

“Thought you’d be rat food by now,” he said, his tone now direct, without affectation. “The palace is buzzing like a kicked anthill. Guards everywhere.”

“Malachi,” Gume began, but Álvaro cut him off.

“Álvaro,” he corrected. “And I overheard things. Fonseca… he’s not in charge anymore. Not the way he was.”

“What do you mean?” Farpa asked, suspicious.

Álvaro stared at the kid for a moment…

“I mean someone got to him first.” Álvaro locked eyes with Tetanus. “His house. Something happened. You need to see.”

Guided by Álvaro, who seemed to know every shortcut and hideout in the city, they slipped into the palace gardens, avoiding patrolling guards with an ease that spoke to the conman’s expertise in staying unseen.

The main entrance to Fonseca’s mansion was heavily guarded, but Álvaro led them to the back, to a half-hidden service door covered in vines. With a quick flick of a lockpick, the door clicked open.

Inside, the silence was oppressive. The air reeked of fresh blood, expensive beeswax, and… feathers.

Fonseca’s study was a scene of carnage. Marechal Deodoro lay slumped over his mahogany desk, his pristine imperial uniform now soaked in dark blood that dripped onto the Persian rug. His eyes had been removed, leaving two black, ghastly sockets. His tongue, grotesquely swollen and purple, lay severed beside his head, atop an official document.

“Holy mercy…” Gume muttered, clutching his stomach.

“Who… what did this?” Farpa whispered, pale.

Tetanus said nothing. His eye was drawn to a wall safe beside a bookshelf. The steel door was slightly ajar. He approached and pulled it open.

Inside, on dark velvet, lay Al-Yasiin. The decapitated head seemed intact but was silent, its eyes closed, as if taking a nap.

“Al-Yasiin?” Tetanus picked up the head, shaking it lightly.

The head’s eyes snapped open, blinking rapidly. “HOLY SHIT, MAGGOT! WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?” it shouted, its voice echoing in the silent room. “Fucking crows! Crows! They stormed the place, killed the fat old man, and flew off with some papers! Made a feast of his eyes and tongue!”

Crows. The word echoed in Tetanus’s mind. He recalled the crow that perched on his head during the tribal ritual, the crows that had guided him at certain moments in his life.

“The documents…” Farpa said, eyeing the severed tongue on the desk. “The proof against him…”

“Useless now,” Tetanus concluded, his voice flat. “He’s dead. The new governor will sweep it under the rug. The paperwork’s worthless. Meia-Noite’s sacrifice was for nothing!”

While the others searched the room for anything useful, Tetanus found a chest in the corner. Inside, neatly folded, was a dark steel chainmail, thin and surprisingly light. He donned it over his dirty doublet—it fit his muscular torso perfectly, as if made for him. There was also an ancient key, heavy and bronze, with engravings resembling small hands. He tucked the key into his bag, re-securing Al-Yasiin to his waist with a nearby leather strap.

“Let’s get out of here,” Álvaro urged, nervous, glancing out the window. “Before they pin this on us.”

They left the mansion as silently as they’d entered. Álvaro, in his element, guided them back to where he and Tetanus had emerged earlier, but this time to a different dock area.

“This way,” he ordered, pointing to an opening leading to another part of the sewers.

Without hesitation, the group plunged into the damp darkness. The stench was overwhelming, but if their plan was right, this was the best place to lay low until the dust settled.

Salvador Sewers

The tunnels here were narrower, filled with debris and near-total darkness. And soon, the rats came again. Not one or two, but dozens, the size of household pets, their eyes glowing like tiny beacons in the dark, drawn by the scent of living flesh.

The fight was a claustrophobic nightmare, especially for Gume, who crushed rats with his axe, each blow a wet thud. Farpa wielded a dagger with deadly precision, while Álvaro guarded the flanks with his rapier, lighting the way with an improvised torch. Tetanus, his new chainmail protecting him from bites—crucial in this chaos—led the way, his sword carving a path through the tide of fur and teeth. All were careful to avoid being bitten.

They were delving deeper into the sewer’s bowels, following a conman they barely trusted, pursued by giant rats that would haunt any noble, accompanied by a decapitated god’s head spewing profanities and a key to a secret they didn’t even understand. No time to think.

After a tight bend in the sewers, the group stopped before a statue embedded in the wall, a grotesque stone figure carved as a man with a disfigured face, holding a broken scale. The statue’s eyes seemed to glow in the dimness, and a circular slot at its base suggested a fit for something. Álvaro grumbled, rubbing his chin. “Always hated this damn statue,” he said, voice low but tense. “Come on, there’s something ahead. Follow.”

They pressed on, the slimy floor hindering every step. After a few minutes, Farpa noticed a crack in the wall, nearly invisible under the grime.

“Here,” he said, pointing. Tetanus pushed the stone, a creak revealing a secret passage, narrow enough to sidle through… but not for Gume, who stayed behind, waiting for news.

On the other side, the tunnel opened into a vast labyrinth, a cavernous space with a high ceiling and moss-covered walls. The floor was treacherous, dotted with hidden spike traps beneath false plates. Dried bloodstains and broken bones marked the wrong paths, a silent warning of less fortunate travelers.

“Careful…” Tetanus ordered, scanning the ground.

The group moved cautiously, guided by the blood and bones, avoiding unstable plates. Tetanus, with his size, nearly triggered a trap, but Farpa pulled him back just in time, the sound of iron spikes rising and retracting echoing behind them.

Álvaro, surprisingly agile, moved as if he knew the way but kept a tense expression, as if dreading what lay ahead.

At the labyrinth’s end, a wooden door reinforced with iron awaited. Tetanus pushed it open, revealing a smaller chamber where a giant rat, larger than the others, guarded a rune-covered wooden chest.

Its red eyes gleamed in a beam, saliva dripping as the beast turned, charging with a deafening screech. Tetanus dove aside, nearly falling into a bear trap in the corner, his sword severing the rodent’s foreleg, while Álvaro pierced its skull with a rapier thrust. Farpa finished it with a precise dagger stab to the neck, the rat collapsing, convulsing in a pool of blood.

Tetanus opened the chest, expecting something valuable, but found only a single imperial coin, ancient, with the face of a forgotten emperor etched in faded bronze. “One coin?” Farpa exclaimed, frustrated.

“It’s for collectors,” Álvaro said, grabbing the coin with a glint in his eyes. “Let’s head back to the statue.”

They retraced their steps through the labyrinth, now more confident but still wary of traps, reuniting with Gume.

Back at the disfigured man’s statue, Álvaro inserted the coin into the circular slot. A mechanism creaked, and the wall beside it opened, revealing another secret passage. They passed through, bypassing a blade trap Álvaro disarmed by pressing a false brick in the adjacent wall.

“Old tricks,” he muttered, but the tension in his voice betrayed something more.

The passage led to an iron gate, guarded by a hooded man with a crossbow. Before he could react, Álvaro raised his hand, showing a tattoo of two twisted blades. “It’s me, Álvaro, they’re with me,” he said, voice firm.

The guard nodded and opened the gate, revealing a wide chamber lit by golden torches. Gaming tables, metal chests, and makeshift dormitories filled the space.

It looked like a hidden guild, where men and women with scarred faces moved with purpose. Tetanus stood before the Conclave da Moeda, a criminal organization operating in the Empire’s shadows, known for its ability to remain invisible.

Álvaro turned to the group, face serious. “Welcome to the Conclave. I… have a hand in this, let’s say. Stay here for now. The city’s in chaos with the governor’s death, and the guards are looking for anyone suspicious. Here, you’re safe. For now.”

Tetanus gave a thumbs-up with his single hand, sizing up Álvaro. “You’re more than just a conman, huh?”

Álvaro gave a lopsided smile. “You do what you can to survive. The Conclave isn’t just crime, it’s resistance. Against the Empire… but don’t kid yourself, no one here’s a saint.”

Gume snorted, resting his axe on his shoulder. “As long as there’s food and a place to sleep, I don’t care about the name.”

Tetanus continued. “Alright. We rest, gather info. The Conclave must know something about Deodoro’s dirty secrets. And I still have to worry about where my bank key ended up… shit… better cool our heads and dive into more problems tomorrow with clear minds.”

Al-Yasiin laughed, the sound echoing in the chamber. “Well, well, maybe things will get interesting here. I suppose it’d be fun to talk straight to this Conclave da Moeda’s leader, right, Álvaro?”

Chapter 24: Charging the Rats

"Often they ask me, what’s better, Heaven or Hell?
And so I ask you, do you believe in the State or the Government?"

Undergrounds of Salvador — Coin Conclave

The Coin Conclave wasn’t just a thieves’ den. It was a microcosm of resistance and desperation hidden in the bowels of Salvador. The main cavern was vast, with a ceiling high enough that the smoke from torches and gas lamps dissipated without choking the occupants. The walls were natural stone reinforced with sturdy wooden beams, and an intricate iron chandelier, suspended by thick chains, illuminated the center of the hall with warm, dancing light.

The place buzzed with a crowd the surface society would never accept. Humans with scarred faces and wary eyes mingled with Micrucus—beings of ethereal beauty, their skin like marble under the lamplight, their eyes glowing with soft golden or silver light. There were also Half-Exus, with broken horns, skin in shades of crimson or purple, and cat-like eyes that reflected the light, their tails twitching restlessly. Other minor races, like stout dwarves and a couple of individuals with scales or beastly traits, completed the picture of a true melting pot of the Empire’s rejected.

Álvaro led them through the main hall, receiving nods of recognition and curious but mostly respectful glances. He was no ordinary member. He stopped before a staircase leading to a more private mezzanine, where a figure commanded the room.

She was reclining in a high chair that looked more like an improvised throne, made of carved wood and upholstered in red velvet. A flaming dagger rested in her lap, its blade dancing with living flames that didn’t burn the fabric, casting patterns of light on her face.

She was… stunning.

Long, wavy brown hair cascaded over her shoulders like a waterfall, framing a face with strong features and a wide, confident smile. Her amber eyes seemed to burn with inner intelligence and fire. Her curvy body was clad in practical leather clothing that didn’t hide but rather accentuated her generous breasts and wide hips. She laughed at something a subordinate said, a loud, husky, contagious laugh that echoed through the hall.

Rosa Mortífera, the Flame of Salvador.

Her amber eyes landed on Álvaro first, then swept over the group, pausing on Tetanus. Eye to eye, purple hair, braids, defiant stance. A more intrigued smile curved her lips.

“Álvaro,” she greeted, her voice melodic but laden with authority. “You’ve brought interesting visitors. And noisy ones, from what I hear.” Her gaze settled on Al-Yasiin at Tetanus’s waist. “Very interesting.”

Álvaro made a gesture of introduction. “Cíntia, this is the crew. They… stirred up some trouble topside. Need a place to breathe.”

“And what brings a one-eyed man, a black giant, an archer, and a decapitated head to my Conclave?” she asked, rising from her chair and addressing Tetanus directly, ignoring the others.

Tetanus held her gaze. “Trouble with the Empire. And a dead governor.”

Mortífera laughed, a sound both mocking and charming. “Oh, yes. Old Deodoro. News… far too convenient. But trouble with the Empire is our specialty.” She leaned forward, the flames of her dagger illuminating her cleavage. “Maybe I can help with your goals. But the Conclave doesn’t work for free. Not even for men as interesting as you.”

“What do you want?” Tetanus asked, cutting to the chase.

“A small… discipline problem,” she said, twirling the flaming dagger between her fingers. “Some of my boys, thinking they’re clever, are skimming profits from the port market extortions. They think they can steal from those who protect them.” Her eyes sparked. “That can’t stand. I need you to deal with them. They operate between midnight and dawn, when the city’s still sleeping. A warning needs to be sent.”

She looked at Tetanus, gauging his reaction. “Do this for me, and the Coin Conclave will be your ally. You’ll have information, resources… a place to call home, for now. Fail… or betray me…” She made the flaming dagger dance in her fingers. “…and you’ll find fire isn’t the only thing I wield that burns.”

The meeting with Rosa Mortífera left a charged energy in the air. The Coin Conclave was a refuge, but clearly one with a price, and at a glance, getting involved with a criminal society constantly causing trouble for the Empire didn’t seem like a great idea.

After being dismissed, Álvaro led them to a more secluded area of the main hall, where a series of small cubicles were separated by thick, worn fabric curtains. This was the guild’s makeshift dormitory.

The air here was denser, smelling of sweat, sex, and old straw. It was a place of functional rest, not comfort.

A woman approached. She was a Half-Exu, with small, twisted horns and feline yellow eyes that watched them with deep weariness. Her movements were slow, deliberate. She extended her hand, palm up, and made complex gestures with her fingers, then pointed to the straw mattresses scattered in the cubicles and scratched her arm exaggeratedly.

“She’s a stutterer,” Álvaro translated with a sigh. “And says the mattresses have fleas. But it’s this or the stone floor. And since you’re not members… she charges. Three gold coins. For the whole group.”

“What! Does the head count?!” Farpa grumbled, arms crossed, but Tetanus was already pulling coins from his bag. He placed three heavy gold coins in the woman’s hand. She weighed them, nodded with an almost imperceptible expression, and gestured that they could choose any empty cubicle.

She then turned and vanished behind the curtains, likely to offer her other “services” to those who could pay.

The group split up. Gume chose a cubicle in the corner, tossing his axe to the ground with a thud before collapsing onto the mattress, which released a cloud of dust and, presumably, fleas. His snores echoed almost instantly.

Tetanus was turning to choose another space when Farpa gently tugged his arm. The archer, at least fifty centimeters shorter than Tetanus, looked restless, his fine features tense under the dim light.

“Hey, Tetanus…” Farpa began, his voice a whisper, his tired eyes avoiding direct contact. “All this shit… the dungeons, the Minotaur, this rotten city… it’s got my nerves on edge. I feel… dirty. And not from the sewer grime, you know?” He swallowed hard. “Sleeping alone here… I can’t do it. My mind keeps spinning. It might be… weird… but can I sleep in your cubicle? Just so I’m not alone listening to Gume snore and the bugs crawling?”

Tetanus looked at his friend. He saw the genuine anxiety in his eyes, the subtle tremor in his hands. They all carried scars from that island and this city. Loneliness in the dark could be the worst torture.

“Alright,” Tetanus replied, his voice gruff. “Just try not to steal the blankets.”

Visible relief washed over Farpa’s face. “Thanks, man.”

They settled into the cramped cubicle. Tetanus placed Al-Yasiin on an adjacent bed, atop a pillow, making the scene faintly comical, considering the head took up barely ten percent of the space.

“Finally, a bed worthy of my merits!” the head declared, looking around with disdain. “Though I hope the sheets are changed more often than your loyalties, maggots.” He fell silent after that, his eyes closing in a mockery of sleep.

The cubicle was too small for two men, especially one Tetanus’s size. They lay back-to-back on the narrow mattress, the other’s presence a solid, oddly comforting weight in the dark. Farpa’s breathing, initially rapid and anxious, gradually deepened and calmed, syncing with Tetanus’s.

Outside, the muffled sounds of the Conclave continued: low laughter, the clink of coins, an occasional moan of pleasure or pain from behind other curtains. It was a living place, full of grim stories, and they’d better get used to the harsh environment quickly. Tetanus stayed awake for a while, imagining what it was like to live in that world full of prostitutes and assassins.

He felt Farpa’s warmth against his back, hearing his friend’s steady breathing. It was strange, yes. But it wasn’t wrong. It was human. In a world that constantly tried to dehumanize them, that small gesture of trust and need was an act of rebellion.

He closed his single eye. Tomorrow, the world would try to spit on them again, but with a different purpose to follow. For that night, in that flea-infested cubicle, they weren’t alone. And for now, that was enough.

Tetanus woke to the weight of an arm across his chest. Farpa was deeply asleep, his face relaxed and buried in Tetanus’s nape, an arm slung over his torso in an unconscious embrace. The closeness was… different. But not unpleasant. Carefully, Tetanus disentangled himself, rising from the creaking straw mattress. Farpa mumbled something incomprehensible and turned over, continuing to sleep.

Tetanus grabbed Al-Yasiin from the corner where it rested.

“Rise and shine, sleeping beauty. Time to work.”

“Is it daytime already?” the head feigned a yawn, its eyes opening slowly. “I barely closed my eyes with this stench of mortal drama.”

Stepping out of the cubicle, Tetanus found Gume in the main hall, already blending in as if he’d always belonged. The giant sat at a chipped wooden table, sharing a massive roasted chicken with a muscular dwarf who seemed familiar to Tetanus and a Half-Exu with an eyepatch. Gume laughed loudly at a dirty joke, spitting bits of chicken.

“…so I slammed the axe into the beast’s head, and CRACK!…” he gesticulated, until he saw Tetanus. “Hey, boss! You’re up! Come try this blessed bird!”

Tetanus nodded, a half-smile on his face. “Later. Got business to handle.” He tried to blend into the crowd, keeping his head low, hoping to go unnoticed.

That’s when Al-Yasiin decided to contribute to his discretion.

“DID YOU KNOW TETANUS HERE GROPED A MAN WITH GOAT LEGS YESTERDAY?” the head shouted, its voice echoing dangerously in the vaulted hall. “AND IT WASN’T IN AN AGRICULTURAL CONTEXT, BELIEVE ME!”

Several faces turned, eyebrows raised, others laughing with rasping sounds. Gume choked on his chicken.

Tetanus stiffened, a flush of anger and embarrassment rising up his neck. He gave Al-Yasiin a light punch to the side. “Shut up, you cursed head.”

“JUST BEING SOCIABLE!” Al-Yasiin exclaimed but lowered its tone. “Besides, this place needs some quality gossip.”

Ignoring the curious glances and poorly hidden smirks, Tetanus hurried to a quieter corner near the water barrels. He ate a piece of bread and some cheese spread on a table, washing it down with a gulp of water.

Soon after, Farpa appeared, rubbing his eyes and looking more rested. Gume joined them, still licking his greasy fingers.

“So, what’s the plan?” Farpa asked, yawning.

“The dust’s settled outside,” Tetanus said, his voice resolute. “I’m heading to the bank. Need to talk to that… Oliver. They took my vault key when I was captured, and I think they might know where it is.” The thought of losing access to the Black Cube, especially, was like a chill down his spine.

“And us?” Gume asked, grabbing his axe.

“Spread out. Listen around. See if you can dig up anything about who took over after Fonseca, or any rumors about… places where they might keep prisoners.” He avoided mentioning Zara and Lâmina explicitly, but the message was clear.

The group split at the sewer exit, emerging into Salvador’s daylight. The air, though still heavy, felt less oppressive. The news of the governor’s death must have caused a silent chaos, a redistribution of power in the shadows.

Tetanus, with Al-Yasiin securely fastened to his waist (and hoping it would stay quiet), dove back into the bustling streets, heading to the Imperial Bank with a single goal in mind. He ignored the stares at his ragged appearance and scarred face.

At the bank, the same bored guard was at the door. This time, though, his look was different. He straightened, eyes wide as he recognized Tetanus.

“You!” the guard exclaimed, surprised. “The one-eyed man! Chancellor Malachi… I mean, Mr. Oliver… he left instructions. Said if you showed up, to go straight to his office. Immediately.” He opened the door with unusual haste.

Tetanus entered, his suspicion at its peak. The bank’s interior was the same, but the atmosphere was tense. The staff whispered among themselves, eyeing him with fear and curiosity.

He marched to the office in the back, his eye scanning every corner for Oliver, pushing the door open without knocking.

Oliver was behind his desk, but this time he was standing, wearing an expensive silk robe over… well, whatever he wore underneath. His goat legs were visible, and he looked agitated, nervous. His face was pale.

“You!” Oliver said, echoing the guard. “Thank the New Gods! Where have you been? The key! Someone used it!”

Oliver was visibly distraught. His normally pale face was now ashen. His fingers drummed nervously on the polished wooden desk, and his goat legs—usually just a quirky curiosity—trembled slightly, his hooves clicking inconsistently against the wooden floor.

Tetanus didn’t waste time with greetings. He advanced, his massive presence filling the small office. “What happened to my key, Oliver?”

Oliver swallowed hard, backing up until he collided with the document shelves behind him. “T-t-they c-came! Right after you w-were detained. The prince’s men! They had your key! They knew everything! They f-forced me—f-forced me to use my mystical connections to the bank to… to nullify your bond with the vault and transfer access to them!”

Rage erupted in Tetanus like a volcano. In one fluid motion, his single arm shot out, his huge, strong hand closing around Oliver’s neck, lifting him and pinning him against the wall. Oliver squealed, a high-pitched, frightened sound, his goat legs kicking the air helplessly.

“You what?!” Tetanus’s growl was low and deadly serious, his face inches from the terrified banker’s. “You gave my belongings to the PRINCE?”

“They threatened me!” Oliver whimpered, his hands clutching Tetanus’s arm to no effect. “Said they’d burn the bank! Turn me into a barbecue! I had no choice!”

“There’s always a choice!” Tetanus roared, pushing him harder against the wall. “There are things in that vault no one should have. Things that could end everything! You need to help me get access back. NOW.”

The fear in Oliver’s eyes turned to a deeper, almost religious terror. “I-I-I c-can’t! The prince! If I oppose h-him! The Order of the ArchiMagisterium will excommunicate me! My powers… my position… everything I am! They’ll banish me! It’s a death sentence!”

Tetanus tightened his grip, not enough to choke but enough for Oliver to feel the promise of a far more immediate death. “Listen, you cowardly piece of shit. If the prince opens that vault and takes what’s inside, there won’t be an Order of the ArchiMagisterium to banish you. There’ll be nothing. Do you understand?” His single eye burned with terrifying conviction, the mark on his chest almost aflame. “Either you help me, or I’ll drag you to hell with me myself. Choose.”

Oliver looked into the absolute fury on Tetanus’s face, the visceral certainty in his voice. He wavered, caught between two abysses. Banishment by the Order was a slow, humiliating end. The one-armed man before him promised a much quicker, more painful one.

His shoulders slumped, the strength draining from his body. He gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

“O-Okay,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I-I’ll see what I can do…”

The fury still boiled in Tetanus’s blood as he left the bank, leaving Oliver trembling and crumpled on his office floor. Salvador’s salty air felt heavy and oppressive, each breath a reminder that the prince might already have his dirty hands on the Black Cube. That? In the prince’s hands? The thought was catastrophic.

He wandered aimlessly, his mind a whirlwind of failed plans and impotent rage. Hunger, however, was a non-negotiable physical need. His steps led him to a noisy, chaotic open-air market, where the smell of greasy food and strong spices dominated the air.

With two of his precious gold coins, he bought a skewer of spiced meat from a vendor who didn’t even glance at his face. He leaned against a wall, eating mechanically, savoring the sharp spices while scanning the crowd without really seeing anything.

Amid the market’s chaos, one man stood out like a missing finger. He wore an immaculate white suit with blood-red accents, polished white shoes that gleamed, and a white Panama hat tilted to one side, partially hiding his face. His skin was polished ebony, and he was dancing. Not just any dance, but an intricate, frenetic frevo, his feet moving with supernatural agility, his arms spinning like propellers. People passed him as if he didn’t exist, unconsciously veering around his space, their eyes sliding over him without registering.

“Look at that,” Al-Yasiin whispered, its voice carrying a tone Tetanus had never heard before: fearful respect. “It’s him. The top trickster. The king of the revelry.”

Tetanus froze, the piece of meat forgotten halfway to his mouth. He knew. Every fiber of his being screamed that this figure wasn’t human. The mark on his chest burned with a sharp, familiar pain, like an old greeting.

The man—the entity—stopped dancing abruptly. His body seemed to stretch for a second, as if defying physics, before recomposing. He turned slowly, and under the brim of his hat, two entirely white eyes, without irises or pupils, fixed on Tetanus. A wide, impossible smile stretched his lips, revealing teeth almost as white as his suit.

He began walking toward Tetanus, his movements fluid and disconcerting, as if his bones were rubber. People continued to ignore him completely, creating an invisible corridor for his approach.

“What’s up, my northeastern comrade?” the entity’s voice was smooth as silk but resonated as if coming from all directions at once. “What’s the matter, did the skinny-legged banker back out?”

Tetanus couldn’t speak. He was paralyzed, not by fear, but by a primal, profound recognition.

“Zé Pilintra…” Al-Yasiin answered for him, its voice restrained. “Or do you prefer ‘The Trickster God’? ‘The Moon Sorcerer’? ‘The One Who Never Lost a Bet’?”

Zé Pilintra’s smile widened further. “I like all the names, little head. Each one recalls a good story.” His white eyes turned back to Tetanus, piercing him. “But I came to give a heads-up to my fellow countryman here. You’re messing with dangerous folks. The rabbit, especially… Jackrabbit.” He made a tsk tsk with his tongue, a theatrical sound of disapproval. “That kid’s still learning. Full of wrong ideas, youthful enthusiasm. Doesn’t know how to measure his strength. One day he’ll jump higher than he can handle and…” Zé Pilintra snapped his fingers, the sound echoing like a gunshot. “…he’ll end up like the fat governor. Just without the fun part.”

He leaned forward, his scent a mix of fine cachaça, cigar, and tobacco. “Watch out for his games, comrade. He thinks hunting kids is a sport. And he’s got his eye on you. Thinks you’re… special.” The trickster gave a low laugh. “And maybe you are. But being special just makes you a better target, doesn’t it?”

Before Tetanus could react, form a question, or even shout, Zé Pilintra stepped back and melted into the crowd. In the blink of an eye, he was gone, dissolving into a swarm of flies. One moment he was there, the next, just ordinary people buying and selling.

The market’s noise flooded Tetanus’s senses like a volume suddenly turned up. He stood panting, the meat skewer fallen to the ground.

“Well…” Al-Yasiin broke the silence, its voice slightly shaky. “I think we just got a courtesy visit. And a warning.”

The encounter with Zé Pilintra left Tetanus feeling like the ground beneath his feet was quicksand. Salvador’s ordinary reality seemed a thin shell over an abyss of divine absurdities and supernatural dangers.

“How bad is it?” Tetanus asked quietly to Al-Yasiin, moving away from the market, his voice a shallow thread of concern. “The prince with the Cube. How bad is it?”

Al-Yasiin, unusually serious, sighed. “Maggot, the Cube isn’t a weapon. It’s a… key. It’s like giving a knife to a madman. It depends on who holds the Cube. In the hands of a powerful fool like the prince? He won’t try to destroy the world. He’ll try to reshape it. Open doors that shouldn’t be opened, call things that shouldn’t be called. He’ll try to create his own paradise, and in the process, make a hell that’ll make Fear Island look like a beach resort. He’ll… simplify things. And simplification, in a tyrant’s hands, always involves a lot, A LOT of blood.”

The explanation chilled Tetanus’s blood.

That’s when Gume and Farpa emerged from a nearby alley, their faces tense.

“Tetanus!” Gume called, lowering his voice. “Think we found something. Or someone.”

“A fortune-teller,” Farpa added, his eyes scanning the street. “Says she needs help. Talked about ‘a man marked by the night.’ Seemed to know things. Might be worth hearing her out.”

Tetanus’s suspicion hit its peak. A fortune-teller? Now? It seemed too staged. But he also had no solid leads. With a nod, he followed them.

They led him to a discreet tent squeezed between a tavern and a blacksmith. The interior smelled of cheap incense and dried herbs. An elderly woman with a headscarf covering her eyes sat behind a table draped in purple cloth.

“The one-eyed man,” she said, her voice a raspy whisper. “The night consumes you, but you consume it back. Interesting.”

“What the hell do you want?” Tetanus was blunt, out of patience for omens.

“A favor for a favor,” she replied, extending a wrinkled hand. In the air, she traced a symbol with her finger—a necklace with a dark blue crystal pendant, carved like an eye. “My ancestral necklace. Stolen from me by a dishonest merchant hiding in the port district at night. It’s the key to my heritage, my power. Retrieve it for me, and I’ll tell you what the crows whisper about what you seek.”

She didn’t mention Zara or Lâmina, but the implication was clear. She had information, or at least could see it.

Tetanus studied her face…

“Describe the merchant.”

“Fat. Bald. Wears a gold ring with an ugly emerald on his right hand. He keeps the necklace in a leather pouch he never lets go of.” She closed her hand. “Bring it to me. Then we’ll talk.”

Outside the tent, the group huddled.

“Could be a trap,” Farpa warned, cautious.

“Everything’s a trap,” Gume grumbled. “But we always behead any trap.”

Tetanus nodded. “It’s a risk. First, we have a job for the Conclave.” He looked at the sky. The sun was setting, painting the sky orange and purple. “Night’s coming. Time to deliver that ‘warning’ Rosa Mortífera asked for. We deal with the skimmers, show we’re reliable, then go after the necklace and the information.”

The logic was sound. They saw the Conclave as their strongest ally for now; failing them would be suicide. A job well done would buy their goodwill.

“Alright,” Tetanus nodded. “Let’s take a nighttime stroll to the port.”

“Rats stealing from rats,” Al-Yasiin laughed, strapped to Tetanus’s waist. “How poetic. I hope they bleed plenty.”

The night at the port was a world apart. The salty air mixed with the stench of rotten fish, spilled rum, and the promise of violence. Under the dim light of gas lamps, Tetanus, Gume, Farpa, and Álvaro moved like shadows among the stacks of cargo and chains by the waterfront.

Álvaro, in his element, led them straight to a half-abandoned warehouse. Inside, a group of nine men was dividing a chest of coins under the flickering light of a lantern. They looked like freshwater pirates—tattered clothes, bandanas, and curved knives tucked into their belts. The leader was a burly man with a scar splitting his lip, giving him a permanent, cruel smile.

“Those are them,” Álvaro whispered, propping a foot on a crate, hand on his hip. “The idiots who think they can steal from Rosa.”

Tetanus didn’t hesitate, stepping out of the shadows, his imposing silhouette blocking the entrance. Gume and Farpa followed, while Álvaro stayed back, observing.

“Lovely night, huh, comrades?” Tetanus’s voice echoed in the empty warehouse, chilling the air.

The men turned, startled, grabbing their weapons. The scarred leader laughed, a raspy sound. “What’s this? The city guard hiring cripples now?”

“Not with the guard,” Tetanus said, stepping inside. His single eye locked on the leader, ignoring the others. “I’m a message from someone. Rosa Mortífera. She didn’t seem to like your creative accounting here, pal.”

The leader spat on the ground. “The whore can go to hell. We run things here.”

“Well, well, well…” Tetanus said simply. He didn’t draw his sword, just stood there, his presence a threat in itself. Gume stepped forward, his giant axe resting on his shoulder. Farpa, in the shadows, drew his dagger, its glint visible.

The pirates’ confidence faltered for a moment. They were bold against drunken merchants and rafters, not against such concentrated brutality.

“I see… and what’s this message?” the leader asked, his voice more subdued now.

“The message is this,” Tetanus replied. “Return everything. Every coin. And to make sure the message sticks…” He paused dramatically. “…you’re going to give me forty gold coins. For the trouble you caused.”

“FORTY?” the leader shouted, indignant. “That’s all we’ve got here!”

Gume took another step forward. The axe seemed to grow in his hands.

The lackeys exchanged nervous glances. Their courage evaporated like cheap liquor.

“Fine… fine!” the leader capitulated, his hands signaling orders as he and his men dumped the chest and counted forty coins into a leather sack, handing it to Tetanus with genuine fear in their eyes.

“Hope I don’t have to come back,” Tetanus said, taking the sack. He and his group turned and left, leaving the humiliated, poorer pirates in the warehouse.

Outside, Álvaro spoke in a teasing tone but acknowledged Tetanus’s potential. “Nice work, boys. I honestly thought this would end in a less elegant mess, but, damn!” His fake accent slipped back for a moment. “Looks like we’ve got potential members here. Well, see you in the sewers, au revoir!”

The group nodded, watching Álvaro vanish into the darkness ahead. They’d barely left the port and started down the dark dirt road back to the city when Farpa pointed to the sky.

“Look.”

A lone crow flew against the full moon, its wings beating with an unnatural purpose, moving in a straight line as if pulled by a thread.

“Tetanus and his crows again, woo-lala…” Gume muttered, superstitious.

“Follow it,” Tetanus ordered, a gut instinct guiding him.

They ran down the road, tracking the black silhouette against the starry sky. The crow led them to a detour, down a poorly maintained side path, and then… there it was.

A wagon tipped on its side, a broken wheel swaying slightly in the wind. Beside it, the body of the fat, bald merchant from the fortune-teller’s description lay sprawled on the ground, his throat slit from ear to ear. The leather pouch he supposedly never let go of was open beside him, its contents—papers, copper coins—scattered in the dust.

Looking away, Tetanus saw the necklace, a dark blue crystal pendant shaped like an eye, glowing faintly in the moonlight, almost pulsing, clutched in the dead merchant’s rigid hand.

Tetanus crouched, prying the necklace from the corpse’s grip. He also noticed the gold ring with the ugly emerald on the man’s finger. With a quick motion, he took it too and pocketed both, along with fifteen bronze coins.

Then a noise from the bushes caught his attention. The wagon’s horse wasn’t dead. It stood, tethered to the overturned wagon, its body trembling with fear and adrenaline. It was an impressive animal: tall, muscular, with deep reddish-brown fur and a jet-black mane. A burned mark on its hip bore the crest of the late Marechal Deodoro Fonseca.

“One of Deodoro’s warhorses,” Gume whistled, impressed. “Fine mount.”

Tetanus approached the animal, speaking in a low, calming tone. The horse, initially spooked, seemed to settle in his presence. Tetanus cut the reins binding it with his dagger.

“We’re not leaving him here,” Tetanus said, decision made. He grabbed the loose reins. “He’s mine now. The third. A new start.”

“Let’s just hope you don’t lose this one too, eh, maggot?” Al-Yasiin mocked from his waist.

The crow, perched on a branch above, watched the scene with intelligent eyes. Then, with a caw that sounded almost like approval, it took flight and vanished into the night.

The group stood in silence for a moment, lit only by the smiling moonlight, two missions completed in one night. Now it was time to return.

The journey back to the city was made in thoughtful silence, broken only by the sound of the new horse’s hooves on the packed earth. The animal, which Tetanus decided to name Fogo-Selvagem (Wildfire) for its restrained temperament and reddish fur, seemed to accept its new owner, following with calm resignation.

Reaching Salvador’s sleeping streets, Tetanus took the horse to a public stable near the sewers, a place with questionable prices and few questions.

“He’s mine,” he told the sleepy stablehand, tossing him two bronze coins. “Treat him well. He eats better than you.”

The man, half-asleep, caught the coins and nodded, tying Fogo-Selvagem to an empty stall.

The group then headed to the fortune-teller’s tent, but as Tetanus suspected, it was dark and silent. A crude “CLOSED” sign hung at the entrance.

“She’s already in dreamland,” Gume observed, yawning. “We’ll deal with it tomorrow, too damn tired…”

Exhaustion hit them like a tide. The night’s adrenaline had faded, leaving only bone-deep fatigue and the smell of blood and sweat. Without discussion, they descended back to the sewer entrance and the Coin Conclave.

The underground air, warm and filled with familiar odors, was almost comforting. They received a few nods of recognition as they passed through the main hall—the news of their efficient “message” at the port had apparently spread.

In the dormitory, the atmosphere was tense. Farpa was visibly shaken, his fingers drumming nervously on his leg.

“Too easy,” he said suddenly, breaking the silence as they prepared to sleep. “The merchant. Dead right when we needed him? And that crow? This has to be a setup, Tetanus. Someone’s using us as pawns.”

Tetanus, exhausted and with the phantom pain of his missing arm throbbing, rolled his eyes. “So what? We got the necklace, didn’t we? One less problem. Stop looking for hairs in eggs, Farpa.”

“Looking for hairs in eggs?” Farpa’s voice rose, a hint of hysteria in it. “Tetanus, the governor was killed by CROWS! And you think I’m looking for hairs in eggs? We’re dancing in the palm of something much bigger, and you’re acting like we’re settling tavern brawls!”

“And what do you want me to do?” Tetanus exploded, his patience snapping. He turned to face Farpa, his large frame dominating the cramped cubicle. “Scream and cry to the gods? We need allies! We need resources! We did what we had to do to earn this!” He gestured with his single arm around them. “Sometimes you gotta get your hands dirty to stay alive long enough to take a bath, damn it!”

The argument echoed in the confined space. Gume hung back, uncomfortable, pretending to adjust his axe. Álvaro had already vanished somewhere in the Conclave.

Farpa fell silent for a moment, his eyes shining with hurt and frustration. Then, without a word, he turned and slipped into his own cubicle, yanking the curtain shut.

The anger still burned in Tetanus’s chest but was quickly replaced by a wave of guilt and exhaustion. Farpa wasn’t wrong. He was just scared. They all were.

The silence that followed was heavy. Tetanus threw himself onto his mattress, staring at the grimy stone ceiling, trying to ignore the muffled sound from the next cubicle. It sounded like… stifled sobs.

Shit.

After long minutes, Tetanus sighed, rubbing his face. He got up and walked to Farpa’s cubicle curtain.

“Farpa?” he called, his voice softer.

No response, but the sobs stopped.

“Hey… look…” Tetanus began, awkwardly. “I… I was an ass. You’re not wrong. It’s all a mess, and it’s all too big. And… it’s scary as hell.”

The curtain shifted slightly. A red, swollen eye peeked out.

“Just…” Farpa’s voice was broken. “I just don’t want us to be anyone’s puppets. And I don’t want to sleep alone with all this spinning in my head.”

Tetanus nodded, a tired gesture. “Alright. Then… come here. But you know the deal.”

The curtain opened. Farpa stepped out, his face pale and tear-streaked. Without ceremony, he slipped into Tetanus’s cramped cubicle and nestled against the wall, leaving space for Tetanus to lie down.

It was even tighter than before, their bodies pressed against each other on the narrow mattress. The smell of sweat, dust, and a hint of salt from Farpa’s tears filled the space.

“Thanks,” Farpa whispered, almost inaudible.

“No big deal,” Tetanus grumbled, closing his eye to sleep, warding off the cold trying to reach them. The rest of the problems could wait until dawn.

Notes:

Thanks for the 1k hits, writing Anti-God has been an interesting experience, I'm really enjoying how this little sufferer has been growing and evolving Thanks again, especially Kimera20, OhRonnieBoy and danyalexia, and also my other friends, 'Wendigo da Manhã' and 'Silver', wich supported me since the beginning.

Chapter 25: Invading the Brothel

"I see god in the orgasm."

Tetanus woke to the collective sigh of the Conclave. The air was still heavy with nocturnal odors, but a new day, even underground, had begun. Farpa was still fast asleep beside him, his face finally relaxed, the traces of last night’s tension softened. Carefully, Tetanus disentangled himself, grabbed Al-Yasiin, and stepped out of the cubicle.

He found Gume already awake, sitting in the main hall with a pensive look.

“He’s still a kid, Tetanus,” Gume said quietly, not lifting his eyes from his axe. “Got courage to spare, but his head’s still hot. He looks up to you like crazy, you know? Always has. Just… go easy on him. Whatever ideas you’ve got, remember he’ll dive in headfirst if you ask, even if it’s the wrong thing.”

Tetanus nodded, the weight of responsibility settling on his shoulders. Gume was right. Farpa was talented but impulsive. He needed to protect him, not throw him into the front lines of the horrors they faced.

“I know,” he replied, his voice gruff. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

At that moment, Álvaro appeared, looking as sleep-deprived as Tetanus—meaning, barely at all. “Rosa wants to see you. She heard about your ‘sermon’ at the docks.” He gestured with his head. “Let’s go.”

They followed Álvaro to the mezzanine. Rosa Mortífera was in her makeshift throne, but today she looked more like an executive than a crime queen. She was examining a parchment, her flaming dagger resting beside her like a dangerous pet.

She looked up as they approached, a genuine—though still dangerously sharp—smile on her lips.

“The Conclave’s official diplomat,” she greeted Tetanus. “I heard you delivered my message personally. And with extra profit… impressive.” Her amber eyes gleamed. “The Conclave’s brothers are already dealing with the remaining skimmers. The port will be mine again. You held up your end.”

Tetanus didn’t waste time with pleasantries. “And yours? I need information. Zara. Lâmina. Where are they?”

Mortífera’s smile didn’t fade but grew more serious. She leaned forward, lowering her voice. “The Conclave has eyes everywhere. Even in the… fancier places.” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “There’s a certain… establishment. A brothel, but not just any. It’s called ‘The Ebony Garden.’ Owned by the prince himself, one of his many ‘private investments.’ It’s frequented exclusively by Salvador’s rotten elite—judges, wealthy merchants, army officers… and the prince himself when he’s in town.”

She paused to let the information sink in. “They say the… attendants… are forcibly recruited or bought from desperate situations. Women of uncommon beauty. My sources inside mentioned a new girl, a woman with an interesting name… Zara. They say she has… a fiery spirit.”

Tetanus’s heart raced. Zara. Alive. Fighting. In the very den of the man who put her there, turned into a sex slave for men as vile as the prince.

“And Lâmina?” he asked, his voice tense.

Rosa shrugged. “The name didn’t come up, so I have no idea. You’ll have to make do with the information you’ve got. But it’s a start, isn’t it?” She relaxed her shoulders. “That brothel’s a fortress. Guarded by the best mercenaries the prince’s money can buy. Getting in there won’t be like intimidating drunken pirates.”

She studied them, gauging their determination. “The information’s yours. What you do with it is your problem. But remember our deal. The Conclave offers shade, not an army.”

Tetanus nodded, his mind already racing with possibilities, entry routes, weak points. They had the best lead they could hope for—a location, each step bringing them closer to Salvador’s cesspool.

“Thanks,” he said finally.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Rosa replied, the flames reflecting in her eyes. “Come back alive. And if you’re going to cause a ruckus up there… make it memorable.”

The thought of Lâmina still missing weighed like a stone in everyone’s chest, but the lead on Zara was a thread of hope they couldn’t ignore.

“The Ebony Garden’s a closed-off place,” Álvaro said from behind, rubbing his goatee, his rapier swinging at his belt. “Guards at the door, mercenaries in the halls, and clients who don’t like prying eyes. Going in as outsiders is asking to die.”

Tetanus sighed, stepping closer to Álvaro. “Then we don’t go in as outsiders. You’ve already fooled half the world with that fake French accent. You can do it again.”

Álvaro raised an eyebrow, a crooked smile forming as he adjusted his mustache with his fingers. “Want me to be Chancellor Malachi again?” He gave a maniacal laugh. “Fine, but if I’m doing this, I need more than an accent. The Ebony Garden only opens its doors to those with gold or status. And I don’t have enough gold to impress anyone.”

Gume snorted, resting his axe on his shoulder. “We’ve got gold.” He pointed to the sack of coins they’d extorted from the pirates at the port. “And you know how to play this game better than us. Make them believe you’re a big shot.”

Farpa, still quiet, chimed in. “And us? We can’t all go in as clients. They’ll get suspicious.”

Álvaro thought for a moment, his smile growing. “Then you’re my entourage. Tetanus, you can be my bodyguard. With your size and that mean mug, no one’ll question it. Gume, you’re my… second bodyguard, let’s say. And Farpa… you stay outside; kids don’t get into brothels.” He eyed Farpa, assessing. “Stay nearby and try to look less like the Knife Mermaid. No bow.”

Farpa grimaced but nodded. “Fine. But if things go south, I’m not just watching.”

“They won’t go south,” Tetanus said, his voice firm, though he knew it was a tough promise to keep. “We go in, find Zara, learn what we can about Lâmina, and get out. No mess, if possible.”

Álvaro clapped his hands, slipping into character. “Then, messieurs, preparre yourselves! Chancellor Malachi shall make a triumphant entrance into the Ebony Garden!” He exaggerated the French accent, adjusting the stolen armor to look more elegant. “But first, we need proper clothes. The Conclave has a stash of stolen outfits. We’ll make it work.”

The group left the Conclave through the same sewer entrance, emerging into Salvador’s morning streets. Álvaro led the way to a hidden Conclave stash, where they found clothes that turned him into something close to a convincing diplomat. Álvaro donned a dark green coat with gold buttons, a feathered hat he insisted on wearing, and polished boots that creaked with every step.

Before heading to the Ebony Garden, Tetanus detoured the group to the fortune-teller’s tent in the alley near the market. The “CLOSED” sign still hung there, but a faint light flickered behind the curtain. Tetanus pushed through the entrance, the blue crystal pendant necklace in hand.

The fortune-teller, her eyes covered by the headscarf, raised her head as she heard him enter. “The one-eyed man,” she said, her voice raspy but tinged with satisfaction. “You’ve returned. And brought what’s mine.”

Tetanus tossed the necklace onto the table, the crystal glinting under the lamplight. “Here it is. Now, what do you know?”

The woman took the necklace with trembling fingers, caressing the pendant like a lost child. “My power… my heritage,” she murmured before lifting her head. “You want to know the future, don’t you? What the winds hide about your friends.”

Tetanus tapped his foot, impatient. “Spit it out.”

She laughed, a dry sound like dead leaves. “Not so fast. The future isn’t a book you force open.” She gestured to a purple cloth where tarot cards were scattered. “Sit. Let me see.”

Tetanus hesitated, but the urgency for any clue about Lâmina specifically made him relent. He sat, his weight making the chair creak. The fortune-teller shuffled the cards with surprising dexterity for her age, her fingers dancing over them. She drew three cards, turning them slowly: one depicted a woman with a sword, another a crow with red eyes, and the last a man with a veil over his face holding a key.

“The woman of fire fights but is chained,” the fortune-teller said, touching the first card. “She’s alive but not free. The crow watches, always watching, guiding you to the abyss or salvation. And the key…” She touched the last card, her unseen eyes seeming to pierce Tetanus. “You carry one but don’t know what door it opens. Beware of those offering easy answers, one-eyed man. Not all gods are your friends.”

Tetanus felt the mark on his chest pulse, but before he could ask more, the fortune-teller pulled something from under the table: a simple braided leather necklace with a preserved, slick, wet bull’s eye as a pendant. “Take it,” she said, offering it. “A charm against the evil eye. It’ll protect you from gazes that want more than to see.”

Tetanus took the necklace, wary but slipping it around his neck. Its weight was light but seemed to carry a silent promise. “Will this work?”

The fortune-teller laughed again. “Depends on how much you believe…”

Before Tetanus could respond, Al-Yasiin erupted, its voice echoing in the tent. “HOLY SHIT, I HATE THESE NUTJOBS!” The head thrashed at Tetanus’s waist, eyes wide with exasperation. “Cards, amulets, pendants! Why don’t they just throw a bucket of mystical crap in your face and be done with it, maggot?”

The fortune-teller didn’t flinch, merely tilting her head. “Your head talks a lot for someone without a body. Careful, or it might lead you to places even you don’t want to go.”

Tetanus stood, ignoring the bickering between the two. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

After the fortune-teller, dismissing her words as cryptic nonsense, Tetanus headed to the Imperial Bank. The place was eerily quiet. The same guard at the door merely nodded at Tetanus, his face a mask of resignation. The atmosphere was like a funeral. Tetanus ignored it all, heading straight to Oliver’s office.

The door was ajar. Tetanus pushed it open silently and stepped inside.

Oliver was hunched over his desk, his posture crumpled with defeat. His silk robe was disheveled, and his goat legs—usually an almost comical curiosity—looked frail and trembling. He didn’t hear Tetanus enter.

Moved by an impulse even he didn’t fully understand, Tetanus approached from behind. His single, broad, battle-roughened hand slid gently and rested on the firm curve of Oliver’s right buttock through the thin fabric of the robe.

Oliver jumped with a muffled squeak, spinning so fast he nearly tripped over his own legs. His face was pale, his eyes wide with shock and… something else.

“Y-YOU—” he choked, clutching the robe shut like a frightened virgin. “Why do you always do that?!”

“Sorry for almost killing you yesterday,” Tetanus said, his voice surprisingly soft. He ignored the question about the touch.

“And the vault?” The question was direct, his expression less accusatory and more like he was reading Oliver’s face.

The fear on Oliver’s face melted into pure despair. “It’s all lost!” he whimpered, tears welling in his eyes. “The Order issued an edict! Your vault access was permanently revoked and transferred to the prince’s Royal Archmage! They… they took everything! And now… now they’re going to audit me!” The word came out as a terrified sob.

“Audit?” Tetanus asked, though he already suspected.

“It’s a euphemism!” Oliver nearly shouted. “They’ll expel me from the Order of the ArchiMagisterium! They’ll sever my magical bonds! They’ll leave me… a commoner!” For a man who’d built his entire identity around a sliver of mystical power, even a small one, it was a social death sentence.

Tetanus watched the banker crumble. The rage he’d felt the day before gave way to calculated coldness. Looking at the banker now, he saw a potential opportunity.

“So you’re already screwed,” Tetanus stated matter-of-factly. “The prince used you and tossed you aside, and this Order will discard you anyway. You don’t owe them any loyalty.”

Oliver looked at him, confused and frightened. “W-What does that matter?”

“It matters because I still have a problem with the prince. And now you do too.” Tetanus stepped closer, invading Oliver’s personal space. “Join me. Help me screw him over. You must know his schemes. Every fortune has a weak spot. Help me find his.”

Oliver shook his head, terrified. “I… I’m not a hero! I only know… numbers! And a bit of bureaucratic sorcery! I was third in my class at Don Pedro II University, but it’s nothing special!”

“Numbers can be sharper than swords sometimes,” Tetanus countered. His hand, which had caused the initial panic, moved again. This time, he raised it and gently traced the line of Oliver’s jaw, his rough fingers contrasting with the banker’s relatively smooth skin. Oliver shuddered, his eyes locked on Tetanus’s face.

“Think about it,” Tetanus whispered, his voice a thread of silk and menace. His hand slid down slowly, grazing Oliver’s neck, over his collarbone, and stopped at the center of his chest, over his racing heart. “You’ve got nothing left to lose. And I…” His single eye held contact. “…can offer revenge. And maybe a new position. In a new order.”

Before Oliver could respond, Tetanus stepped back. He turned and left the office, leaving the goat-legged banker frozen, the ghost of Tetanus’s touch burning on his skin and the suggestion still echoing in his ears.

As he left the bank, Tetanus didn’t look back. He’d planted the seed. Now it was up to Oliver to nurture it or let it die.

He met the group at the agreed-upon corner, near the wealthier districts where the Ebony Garden was supposedly located.

“So?” Gume asked.

“The vault’s gone. But we might’ve gained an ally. Or not.” Tetanus summed it up. “Now, focus. Álvaro, you ready?”

Chancellor Malachi emerged from behind a cluster of barrels, dressed in the worn but clean velvet green coat and feathered hat. The French accent was in full effect.

“More zan r-r-ready, mon ami!” he announced, flourishing. “Chancellor Malachi is prepared to frequent ze finest establishments of this filthy city!”

Farpa rolled his eyes but held back a comment. The final plan was slightly different but simple: Malachi would be the rich, eccentric client; Tetanus, his silent, intimidating bodyguard (with his new bull’s eye necklace adding a touch of menacing “exoticism”); and Gume and Farpa would stay outside, ready to cause a distraction if needed.

They turned to face the wide, well-kept street housing the legendary Ebony Garden. The facade was discreet, just a dark oak door with a small bronze plaque. But the two large, armed men standing outside, with eyes that saw everything, made it clear that discretion was the only thing cheap about the place.

The air on the elegant street was thick with expensive perfume and dirty secrets. The group stopped a safe distance from the Ebony Garden. The discreet facade fooled no one; the aura of exclusivity and danger was palpable.

“Stay here,” Tetanus ordered, untying Al-Yasiin from his waist and handing the head to Gume. “And keep quiet.”

“What? I can’t miss the party!” Al-Yasiin complained, but Gume held it firmly.

“You’ll draw attention,” the giant growled. “We’re on guard here. Any trouble, we bust in full force.”

Farpa gave a nod of confirmation, his fingers already caressing the handle of a hidden dagger.

Tetanus turned to Álvaro, who was nervously adjusting the collar of his velvet coat.

“Stick to the plan,” Tetanus whispered. “Stay calm.”

“Calm? Calm is my middle name!” Álvaro said, his French accent a bit shaky. He squared his shoulders and marched toward the door with a confidence Tetanus knew was fake.

The two guards at the door—large men with dead eyes and visible swords—crossed their arms.

“Good evening, sirs,” one said, his voice a low growl. “Do you have a reservation?”

“Verry bien sir!” Álvaro announced with a flourish. “Chancellor Malachi, at your service. And this is my… personal assistant.” He gestured to Tetanus.

The guard sized up Tetanus with disdain, his eye lingering on the stump of his arm. “A… disabled assistant. Unusual.”

Álvaro laughed, a forced sound. “Ah, but appearances deceive! He was tr-r-rained in the finest schools of… of… combativity in Spain! A prodigy!”

The second guard frowned. “Spain? He doesn’t look Spanish.”

“Trained in Spain, my dear man, not born therre!” Álvaro corrected quickly, sweating slightly. “Excellence has no nationality! Now, will you let us pass? I have a… busy night ahead.”

The guards exchanged a glance. The explanation was ridiculous, but Álvaro’s affected confidence and Tetanus’s intimidating presence were enough. They stepped aside and opened the door.

Inside, the Ebony Garden was a study in opulent decay. Red crystal chandeliers cast a low glow over velvet furniture. The air was heavy with the scent of expensive perfume, wine, and an undercurrent of sweat and despair. Tetanus saw girls who barely looked past puberty, dressed in lace that made them resemble macabre dolls. Pregnant women tried to hide their swollen bellies with shawls, their eyes filled with deep resignation. It was a human flesh market, washed in silk and lit by crystals.

A madam in a tight dress, her face so taut it barely showed emotion, approached them.

“Chancellor Malachi,” Álvaro said, regaining some of his poise. “I’m interested in specific company. I heard of a… Zarra. They say she’s the kind with fire in her soul.”

The madam gave a snake-like smile. “Zara is one of our… newer acquisitions. And one of the most popular. Her time is valuable.”

“Money is no issue,” Álvaro said arrogantly, shaking a coin pouch that jingled promisingly.

The madam nodded, satisfied. “She’s available. The cubicle at the far end, on the right. Your… assistant… will wait outside, of course.”

Tetanus followed the madam through the main hall, his stomach churning with every vacant stare he met. She led him to a darker, quieter corridor lined with heavy velvet curtains separating small cubicles. Muffled sounds of moans, forced laughter, and gasps slipped through the gaps. In the dimness, shadows cast on the curtains danced in intimate, grotesque acts—a silent orgy’s shadow play.

The madam stopped at a curtain. “She’s inside. One hour. Don’t cause trouble.” She turned and left, her heels echoing down the corridor.

Tetanus stood for a moment, taking a deep breath. Then he pushed the curtain aside and entered.

The cubicle was small, holding only a wide bed and a small nightstand with a low lamp. The air smelled of jasmine and sex.

And there she was.

Zara.

She stood with her back to him, wearing a sheer chemise that left nothing to the imagination. Her red hair—once a crown of fire in his memory—fell loose over her pale shoulders. She turned slowly, her face a mask of professional boredom that cracked for a split second when she saw his size and missing arm. Her green eyes, once full of life and mischief, were now dull, framed by dark circles.

“Welcome,” she said, her voice hoarse from disuse or perhaps screams. “What does the gentleman desire?” She began to untie the chemise.

Tetanus said nothing. His heart ached in a way no battle wound ever had. He closed the curtain behind him, plunging the cubicle into deeper shadow.

He approached her. She stepped back slightly, a flicker of real fear in her eyes—a fear he’d never seen in her before.

“We’d better… get started,” she whispered, turning again and lying on the bed, offering her back in an act of submission that broke Tetanus’s soul.

He swallowed the lump in his throat. Speaking now could ruin everything. If there were listeners, if someone suspected…

With trembling hands he didn’t know he had, he touched her back. Her skin was soft but cold. He felt the old scars from her past battles and newer marks—perhaps from less gentle clients. He leaned in, his large frame covering hers, and buried his face in her neck, breathing in her scent—still a trace of the orange blossom perfume she always wore, beneath the artificial jasmine of the brothel.

Zara shuddered under his touch but didn’t pull away. She let out a low, performative moan, part of the script.

Tetanus continued, his hands exploring her body with a mix of pain, longing, and a silent fury burning within him. He recognized her in every curve, every muscle, every scar. It was her. She was alive. But she was broken.

He would make the prince pay for every second of this. But first, he had to get her out of there. And for now, that meant playing the role of a client, the most painful act of all: pretending the woman he considered a sister was just another prostitute.

The velvet curtain sealed Tetanus and Zara in a cubicle of shadows and borrowed moans. The air, thick with the scent of cheap jasmine and transactional sex, clung to the skin.

Tetanus kept up the charade, his movements broad and performative, designed for any eavesdropping ears outside. His large body covered hers, a shield between Zara and the rotten world that had swallowed her. His hips moved in a mechanical rhythm, the bed creaking under their combined weight. Each creak was a nail in the coffin of his own dignity, each of Zara’s false moans a needle driven into his gut.

He buried his face near her ear, his lips barely moving, his voice a furious bee’s buzz only she could hear.

“It’s me… Tetanus…”

The body beneath him froze. Her own performative hip rhythm halted. Zara’s caught breath was a short, sharp tremor in his ear. He felt every muscle in her tense, turning her into a rigid board of pure shock. He tightened his single arm around her, an embrace that was both comfort and restraint, silently begging her to keep her composure.

“Keep going…” he growled against her skin, his voice laden with fierce anguish. “They’re listening.”

A shudder ran through her entire body. Then, slowly, like a ventriloquist’s puppet with its strings pulled again, she let out another muffled moan, a broken sound that died into a sob. Her hips arched slightly against his, continuing the obscene dance.

He kept moving atop her, the penetration becoming a physical and spiritual agony. And it was then, in that brutal closeness, that his splayed hand on her abdomen felt it. Not the familiar softness of her muscular stomach, but a new firmness, an unmistakable, taut roundness under her skin.

Zara was pregnant.

The revelation hit Tetanus like a punch to the solar plexus. Fury, black and absolute, flooded his vision, tinging the already dim red lamplight a bloody hue. The prince. That royal filth hadn’t just enslaved her but planted his seed in her, marked her with an unwanted legacy. The violence of the act, the final desecration, nearly made him roar and tear the cubicle apart with his bare hands.

He swallowed the roar, turning it into a muffled, guttural grunt that sounded perfectly like a client’s climax. His hips stilled, and he poured his own rage and frustration onto the stained mattress, ejaculating outside, beside her body, his own frame trembling with the effort not to shatter.

He rolled to the side, panting, sweating not from pleasure but from pure hatred. The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by their ragged breathing.

Zara turned slowly. In the dimness, her green eyes, once lifeless, were now wide open, flooded with a storm of emotions—disbelief, shame, sharp fear, and finally, a flicker of the old fire he knew.

“Tetanus?” The name came out as a broken whisper, a prayer and a curse at once.

“Shut up and get dressed,” he growled, his voice rough as sandpaper, as he quickly adjusted himself. “We’re getting out of here. Now.”

He tossed her clothes to her, his fingers trembling with restrained rage. He saw the confusion, the hesitation in her. He saw her hand rest instinctively on the slightly rounded belly, and his heart tightened into a cold steel knot.

“Everything,” he said, his voice softer but still urgent. “We take everything out of here. Leave nothing behind.”

She nodded quickly, a sharp focus replacing the vacant look. She was a fighter. He remembered. She’d been caught, broken, but the spark was still there as she dressed with swift, efficient movements.

Tetanus pushed the curtain aside. The corridor was empty, the orgy of shadows behind the other curtains continuing its obscene dance. He grabbed Zara’s arm, his grip firm, and pulled her out of the cubicle.

The madam appeared almost instantly, her stitched smile fixed in place. “Everything alright, sir? Was the company satisfactory?”

Tetanus ignored her, pulling Zara through the corridor. Álvaro, who’d been pretending to admire an obscene painting on the wall, joined them, his face pale under the feathered hat.

“Mon Dieu,” he muttered, seeing Tetanus’s expression. “On y va?”

“On y va,” Tetanus confirmed, his voice a growl.

They burst into the main hall. The guards at the door straightened, noticing their haste.

“Leaving so soon, sir?” one asked, suspicious.

“Urgent business,” Tetanus growled, not slowing.

That’s when a drunken client, a magistrate in expensive robes with wine-soaked breath, blocked their path, his glassy eyes fixed on Zara.

“Hey, that’s the fiery redhead! I booked her for later!” He reached to grab her arm. “Where do you think you’re going, darling?”

Tetanus’s good hand seized the magistrate’s face, rough fingers covering his mouth and nose, and smashed his head against the carved wooden wall with a wet, horrible thud. The man crumpled, unconscious or dead, a dark red stain seeping down the varnished wood.

“GO!” Tetanus roared, shoving Zara and Álvaro toward the door.

The guards drew their swords, but it was too late. Tetanus, Álvaro, and Zara burst into the night street, the cold air hitting their faces like a slap.

Gume and Farpa emerged from the shadows, weapons drawn.

“We got her?” Gume asked, his eyes locking on Zara. He saw the belly. His knuckles whitened around the axe handle.

“We got her,” Tetanus said, panting. “Now RUN!”

The group bolted down the street, leaving behind the rising shouts of alarm, the escape a whirlwind of shadows, muffled cries, and boots pounding against cobblestones.

Gume, with surprising strength for his already colossal size, didn’t hesitate. He tossed Al-Yasiin to Tetanus, who caught it mid-air. Gume grabbed Zara with a care that brutally contrasted with the scene’s violence, cradling her in his arms as if she were porcelain.

“Hold tight, girl,” he growled, his voice a muffled thunder. Zara clung to his neck, burying her face in his broad shoulder, hiding from the world that had violated her.

Tetanus, Álvaro, and Farpa formed a chaotic rearguard. Tetanus kicked over a fruit cart, scattering oranges and apples that rolled under the feet of the first guards emerging from the brothel’s door. Álvaro, with a thief’s agility, cut the chain holding a lantern to a wall and hurled it, shattering it and spreading flaming oil across the street, creating a fleeting curtain of fire and smoke.

The descent into the sewers was a plunge back into the dirty, familiar reality. Álvaro yanked the grate open with an expert tug, and the group descended, one by one, into the damp darkness. Gume went last, still carrying Zara, shielding her from scraping against the rough stones. The grate slammed shut behind them, the heavy, organic silence of the underground swallowing them, replacing the street’s shouts and clamor.

The dim light of the Conclave da Moeda, the smell of mold, sweat, and cheap soup, had never been so welcoming. They emerged into the main gallery, met by curious glances and then respectful distance from the Conclave’s brothers, who saw Tetanus’s grim expression and the precious, fragile burden Gume carried.

Gume set her down with utmost gentleness on a pile of rugs and blankets near the central fire. Zara shivered, pulling the thin rags she still wore to cover herself, her green eyes darting from face to face, assessing the new environment with the cautious fear of a cornered animal.

Farpa appeared with a cup of water and a piece of bread. She took the water with trembling hands and drank greedily but ignored the moldy bread.

Tetanus knelt before her, his large frame blocking the others’ view, giving her an illusion of privacy.

“Zara,” he said, his voice softer than it had ever been. “You’re safe. No one’s touching you here.”

She looked at him, then her gaze dropped to her own belly, where her hand rested. The tears she’d held back with brute force in the brothel began to fall silently, clean streaks cutting through the dirt and cheap makeup on her face.

“He…” her voice came out a hoarse, broken whisper. “The prince… it wasn’t just once. It was… multiple times. He came when he was drunk, or when someone disappointed him… He said he… needed to tame the fire of the rabble… that I was his… his favorite conquest.”

She choked, a convulsive sob shaking her body. Gume, beside Tetanus, closed his eyes, his hand gripping the axe handle so tightly the wood creaked in protest.

“He held me down…” she continued, her voice rising to a pitch of terror, as if reliving the moments. “Sometimes with guards helping… other times himself… and he… he…”

She couldn’t finish, nor did she need to. The image was clear, horrific in its most grotesque form in each of their minds. The violence, the brutal power exerted not just over her body but her will, her autonomy, her very womb.

“He planted this in me,” she whispered, staring at the bulge with a mix of disgust and profound terror. “This thing. This reminder of him. I feel it growing… and it’s like he’s still here, possessing me from the inside.”

The silence that followed was heavier than anything. The fury was a living thing among them, breathing and pulsing in the damp air. Everything awful existed, but now there was this—a new layer of personal, profane horror.

Tetanus placed his hand over hers, still pressed against her belly. His touch was rough but steady.

“It’s not a reminder of him,” he said, his voice a low growl laden with a promise of death. “It’s a victim of his. Just like you. And we’ll deal with it. Together.”

Chapter 26: Decrepit Road to Euclides

Undergrounds of Salvador — Conclave da Moeda — 1666

The air in the Conclave was heavy, as oppressive as the blade of a guillotine about to fall. Tetanus’s silent fury solidified into a cold, practical resolve. By this point, Salvador had become far more than a battlefield. They had to leave immediately.

He stood, his shadow dancing grotesquely on the stone wall lit by the fire. “We’re getting out of Salvador. Tonight.”

Gume nodded, his fingers still white-knuckled on the axe handle. Farpa, beside him, was stroking Zara’s hair and holding her in his small arms, trying to comfort her, though it seemed he needed comfort himself, his attention mostly fixed on Tetanus. Zara curled deeper into the blankets, her gaze, now clear and focused, locked on Tetanus. She was ready to go.

Al-Yasiin, tied to Tetanus’s waist, swayed with the movement. “Finally!” the head mocked, its voice an echoing croak. “Tired of breathing this shit-and-piss air. But let’s make one thing clear, worm? Next time you’re decapitating someone, pick a body that likes to travel. This one’s already nauseous just thinking about it.”

Tetanus turned to Álvaro, who was watching everything with an unusual seriousness, his usual theatrical flair gone. “I need a way out. Something that’s not the main gates.”

Álvaro rubbed his goatee, thoughtful. “The gates are under double guard by the prince’s army after the brothel… but the Conclave has eyes where light doesn’t reach.” He paused, a cunning glint in his eyes. “There’s a route. Old, forgotten. A centuries-old aqueduct that empties into the river beyond the walls. It’s narrow, stinks, and probably has more buried corpses than stones, but it’s a way out. The Conclave uses it for… discreet imports.”

“It’ll do,” Tetanus replied without hesitation. “And you, Álvaro? Will the Conclave let you go?”

A crooked smile spread across Álvaro’s face. “Rosa might be a bit pissed… but Chancellor Malachi thinks a change of scenery will do his health some good. Besides,” he added, his French accent fading, replaced by rare sincerity, “a bunch of lunatics willing to piss off a prince is exactly the kind of high-risk investment I like. We stick together, or we die famous. And I prefer the ‘die famous’ part.”

The alliance was sealed. But then, a new sound echoed in the chamber—the heavy thud of metal-reinforced boots. A dwarf emerged from the shadows, his short, broad silhouette briefly blocking the firelight. His arms, thick as young tree trunks and laced with prominent veins and old forge burn scars, hung at his sides. His face was a map of scars and hardened soot, with a thick, white beard cascading in long braids, but his eyes, under bushy brows, gleamed with a familiar fire.

“Heard the One-Armed Devil was stirring up trouble in the city,” the dwarf growled, his voice like grinding stones. He stopped before Tetanus, tilting his head up to meet the tall man’s gaze. “Doesn’t surprise me. You’ve always been a magnet for chaos, Tetanus.”

Tetanus looked down, a flash of recognition crossing his face.

“Samson?”

“The very same,” the dwarf confirmed, pounding his chest with a fist like a sledgehammer. “From the Ouro Preto forge. Before those gold-painted bastards came and…” His voice faltered for a second, a tremor of pure rage rippling through his broad shoulders. “I escaped through the sewers while the city burned. The Conclave took me in. Useful smiths always have value, even ones with short legs.”

Samson, from the shop of protections for real men.

He spat on the ground. “Heard the commotion. Heard about the woman.” His eyes landed on Zara for a moment, a mix of deep respect and fury in his gaze. “And heard you’re getting out. Need a smith on your journey? ‘Cause I need a place to swing my anvil at some royal heads.”

Tetanus studied the dwarf. Samson. He remembered the sound of his hammer echoing through Ouro Preto’s dusty streets, the first weapon he’d bought from him. An anvil with legs and now a hatred for the prince that rivaled his own.

“We travel light and fast,” Tetanus warned.

“I don’t slow anyone down,” Samson shot back, offended. “My legs may be short, but they don’t stop. And I carry my own weight. My hammer too. And some surprises I made while hiding here.”

The decision was instant. Tetanus extended his hand—not for a handshake but to clasp the dwarf’s forearm in a warrior’s grip. Samson’s grip was like being caught in a steel vise.

“Welcome aboard, smith.”

The group was formed. The plan, set. The hatred, a shared fuel. They turned to final preparations. Samson went to fetch his tools. Álvaro went to “convince” Rosa Mortífera to provide supplies and the exact map of the aqueduct. Gume helped Zara to her feet, wrapping her in a thick, dark cloak.

Tetanus looked at his unlikely crew: a black giant, a young, impulsive archer without a bow, a pregnant woman marked by violence, a conman with a fake accent, a vengeful dwarf smith, and a cursed, decapitated head strapped to his belt.

And himself. A one-armed, one-eyed man, too handsome for this world, bearing a mysterious mark on his chest, a blood debt to settle, and an artifact stolen by a monarch.

Baía de Todos os Santos — Salvador

The air in Salvador, even at night, was hot and sticky, laden with the smell of salt and gutted fish.

Tetanus headed straight to the stable where he’d left Fogo-Selvagem. The horse, its reddish coat gleaming under the moonlight, nickered softly at the sight of him. The stablehand, snoring in a broken chair, didn’t notice as Tetanus untied the reins and mounted the animal.

In the street, the group was waiting with two wagons rented for 20 gold coins, paid from Tetanus’s pocket. One was sturdy enough to carry Gume, whose weight rivaled a horse’s. The other, smaller, held Farpa, Álvaro, Zara, and now Samson, who carried a backpack of smithing tools that clinked like war bells.

As Tetanus prepared to set off, a figure emerged from the shadows, silk robe billowing and goat hooves clicking on the cobblestones. Oliver. The banker, his face pale and eyes filled with a mix of fear and determination, raised a hand.

“I’m coming with you…” he said, his voice trembling but firm. “The prince destroyed my life. The Order abandoned me. I’ve got nothing left to lose here.” He hesitated, adjusting his crooked glasses. “Maybe… maybe I can help…”

Tetanus sized him up for a moment, then nodded. “Get in the wagon. But don’t waver, or you’re the first to fall.”

Oliver swallowed hard but climbed into the wagon with Farpa and the others, squeezing in among Samson’s tools. The group set off, Tetanus leading on Fogo-Selvagem, Álvaro’s map in hand. Salvador’s streets gave way to dirt trails, the smiling moon swallowing them as they headed for the aqueduct Álvaro had indicated.

Zara, wrapped in the cloak, stayed silent throughout the journey, her eyes fixed on the horizon, her hand on her belly as if protecting something she herself didn’t want. Farpa, beside her, tried offering words of comfort but gave up in the face of her silence. Gume, in the other wagon, gripped his axe like an anchor. Álvaro and Samson exchanged murmurs about the route, while Oliver, visibly out of place, clutched a notebook as if it were his last link to the world he’d left behind.

Tetanus, guiding the group, consulted the map under the moonlight. The aqueduct led them to a muddy river, and from there, the trail took them to a small city he knew well:

Euclides da Cunha

Where he’d killed the Labatut monster before. The memory brought a bitter weight and curiosity about how the city was faring since he’d left.

The nighttime journey was tense, the silence broken only by the creak of the wagons and Fogo-Selvagem’s hoofbeats. Tetanus felt the mark on his chest pulse—a bad sign.

When the first lights of Euclides appeared in the distance, Tetanus raised a hand, signaling the group to stop.

Dawn painted the horizon in shades of gray and blood-red, as if the sky knew what awaited them.

The road to Euclides da Cunha was a dirt trail flanked by dense forest whispering dark secrets.

As they drew closer to the city, a nauseating stench filled the air—rotting flesh, congealed blood, and something more visceral, like semen and exposed entrails crawling with maggots. The silence was absolute, devoid of birdsong or the lowing of sick cattle.

Tetanus signaled. “Something’s wrong,” he murmured, dismounting.

Euclides da Cunha was a ghost town. Houses reduced to piles of charred wood and cracked stone, streets littered with debris and mutilated bodies. Only eight surviving souls cowered among the ruins, trembling with terror.

But the horror didn’t end there. Mutant trolls, deformed creatures that seemed vomited from the deepest abyss of insanity, infested the place. Their bodies were swollen masses of pulsating tumors, purplish skin torn by writhing protrusions like living parasites. Extra limbs sprouted from backs and swollen bellies, twisted fingers stretching with a wet, repulsive sound.

In the center of the ruined square, a cleric in a tattered white habit, her face contorted in agony, was being violated by two trolls. One penetrated her from the front, its bulbous member—swollen like a living tumor, covered in prominent veins and irregular spines—tearing her apart with each brutal thrust, causing pain that made her body convulse.

The other attacked from behind, its grotesque penis stretching her beyond her limits, blood streaming down her thighs as she screamed, the trolls’ guttural sounds blending with hers in a symphony of torment. Other trolls beat villagers with rocks, skulls cracking like eggs, brains splattering on the ground, while some mounted already lifeless bodies, their deformities—extra hands sprouting from bellies, grasping or squeezing victims—turning the mass rape into prolonged torture.

Bile rose in Tetanus’s throat, the mark on his chest burning like acid. “Kill these bastards…” he ordered quietly, advancing with his sword in his good hand.

Álvaro, pale but determined, drew his rapier, and Samson, with a guttural roar, pulled out the smithing hammer he carried, his eyes blazing with fury. They charged the nearest trolls. Tetanus beheaded the first with a swing that sliced through tumorous flesh like rancid butter, black blood spurting and burning the skin like venom.

But one thing about trolls: they don’t die without fire.

Tetanus stepped back as the headless troll advanced toward him, its multiple limbs raised in his direction.

Álvaro pierced another’s eye, the blade sinking with a wet sound, while Samson crushed a third’s skull, the hammer leaving an unrecognizable mess.

Nothing worked; the trolls kept advancing, even reduced to dismembered aberrations.

While everyone was distracted, at the wagon where Zara was, a fetid troll—its belly bubbling with tumors that opened like pus-filled mouths—approached from behind, drawn by Zara’s scent. The woman, still fragile, screamed as the creature climbed the edge, its bulbous member already erect, dripping corrosive fluid that smoked on the wood.

It grabbed her ankle, pulling her toward it, but Zara fought back, kicking its deformed face, her fingers sinking into a tumor that burst in green slime. The troll roared, but before it could mount her, Oliver, trembling in the wagon, acted. He grabbed a broken spear from a dead villager, his hands glowing faintly as he tried to snap his fingers.

A spark flared, and the spear’s tip ignited in flames—a basic pyromancy trick he’d learned at university.

“Get out!” Oliver shouted, driving the flaming spear into the troll’s chest. The fire spread through the tumors, exploding them in flames that consumed the deformed flesh. The troll howled, staggering back in panic, the fire spreading to its extra limbs, which writhed in agony.

The other trolls, seeing their companion burn alive, stopped their atrocities, their malignant gazes filled with primal fear. They fled into the forest, leaving mutilated bodies and the few trembling survivors behind.

Tetanus, panting and covered in black slime, returned to the group, his sword dripping. “Good work, Oliver,” he said, his voice flickering but with a nod of respect. The banker, still shaking with fear and traumatized by the atrocities he’d witnessed, nodded.

Euclides da Cunha had become a tomb, but the group had saved what remained. Zara, still shaken, murmured a thank you to Oliver, while Farpa helped the survivors gather.

The silence in Euclides da Cunha was broken only by the crackling of still-smoldering ruins and the muffled moans of the few survivors.

Tetanus, his face hard as stone, walked through the devastated streets, his sword dripping troll blood. The mark on his chest pulsed with a fury he could barely contain. His steps led him to a partially destroyed house, its roof collapsed and the floor giving way to reveal an exposed basement, like an open wound in the earth.

Down below, under the faint dawn light, a scene of horror unfolded.

Fifteen mutant trolls, their grotesque forms covered in pulsating tumors and aberrant limbs, were in a frenzy of mass rape. Eight women—some barely girls, their faces contorted in terror and pain—were brutalized. The trolls, with their bulbous, spiny organs, tore them apart with savage thrusts, blood pooling mixed with semen as guttural moans blended with the victims’ screams. The stench of shredded flesh and pus filled the air, a smell of despair that made Tetanus clench his teeth in disgust until they ached.

His eye took in the scene with a revulsion that transcended anger, a repulsion so deep it seemed to burn his soul. Without a word, he grabbed a smoldering torch nearby, its flames crackling at the tip, and walked to the edge of the basement.

The trolls, engrossed in their violent orgy, didn’t notice him. With a swift motion, Tetanus tossed the torch into the center of the basement, where a pile of rags and dry wood lay. The flames spread like a ravenous demon, licking the trolls’ and women’s bodies. The fire roared, turning the basement into a giant pyre, the trolls’ howls mixing with the victims’ screams in a chorus of agony that echoed through the undead city.

Tetanus fell to his knees, his sword plunged into the ground beside him, and watched the flames. The women’s faces, now indistinguishable in the inferno, seemed etched in his mind. He felt no satisfaction, only a frigid void.

Those women were beyond saving, their lives destroyed even before the fire. But the trolls, those Empire monsters, would pay in hell, their souls fodder for the princes of the depths.

The mark on his chest burned, as if approving the sacrifice.

He stayed there, the fire’s heat drying the sweat on his face, until the flames began to die down, leaving charred bones visible. The smell of burnt flesh was suffocating, but Tetanus didn’t move until the last ember faded.

When he returned to the group, his face still a serene mask of stone. Gume, Farpa, Zara, Álvaro, Oliver, and Samson waited in the square with the few survivors. Zara, still wrapped in the cloak, looked at him with a mix of understanding and sorrow.

Oliver, clutching his notebook like a shield, seemed on the verge of collapse. Samson spat on the ground, hammer still in hand, while Álvaro tried to maintain a rigid posture, but his voice trembled.

“We stay here,” Tetanus announced, his voice hoarse but firm. “Euclides is broken, but it’s a place to breathe. We’ll fortify it, gather the survivors, plan the next step.”

No one questioned him. The weight of the decision was clear: fleeing now was too risky, with the Empire hunting rebels and monsters loose in the region. Euclides, even in ruins, offered a temporary hideout. Tetanus looked at the wreckage around them, smoke still rising from the burned basement. “We rebuild what we can. And wait. We have to protect the remaining survivors.”

Chapter 27: Grow Castle

“... Mother.”

The sun that rose over Euclides da Cunha brought neither warmth nor comfort. The Empire’s sun offered only light—a raw, pale light, stronger in the northeast and weaker in colder provinces—that merely illuminated the full extent of the horror. It was a light that seemed ashamed to touch the earth, revealing the sordid details the darkness had tried to hide: congealed blood in dark pools, scattered remains, and the black smoke still rising from the burned house like an accusing finger pointing to an empty sky.

No birds sang. Only the persistent buzzing of flies, now more ravenous under the daylight. This was a place abandoned by any god claiming mercy. The stillness was oppressive, laden with a silence that screamed.

In the first rays of that dead sun, Tetanus’s group began to stir. They hadn’t slept all night, choosing to camp on the edge of the main square—a makeshift camp of exhausted bodies and tattered souls. Now, they moved with the heavy slowness of those carrying an invisible burden.

Tetanus was the first to rise. His movements were economical, precise. He gathered his gear, his face an impenetrable mask of granite. The smell of smoke, rape, and death still clung to his skin and clothes. He ignored the others’ gazes, focusing only on the immediate task.

One by one, the few survivors they’d rescued—eight lost souls in a sea of carnage—began to approach. They moved like sleepwalkers, their empty eyes still trying to process the hell they’d witnessed and survived.

An older man, his face slashed and his arm wrapped in dirty rags, was the first to speak. His voice was a flickering whisper. “Sir…” he began, not looking up as he stood before Tetanus. “You gave us… an end. To that… thing down there. An end.” He swallowed hard. “We’ve got nothing to offer. Nothing at all. But if you need water, or… anything that’s left…”

Others nodded, murmuring in agreement. Their gratitude was a quiet, somber thing, born from the recognition that sometimes the only mercy possible was death.

The cleric, with a symbol of Solis Rasos on her tattered habit, was among them, but she was not the same. She was wrapped in a blanket Gume had given her, sitting on a charred tree stump. Her eyes, once full of faith, were fixed on a distant point, empty. She trembled uncontrollably. The brutal violation, the loss of her god amidst that darkness, had broken something fundamental in her. In that moment, she merely existed, a hollow shell of trauma.

Zara, pale but with dry, determined eyes, approached the cleric. Without a word, she knelt beside her, placing a light hand on her blanket-wrapped shoulder. It wasn’t a healing touch, but one of shared solitude. Of understanding. Two women marked by the violence of men and monsters, one offering the other the only comfort left: the silent presence of a fellow survivor.

Oliver watched the scene, his face still pale. He had washed his hands repeatedly, trying to rid himself of the phantom sensation of the flaming spear and the smell of burning troll. He looked at Tetanus, the impassive figure who had turned horror into ashes, and felt a chill down his spine that had nothing to do with the cold morning—a certain fear of that purple-haired, one-eyed man.

Gume and Farpa packed their few belongings, their faces grave. Al-Yasiin remained unusually quiet, as if even the blasphemous head respected the somber magnitude of what they’d witnessed and done.

The group was reforming, now expanded. Not by choice, but by the cruel obligation of fate. They were scraps of humanity, united not by bonds of friendship, but by shared trauma and a common hatred.

Tetanus surveyed the group. The survivors—eight lost souls—seemed even smaller and frailer in the daylight. They had nowhere to go. No one would come for them. Euclides da Cunha had been erased from the map, perhaps even from the kingdom’s memory.

A thought, not of compassion but of pure pragmatism, surfaced in his mind. They needed a safe place. A stronghold far from the prince’s eyes, far from Salvador. A place to regroup, to grow stronger. And this pile of ruins, forgotten even by the gods, was perfect.

He turned to the group, his imposing figure looming over all. The survivors instinctively stepped back, but their eyes—empty, traumatized—fixed on him. They had seen what he was capable of. He was the most tangible force in their shattered world.

Tetanus took a deep breath, filling his lungs with air that still smelled of ashes and death. He wasn’t a man of pretty words. His eloquence was the swing of a sword, the snap of a bone. But he remembered the priests from his life, how they wielded words like hammers, shaping the will of the people with promises of glory and protection. It was a lie, of course. But it was a functional lie.

He raised his only hand, a slow, heavy gesture that demanded attention.

“Look around,” his voice came out as a low growl, but laden with unquestionable authority. “What was done here… was a harvest of evil. They thought they’d reap you. They thought they’d end it all.”

He paused, his eye scanning each bruised and terrified face. “But they failed. You survived. And we…” he gestured to his group with a sweep of his hand, “…we arrived. This wasn’t an accident. It was a test.”

He was improvising, weaving a thread of meaning from pure chance and horror. His voice deepened, a crude imitation of the preachers he despised. “The earth was watered with the blood of the weak. But what sprouts from it is no longer weakness. It’s rage. It’s determination. These ruins…” he pointed to the destroyed houses, “…aren’t a tomb. They’re a foundation. A place to start anew. Far from the tyrants who sent those monsters. A place where the only law is the one we make. The only strength, the one we cultivate.”

He looked directly at the notable survivors. “You,” he pointed to the merchant, a middle-aged man with sharp eyes now dulled by trauma. Tetanus remembered him, a distant memory of someone he’d seen the first time he was in Euclides. “You know how to barter. You know the value of things. You’ll manage our resources. You’ll make the little we have worth a lot.” The man blinked, surprised. For a second, something other than fear flickered in his eyes. Purpose.

He then turned to the cleric, still huddled in her blanket. “You,” his voice was slightly less harsh. “Your faith was tested in fire. The god you served may have gone silent, but your will to protect the broken hasn’t. You’ll care for the wounded. Body and… spirit.” He didn’t believe a word of what he said about the spirit, but he knew she needed a role to keep from breaking completely.

The cleric raised her eyes, slowly. Her tears had dried, leaving behind a red, exhausted gaze, but no longer entirely empty. Something in her clung to the lifeline of responsibility.

Finally, his gaze settled on a lone guard, a large man in dented armor with a crudely bandaged leg, his face marked by deep cuts. “And you. You fought, bravely. But you lost. Now, you’ll train. You’ll teach those who can hold a weapon. So no one here loses again.” The guard squared his shoulders, a spark of wounded pride and renewed determination in his eyes. He nodded once, gravely.

“We’ll raise walls,” Tetanus continued, his voice growing in conviction, even if manufactured. “We’ll dig wells, hunt, make this pile of stones a wall of thorns against the prince’s kingdom. A place that’s ours.”

It was a rough speech, full of holes, delivered by a man who was anything but an inspiring leader. But it was what they needed to hear. A thread of hope woven with strands of vengeance and survival.

And it worked. The survivors looked at each other, and for the first time, instead of despair, there was a glimmer of shared purpose. They moved, picking up shovels, pieces of wood, beginning to clear debris and erect makeshift shelters.

Tetanus turned his back, the weight of the role he’d just assumed settling on his shoulders, setting the cube aside for a moment. The architect of a new fortress built on the rotten foundations of horror.

The sound of wood being dragged and low voices giving instructions partially replaced the oppressive silence. Tetanus watched for a moment, his single eye scanning every movement, every interaction. Then, he turned and walked toward Oliver.

The banker was sitting on an overturned barrel, examining his hands as if he still couldn’t believe what they’d done. He saw Tetanus approach and a spark of fear ran through him. He straightened, ready to defend himself or flee.

Tetanus said nothing. He simply approached, invading Oliver’s personal space as was his habit. But instead of an aggressive touch or an order, he did something that left Oliver completely frozen: he wrapped his single arm around the banker and pulled him against the rough trunk of a tree that had survived the trolls’ destruction.

It was an awkward, uncomfortable embrace. Tetanus’s arm, powerful as a vise, pressed Oliver against the coarse bark. More an embrace of possession than affection, Tetanus’s smell of sweat, dried blood, and smoke enveloped Oliver, suffocating and intense.

“How’d you do it?” Tetanus’s voice came low, right in Oliver’s ear.

Oliver choked, his mind reeling. Fear mixed with absolute confusion. “The… the spear?” he managed, his voice shrill.

“The fire,” Tetanus corrected, his grip tightening slightly. “That little power.”

“Oh!” Oliver gasped, relieved it wasn’t about being crushed for another reason. “It’s… it’s pyromancy. Basic. Very basic, really. A trick. Just a level-one ignition formula I learned in my first semester at Don Pedro II University. For… lighting fireplaces and candles, you know? Nothing impressive.”

Tetanus loosened his grip slightly, enough to look at his face. His eye narrowed. “This Don Pedro II University. What else do you know from it?”

Oliver breathed a sigh of relief, adjusting his now hopelessly dirty silk robe. “I… my master’s was in Arcane Economics and Precious Metal Transmutation. Combat magic was never my strength. I was third in my class, but… in theoretical subjects.” He looked a little embarrassed. “But I know… some other things. Things useful for a banker. Minor illusions to… divert attention during delicate transactions. And… teleportation.”

That caught Tetanus’s attention. “Teleportation, you say?”

“Well, marking and re-conjuring teleportation, to be precise,” Oliver explained quickly, perking up a bit as he spoke about something he knew. “It’s a two-step ritual. First, you need to establish a magical anchor in a permanent location. A mark. Then, with the right spell and a significant amount of energy, you can teleport back to that mark from anywhere within a limited radius. It’s like… having a private gate. It could be useful if… if we wanted to mark this place as a safe point. To return.”

Tetanus processed the information. Teleporting to key locations was more valuable than gold. “Do it. Mark this place.”

Oliver nodded, nervous. “I’ll need some components. Specific stones, a bit of silver… I’ll have to improvise.”

Tetanus gave a nod, releasing Oliver completely. He then fixed his gaze on the banker. “And this king. Don Pedro II. Who was he?”

Oliver seemed surprised by the question. He shrugged, an almost pathetic gesture. “The King? He was… the King. The prince’s father. Died years ago. People don’t talk much about him. He was a… quiet man. Left the kingdom in the hands of magistrates and the Royal Archmage. The prince…” Oliver lowered his voice instinctively, “…the prince is different. He’s… active. Has vision. A terrible vision, but vision. He’s always ahead, always innovating. In weapons, in trade, in…” his eyes involuntarily landed on the ruins around them, “…control. His father was just a shadow…”

The information was filed away in Tetanus’s mind. A prince who’d staged a coup against his own father explained a lot.

Without another word, Tetanus turned and returned to the center of the camp, leaving Oliver panting against the tree, his heart pounding.

---

Twilight began to paint the sky of the late Euclides da Cunha in shades of purple and orange, tinging the ruins with an almost beautiful melancholy. The heavy labor had slowed to a tired murmur. Tetanus, seated on a fallen stone block, untied Al-Yasiin from his waist and held the severed head before his face.

“So?” Tetanus’s voice was low, just for the head. “What’s that filthy mouth of yours got to say about all this?”

Al-Yasiin rolled its eyes, making a hideous, resentful grimace. “Finally decided to consult the brains of the operation, you one-armed maggot? What an honor.” The head mocked. “Looks nice, doesn’t it? Playing tower defense on top of a graveyard. Adorable. Just don’t come crying when more of those rotten-dick trolls show up to say good morning.”

“I want useful suggestions, not complaints,” Tetanus jabbed the head with a hard finger.

“Suggestions? Ke ke ke kueh!” Al-Yasiin laughed, a dry, horrible sound. “Burn the rest. Everything. Don’t leave anything that could shelter or attract more shit. Then fortify. Use the fallen stones, make a crude palisade. Teach these poor bastards to stick a sharp point in anything that’s not themselves. And stop playing priest, you hypocrite. They don’t need a god; they need a general. And you, for the love of anything filthy enough to hear me, are NOT a PRIEST!”

Tetanus didn’t retort, but the head’s points, delivered with disdain, echoed his own thoughts. He looked at the makeshift tent where Zara rested.

“Watch her,” he ordered, planting Al-Yasiin’s base in the soft earth near the tent’s entrance, like a grotesque sentinel post.

“What? I’m not a pregnant lady’s babysitter, you idiot!” the head protested, but Tetanus was already walking away.

Inside the tent, Zara was half-awake, her hand slowly caressing the curve of her belly. Her eyes fixed on Al-Yasiin, but not with fear. With a strange resignation. The head muttered something inaudible and closed its eyes, pretending to sleep.

Tetanus then approached the cleric. She was sitting near what had been her church’s altar, now a pile of charred stones. She didn’t look at him as he approached, but her body tensed slightly.

“Your god,” Tetanus began, his voice less a growl and more a low rasp. “The prophet Jesus Christ. Does he see this?” He made a vague gesture with his hand, encompassing all the destruction.

The woman was silent for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was a thread of wind, broken. “They say he sees everything. The suffering… the injustice. That it’s a test of faith.” She swallowed hard. “My faith didn’t pass the test…”

“Other gods,” Tetanus pressed, sitting on the ground near her, not looking at her but at the horizon. “The Trickster God. The God of Vermin. What do they do?”

She shrugged, a tiny movement. “The Trickster… he laughs. At others’ misfortune, mocking as he goes, he exists only to command insanity and guide the mad and the sick. The God of Vermin…” she paused, a shiver running through her. “…he consumes. The rot of the earth, decaying flesh… in a way, he’s necessary. Everything filthy and useless goes to him. The rest… what’s neither flesh nor rot, but pure corruption… they say it goes to Voratatoth. The Buried Beast. She eats the filth even insects won’t touch.”

Tetanus absorbed that. A divine ecosystem of consuming garbage and evil. It made sense in a world like this. “And the Sulfur God?” The question slipped out before he could think it through. It was a faint memory from a dusty book in the orphanage, before the basement and Arture.

The cleric frowned, looking at him for the first time. Her eyes were red from crying, but focused. “Sulfur? No… I’ve never heard of it. Not in any pantheon or heresy. It’s a… hot name.”

Tetanus saw the genuine confusion in her, the fragility hovering over her sanity like cracked glass. He decided not to press the doubt. Some doors were better left closed.

He stood to leave, but then the cleric spoke again, her voice slightly firmer, as if clinging to theological knowledge was familiar ground in a shattered world. “There are others… local cults, like the Goddess Lustergeorra. They say she dwells in still water mirrors, showing what you most desire… or what you most fear.”

Tetanus nodded, a single gesture of acknowledgment. He’d have to learn more about these gods later. He left her there, sitting among the ruins of her faith, with no comfort to offer.

---

Night fell over Euclides da Cunha, bringing a biting cold and a deep darkness the new moon couldn’t pierce. The only source of light and warmth was a large bonfire at the center of what was becoming the camp. Its flames danced over tired, marked, but determined faces.

Before joining the group, Tetanus approached Zara’s tent. The sound coming from inside made him pause. It was a rare sound, long unheard: Zara’s soft laughter. Not the performative laugh of the Ebony Garden, nor the bitter laugh of old. It was a genuine, if tired, sound.

He gently lifted the tent flap. Inside, Zara was reclining on some blankets, her hand still on her belly, but her face was relaxed. And Al-Yasiin, buried up to its neck in the tent’s dirt floor like a cursed post, was… talking to her.

“…Horrible and hilarious, redhead. A full package. Now, tell me, has that little creature in there kicked today? If it’s a boy, I can already teach him to curse in three different languages…”

Tetanus stepped back, letting the flap fall. A strange, complex feeling stirred in his chest. Relief? Envy? He couldn’t name it. But seeing Zara like that, even for a moment, lifted a tiny weight from his shoulders. Even that cursed head was good for something besides complaining.

He joined the circle around the bonfire. The main group and the few survivors were gathered, sharing a thin mushroom porridge, a recipe straight from Ouro Preto. The mood was still somber, but not as desperate as the day before.

Farpa broke the silence, raising a newly made bow. It was a rough piece, crafted from flexible branches and a tendon string, but functional. “I managed to make this,” he said, his voice a bit steadier. “We need more. And arrows. Lots of arrows. If those things come back, we need to keep them at a distance.”

Álvaro, rubbing his hands near the fire, added, “Distance is key. We need traps. Like the Conclave’s. Hidden pits with sharpened stakes at the bottom, snares that yank intruders off their feet, alarms…” He made a flourish with his hands. “I know how some are made. I can supervise.”

All eyes turned to Gume. The giant, sharpening his axe blade with a stone, looked up and understood the unspoken question. “I carry,” he said simply. “Wood. Stones. Bodies. Whatever’s needed. I’ve got muscle for that.”

The survivors listened, their eyes gaining a cautious spark of hope.

“The trolls…” the wounded guard spoke, his voice hoarse. “They’re weak to fire. You…” he looked at Oliver, who blushed slightly, “…showed that. We need torches. Lots of torches. And ditches that can be set ablaze.”

Oliver nodded, perking up. “I can… I can try to help with that. The ignition part, at least.”

Tetanus watched the conversation flow. They were organizing at an ant’s pace. Without needing to give orders, he simply nodded, his eye reflecting the flames.

“Tomorrow,” he said, his hoarse voice cutting through the conversation. “We start fortifying. No one sleeps until this place is a fortress.”

The night passed tensely, with every forest sound a potential alarm. The watch was done in shifts, with the survivors’ eyes still jumping at every nighttime noise. Tetanus stayed awake most of the night, his motionless, vigilant silhouette cast against the bonfire, a dark beacon of determination.

In a moment of relative calm, near the coldest hour of the early morning, he turned to Oliver, who was trying to stay awake, wrapped in his tattered robe.

“Oliver,” Tetanus’s voice was low, almost a contemplative growl.

The banker jolted, alert. “Y-yes?”

“Would you like to sit on my lap?” The question came out flat, without inflection, as if Tetanus were asking about the weather.

Oliver froze. His face cycled through emotions: confusion, fear, perplexity, and a flicker of something more complex—curiosity? He looked at Tetanus’s lean torso, the single arm resting on his knee. “I… your lap?” he choked, completely lost.

“It’s warmer than the ground,” Tetanus said simply, as if it were the most logical explanation in the world.

Hesitant, Oliver, driven by a mix of exhaustion, residual fear, and a hint of desire for any comfort, even the strangest, approached. He sat carefully on Tetanus’s lap, sideways, leaning against his torso, resting his tired head against the hero’s chest. Tetanus’s single arm came down, not in an embrace, but as a heavy, warm weight over his shoulders, anchoring him, warming his body against the cold.

It was odd. Uncomfortable. But it was, undeniably, warm. And in a world where everything was cold, hard, and terrifying, that strange gesture was an oasis. A deep calm enveloped Oliver’s mind. He stayed there, motionless, until the first light of dawn began to brighten the sky.

With sunrise, Tetanus moved, gently shifting Oliver. “Time to work,” he announced, then lay down for a few heavy, instantaneous hours of dreamless sleep—a blessing more than a burden.

The camp awoke with new energy. The night’s fear gave way to the day’s urgency. Zara emerged from her tent. Her face was still marked by trauma, but her green eyes were clearer, more present. She stretched, her hand caressing the gentle curve of her belly.

“I’ll help look for food,” she declared to Farpa, who was crafting his new arrows. “And besides… I need a walk.”

Farpa hesitated, glancing at her belly. “You sure?”

“Surer than staying here staring at the walls,” she replied, with a thread of her old stubbornness. “And you’re coming with me. Protect me, you little gunslinger.”

Farpa nodded, a renewed respect in his gaze.

Álvaro, already with a stick and crouched over the dirt, was drawing intricate plans on the ground, surrounded by wide-eyed survivors. “Alors, here… a false pit. They step, paf!, they fall onto stakes. Here, a snare that pulls a blade, slicing their ugly faces…” he explained, enthusiastic, finding an unusual calling as an engineer of carnage.

Gume was already in motion. Without a word, he went to what had been a house’s foundation and, with a grunt of effort, lifted a stone two men would struggle to move. He carried it like a pillow and placed it at the camp’s edge, the first block of an improvised wall. His tense muscles under sweaty skin outlined a figure of silent, titanic labor.

The other survivors, inspired by the example, began to follow, carrying what they could, clearing debris, erecting barricades.

Samson, the dwarf smith, watched the work with a critical eye. “No, no, no!” he growled, approaching a pile of wood being raised. “That’ll collapse with the first push! Interlace the stones, you bunch of amateurs! Build it like you’re making a furnace!” He began redirecting the work, his short hands showing how to weave materials for greater strength, giving shape and solidity to the chaos—a brutal, raw, improvised start.

The afternoon sun bathed the camp of old Euclides da Cunha in an amber light that, for the first time, didn’t just reveal destruction but illuminated progress. A brutal but efficient routine had taken hold, choreographed by Tetanus’s silent, imposing presence.

He didn’t give orders constantly. Most of the time, he simply stood, his single arm crossed over his chest, his lone eye scanning the area like a hawk’s. A grunt, a jut of his chin, a prolonged stare at a specific spot—that was enough. The survivors, and even his own group, learned to read his minimalist body language. It was leadership by sheer force of presence, a gravity that pulled everyone into his orbit of work.

And part of that orbit included Oliver in a peculiar, uncomfortable way. The harassment—for it was impossible to call it anything else—had become a routine. Tetanus wasn’t subtle. During a water break, he approached the banker, who was trying to drink from a waterskin.

“Need help?” Tetanus asked, his voice a low growl, as his single arm extended, not to take the waterskin but to rest his hand on Oliver’s waist, pulling him slightly closer.

Oliver choked, water spilling down his chin. “I… I can manage, thanks,” he stammered, trying to pull away, but Tetanus’s hand was an anchor.

On another occasion, as Oliver struggled with his inexperienced hands to tie a stake for a trap, Tetanus appeared behind him. His large body enveloped the banker’s, his chin nearly resting on Oliver’s shoulder.

“Like this,” Tetanus whispered, his rough voice close to Oliver’s ear, as his single hand covered Oliver’s, guiding them to tie a tighter knot. The contact lasted far longer than necessary, and Oliver went rigid, a blush rising up his neck, a mix of shame, fear, and a deep confusion he didn’t dare understand.

It was pure harassment. A display of power and possession disguised as concern, the power dynamic was stark, and the protection Tetanus offered was too valuable to be questioned over something as trivial as one man’s comfort.

Meanwhile, the camp transformed. Under Samson’s practical direction and Álvaro’s cunning ideas, the debris was cleared. What was chaos began to take a raw but ordered shape. The pile of stones Gume and others raised wasn’t a proper wall but a low, irregular palisade marking a territory, a defensible perimeter. It wouldn’t stop an army, but it would slow trolls and give defenders an edge.

The central bonfire, once a smoldering pile of wood, was now a contained structure, surrounded by stones, with a better-built pyre. Oliver, with a bit of his basic magic, could ignite it with a gesture and a snap, a spark of power from his fingers turning into a steady flame. It was a small daily miracle that lifted everyone’s spirits slightly.

Zara and Farpa returned with baskets full of brown mushrooms and wild fruits, a vital contribution. The cleric, still quiet, oversaw the clearing of a small area designated for food preparation and tending to the wounded, her face showing a flicker of purpose as she organized herbs and bandages.

---

Night fell over the now more fortified camp, darker and quieter than the previous one, but less laden with imminent terror. The bonfire, now well-built and easily lit by Oliver, cast a circle of light and warmth that seemed to keep the darkness and its horrors at bay. Watch shifts were established, and a fragile routine of security began to take root.

Tetanus, after his final patrol, stopped before Oliver, who was wrapped in his tattered robe near the fire, trying to find a comfortable position on the hard ground.

“Hey, Oliver,” Oliver looked up, a familiar apprehension in his eyes. “Yes?”

“You’re sleeping in my tent tonight. It’s warmer. And safer.” There was no room for debate in that statement. Only the silent expectation of obedience.

Oliver hesitated, his face a conflict of emotions under the dancing firelight. Fear, yes. But also a spark of curiosity, a distorted attraction he didn’t dare admit, and a tired desire for any comfort, however complex. He finally nodded, an almost imperceptible movement, and stood.

Inside Tetanus’s tent, the space was cramped, dominated by the smells of a man—leather, sweat, earth. Tetanus lay on his back, gesturing to the space beside him. Oliver lay down carefully, rigid as a board, keeping an inch-by-inch distance.

For a long moment, there was only silence. Then, Tetanus’s single arm moved, in a slow inevitability. He pulled Oliver closer, against the heat of his body, enveloping him in an embrace that was both awkward and undeniably warm. Oliver stayed motionless, every muscle tense.

“Relax,” Tetanus growled, his breath hot in Oliver’s ear. “No one’s going to hurt you here.”

The tension didn’t vanish, but it shifted. Tetanus’s hand didn’t stop at holding; it began to move. Slowly, exploratorily, over the silk robe, feeling the contours of Oliver’s slimmer body beneath. Oliver held his breath. This wasn’t just about warmth.

“Tetanus, I…” he tried to protest, his voice a trembling whisper.

“Shut up and come here.” Tetanus’s hand found the robe’s cord and pulled. Oliver surrendered completely, a complex web of fear, gratitude, a hint of repressed desire, and the overwhelming presence of the man beside him.

What followed wasn’t about love or even pleasure in the conventional sense. It was a silent encounter in the dark. The connection of one man and the complex surrender of another.

Inside the tent, the heat and darkness created an intimate, claustrophobic environment. Tetanus began to move atop Oliver, exploring the slimmer, more delicate body of the young man. His fingers felt the texture of the silk robe, and when the cord was pulled, they revealed Oliver’s soft, warm skin.

Tetanus didn’t wait or ask for permission. He positioned his erect penis between Oliver’s legs, pressing it against his tight entrance, between his hairy buttocks. Oliver resisted briefly, but Tetanus’s pressure was inevitable and too strong to ignore. With a low moan, he shifted slightly, allowing the hero’s member to find its way.

Tetanus spat on his own cock, trying to lubricate it enough to enter. Then, with a thrust, he pushed inside Oliver, invading him. Oliver arched his body, his muscles clenching around the intrusive member.

“Ugh!” Tetanus grunted, feeling the heat and tightness of Oliver’s interior. He began to move, each thrust deep and heavy, exploring every inch of the ex-banker’s body.

Oliver gripped Tetanus’s hips, pulling him deeper, his goat legs wrapping around the man’s waist. He moaned softly, his body beginning to adjust to Tetanus’s volume and weight inside him. With each movement, he felt fuller, as if that physical connection could fill a deep void within him.

Tetanus didn’t stop, driven by a primal, brutal desire. His good hand explored Oliver’s body, groping smooth skin, squeezing tense muscles, leaving purple finger marks where the grip had tightened. Oliver was completely enveloped and filled by the strongest, largest man he’d ever known, and it left him aroused and submissive.

Their moans grew louder, echoing off the tent’s walls. Tetanus was nearing climax, his cock hardened and pulsing inside Oliver. With an animalistic grunt, he thrust one final time, burying himself deep in Oliver before exploding, flooding him with hot semen.

Oliver felt the warm, thick flow, the heat spreading through his belly and thighs. He moaned, his own erection slowly fading over the final minutes of Tetanus’s animalistic assault. When the man finally pulled away, Oliver was exhausted and satisfied on a level he’d never experienced before.

Both stayed quiet for a long moment, catching their breath and calming down. Then, Tetanus lay beside Oliver, his arm wrapping around his body in a warm, secure embrace. Oliver closed his eyes, feeling Tetanus’s soft, sweaty skin against his, savoring the sense of peace and protection that came from the physical contact.

“Good night,” Tetanus whispered, his voice hoarse with exhaustion and satisfaction.

Oliver nodded, a satisfied smile forming at the corners of his mouth. “Good night,” he echoed, before falling asleep. It was quick, intense, and left both panting, sweaty, and strangely relaxed, as if a deep tension had finally been released.

When dawn broke, the first rays of sunlight filtering through the tent’s canvas, they woke still entwined. Oliver’s rigidity had dissipated, replaced by a perplexed languor. Tetanus was already awake, his single eye fixed on the ex-banker’s face, who blushed under the scrutiny.

Tetanus was the first to move, sitting up and dressing with economical movements. “This doesn’t change anything, in a way… I was just curious about what it’d be like to fuck something like you. I can say it was an interesting experience.”

Oliver nodded slowly, sitting up too, his body sore but strangely invigorated. The shame was still there, but mixed with a perverse sense of belonging and a calm he hadn’t felt since before his fall from grace.

“So,” Tetanus’s hoarse voice broke the ice again, without turning. “That’s that.”

Oliver swallowed hard. “That’s… that,” he echoed, his voice a bit steadier than he expected.

Tetanus finally turned, his single eye scanning Oliver’s naked, exposed body on the blankets, without shame, just a raw appraisal. “Curiosity satisfied. You’re softer than a woman. But you don’t break as easily.”

It was the strangest, most terrifying compliment Oliver had ever received. He felt a shiver down his spine, mixed with a hint of absurd pride. “I… thank you?” he said, uncertain.

A grunt was the only response. Tetanus stood, cracking his neck. “The world out there doesn’t stop. And neither do we.” He extended his hand—not to help Oliver up, but to grab the leather strap where Al-Yasiin hung, outside the tent. He tied it with habitual movements to his waist, the severed head swaying warmly against his thigh.

“Let’s go,” he said, exiting the tent without looking back, leaving Oliver to compose himself alone.

Outside, the fresh morning air hit Tetanus’s face. He paused for a moment, his single eye adjusting to the light, surveying the military yard they’d built from nothing in just a few days.

The irregular stone palisade was taller, more solid. Samson, the dwarf, was already awake, smacking the wall with a hammer, shouting instructions to some survivors about the “angle of load-bearing stones.” Álvaro, with his theatrical flair, was demonstrating how to camouflage a pit of stakes with branches and leaves, his French accent returning as he got excited. “Non, non! More leaves here! It must be invisible!”

Gume was already carrying an enormous log on his shoulders, his heavy steps echoing like a war drum. The central bonfire had reduced to ashes.

His eye then sought Zara. He found her near the food preparation area, not just observing but showing the traumatized cleric how to dry the mushrooms she and Farpa had collected. She was standing, her posture more upright, her hand still resting protectively on her belly, but her face was serene, focused on the task. Farpa was nearby, sharpening his arrows, his eyes vigilantly watching Zara and the surroundings.

Tetanus watched for a long minute. A knot of worry—an emotion he rarely allowed—loosened in his chest. She was recovering.

Satisfied, he gave the camp one more sweeping glance. His camp. A fortress to call his own.

His people.

Al-Yasiin swayed at his waist. “Still looks like a pigsty, but a protected pigsty,” the head muttered, as if reading his thoughts. “This is what I call an animal revolution! Now let’s just hope the maggots that come visiting aren’t too big.”

Tetanus ignored the comment. Stepping forward, toward the center of activity, ready to take his post, his good left eye already scanning the horizon beyond the palisade, looking for anything extra to do. His curiosity about Oliver was sated. Now, it was time to work.

Ready to make that pile of ruins the prince’s nightmare.

Chapter 28: Mommy Shub-Niggurath Loves Her Children

Tetanus's Occupation — Euclides da Cunha — 1666

The morning sun beat down heavily on the palisade’s stones, warming the air already thick with sweat and determination. Tetanus watched Samson for a moment, the dwarf smith hammering a glowing metal bar with a focused fury that seemed to channel all his hatred for the prince into each strike.

Tetanus approached, his shadow looming over the anvil. “Samson.”

The dwarf didn’t stop hammering immediately. He delivered three more precise blows before lowering the hammer and looking up, his eyes under thick brows sizing Tetanus up from head to toe. His gaze lingered on the bandaged stump, then the impassive face, and finally on Al-Yasiin, lazily dozing at Tetanus’s waist.

“What is it, boss?” Samson’s voice was a gravelly rasp.

“I need something. A weapon. Something to make up for this.” Tetanus slightly raised his stump.

Samson snorted, wiping his forehead with his forearm. “Without an arm, you can’t wield a decent warhammer. Or a sword big enough to make a difference. You’re strong, but leverage… leverage is shit without two points of support.” He spat near Tetanus’s feet. “Could make a blade that straps to the stump. Something short and brutal. But it wouldn’t be anything… special.”

He scratched his soot-stained beard, thoughtful. “Now… an arm. A mechanical arm. That’d be something. I can forge the parts. I can shape the basic mechanisms, the joints, the structure. But making the damn thing work… move fingers, grip, have strength… that’s not about iron and fire. That’s high-end engineering, and that’s not my thing.”

Then a soft but firm voice intervened. “I can help with that.”

Zara approached, her tattered dress replaced with practical pants and a shirt that once belonged to some villager. Her hand still rested on her belly, but her gaze was clear and focused on Samson. “I was a mechanic. With the Last Comradeship of Tiradentes.” She looked at Tetanus. “A mechanical arm… it’d be complex. No point in it being just a heavy piece of metal strapped to your shoulder. It’d need tension cables, nerve triggers, a power source… it wouldn’t make sense to give you an arm that doesn’t work, just for style.”

The idea hung in the air, complex and tantalizing. A mechanical arm, both a weapon and a combat tool.

That’s when Al-Yasiin, who had been silent until then, decided to join the conversation. “OH, STOP WITH THIS WEAK TALK ABOUT CABLES AND GEARS!” the head shouted, making everyone turn to it. “You’re thinking small! WAY too small! STUPID MAGGOTS WITH STUPID MAGGOT THOUGHTS!”

Tetanus jabbed the head. “Spit it out.”

“Life Stones, you idiots!” Al-Yasiin spat the words. “Iron Golems, for example, those things don’t run on steam or strings! They run on souls. Blue, pulsing stones they carry. They give life to the inanimate. Make the damn metal move on its own! If you want an arm that hits like a hammer and crushes like a vise, that’s what you need. Good metal and a Life Stone!”

A heavy silence followed the head’s words. Samson scratched his long beard, his eyes gleaming with a new light. “Life Stones… legends… but if they’re real…”

“Of course they’re real, you four-foot maggot!” Al-Yasiin insulted. “I’ve seen one! Inside a golem that nearly beat Tetanus to a pulp once! Back in Salvador! Before we shipwrecked on that shitty Fear Island!”

Zara looked thoughtful, her eyes fixed on a distant point, as if visualizing schematics. “An autonomous power source… that changes everything. The complexity of the mechanisms would drop drastically. It’d be more about channeling the energy than generating motion…”

Tetanus looked at his stump, then at Samson’s face, then at Zara’s. The seed of an insane possibility had been planted. It was no longer a question of if, but how. How the hell to get a soul stone in this godforsaken place?

“Samson,” his voice was low, charged with new determination. “You forge the metal. The structure. Whatever’s needed.”

“Zara. You figure out how to make it work. The designs, the schematics, all that smart stuff.”

“And I,” Tetanus finished, his single eye glinting with a dangerous light, “will get a Life Stone.”

It was a crazy plan. Almost impossible. But for the first time since losing his arm, Tetanus wasn’t thinking about compensating for a loss. He was thinking about surpassing what he was. And his small group of misfits and survivors was exactly the team of lunatics needed to try.

Tetanus left Samson and Zara deep in an animated technical discussion—the dwarf gesturing with soot-stained hands to indicate sizes and shapes, Zara sketching plans in the dirt with a stick—and headed to where Farpa, Álvaro, and Gume were overseeing the reinforcement of the palisade’s main gate.

“Change of plans,” Tetanus announced, passing by each of them. “We need to find something. Something rare.”

Farpa lowered the bow he was testing. “What?”

“A Life Stone.” The name sounded strange and heavy in the air. “Al-Yasiin says it’s what makes golems and mechanical beasts work. We need one for a contraption.”

Gume furrowed his brow, processing the information. Álvaro let out a low whistle. “Mon Dieu. An audacious endeavor. Where does one find such an arcane battery?”

It was Farpa who answered, his hunter’s eyes fixed on the forest line around the camp. “There’s an old mine to the east, on the hillside. The locals talked about it. Said it was cursed, that bad things lived inside. It’s been abandoned for years.” He looked at Tetanus. “If there’s something strange and rare around here, it’s probably there.”

Tetanus didn’t hesitate. “We’re going there, now. Farpa, you lead. Álvaro, you’re coming. Your silver tongue might be useful. Gume, you stay.” He looked at the giant. “Protect the camp, and especially Zara. No one in, no one out until we’re back.”

Gume nodded, a slow, solemn movement. His hand tightened firmly on his axe handle. He was the final wall after the five-foot fortress surrounding the camp.

“And what about… you know…” Álvaro made a vague gesture toward Oliver’s tent.

“He stays,” Tetanus cut in. “We travel light, we get there faster.”

In minutes, they were ready. Farpa with his new bow and a hidden dagger. Álvaro with a rapier and a deck of cards up his sleeve. Tetanus with Al-Yasiin. They passed through the gate Gume had improvised days ago, and Gume shut it firmly behind them.

The forest around Euclides da Cunha was dense and silent, still heavy with recent trauma. Farpa took the lead, moving with a hunter’s silent agility, his eyes scanning the terrain.

“The mine’s not far,” he said softly over his shoulder. “But the path is tight.”

They trekked for about an hour, climbing a steep hill covered in low vegetation. The air grew colder, the silence deeper. Then Farpa stopped.

There it was. The mine’s mouth was a black, sinister gash in the hillside, like a scar on the earth. Rusted mining rails extended from it like dead tentacles, a broken, rotted gate hanging on a single hinge. A smell of damp earth, algae, and static emanated from within.

“Here,” Farpa announced, his voice echoing softly at the entrance.

Tetanus stared into the darkness that swallowed the daylight. It was a threshold to the unknown, perhaps to death.

“Great,” Al-Yasiin muttered sarcastically. “Another dark, stinking hole. How I missed this.”

 

Abandoned Mine

The darkness inside the mine was a living entity, swallowing the faint light of Álvaro’s torch. The air was heavy, smelling of damp earth, ground rock, and a strange, metallic mold that itched the back of the throat.

The rails under their feet were rusted and warped, and with each step, the echo faded into invisible side tunnels.

Tetanus picked up an abandoned pickaxe, its wooden handle rotted but the metal tip still solid. It was a familiar, brutal weight in his single hand. Tetanus saw the pickaxe more as a potential tool than a weapon itself; he tucked it into his belt, next to his sword.

As they advanced, he couldn’t help but notice the fungi. They grew in clusters on the rocky walls, emitting a sickly, phosphorescent glow in shades of green and purple. The pulsing, soft light was hypnotic and deeply unsettling, casting shadows that writhed unnaturally. For a moment, an invasive memory hit Tetanus: the bioluminescent, mutagenic forest of Fear Island. He gripped the sword’s hilt, his knuckles whitening.

“Something’s wrong with this place,” Farpa whispered, his voice tense. His arrows were already nocked on the bowstring, his gaze darting to every shifting shadow created by the fungi.

“Tout à fait,” Álvaro agreed, his rapier drawn. “The air smells strange. Like before a storm…”

They turned a corner and stopped abruptly. Perched in a rocky niche, a rusted iron cage hung from a thick chain. Inside was a man, utterly wretched. His clothes were tattered remnants of a miner’s uniform, his face pale and filthy, marked by terror and hunger. His wide eyes saw the torchlight, and he flinched, letting out a low whimper.

“Please…” the man’s voice came out as a creak, trembling and weak. “Free me… I’ve been trapped here for… I don’t know how long.”

Tetanus approached, his silhouette blocking the torchlight from the prisoner. “Who the hell locked you in there?” His voice was a low growl that echoed in the tunnel.

“T-Them… the ones that glow…” the man stammered, his glassy eyes fixed on Tetanus. “They caught me when I dug too deep… there’s a lever… further ahead, in the main tunnel… it releases the chain… please…”

Tetanus looked at the man, then surveyed the area where the cage hung.

“What do I get for freeing you?” The question was blunt, cruel in its practicality.

The prisoner seemed confused for a second, then his eyes lit up with a desperate spark of lucidity. “I… I know these mines! Every tunnel, every corridor! I can guide you! I can show you where the good stuff is… the rare ores! Just get me out of here!”

Tetanus held his gaze for a moment longer, then nodded to Farpa. “Keep an eye on him.”

They were about to move forward when Farpa, with his sharpened senses, quickly raised a hand. “Shhh!” he whispered, pointing ahead.

Further down the tunnel, where the fungal glow intensified, a figure emerged. It moved with an irregular, clumsy gait, its feet dragging heavily on the dirt floor. It was humanoid, but horribly wrong.

Its skin had a gray, stone-like hue, and its eyes… its eyes were two glowing orbs of ghostly green, shining with their own light, hovering in the darkness like beacons of madness. On its head, a tattered miner’s hat, riddled with holes. In its hands, it gripped a pickaxe with a firm hold, the tip stained with something dark and dried.

The creature paused for a moment, its head tilting to the side with an audible crack of bone or stone. It seemed to sniff the air, its glowing eyes sweeping the tunnel blindly.

Without a word, Tetanus, Farpa, and Álvaro pressed themselves against the rocky wall, sinking into the deepest shadows they could find. The torch was smothered against the ground, plunging them into near-total darkness, broken only by the pulsing, menacing glow of the fungi and the ghostly eyes of the creature shambling toward them.

With a low grunt, Tetanus exploded from the shadows. Drawing the borrowed sword, he slashed through the damp air with the brute force of a man who knew only one way to fight: to crush.

The dull metal blade struck the miner’s shoulder with a sickening, hollow thud, as if hitting petrified wood. The creature staggered, its head twisting at an impossible angle, its ghostly eyes locking onto Tetanus. It didn’t scream in pain, emitting a hoarse, static whisper, like stones grinding in the earth’s depths, and raised its own pickaxe.

Tetanus, already close, drove his foot into the creature’s chest, pushing it back, and yanked his sword for a second strike. Farpa didn’t stay idle behind him. An arrow whizzed through the darkness, finding the creature’s neck joint with a dry snap. The thing stumbled but didn’t fall.

“The head!” Álvaro shouted, his rapier glinting in the fungal light as he stabbed repeatedly at the creature’s glowing eye.

There was a wet pop, and the green light extinguished with a final hiss. The miner’s body collapsed, becoming inert, nothing more than a heap of petrified flesh and bone.

The silence that followed was brief. From the darkness ahead, more pairs of glowing eyes lit up. Two, four, six… They emerged from side tunnels, their outlines shambling into the phosphorescent light. Static whispers filled the air, a chorus of soulless, rocky voices. They’d sensed the disturbance.

“To the side!” Tetanus ordered, retreating to a narrow rocky chokepoint that limited how many creatures could advance at once.

What followed was a claustrophobic slaughter. Tetanus, Farpa, and Álvaro formed an impromptu front line. Tetanus was the anvil, his sword shattering bones and crushing skulls with brutal swings. Farpa was the stinger, his arrows finding eyes and joints with deadly precision from a distance. Álvaro was the musketeer of the line, his rapier finding gaps in the creatures’ rocky defenses, piercing throats and silencing the static whispers with a final gurgle.

It was dirty, exhausting work. The creatures felt no fear, didn’t retreat. They just advanced until they were torn apart. The mine floor soon became littered with inert bodies and pools of a black, viscous fluid that smelled of ozone and rot.

When the last pair of eyes went out, the three stood panting, sweaty, and splattered with the creatures’ black goo. The tunnel fell silent, except for their ragged breathing.

“What… what the hell was that?” Farpa asked, reloading his bow with trembling fingers.

“Nothing normal, as usual,” Tetanus retorted, wiping his sword blade against his chainmail. “Let’s find that lever.”

They advanced more cautiously now, every shadow a potential threat. It was Álvaro who found it, half-hidden behind an overturned ore cart. A solid iron lever, seized with rust, connected to a complex system of pulleys and chains that climbed the mine walls into the darkness above.

“This the one the poor bastard in the cage mentioned?” Álvaro asked, hesitant.

“Only one way to find out,” Tetanus said. He gripped the lever with his single hand and pulled with all his strength. The rust groaned, the metal protested, but then, with a metallic CLUNK that echoed through the tunnels like a funeral bell, the lever gave way and moved.

A clank ran through the mine, followed by the sound of heavy chains moving somewhere far above. Then, an even deeper silence descended.

They waited, but nothing else happened. No secret door opened, no treasure revealed. Just the echo of the mechanism fading.

“Anticlimactic,” Álvaro muttered, disappointed.

Tetanus looked down the tunnel ahead, which plunged deeper into darkness, the floor’s slope growing steeper. The lever wasn’t the end. It was just a switch. The real challenge—the real reward or ruin—lay further below.

“Alright. We’re not turning back yet,” Tetanus declared, his voice echoing in the shadowy descent. “We go deeper.”

Without waiting for the group’s consent, he started down the sloped tunnel, his torch raised like a challenge to the darkness waiting below. Farpa and Álvaro exchanged resigned glances and followed, plunging deeper into the bowels of cosmic insanity.

The descent grew steeper, the air heavier and strangely charged with static energy that made the hairs on their arms stand on end. The fungal light was left behind, the darkness ahead absolute, broken only by the flickering circle of Álvaro’s torch. Then, the sound changed. The echo of their steps dulled, replaced by a soft, steady splash of water. Water lapped at their boots, cold and surprisingly clear.

They emerged into a vast, impossible cavern. The torch revealed a forest of petrified trees, but not of ordinary stone. They were crystal. Translucent crystals in shades of amber, pale purple, and deep blue sprouted from the floor and ceiling like trees from a geological nightmare. The torchlight refracted into a thousand facets, casting dancing rainbows and kaleidoscopic patterns across the cavern walls, which gleamed with veins of iron ore, copper, and perhaps more precious things.

The water formed a shallow lake covering the entire floor, reaching their ankles, its still surface reflecting the supernatural spectacle above.

“Insanely beautiful…” Álvaro whispered, his voice full of awe and fear.

Even Tetanus paused, his single eye wide at the sight. It was beautiful. And definitely wrong.

“Ore…” he said, his rough voice breaking the dripping echo. He approached a wall where thick veins of raw iron cut through the rock alongside sparks of pyrite and what looked like silver. “We need this.”

He raised the pickaxe and, with precise, economical swings, began dislodging chunks of ore, tossing them into a large canvas sack lying nearby. Farpa and Álvaro, still awestruck, followed suit, helping fill other sacks with the earth’s treasures.

Laden, they pressed on, the water splashing with each step. The crystal cavern gave way to a natural tunnel ending at a heavy wooden door reinforced with iron, slightly ajar. A low, chanting murmur came from within.

Tetanus pushed the door open with his foot, sword ready.

Inside, about ten figures in tattered black robes knelt in a circle around a grotesque symbol drawn on the stone floor with what looked like ash and blood. The symbol was a mass of tentacles sprouting from a nebulous center, surrounded by tiny silhouettes of distorted creatures. They chanted in a guttural, impossibly vibrant language.

The cultists turned as one, their pale, wide-eyed faces showing surprise, then rage. They didn’t ask who they were or what they wanted. With hoarse cries, they rose, brandishing daggers made of human bone and sharpened ossicles.

The fight that followed in that cramped, brutal space was pure chaos. Tetanus swung his sword, smashing a cultist against the wall with a wet thud. Farpa fired arrows at point-blank range, each finding a target with a satisfying *thud*. Álvaro flanked, his rapier a silver whirlwind blocking returned blows and finding throats in the process.

When the last cultist fell, Tetanus turned one of the bodies with his foot. On the man’s wrist, a tattoo: a crude goat’s head.

“Shub-Niggurath…” Al-Yasiin read the word whispered on the dead man’s lips. “The Black Goat with a Thousand Young. An ancient darkness… think we’ve messed with something like this before, haven’t we, Tetanus?”

Tetanus spat near the symbol. Foreign gods meant nothing to him. They only meant more enemies to kill.

They left that room and entered an adjacent, larger one. Here, more cultists awaited, this time prepared. Two of them hurled glass vials filled with a black, smoking liquid.

“Back!” Álvaro shouted, leaping aside.

The vials shattered on the ground where they’d stood, exploding into green, foul-smelling flames that sent up acidic smoke.

In the chaos, a brute of a cultist, a large man with a nail-studded club, charged Tetanus. Tetanus dodged the heavy blow but didn’t see the faster cultist coming from his blind side.

The pain was sharp and surprising. A short, filthy dagger, crusted with old blood, sank deep into his abdomen, just below his ribs.

Tetanus roared, more from rage than pain. He spun, striking with his sword and severing the attacker’s dagger-wielding hand—then drove the blade into the cultist’s skull. The brute with the club came at him again, but an arrow from Farpa hit his nose, making him stagger back, giving Álvaro an opening to slash him.

Tetanus stumbled, pressing his hand against the wound. Dark blood gushed between his fingers, soaking his leg. The pain throbbed in nauseating waves.

“Tetanus!” Farpa shouted, concerned.

Teeth gritted, Tetanus dug into his pouch, his fingers finding the cold vial of the healing potion he’d kept. He tore the cap off with his teeth and poured the viscous red liquid directly onto the deep cut.

An intense, almost unbearable heat radiated from the wound, followed by a fierce tingling. The flesh seemed to shift and knit under his fingers. In seconds, the bleeding stopped. The pain dulled to a throbbing memory. What remained was a fresh, pink, sensitive scar, a bloodstain on his armor and pants.

He took a deep breath, his face still contorted, but his eyes refocused. He picked up the pickaxe from the ground.

“Let’s go,” he growled, his voice a bit hoarser. “We’re not done here.”

The group retreated to an adjacent room, still panting from the skirmish, the smell of acidic smoke and fresh blood clinging to them.

“Can you believe this?!” Al-Yasiin’s voice erupted from Tetanus’s waist. “The Mother of the Black Forest! That thing we killed on the Island? It was just a spawn! A lost pup of hers! Shub-Niggurath is a cosmic abortion with horns. These damned cultists… they’re trying to birth an entity born of darkness!”

The revelation hung heavier than the damp air. The next room they entered was small, seemingly an old guard post or storage within the cavern. And at the back of that room, on a chipped stone pedestal, was another iron lever, identical to the first, but this time not unguarded.

Three figures blocked the way. Two were twins, moving with eerie synchronicity, their daggers tracing delirious patterns in the air.

The third was an abomination, a grotesque fusion of two bodies. Two torsos melded into a single pair of disproportionate legs, four arms ending in hands replaced by pointed, knife-like stumps, two heads—one with a mouth open in a silent scream, the other with completely white eyes—fused sideways like a rotten twin fruit. It held a massive hammer, stained with unknown substances.

Without hesitation, Tetanus charged. He ignored the twins, going straight for the fleshy abomination. His sword hissed, clashing against the hammer with a shower of sparks. The force of the blow made the two-headed creature stagger, its four arms spasming.

Farpa focused on the twins. His arrows whizzed, but the cultists moved like shadows, dodging with supernatural agility. A thrown dagger grazed Farpa’s arm, and he growled in pain but held his position.

Álvaro joined the fray, his rapier a silver lightning bolt. “Prepare to fall, you monstrous kind!” he shouted, distracting one twin, allowing Farpa to shoot an arrow into the other’s shoulder joint. The twin screamed, a piercing, ear-splitting note.

Tetanus continued his relentless assault on the abomination. He was slower but infinitely stronger. He dodged a hammer swing and drove his sword’s tip into the creature’s fused torso. A gush of black, viscous blood sprayed, and the two heads screamed in unison—a horrific, dissonant sound. He struck again, and again, until the thing collapsed, a trembling heap of spasming, agonized flesh.

On the other side, Álvaro and Farpa had dispatched the twins, their pale, sunless bodies slumped on the floor.

Silence returned, broken only by the group’s heavy breathing. Tetanus, dripping with the abomination’s black fluid, walked to the lever. This time, when he pulled it, the mechanism moved more smoothly.

A complex, louder metallic sound echoed deep within the mine. It was the sound of something heavy unlocking, a door or secret chamber opening somewhere ahead.

But before they turned to the new path that would reveal itself, something in a dark corner of the room caught Álvaro’s eye.

“Mon dieu…” he whispered, approaching.

It was an idol. Carved from bone or dark wood so dense it seemed to absorb the torchlight. Its form defied logic—a tangle of tentacles and protrusions twisting around a nebulous center, speckled with countless tiny bumps suggesting faces or miniature creatures. It was repulsive yet hypnotic. An aura of profane antiquity and pure malice emanated from it.

It was the physical form of Shub-Niggurath’s idol. The object of worship for those cultists.

Everyone stood silent, staring at the physical symbol of the nightmare Al-Yasiin had described.

The silence in the idol’s room was thick, heavy as the darkness the object seemed to exude. Everyone stared at the horrific sculpture, Shub-Niggurath’s form defying geometry before their eyes, their sanity questioned in that moment.

Tetanus said nothing. His expression wasn’t one of terror or fascination but of deep, purifying hatred. He didn’t see a god or a symbol of power, only the source of the rot infecting the mine in cosmic madness.

With a guttural grunt, he raised his foot and brought it down with all his strength on the idol.

The impact wasn’t of boot against bone or wood. It was a *CRACK* that sounded like the end of the world, a dry snap that seemed to split the very air. The idol didn’t just break; it imploded, shattering into a thousand black, barbed fragments that flew across the room like shrapnel from a dark grenade.

A wave of repulsive energy—silent but tangible—radiated from the impact, making everyone except Tetanus step back. A high-pitched, inhuman wail, coming from nowhere and everywhere at once, filled the cavern for a second before fading.

Where the idol had stood, there was now only a pile of dark dust and splinters.

Tetanus breathed heavily, his single eye fixed on the wreckage…

“Let’s go.”

The metallic sound of the opened door still echoed in their minds, a morbid call. They followed it, leaving the destroyed idol’s room behind. The tunnel now led deeper, into a corridor that seemed smoother, less natural. The rough stone walls gave way to rusted metal plates, crudely welded but undeniably modern amidst the mine’s antiquity. It was a disturbing contradiction.

At the corridor’s end, a door. Not of wood or stone, but thick steel with massive hinges. It was slightly ajar, and a strange, pulsing, sickly yellow light leaked through the gap, casting writhing shadows on the metal.

Tetanus pushed the door open. The hinges’ creak was a groan of agony in the oppressive silence.

What they saw inside made the horror of the cultists and abominations seem like a prelude.

It was a circular chamber, lit by a pale, phosphorescent glow coming from… something in the center. The air was hot, humid, and smelled of sour milk, menstrual blood, and static.

And children. Dozens of them. Babies with swollen bodies and atrophied legs, hydrocephalic heads swaying on thin necks, toothless mouths chanting nonsense. They danced in a clumsy, hypnotic ring, hand in hand, forming an imperfect circle.

And at the center of the circle, feeding the sickly light and connected to each of those deformed little souls by short, thick, pulsing tentacles sprouting from its body, was Her.

Shub-Niggurath, the God of Abortion.

A shapeless mass, a pulsing cosmic tumor the size of a giant bear. Its “skin” was a deep, velvety black, like a goat’s, but alive, breathing. And on it, dozens, hundreds of eyes opened and closed in a chaotic, terrifying rhythm—goat eyes with horizontal pupils, human eyes in blue, brown, green, yellow, all colors, reptilian eyes with slits—all blinking independently, staring.

At the base of the mass, half a hundred large, hooved goat legs spasmed helplessly, as if trying to dig into the metal floor. And at the top, upside down, fused like a blasphemous afterthought, was the face of a black goat. Its eyes were pools of falling stars, its mouth open in a silent, eternal bleat, a white, nourishing liquid dripping from its teeth down the umbilical tentacles on its back and into the children.

It was life perverted. Creation as a nightmare. The universe’s abortion made flesh.

Farpa let out a muffled whimper. His bow slipped from his nerveless fingers, clattering unheard. His face was white as chalk, his eyes rolled back, glassy. He trembled uncontrollably, a trickle of drool running from his lip. His brain, his courage, everything was gone, replaced by pure, primal, lobotomizing terror.

Álvaro was no better. He stumbled back, tripping over the metal door, his eyes darting from the creature to the children and back, unable to process the scale of the horror. He stammered something, a failed prayer, before collapsing to his knees, his body wracked with tremors. His world of tricks and charm crumbled before the absolute, undeniable reality of cosmic horror.

Only Tetanus stood before the barely identifiable entity.

He took a step forward. Then another. The sound of his boots on the rocky floor beyond the door was the only sound besides the children’s chanting and the wet pulsing of the anomaly at the center.

The creature’s eyes—all of them—swiveled in their sockets and fixed on him. The silent bleat of the upside-down goat head seemed to intensify. The tentacles feeding the children pulsed faster.

Tetanus kept advancing, closer to the circle of children, his approach an affront to the very presence in that chamber. Each step echoed as a challenge against the insane murmur and the wet pulsing of Shub-Niggurath.

The stillborn children, controlled by the umbilical tentacles, didn’t break their circular dance, but their swollen heads turned fully toward him, pairs of empty or anciently suffering eyes fixing on the intruder.

Shub-Niggurath pulsed with malice. A wave of invisible force, laden with the essence of a thousand failed births and unlived lives, hit Tetanus like a hammer.

He nearly fell back. It was as if every cell in his body screamed in revulsion, a cosmic nausea threatening to undo him. His knees buckled, his ears rang. But he braced his legs, digging his boots into the metal floor. A sound escaped his throat, a growl of pure defiance.

Then the mark on his chest, the flesh beneath his clothes, smoked. A pain as hot as fire, as intense as the vision before him, exploded in his torso. It was an ancient fury, a hatred not entirely his own, responding to the challenge of an equal.

The pain cleared the fog of horror from his mind, replacing it with a murderous clarity.

His good hand whitened on his sword’s hilt, an inadequate extension for the task of killing a god, but it was what he had.

In a chilling unison, the children dropped their hands and turned to him. Their movements, once slow and trembling, became jerky and fast, driven by the umbilical tentacles connected to their backs.

They lunged at him, with the sheer weight of their deformed bodies and an aura of absolute despair that was a weapon in itself.

Tetanus hesitated for a fraction of a second. They were children. Tortured, enslaved children by a god.

Then one leapt and grabbed his leg. The touch was icy, draining his life force, the tentacle on the child’s back pulsing vigorously, as if feeding.

The mark on his chest burned hotter, and the hesitation died. He kicked, tearing the child from his leg and hurling it against the wall with a bony thud.

He surged forward, his sword descending in a silver arc through the air. It was iron against darkness. It sliced through the arm of a bow-legged boy, the controlling tentacle snapping back violently to Shub-Niggurath. The child fell, motionless, its body returning to just a deformed corpse, finally at peace. Perhaps.

Shub-Niggurath pulsed again, this time a command. All eyes in the room fixed on Tetanus. The umbilical tentacles withdrew from the children, who fell like marionettes with cut strings, then launched at him like spears of black flesh and malignant perversion.

Tetanus became a whirlwind. His sword was a blur, slashing, blocking, flanking. He had no arm for a shield, so he used his body—spinning, diving, rolling to avoid strikes. A tentacle hit his shoulder, the pain like being stabbed with frozen iron, leaving a black, necrotic mark on his skin. Another wrapped his leg, trying to pull him down. He slashed it with his sword, and the severed limb dissolved into sludge.

With each tentacle cut, the central mass emitted a static moan, a sound of cosmic interference. The upside-down goat bleated silently, its mouth open in an eternal cry of pain and fury.

Tetanus advanced, step by bloody step, toward the heart of the horror. The mark on his chest was an inferno now, illuminating his bones from within, fueling him with a rage that wasn’t entirely human.

He finally reached the main mass. It smelled of rotting womb and dead stars. The eyes glared at him, filled with ancestral hatred. Tetanus, without a shred of fear, raised his sword and drove it into the center of that sea of eyes.

It was like striking water. There was no resistance, just an absolute cold that shot up his arm. Then the world exploded.

All of Shub-Niggurath’s eyes closed at once, then opened again, releasing a blinding white light carrying the memories of every life it had aborted or perverted. Nightmare images flooded Tetanus’s mind—forests of flesh, skies of bone, the silent scream of entire worlds dead in a blink.

Tetanus roared, not from physical pain but mental agony. His sword wavered in his hand.

It was the opening the entity needed. Dozens of tentacles surged from its mass, wrapping his arm, torso, neck, draining his life. They lifted him off the ground, pulling him toward that upside-down goat mouth, now opening wider, a portal to absolute nothingness.

Tetanus fought, his powerful body writhing, but it was like fighting an ocean. Darkness began to cloud his vision. The mark on his chest seemed to fade, suffocated by the overwhelming presence of the god.

The darkness was absolute, wet, and pulsing. It was more than the absence of light; it was a substance, thick and organic, filling his lungs, pressing his body from all sides. Tetanus was being digested. Consumed not just physically but spiritually by Shub-Niggurath.

There was nothing to fight against. Instead, he was dragged inward, into a place of pure memory warped by cosmic madness.

Suddenly, he was crawling. His legs… he couldn’t feel them. He looked back and saw only bloody stumps ending in nothing. He dragged himself through an endless, dark corridor, the floor cold and smooth against his torso.

Then a scene materialized before him, lit by a dirty, flickering light. It was a wretched shack, with filthy walls and a straw bed on the floor. And there she was. His real mother. Young, terrified, her eyes filled with resigned horror. And over her, a figure.

Not a mass of eyes and tentacles, but a human form of Shub-Niggurath. Tall, broad-shouldered, its skin had an oily, black sheen, long dark hair, and where its face should have been, only a dark mist, except for two points of cruel white light where eyes would be. It held her effortlessly, its grotesquely long member.

Tetanus, powerless, merely a crawling spectator, watched. He saw the act. Brutal, quick, without passion, only possession and violation. He saw his mother’s expression as she was raped by Shub-Niggurath, a mix of pain, disgust, and an acceptance so deep it was worse than any scream. And then, he saw the end. The man-form of Shub-Niggurath withdrew, and a gush of thick, black seed poured over and into her womb.

The lights went out.

When they came back on, it was the same room. His mother, now thinner, pale, sweating, and screaming in pain. She was giving birth. Alone. And then, he was born. Not a baby, but him. Tetanus. Small, bloodied, already with one eye closed, the other open, looking at the world with ancient seriousness.

The infant Tetanus cried, a weak sound.

The adult Tetanus, still legless, dragged himself forward. His mother, exhausted, didn’t see him. She fainted, leaving the newborn crying on the filthy dirt floor.

Tetanus reached the baby. He looked at his own tiny face, at the single eye staring at the world with primordial confusion. He, the man hardened by war and the loss of innocence, felt something break inside him.

With superhuman effort, he extended his arm and stump—and enveloped the baby he had been. It was an impossible embrace, across time and madness. The baby stopped crying. The tiny body relaxed in the arms of the man he would become.

The lights went out for the last time.

In the silent darkness that followed, a voice echoed. Not a whisper of tentacles, nor the bleat of a goat. It was a deep, gravelly voice, as if rising from the foundational stones of reality itself.

“TIRED OF MAKING EXCUSES YET?”

Tetanus woke.

He was inside Shub-Niggurath’s stomach. The pulsing, hot flesh pressed around him, cosmic acids burning his skin.

With a roar that tore through the wet flesh around him, Tetanus began to rip, his fingers, hardened by countless battles, digging into the divine, black flesh of the stomach, tearing with all the strength he had.

Tetanus kept ripping through the fabric of reality, again and again, relentless. Blind from the darkness and divine blood, deaf to the static screams now filling the chamber, he clawed.

The light of the outside world burst through suddenly. One of his tears had reached the surface. Tetanus, covered in the black blood of a god, the mark on his chest glowing like a beacon, tore his way out of the flesh cocoon, collapsing back onto the chamber’s metal floor, panting and nearly vomiting from the stench of Shub-Niggurath’s womb.

Shub-Niggurath pulsed in agony. The gash in its main mass spewed not blood but a liquid, starry darkness that dissolved everything it touched. Its thousand eyes blinked wildly, some bursting in jets of cosmic pus, bleating a sound now of pure panic and pain.

In a final act of perverted will, it focused its eyes on Farpa and Álvaro, still paralyzed with terror, kneeling near the entrance.

Their expressions of horror vanished, replaced by empty, robotic obedience. They stood, movements jerky, and grabbed their weapons. Farpa raised his dagger, Álvaro his rapier, his hand trembling from the external control dominating him.

They turned on Tetanus. Their faces were soulless masks.

“Kill him,” whispered a voice, Shub-Niggurath’s command echoing directly in their broken minds.

Farpa lunged first, his dagger stabbing the air with murderous force. Tetanus dodged with a predator’s agility, his body now responding with precision he’d never known. He grabbed Farpa’s wrist and twisted, not hard enough to break, just forcing him to drop the dagger. Tetanus then delivered a precise blow with the base of his hand to the young man’s chin. Farpa collapsed, unconscious before hitting the ground.

Álvaro came next, his rapier a feared silver whirlwind now turned against Tetanus, his voice a hoarse cry of someone trapped in their own body.

The rapier’s tip pierced Tetanus’s armor, grazing the mark on his chest—a spark of white light leapt from the metal. The surprise made Álvaro hesitate for a fraction of a second.

Tetanus closed the distance, his elbow striking the exact spot on Álvaro’s temple. The faux Frenchman dropped like a sack of potatoes, unconscious.

The threat neutralized, Tetanus turned back to the source.

Shub-Niggurath was writhing, trying to regenerate as it pulled its tentacles back into itself. Tetanus picked up his sword from the ground.

A tentacle lashed at him. He sliced it mid-air, and the severed limb evaporated into black mist.

Another came from below; he cut it too and kept walking.

He reached the main mass. The eyes stared at him, no longer with hatred but with primordial fear.

The blade came down repeatedly, slicing black flesh, severing eyes, cutting tentacles at the base. Each strike methodical.

Shub-Niggurath finally began to dissolve with each blow, parts of its form dissipating into the air. The head was the last to go, its bleat finally fading as it disintegrated into particles of darkness.

In seconds, nothing remained. A god dismembered, absolute silence, and the chamber’s pale, sickly light extinguished, plunging the place into darkness, broken only by the ghostly glow on Tetanus’s chest, which began to dim.

Farpa and Álvaro groaned, coming to. They sat up, rubbing their heads, confused, the memory of what they’d done under control erased, but the residual horror still lingering.

“What… what the hell happened?” Farpa asked, his voice shaky, looking at his bruised wrist and at Tetanus, standing in the center of the empty chamber, breathing heavily.

“The… the monster?” Álvaro looked around, bewildered. “Where did it go?”

Then Al-Yasiin, who had been strangely silent during the chaos, spoke. Its voice a mocking croak.

“The maggot here finally started paying attention!” the head said, its eyes fixed on Tetanus with newfound respect. “The maggot woke up. OUR goal is to KILL gods. Always has been. And he… HE finally remembered how it’s DONE!!! THAT’S THE WAY!!!”

Tetanus stared at his own hands, a fleeting sense of dread replaced by the memory of the man they still had to rescue.

“We still have to save a guy locked up here before we leave…” he said finally, his lips as dry as if he’d smoked a thousand opiums.

Chapter 29: Yare Yare Daze

Abandoned Mine — Euclides da Cunha — 1666

The air in the chamber where Shub-Niggurath had fallen was thick, saturated with the smell of ozone and cosmic rot. The glow of the mark on Tetanus’s chest faded slowly, leaving him with an exhaustion that went beyond the physical.

His sword, still dripping with the entity’s black fluid, trembled in his hand. Farpa and Álvaro, still groggy, their glassy eyes trying to process the void where the horror had been. Al-Yasiin, at Tetanus’s waist, let out hoarse cackles, as if the victory over a cosmic horror was just the start of a long, cruel joke.

“The guy in the cage,” Tetanus repeated, his voice rough, forcing his focus back to the mission. “Let’s grab him and get out. This mine’s a zero-star joint.”

Farpa nodded, still rubbing his bruised wrist, not fully understanding what had happened, while Álvaro, regaining some of his flair, adjusted his feathered hat with trembling fingers. “Mon dieu, Tetanus, you really are a madman. But a madman who keeps promises, just the way we like it in the Conclave.”

They retraced their steps through the corridor, the light from Álvaro’s torch reflecting off the walls. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the echo of their footsteps and the distant drip of water. The crystal cavern seemed less magical now, more like a glittering tomb. Tetanus kept the pickaxe at his waist, his sword sheathed but his hand ready to draw at the slightest hint of danger.

They reached the cage where the prisoner was. The man, now even more shrunken, trembled within the tatters of his miner’s uniform. His wide, feverish eyes fixed on Tetanus. “You… you came back,” he stammered, his voice barely audible. “I heard… the screams. What was that?”

“Nothing you need to know,” Tetanus replied sharply. He examined the chain holding the cage, now slack after the lever was pulled. With a strong tug, he yanked out the pin securing the door, and the cage dropped with a thud, the prisoner collapsing to his knees on the damp floor.

“Name,” Tetanus demanded, helping him up.

“Mathios,” the man replied, coughing. “I was the foreman here, before… before the glowing ones showed up.”

“What were those miners?” Farpa asked.

Mathios swallowed hard, his face sweating. “I don’t know. They came after we found… a stone. Blue, pulsing like a heart. We dug too deep, and they appeared. Killed almost everyone, some were changed, others were sacrifices. They said they served a god. Locked me up when I almost escaped.” He hesitated, looking at Tetanus. “The stone… it’s down there, where the chanting was. Did you… did you kill what was there?”

Tetanus exchanged a glance with Álvaro and Farpa. “The stone,” he said, his voice low but urgent. “Where exactly?”

Mathios pointed down the corridor they’d come from. “Deeper. Past the big chamber, in a sealed room. They guarded it like a sacred relic.”

“Life Stone,” Al-Yasiin muttered, its eyes gleaming with a mix of excitement and sarcasm. “Told you, maggot! There’s your chance to become a metal man!”

Tetanus ignored the head, helping Mathios walk. “You’re coming with us. Show the way.”

The group moved back through the corridor, now with Mathios limping ahead, guided by memory and trauma. The corridor ended at another steel door, smaller but reinforced with welded plates and strange symbols etched on its surface—entangled tentacles around a goat’s head, reminiscent of the destroyed idol.

Tetanus pushed the door open, and it gave way with a metallic groan. The room was small, lit by a faint blue glow emanating from a pedestal in the center. There, floating a few inches above the ground, was the Life Stone. It was the size of a fist, blue as the heart of a flame, pulsing with a light that seemed alive, each beat sending waves of energy that made the air hum.

“That’s it,” Tetanus said, approaching. He felt the mark on his chest respond, a subtle warmth that seemed to recognize the stone, his vision growing slightly dizzy as he neared it. Carefully, he wrapped it in a thick cloth from his pouch and stowed it. “Let’s go. We’ve stayed too long.”

Mathios, still trembling, pointed to a side tunnel. “That leads to the surface. Faster than the way you came.”

They followed, the mine’s darkness gradually giving way to daylight. When they emerged on the hillside, the sun was high, burning their skin and dispelling the cold that clung to them. The surrounding forest seemed alive again, as if Shub-Niggurath’s death had broken a curse.

Back at the camp in Euclides da Cunha, the group was greeted by Gume, standing guard with his axe in hand, and Zara, working with Samson on sketches for a mechanical arm on a thin hide. Oliver, sitting in a corner, flipped through his notebook but looked up when he saw them. The few surviving townsfolk, now gathered around a campfire, looked at Tetanus with a mix of fear and reverence.

Tetanus handed the Life Stone to Zara, who examined it carefully, her eyes gleaming with technical fascination. “This… this is more than energy,” she said, almost to herself. “It’s like it has a soul of its own. We can make this work, Tetanus. With Samson’s metal, this could be better than any ordinary mechanical arm.”

Samson slammed his hammer on the anvil upon seeing the stone Zara brought to him, a savage grin on the dwarf’s face. “Then let’s forge this bastard. The prince won’t know what hit him when we rebel!”

Tetanus nodded, but his gaze turned to Mathios, trembling by the fire. “You stay with us,” he said. “You know these mines, you’ll be a good leader for the miners.”

Mathios swallowed hard but nodded. “Alright… anything’s better than that cage…”

The dwarf’s anvil rang under precise hammer blows, shaping steel plates collected and refined from the mine’s ores. Zara, wide-eyed with focus, supervised, her fingers tracing complex schematics in her mind while directing Samson with technical terms the dwarf understood through a smith’s intuition for crafting weapons and armor.

“The finger joints need more mobility, Samson!” she shouted over the clang of metal. “It’s not a hammer, it’s an extension of him!”

“Alright, alright, Ginger!” the dwarf grumbled, plunging a glowing metal bar into a bucket of water with a loud hiss. “But it’s gotta take a beating too, the metal has to be tough!”

Between them, the Life Stone pulsed softly, its blue light casting shadows on their faces.

“I think I can handle the bolts and internal mechanisms…” Zara murmured analytically.

Tetanus watched from a distance, leaning against a pile of grain sacks, but his attention was on the darkness beyond the palisade, his senses alert like a wolf’s.

Then the night’s silence was shattered by the furious gallop of a horse. Gume, at the gate’s watchpost, raised his axe but lowered it when he recognized the faded colors of the Coin Conclave on the rider’s cloak.

The messenger—a thin, nervous man with a crooked eye—leapt from the horse, sweating and panting, nearly collapsing at Tetanus’s feet.

“Tetanus!” he gasped, clutching his side. “The Rose… The Rose sends word. The prince knows about the redhead’s escape from the Ebony Garden. He’s furious, he’s sent hunters, bloodthirsty mercenaries, Molossus dogs… and…” the man swallowed hard, his crooked eye blinking rapidly, “…and Baltazar is with them.”

The name dropped like a stone into the camp’s silence. Even Samson’s hammer froze mid-air.

“Baltazar?” Álvaro whispered, his face pale. “That traitor?!”

“The very same,” the messenger confirmed, breathing heavily. “He fled the Conclave two moons ago to join the kingdom’s Elite Troop. He knows secrets, and he knows you well. He’s their guide now!”

Zara stopped her work, her hand instinctively protecting her belly, her face showing surprise at the mention of the prince.

Tetanus didn’t move; he didn’t even know who Baltazar was, honestly, but the air around him seemed to grow colder.

“Where?” Tetanus’s question was a low growl.

“They’re coming from the south,” the messenger pointed. “Following the river. They’re no more than half a day’s ride away. Baltazar… he knows you’re here!”

Tetanus processed the information for a second. They had traps, a palisade, bravery. But against a traitor who knew their weaknesses? It was a risk he couldn’t take, unwilling to let the fight reach the camp. He turned, his eye scanning each of them—Gume, Farpa, Álvaro, Zara, Samson, Oliver.

“Fortify everything. Prepare for a siege.” His voice brooked no argument.

Then he walked to the corral where his horse was tied. His new, trusty Wildfire raised its head, sniffing the air as if sensing its master’s fury.

“What are you going to do?” Zara asked, her voice heavy with concern.

Tetanus didn’t answer, only mounting Wildfire and meeting Zara’s gaze deep in her soul.

“TETANUS!” Al-Yasiin’s voice shouted from his waist. “You’re going to hunt them alone? With one arm and that shitty little sword? Why don’t we wait for the new arm, you stubborn maggot?”

Tetanus ignored the talking head, and Wildfire reared, feeling its rider’s murderous resolve.

“If Baltazar knows the Conclave,” Tetanus said, finally looking at the group, “and he knows me… it won’t be long before he gets here. So it’s better we settle this once and for all, and maybe going to them will disrupt any tracking strategy they have.”

He pulled the reins, making Wildfire turn. “I’m going to cut the snake’s head off before it poisons me.” His eye met Zara’s for a second, a silent promise of return. “Samson, Zara. Finish the work. If I don’t come back, I’m probably taking a break in hell.”

And with no further words, he spurred the horse. Wildfire shot off like an arrow, vanishing into the night’s darkness, following the Conclave messenger already galloping back to warn the Rose.

The night was a wet ink over the forest, torn only by Wildfire’s furious gallop. Tetanus followed the messenger, his swaying silhouette ahead a darker smudge against the blackness.

The cold air cut his face, the sounds of animals in the silent forest—beastly cries and birds—his mind seething, focused only on tracking Baltazar’s potential trail.

Something was wrong.

The messenger, instead of keeping south toward the river, began veering east, toward a region of steep hills and deep valleys that Tetanus knew were a natural labyrinth—a perfect place for an ambush.

“Hey!” Tetanus roared, his voice lost in the wind. “This path is wrong!”

The messenger didn’t look back, spurring his horse, plunging deeper into the dark throat of a narrow valley.

Al-Yasiin didn’t need to say anything; when Tetanus heard its grunt, he knew exactly the mental scolding he was getting.

Tetanus pulled the reins, his instincts screaming louder than his thirst for vengeance. But it was too late.

A sharp *thwip* cut through the air, almost drowned by the wind. The pain came an instant later—a needle piercing deep into the back of his right leg’s joint, the tip of a hunting arrow, likely poisoned.

A grunt of surprise and pain escaped his lips. His leg gave out, losing all strength. Wildfire, sensing its master’s imbalance and pain, reared with a shrill whinny. Tetanus, with only one arm to hold on, was thrown backward, crashing heavily onto the hard, rocky ground.

The world spun. Throbbing pain radiated from his leg. He heard Wildfire bolt in panic, disappearing into the darkness.

Before he could stand, torches flared around him, revealing a dozen figures emerging from the shadows of the surrounding desert rocks. Hard men with swords, others with bows still drawn, and two in dark robes—witches, their hands already glowing with prepared inner energy.

A larger, more robust figure stepped forward: Baltazar himself.

He was a tall, muscular man, bald, his scalp gleaming under the torchlight. A deep, cruel scar cut across his left eye, sealing it forever, his right eye sharp and alive, a blue iris glinting in the night, filled with calculated cruelty.

In his hand, he held a thick collar, and at its end, a Molossus—a massive war dog with jaws capable of crushing bone, its short snout wrinkled in a silent snarl, drooling foam.

“Well, well, well,” Baltazar’s voice was soft, almost a whisper, but carried the weight of authority and disdain. “The great so-called Tetanus. The One-Armed Devil. Fallen as easily as a lame lamb.”

Tetanus tried to stand, but a sword tip pressed against his chest, forcing him back down. He growled, his hand moving toward his own sword, but another man kicked it away.

“Ah, no, no,” Baltazar said, slowly circling Tetanus like a butcher sizing up a cut of meat. “None of that. You’re at my table now. And I have some questions before the main course.”

He stopped, his good eye fixed on Tetanus. “The Deadly Rose thinks she’s so clever. Using sewer rats like you for her dirty work. But she underestimates the loyalty the prince’s gold buys.”

The Conclave messenger approached, receiving a sack of coins from Baltazar with a crooked smile.

“You…!” Tetanus spat the word, the taste of blood in his mouth.

“Me,” Baltazar confirmed, amused. “Now, let’s start. Where’s the redhead? Zara, isn’t it? The prince is eager to reclaim his property. And the child she carries, of course. An unacknowledged heir is always such a nuisance.”

Tetanus remained silent, his eyes burning with hatred.

“Nothing?” Baltazar nodded. One of the witches muttered a word, and an arc of painful energy, like an electric shock, struck Tetanus, making his muscles convulse involuntarily. He clenched his teeth to keep from screaming.

“Let’s try another,” Baltazar continued, as if having a civilized conversation. “The Conclave is helping you. Where’s their hideout? Euclides da Cunha? It’s just a pile of ruins. Where’s your real base?”

More silence. Another shock, stronger this time. Tetanus arched his back, a grunt escaping his throat.

Baltazar sighed, feigning boredom. “So stubborn. Maybe you need a bit more… persuasion.” He released the Molossus’s collar. “Argos. Sniff. Remember his scent.”

The massive dog approached, its wet snout sniffing Tetanus from head to toe, its growl deepening.

“I can do this all night, Tetanus,” Baltazar whispered, crouching to his level. His breath smelled of cheap wine and mint. “And I will. But you can spare yourself a lot of pain. Just tell me where she is, that’s all the prince wants. He might even let you live. A cripple like you isn’t a real threat…”

Tetanus spat in Baltazar’s face.

The blood-mixed spit slid down the traitor’s bald cheek. Baltazar’s amused expression vanished, replaced by cold rage. He wiped his face slowly.

“Fine,” he said, his voice now flat and deadly. “We’ll do this the hard way. Argos?” He pointed to Tetanus’s wounded leg. “Bite.”

The Molossus’s hot, fetid breath came, followed by the deep sound of a growl promising crushed bones. Its powerful jaws opened, aimed at Tetanus’s already pierced leg. Baltazar watched, a cruel smile on his face.

Then Al-Yasiin’s head at Tetanus’s waist exploded.

“YOU BALD, FAT PIECE OF SHIT! YOU THINK YOU CAN ORDER A BITE ON MY CARRIER? THE ONLY ONE WHO ORDERS BITING HERE IS ME, YOU ONE-EYED, HALF-ASSED, FILTHY SPARK OF COURAGE!!!”

Al-Yasiin’s voice wasn’t just a shout. It was a distortion of reality, a gale of pure hatred and blasphemy that made the torches flicker and the men instinctively step back. The Molossus hesitated, confused by the noise.

From Tetanus’s stump, where there had only been bandages and scarred flesh, a form began to materialize. It wasn’t flesh and bone. It was made of cold, gray smoke, coagulated shadows, and the rancor of a thousand cursed souls Al-Yasiin had deceived over centuries. It was a ghostly arm, translucent, without defined details, but unmistakably human in shape. And in place of a hand, ethereal, sharp claws twitched.

A strange sensation flooded Tetanus—not the phantom feeling of a lost limb, but the cold, real presence of something where nothing should be. Without questioning, it was the perfect distraction.

With an instinctive move, the ghostly arm grabbed the arrow’s shaft lodged in his leg’s joint. The pain was excruciating, a white star of agony, but the spectral hand didn’t falter, pulling, yanking the arrow from his flesh with a wet, horrible sound.

The Molossus, recovering from the shock, lunged again.

Tetanus, with adrenaline numbing the pain, acted with brutal speed. The ghostly arm stabbed forward, driving the bloodied arrow tip deep into the dog’s ear, into its brain.

The beast screamed—a piercing, heartbreaking sound of pure surprise and pain—recoiling, shaking its head violently, trying to dislodge the object piercing its skull.

Tetanus stood slowly. The movement was clumsy, a forward stumble driven by sheer will, his wounded leg nearly giving out. But he stayed upright. His face, lit by the ghostly glow of his new arm, a gift from Al-Yasiin’s primal fury.

Baltazar was frozen, his single eye wide with disbelief. “What… what sorcery is this?”

Staggering, Tetanus moved toward his sword, lying a few steps away. One of the bandits moved to intercept, brandishing a club. Tetanus’s ghostly arm hissed through the air, its spectral claws passing through the club and the man’s arm as if they didn’t exist, then solidifying momentarily to slash deeply across the bandit’s face. He screamed and fell back, bleeding profusely.

Tetanus grabbed his sword with his good hand, the ghostly arm moving to wrap around the hilt alongside his real hand. An intense chill ran through his flesh hand, but he felt… pressure. A grip. As if a second, cold, insubstantial, but incredibly strong hand was helping him hold the blade.

For the first time in a long time, Tetanus wielded a sword with two hands. How nostalgic.

One of the witches, regaining composure, shouted an incantation, his fingers tracing runes in the air that glowed with a sickly light. “Discidium Membrum!”

A beam of necrotic energy, meant to sever limbs and tear joints, shot toward Tetanus’s wounded leg.

“OH, YOU SHITTY MAGICIAN!” Al-Yasiin roared from his waist, its voice warping the air around it. “THROWING UGLY STUFF AT MY MAGGOT? TAKE IT BACK, YOU THIRD-RATE OCCULTIST!”

The necrotic beam hit an invisible barrier hovering just in front of Al-Yasiin and ricocheted straight back to the witch who cast it.

The man barely had time to scream. His own legs separated from his torso in an explosive gush of blood, his body collapsing like a rag doll, limbs scattering across the ground with wet thuds.

The silence that followed was broken by the sound of archers drawing their bowstrings. Arrows whizzed toward Tetanus.

Tetanus did his part, moving with the clumsy fury of a wounded bear. He stumbled, leapt to the side using his good leg, his two-handed sword—guided by spectral force—slicing arrows from the air with a clash of metal against wood. Each movement an agony in his leg, each landing a fresh surge of pain.

Another witch, more cautious, tried a different spell, a paralysis curse. A loop of purple energy flew toward Tetanus.

“ANOTHER? ANOTHER??!! YOU MAGGOTS DON’T LEARN ANYTHING!!!” Al-Yasiin shouted, now laughing—a horrible, cacophonous sound. “PLAYING WITH FIRE, YOU FOOL-MAKER!”

The purple loop hit the same invisible barrier and reversed course, wrapping the second witch like a snake. The man froze in place, his eyes wide with pure terror, unable to move a muscle.

Tetanus, not missing a beat, staggered to the paralyzed witch and, with a clean swing of his sword, now firmly gripped by two “hands,” decapitated him.

He turned to the rest of the group, his breath ragged, sweat and blood streaming down his face. His ghostly arm pulsed with a faint gray light, its spectral claws dripping an ethereal, cold substance. Al-Yasiin laughed uncontrollably, a sound of triumphant madness.

Baltazar stepped back, his face now pale with genuine fear. His plan, what was supposed to be the perfect ambush, had crumbled before magic he couldn’t comprehend.

“Kill him! Kill him, all of you!” he screamed, his voice shrill, hiding behind his remaining men.

The fight became a chaotic slaughter. Tetanus, moving like a limping demon, his sword an extension of his rage and ghostly arm, tilted the scales in his favor.

The air already reeked of blood, burnt iron, and the residual ozone of dispelled magic. The bodies of bandits and witches lay scattered across the valley, silent witnesses to the unleashed fury.

Tetanus breathed heavily, and Baltazar, now nearly alone, retreated, his single eye bulging with near-panic. The dead Molossus lay at his feet, the arrow still lodged in its ear.

“This… this is impossible,” he stammered, his blade trembling before him. “What abomination are you?”

Al-Yasiin, at Tetanus’s waist, laughed—a hoarse, triumphant sound echoing off the valley walls. “ABOMINATION? I’LL SHOW YOU ABOMINATION, YOU WORTHLESS SPECK OF SCUM! YOU WANT TO SEE REAL POWER? YOU WANT TO SEE WHAT I KEEP FOR SPECIAL OCCASIONS??!!”

The severed head began to vibrate, its skin darkening, its eyes rolling back until only the whites showed. A deeper darkness than the surrounding night began to emanate from it, coalescing in the air above Tetanus.

“COME!!! SLAVE GOD’S REMNANT!!! COME AND REAP!!!”

From the pool of darkness, something materialized.

It was a tall, emaciated figure, its limbs long and thin as twigs. Its skin was the color of extinguished charcoal, legs crossed in a lotus pose, the skin stretched over a skeleton that seemed about to collapse. Where a face should have been, there was only a miniature luminous sun, a depression of sunlight illuminating everything around. And on the entity’s back, six ethereal, flaming arms emerged, each ending in claws of black energy that warped the air around them.

The entity made no sound, simply moved—a blur of shadow and fire.

It passed through one of the remaining archers trying to reload. The six arms enveloped him for a second. When the entity moved on, the man was no longer there. Only a charred, mutilated body remained, his sword melted into a metallic puddle on the ground.

The entity spun, its flaming arms hissing like serpents, and launched at the last two bandits. They screamed, trying to flee, but were caught. One was torn apart, his limbs ripped off and charred mid-air. The other simply… extinguished, like a candle whose flame was stolen.

In less than three seconds, the entity had reaped what remained of Baltazar’s men. It then turned to the traitor, its “face” of sun fixed on him.

Baltazar wet his pants. His jaw trembled uncontrollably.

The entity took a step toward him.

“ENOUGH!” Al-Yasiin’s voice cut through the air, sounding exhausted. “THAT’S ENOUGH SHOW. BACK TO YOUR CAGE, DAMN IT.”

The entity hesitated for a microsecond, as if reluctant, then dissolved back into the darkness, which was sucked back into Al-Yasiin. The head went quiet, its eyes closed, as if asleep.

The valley fell silent again. Only Tetanus and Baltazar remained.

Tetanus advanced. His limp was pure, his determination absolute. Baltazar, driven by primal survival instinct, raised his sword and attacked.

It was a short, brutal fight. Baltazar was skilled, but his morale was shattered. Tetanus, even wounded, was a force of nature. He blocked a strike with his sword (the sensation of the ghostly arm reinforcing his grip still strange and otherworldly) and then kicked Baltazar’s good leg with his own wounded one, a move of pure pain and rage.

Baltazar fell with a grunt. Tetanus fell on him, his sword flying away in the impact. They rolled on the ground, a tangle of sweat, blood, and hatred. Baltazar tried to gouge Tetanus’s single eye with his fingers. Tetanus, in turn, dug the fingers of his real hand into the traitor’s throat, while the ghostly arm—now visibly fainter—grabbed Baltazar’s wrist holding a dagger, preventing it from stabbing his back.

With a final surge of strength, Tetanus rolled, pinning Baltazar beneath him. His ghostly arm, consuming its last energies, dematerialized with a final sigh of cold air, vanishing completely. Tetanus now had control.

He wrenched the dagger from Baltazar’s hand and tossed it aside. He sat on the traitor’s chest, his crushing weight immobilizing him.

“Now,” Tetanus growled, his face inches from Baltazar’s, his hot breath against the bald man’s pale skin. “You talk. EVERYTHING.”

“I… I won’t tell you anything!” Baltazar snarled, but the fear in his eye was palpable.

Tetanus grabbed the same dagger that had fallen nearby and, with a precise, horrific motion, drove its tip under the nail of Baltazar’s left pinky.

The scream that followed was shrill, filled with pure agony.

“The prince!” Tetanus demanded, his voice a deadly whisper. “What are his plans? Beyond us.”

“He… he’s going to purify the Empire!” Baltazar screamed, tears mixing with sweat and blood. “Starting with the capital in São Dantas! He wants… wants to take control of everything! He’ll use a trained war beast! He’ll use it to raze everything and plant his flag in the ashes!”

“What beast?” Tetanus pressed the dagger deeper.

“I don’t know! I swear! Just rumors! He calls it… the ‘City Devourer’! Please!”

Tetanus processed the information. It was worse than he thought; in short, the prince wanted to enslave the rest of the empire, but what about the cube?

“And the traitor in the Conclave? Who else works for him?”

“Just… just the messenger! He was the only one! I swear! Now please…”

Tetanus looked at Baltazar’s contorted face, at the genuine fear and pain. He had what he needed.

Without a word, he raised the dagger—with a swift, clean motion, he drove the blade into Baltazar’s heart.

The traitor’s body arched one last time and then went still.

Tetanus stood, panting, over the corpse. He staggered to his sword and picked it up. Then he returned to Baltazar. The rage still boiled in his veins, the memory of everything that had happened in his life, the ambush, and all the betrayals.

He raised the sword with his now solitary good hand—and with a single brutal swing, split Baltazar’s skull in two, from top to neck.

The task was done. The traitor utterly destroyed, the immediate threat neutralized.

He fell to his knees beside the body, exhaustion and leg pain finally catching up. The valley was silent, except for his ragged breathing. But at least he was still alive.

The throbbing pain in his leg was a constant drum of agony, the fury that had sustained Tetanus now ebbing, leaving behind only a piercing cold and the raw reality of his wounds. He looked at Baltazar’s mutilated corpse, then at the silent, shadowy valley, bodies and the smell of burning prominent all around. Survival was the next battle.

With trembling fingers and gritted teeth, he grabbed his black pants, sturdy fabric now stained with blood and dirt. With a strong tug and a rip that echoed in the stillness, he tore a long, wide strip from the right leg.

The cold air hit his sweaty thigh, but he ignored it, focusing on the grotesque wound in his joint. The arrow was out, but it left a deep, bleeding hole. He wrapped the fabric tightly above the wound, pulling it with his hand, creating an improvised tourniquet. The pain was excruciating, a white explosion behind his eyes, but the blood flow slowed to a trickle.

He tried to whistle, calling Wildfire. The sound came out weak, a hiss of air through his cracked lips. He tried again, harder, ignoring the pain in his chest.

For a long moment, nothing. Then, the sound of cautious hooves echoed in the distance. Wildfire emerged from the shadows, its body trembling, eyes wide, but recognizing its master. It approached, sniffing the air, reluctant.

“Hey, Wildfire…” Tetanus whispered, his voice rough. “It’s just me.”

He dragged himself to the horse, using his sword as a crutch. Each movement was torture. With a superhuman effort, he pulled himself onto the animal, nearly falling off the other side. He slumped over Wildfire’s back, gripping the mane with his single hand, his face buried in the horse’s warm fur.

“Take… take us home,” he murmured, nearly unconscious.

Wildfire, as if understanding, began to walk, then trot, avoiding rough terrain, carrying its precious burden back through the dark forest.

The journey was a blur of pain and semi-consciousness. Tetanus didn’t know how long they’d been traveling when the camp’s torches appeared like fireflies in the dark.

Shouts of alarm were followed by familiar voices. Gume was the first to reach him, his massive arms lifting Tetanus from the saddle with surprising gentleness before slinging him over his shoulder.

“By the gods, what did they do to you?” the giant’s deep voice echoed, heavy with concern.

He was carried into the camp. Worried faces surrounded him—Farpa, pale; Álvaro, without his usual flair; Samson, hammer still in hand; and Zara, her face a mask of fear and relief.

The cleric—a woman who had lost her faith but not her practice—hurried over. Her fingers, still trembling but steady, examined the tourniquet, the wound. She murmured words of comfort like a mother soothing a child before a violent father.

The wound was cleaned and bandaged with care.

They carried him to his tent and laid him on his blankets. The pain, now contained and treated, became a dull, manageable throb. The exhaustion, however, was a lead weight on him.

Someone—he thought it was Oliver—brought a bowl of hot broth and helped him drink. The warmth spread through his body, pushing back some of the cold.

“But… what happened?” Farpa asked, his voice low, breaking the silence that had settled, almost whimpering.

Tetanus opened his single eye, looking at the faces around him in the dim lantern light.

“It was a trap,” his voice came out as a hoarse growl. “The messenger… betrayed us. Led me to Baltazar.”

He paused, taking a deep breath. “I dealt with them. Baltazar’s dead.”

The simple statement carried the weight of an epic battle. They could see it in the cuts, the blood covering the hero’s body, and the wounded leg, clearly.

“He talked… before he died,” Tetanus continued, his eye darkening. “The prince isn’t just after us. He wants everything… the whole empire.”

A heavy silence fell over the tent, the situation escalating from a personal hunt to open war.

“Does he know we’re here?” Álvaro asked, his face serious.

“Baltazar might’ve known,” Tetanus confirmed. “But the bastard’s dead. The messenger might’ve escaped, might’ve told others. We can’t stay idle anymore.”

He tried to sit up, a fit of coughing shaking his body. “I’m getting better. Tomorrow… I might have to leave. Move on, the goals haven’t changed… you know?” His eye lingered on Zara for a moment but then fixed on the void.

The black cube. Vengeance against the prince. Killing gods. These were burdens he couldn’t share.

“Alone?!” Zara protested, her voice soft but firm. “After this? No way!”

“He’s right,” Al-Yasiin murmured from his waist, its voice weak, as if the invocation had drained even it. “The maggot finally gets it. His road is a lonely one. But at least now he knows which damn road to follow.”

Tetanus lay back, closing his eye. The pain and exhaustion finally pulled him into a near-coma of recovery.

The pain, exhaustion, and spilled blood became steps on a spiral staircase that carried him upward, far above the camp, the forest, the world he knew.

He found himself atop a tower of black stone that scraped a velvet-purple sky. The moon hanging above wasn’t the moon he knew. It was massive, oppressive, its face a mosaic of craters forming a rocky, insane smile, with two dark craters serving as eyes, watching everything with cosmic coldness. The light it cast was silvery and dead.

And in the center of this pinnacle, dancing under the sickly moonlight, was a figure.

Himself.

An immaculate white suit.

A vibrant red tie.

His feet, shod in two-tone shoes, moved with impossible agility, performing frevo steps that were both graceful and deeply unsettling.

His arms moved like serpents, and his face…

Narrow, pale, with a finely groomed mustache. The smile. Too wide, stretched too far, almost reaching his ears, revealing perfect, white teeth gleaming under the moonlight.

Zé Pilintra, the Trickster God. And he was dancing alone at the top of the world.

His eyes slid sideways to Tetanus. The smile widened, becoming even more grotesquely broad.

“Hey, all good?” He didn’t stop dancing, his feet tapping a complex rhythm on the stone. “You’re in deep shit, huh? You think you killed a big rat, but the problem’s the whole nest coming for you.”

“What do you want, pretty boy? Spill it.” Tetanus retorted, careful with the tone of his words.

“Me?” Zé spun one last time before stopping abruptly, his white suit flaring like a bird’s wing. “I don’t want anything, my friend. I’m already IN it. The question is: what are YOU gonna do? The prince, with his dirty tricks with ancient stuff… that’s heavy shit. And you, wanting to take on a Major God with one arm and a cursed pet head.” He laughed, a sound like shattering glass.

“He’s not bigger than me,” Tetanus growled, but it sounded hollow, even to him in the dream.

“Oh, really?” Zé stretched his arms, becoming dangerously improper. His smile vanished, replaced by sudden, terrifying seriousness. “What’s bigger, tough guy? The hunter or the prey? The pawn or the brothel owner? You’re becoming an important piece on the board, Big T. And important pieces…” he leaned forward, his face inches from Tetanus’s, his breath smelling of cachaça and wilted flowers, “…either become queens… or get sacked faster than the rest. Watch the deals you make. Even with me. Especially with me.”

Before Tetanus could respond, Zé Pilintra stepped back and resumed his dance, more frenzied now, his arms spinning like windmills.

“Free tip!” he sang, as his figure began to dissolve in the moonlight, becoming translucent. “But the next one’ll cost you an arm and a leg! Or the other arm! Who knows! By the way, I’m proud you managed to retire that foreign god Niggurath-whatever! But at what cost?”

He vanished completely, and the tower began to crumble beneath Tetanus’s feet.

He woke with a start, a grunt caught in his throat. His leg throbbed, and the tent was dark. But he wasn’t alone; he felt it.

Farpa was kneeling beside him in the dark, his pale face visible in the faint light filtering through the tent flap. He was trying to adjust the pillow under Tetanus’s head, his fingers hesitant.

“Just… try to rest,” the young man whispered, his voice heavy with concern he tried to mask for himself.

Moved by a pure impulse from the dream—or perhaps by the raw comfort of seeing a familiar face—Tetanus acted. His good arm shot from the blankets with surprising speed. His hand, broad and rough, didn’t grab violently. Instead, it wrapped around Farpa’s nape, pulling the young man down and close, in a motion that was almost a forced embrace.

Farpa stiffened, surprised by the action.

Tetanus’s fingers found the base of Farpa’s hair and began a rough but unmistakably gentle motion—a caress. It was clumsy, like everything Tetanus did, but it was genuine.

“Stop worrying,” Tetanus’s voice came out as a low growl near Farpa’s ear. “You know I don’t die easy.”

Farpa relaxed slightly, his initial tension giving way to trembling relief. He didn’t pull away.

“I… I heard the screams. When they brought you in. I thought…” he didn’t finish.

“You thought wrong,” Tetanus cut in, his hand stopping the caress but not letting go. “Baltazar was a worm. Worms are for stepping on.”

“And what’s next?” Farpa asked, his voice steadier. “The Beast? The prince?”

Tetanus fell silent for a moment, the image of Zé Pilintra’s insane smile still burning in his mind.

“Whatever comes,” he finally said. “You stay here. Grow strong. Protect the others, and especially yourself.”

“And you? You’re leaving, aren’t you?” Farpa’s voice was full of fear he could no longer hide. Fear of losing him.

Tetanus released Farpa’s nape and instead gave an awkward pat on his face, almost a rough caress.

“I’ve got roads to walk that aren’t for your feet,” he said, his voice softer than it had ever been. “But I’ll be back. Until then, you’re my eyes here. Got it?”

Farpa swallowed hard and nodded, even in the dark.

“Got it.”

“Now go sleep.” The order was given with a final gentleness.

Farpa stood hesitantly and left the tent, leaving Tetanus alone with his pain, his dreams, and the crushing weight of a future drawing near.

Notes:

Happy September 7th in Brazil and thanks for the 2k hits.