A click.

  A flame.

  A cigarette.

  An inhale.

  A cloud of smoke.

  “You smoke?”

  Another inhale, another exhale. “Picked it up again.”

  Me and Alfrick stand shoulder to shoulder. Soldiers hold their positions in the faint light before dawn.

  We’re waiting for our cursed guests.

  A stench hangs thick—rot and sour meat. The jungle’s gone quiet; only we remain. Ahead, the line between nature and corruption: trees turned to flesh, vines to slick tendon, undergrowth to puckered tissue. It moves, just a little, like it’s breathing.

  The spawning grounds of the pests. We’re here to exterminate.

  “You ready?” I ask, turning to Alfrick.

  “Sir, as ready as can be.”

  I pat his shoulder. “Good man.”

  Our preparations are as complete as time allowed. The forward positions, nearest the rot, bristle with spikes. Trenches are cut out front—but not for us. They’re speed bumps and tripwires in dirt: meant to break momentum, not to shelter a shot. The rest of the groundworks remain bare—time ran out. We carved clearings and raised banks of packed earth to funnel the tide. The plan is simple: hold a position, shoot, then fall back.

  We’ll cycle the line in two parts. Two hundred open up until the swarm is almost on them, then peel to the reserve and collapse to the next position. The reserve steps forward, fires, and repeats. Alfrick and the other brass keep the timing clean so nobody tangles the retreat.

  I’ll be fighting without reprieve—hunting the big ones, the strange ones—and making sure every withdrawal actually happens.

  ‘Easy, right.’

  Thousands of cursed flesh-things. No ranged teeth, just speed and numbers. We built the field to punish that. Holes to drop them. Spikes to catch whatever climbs out. Choke-lanes to force them into barrels.

  All I have to do is kill the ones that don’t care about any of that—and not die.

  Can’t imagine anything easier.

  Well—dying is probably the easy part. Luckily.

  Our line is quiet. Waiting.

  Should be almost time.

  I hear the murmurs of uneasy soldiers, breathing slow to steady their nerves. Some scurry to make last-minute fixes—sandbags shifted, rifles checked, bayonets set.

  Alfrick taps his boot against the ground, puffing away. Cigarette ember glowing like a stubborn star.

  I wonder if they’ve figured out lung cancer yet. Was it the tar? The tobacco? Nicotine’s innocent, right?

  While I’m pondering the science of smoking, the silence stretches, brittle. A few soldiers twitch at shadows, one muttering a prayer under his breath. Even the rot seems to breathe heavier, like it’s waiting too. Every click of a rifle bolt, every scrape of boot on dirt, is deafening.

  Then—a faint sound cuts through my thoughts. Wet. Goopy. Out there, in the rot. Not loud, but distinct—something running.

  Alfrick notices my head tilt. He barks for silence. The line stills.

  The noise grows closer, louder, the slop of flesh against flesh. Then it breaks free of the mess, carried forward by momentum.

  A monster bursts from the rot, shadow draped across its body in the faint dawn light.

  The sound shifts to rustle and crunch as it tears across sticks and leaves—nature snapping beneath something that shouldn’t exist.

  It’s half my height, maybe three foot. Dozens of mismatched limbs sprout from under its bulk, all kinds of species stitched together by nightmare logic. A patchwork of mouths, eyes, and ears. Its flesh hangs half-rotten, oozing as it barrels forward.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  “Fire at will!” Alfrick shouts.

  Rifles crack. The beast stumbles, collapses. Rot-stink rolls out as its corpse leaks across the dirt.

  The last shot fades. Silence presses back in.

  Alfrick turns to me.

  “It’s begun. In minutes, the horde will be here.”

  I grin.

  “Took them long enough.”

  I step forward and vault the nearest trench.

  I stand before my machine. A speech might steady them. Especially if it comes from me.

  I turn to face the line, twenty feet of distance between us. Remember—diaphragm, not throat.

  “Alright! That was just the first guest. Make sure to keep it light—smiles all around. Our visitors are prestigious, and they’ll talk about our hospitality for centuries. We’ll show the world what kind of hosts we are. And above all—have fun!”

  The soldiers stare back, familiar confusion in their eyes.

  Alfrick breaks the silence with a scream—a raw war cry.

  The army follows, throats roaring.

  I join them.

  By the time the last shout fades—mine, of course—I’m grinning. Blood humming.

  The rot answers. The faint sound returns—louder now, multiplied, constant.

  I leap back across the trench to Alfrick’s side.

  And stand ready.

  “They’re here.”

  I lean in to tell Alfrick

  His eyes widen

  Alfrick bellows to the line.

  “Stand ready! Fire at will!”

  The ground vibrates with the stampede—hundreds of fleshy beasts tearing forward, their charge a grotesque thunderclap of slop and gnash.

  I draw my sword and rest it across my shoulder.

  My poor clothes will reek of this for weeks. Hopefully not forever. I grimace at the thought.

  The stench hits hard as they close—gut-wrenching, bile-thick.

  The first beast bursts from the rot, more spilling after in its wake. The instant it shows, the line ignites.

  The line roars alive. Muzzle flashes strobe against helmets, lighting wide eyes and clenched jaws. Brass rains into mud, clinking sharp against the thunder of rifles. Machine guns chew the ground, rattling teeth, their tracers carving glowing scars through the dark. The stench of rot tangles with gunsmoke, clogging the air until every breath is bile and ash. My ears ring, but the rhythm of the volleys is steady—measured. Disciplined. A machine of men grinding down meat.

  The first ranks of monsters tumble, soaking the soil with rancid blood, corpses stacking as fast as they fall.

  But the swarm doesn’t falter. Mindless. Hungrier than vermin. For every beast we cull, two more shove forward.

  Our rifles bark from a mile out, not the most accurate at this distance, but distance matters more. Once they close within a hundred yards, the line falls back. Then I keep the crowd occupied.

  They cover ground quick, but it’s manageable—for now.

  Wave after wave of grotesque patchwork flesh slams against us. Soldiers assigned to supply sprint through the chaos, feeding the line fresh ammo. Alfrick and the brass keep the cycle tight, barking orders, holding the machine together.

  And me? I’m just waiting. Waiting for the truly prestigious guests to arrive.

  A half hour bleeds by. A constant barrage—bullets hammering into stench-ridden flesh.

  Our supply holds tidy. We struck gold earlier, scouting the area near the valley for stragglers—a supply depot tucked a couple miles out. Riegt’s little stockpile. The poor sods guarding it barely knew what had hit them—emotion magic withdrawal had them stumbling in circles. We spared them, let them crawl back with a message

  Now the earth shakes again. Different this time. Heavier. The fleshy vines and trees thrash, then part.

  Oh. Our first big boy.

  A heap of crimson rot lumbers forward, each stomp cracking the ground, each breath souring the air.

  It’s a ghastly thing—more blob than beast. Two stumps for legs—if you can call them that. Its hide is a patchwork of eyes and mouths, dotted everywhere, giving it a full circle of vision. Tendrils lash from its bulk, thick as hair strands, only monstrous in scale.

  For a heartbeat, the line freezes. One man fumbles his rifle, another staggers back like his legs want to bolt. Alfrick’s shout cracks like a whip, snapping them back. Then the rifles answer, fire rolling down the line again. Still, I see it—the tremor in their hands, the fear in their eyes. Can’t blame them. That thing looks like a nightmare stuffed into skin.

  The hairy giant tears through the rotten jungle, cleaving aside lesser growth as it barrels toward us.

  I glance at Alfrick.

  “Seems it’s my time to introduce myself.”

  He meets my eye, cigarette smoke curling between us.

  “Good luck.”

  My grin twists into madness. Lightning crackles, body surging, blade glowing. Control bleeds out of me, and the air itself hums electric.

  I vault the nearest trench. Boots slam dirt—then I launch. The ground craters where I stood, my form blurring into haze.

  I streak through the killing field, bounding over dips and rises. Each landing scorches, arcs sparking, the battlefield lit by my passage.

  I crash into the horde, blade raised high. One swing—searing, carving, splitting rotten flesh. A path tears open in front of me.

  The giant turns. Its countless eyes lock. It sees me—standing between its slain kin and the storm of bullets raining down.

  His hair twitches.

  His hair whips.

  His hair crashes.

  My blade flares—lightning screaming—as the first strand slams down. I angle the edge, guiding it away. The whip slides off, burying itself into the dirt, gouging a trench.

  Another comes. Then another. I shift, deflect, redirect—each strike sliding past, each impact scarring the ground beside me. Lightning arcs from my blade with every clash, searing the air.

  Some of its kin try to close in, but the giant’s frenzy doesn’t spare them. A lash scythes through their ranks, splattering rot across the battlefield.

  I dance through the storm of whips, each strand thick as my torso, snapping down with ruinous force. My blade glides, parries, deflects—never severing, always redirecting.

  Inch by inch, I press forward. Closer. Always closer.

  Earth shatters. Blood seeps into the cracks. The stench is so thick my appetite dies on the spot.

  I slip past the last strand, sliding under the giant’s bulk.

  My grin flashes—enamored, alive in combat.

  Finisher. Mostly.

  I drop low, stance coiled. Control siphons every thread of mana, drawn tight into me and my blade. Lightning erupts, the world drenched in a blinding blue-white hue.

  Not as sharp as before. Held back—this time.

  My blade arcs upward.

  A lightning edge forms—towering, radiant.

  It carves through the giant.

  Flesh parts.

  Flesh sears.

  Flesh stinks beyond words.

  The beast splits down the middle, blood flooding outward. I leap clear, though gunk still coats me.

  The halves crash down, edges scorched, crushing its kin beneath the collapse.

  Easy peasy.

  Told you.

  I hack through the midgets clawing at me.

  Shit—I’m covered.

  While I dance and reap death among them, my eyes sweep the battlefield for more outliers.

  Clear. Time for a break.

  I drive back through the horde, lightning parting flesh, carving my way home.

  They’ve barely made a third of the distance. The plan’s holding. But at this rate the horde won’t stop for a week. A marathon waits.

  I vault a trench and land beside Alfrick. He recoils—whether at the stench clinging to me or the madness plastered across my grin, hard to say.

  He clears his throat, forcing composure.

  “Good job, sir.”

  “Of course. Now—how bad is it? The smell.”

  “…”

  “Do you think I’ll ever get it out?”

  “…”

  “Shit.”

  I turn back to the battlefield, watching the slaughter. Trying to keep my mind off the real tragedy—my only set of clothes ruined. My poor cloak. My trousers. My tunic. And the boots. Swart damn it—the boots.

  Life isn’t fair.