The rain intensified, falling in sharp, angry sheets that struck the earth like tears from a grieving god. But why would the world weep? If it had known the end was approaching, would it not have tried to stop it? If it truly foresaw this ruin, wouldn't it have rewritten fate to avoid such sorrow?
The young man walked forward, his sword gripped tightly like a relic of sanity in a crumbling world. Each step carried him farther from the ghost of the bus station and closer to the encroaching presence ahead. His breath grew shallow, ragged—his chest rising and falling in a frenzy. Heart pounding like a war drum.
"Calm down... calm down," he muttered to himself, forcing his lungs to slow, though the panic refused to fully let go. He narrowed his eyes, locking them onto the shapes in the distance.
They were coming—many of them. A tide of darkness surging forward. But the young man had already made his choice: die a failure, or die reaching for something more.
Then came the roar.
"Shwaarrrrh!"
It tore through the sky like a curse, raw and guttural. His grip faltered for a heartbeat, the sword slipping slightly in his grasp—but he tightened it. Without hesitation, he ran.
Not away. Never away. That would be a betrayal of everything he had promised himself.
He ran toward them.
The Scourge—beasts of nightmare, abominations that had poured into this world like blood through a torn wound. They had torn through humanity like paper, like cattle, indifferent to cries or pleas. They did not kill out of rage or hunger. They killed because that was all they knew. All they ever would know.
And he, a single defiant soul, ran to meet them—not out of duty, but out of will.
His grip on the rust-bitten sword was ironclad as he lunged into the air, a solitary shadow rising against the sea of horrors. With a sharp swing, the blade sliced clean through the leg of the first beast—dog-like in shape, its black fur bristling with purple barbs. It howled, an unnatural scream that echoed with pain and fury. Before it could land, his second strike beheaded it, thick blood splattering across his pale face. Steam rose from the corpse as if its soul had been boiled away.
Yet the rest came undeterred—hundreds, no, perhaps thousands. The Scourge knew no fear. They came in all forms: spider-limbed crabs that clicked like clockwork gone mad, horned cattle with molten eyes, and bloated worms dragging shattered human skulls in their wake. The air stank of rot and sulfur. The soil quivered beneath their collective advance.
"So, it's an animal pack, huh?" he muttered, swiping his bloodied face with a trembling palm. His eyes scanned the chaos with sharp anticipation, searching—for it. But there was no sign. "Tch. Still not showing itself... hiding like always."
He didn't wait. He couldn't afford to. With a cold glint in his eyes, he tightened his grip and bolted forward again.
A black-and-purple bear-beast barreled toward him, mouth unhinging unnaturally wide. He met it with a rising slash, gutting it cleanly from groin to gullet. Entrails spilled out in wet ropes, the scent iron-thick. Before the body even collapsed, he was already turning, slashing a red-striped tiger-beast across its snarling face, sending teeth flying into the mud.
Behind him, a bleating mass—a twisted goat with claws instead of hooves—charged. He spun, kicked it aside like a kicked can, bones snapping underfoot. But the respite lasted mere seconds.
A streak of movement—he ducked instinctively.
A black-and-grey dog-beast leapt through the air, aiming for his throat. It crashed into a cluster of lesser monsters as he dodged, scattering limbs and ichor. Yet it rose again, seemingly unhurt, growling low.
Then came the worst of it.
Eight tiger-like beasts—each a crimson blur of muscle and malice—formed a ring around him. Their eyes glowed, unblinking. The circle tightened.
The young man's chest rose and fell with effort, each breath ragged and shallow. Blood, both his and theirs, mixed with rainwater that dripped from his soaked hair and splattered armor. His sword danced through the air with brutal rhythm, carving through flesh and bone as more creatures lunged from the shadows. He moved on instinct now—calculated, merciless, his body a blur of steel and fury amid the chaos of snapping jaws and slashing claws.