Page 20 of Ravaged By the Reaper
Aroar.
My feet drag through gore.
It’s not blood—it’schunks.Ropes of intestine. Melted armor. Bits of what used to be Grolgath stormtroopers are splattered across the corridor like a butcher’s mistake.
The station’s inner sanctum is no longer a prison. It’s amassacre.
Every few feet, there’s a corpse. Some are still twitching—severed limbs spasming like they haven’t figured out they’re dead yet. One soldier lies slumped against the wall, his midsectionmissing, eyes blinking at nothing. The reek of burnt flesh claws its way into my throat and won't let go.
I gag. Spit blood and bile. Wipe my mouth on the back of a trembling wrist and keep moving.
I don’t want to see more, but the strobe emergency lights won’t stop blinking. They carve the hallway into alternating flashes of red and shadow. Every blink reveals something newand awful. There’s a torso cleaved clean from hip to shoulder. One man—if you can still call him that—ismeltedto the bulkhead. His armor has fused to his ribs, his skull half-slid off his neck.
This isn’t the work of explosives. Or blasters. Or even disciplined soldiers.
This is somethingelse.
Somethingferal.
I press myself flat to the wall, trying not to breathe too loud, trying not to draw attention from whatever did this. My hand tightens around the plasma blade, slick with sweat. I doubt it’ll do much, but the illusion of control is better than none.
That’s when I hear it.
A low growl.
At first I think it’s structural damage—groaning metal or ventilation pipes under pressure.
But then itrises.
From deep within the station’s bowels, a roar bubbles up. Not human. Not Grolgath. It's raw andancient—a battle-cry dragged straight from the abyss.
It chills me to the bone.
And then... laughter.
Not the kind you hear in bar fights or among cruel guards. This isglee. Blood-slicked and sharp. Someone isenjoyingthis.
I inch forward, each step deafening in my own ears. The hallway splits ahead, opening into one of the inner processing hubs. I peek around the edge—heart thudding, mouth dry.
And I see him.
Notsee.Behold.
He’s not a man. He’s amonolith. Towering. Bone-spurred. His back is to me at first, a silhouette etched in smoke and backlit by burning bulkheads. He’sdripping—not with water, not with sweat. Withblood. Spattered across his shoulders,streaked across his back, clotting around the jagged white protrusions of bone that thrust from his skin like weapons grown instead of forged.
He moves like no creature I’ve ever seen. Not rigid like a soldier. Not reckless like a berserker.
Heflows.
He spins Bloodfont—a hooked scythe on a chain—in a wide arc, and the weapon sings. Its curve slices clean through a fleeing Coalition soldier. The man doesn’t fall. He simply… splits.
Haktron doesn’t even watch him drop.
His laughter bounces off the walls, echoing around me. Deep. Savage. Like he’s cracking apart from joy.
Then he lunges—fast as gravity. Grabs another by the throat, lifts him into the air. The soldier fires blindly, plasma bolts ricocheting off bone armor and obsidian skin. Useless.
Snap.
