The pain of dying isn't something anyone gets used to.
And just like before, Desan was standing at the damn door again.
He felt it rising—frustration, boiling under his skin, clawing its way up his throat.
Velcrith chimed in, dry as ever. "Door looks locked."
Desan didn't answer. He just started pacing, boots scraping the floor. Then, without warning, he swung his rusted sword and shattered the nearest table into splinters.
The sound was loud enough to alert any nearby Vowbound patrols—and, no surprise, it did.
Desan didn't waste time.
He tore through them. No hesitation. No mercy.
And unlike before, he didn't just kill them—he made it worse.
Velcrith, somewhere behind the noise, muttered, "Jeez, kid. You turned this into a damn bloodbath."
It was like watching a kid throw a tantrum, lashing out at the world for failing him, for not working the way it was supposed to.
Desan stood there, blood on his face, staring at the wall now painted red.
He didn't move for a while. Just stared. Breathing heavy, like the blood on the wall had something to say, and he was trying to read it.
His fingers twitched around the grip of the sword. Not from fear. Just… leftover violence. Like his body didn't get the memo that it was over.
Velcrith stayed quiet.
Smart choice.
Because Desan wasn't thinking straight, everything felt like it was made of glass and teeth and static. He didn't know if he was shaking from rage, adrenaline, or whatever was crawling around inside his brain.
He turned and looked at the corpses again.
Not Vowbound. Not anymore. Just... meat.
Meat he'd carved.
He wiped his face with his hand, not that it helped. Blood just smeared thicker.
He sat down between the corpses, legs numb, body buzzing with leftover violence. The floor was slick with blood, some of it his, most of it not. His sword rested by his side.
The corpses twitched sometimes. Nerves or something worse. He didn't care.
What got to him wasn't the death.
It was the urge.
To eat.
To tear open the flesh and bury his face in it, chew and swallow and feel something warm inside him again. Something real. That thought made him sick.
But not sick enough.
"Velcrith," he said, voice hoarse, cracked. Like he'd been screaming underwater.
Silence at first.
Then, Velcrith answered. Quiet. Cold.
"…Yeah. I saw it."
Desan didn't look up. "I didn't do it."
"You didn't have to." A pause. "Just forget this ever happened."
Desan stared at the wall. The patterns in the blood. The way it dripped. Almost looked like writing.
Yeah. Think about something else. Right.
Focus.
He had to fight. Had to beat that freak. Again.
Every pattern. Every twitch. Every fake-out. Every weak point.Desan forced his thoughts to rewind the fight in his mind like a fevered replay—Where it lunged. When it staggered. The split second it exposed its joints. The hiss before it spat acid. The way it circled left every damn time like it was stuck in a broken dance.
All of it mattered now.
He staggered over to the shattered table, hands shaking but not from fear anymore—just the raw weight of staying alive.His fingers closed around a jagged plank with a bent nail jutting out like a fang.
He found the remains of an old, half-rotted shoe nearby—leather barely holding shape. Desan ripped the sole free, jammed the nail through it, then tied it to the bottom of his boot with torn fabric and blood-slick string.
A crude weapon. A spiteful invention.
More pain for the monster. More edge for him.
He picked up the broken armor—half a greave, dented to shit—and bent it over his knee. Better leg this time.
Bending it took time. His hands weren't steady, and every twist sent a new scream through his ribs. But he kept at it, breath ragged, jaw locked. Sweat mixed with blood, dripping down into the gouges on his arms.
Piece by piece, the metal folded, rough and ugly. Good enough. He tied it off to his shin with torn leather, tight as he could manage.
Might give him a better kick next time. Might just slice him open worse. Didn't matter. He needed every edge he could steal.
While he worked, Velcrith kept an eye out—or whatever passed for eyes in the thing riding shotgun in his skull.
"I'm watching. No movement. Yet." The voice was clipped, cold.
Desan didn't answer. He was too busy choking down the copper taste of blood, too busy forcing his shaking hands to keep going.
That thing always hit him. No matter what.
Swipes to the chest, head, again and again.
The head attacks—those he could dodge. Smaller target. Faster reaction.But the chest? Bigger body, harder to keep out of reach. He couldn't dance around forever, not with ribs already cracked.
So he did something about it.
He limped over to the pile of broken armor. Spotted a chest plate—oversized, dented all to hell, but still holding shape. Bigger than him. Perfect.
Dragged it over. Dropped to one knee. Breath wheezing out.
With shaky fingers, he bent the edges inward. Crimped it around the sides. Too big? Fine. Make it fit. Even if it dug into his ribs.
Threw it over his light armor from before. Another layer between him and death.
Then came the trick.
He looked down at the corpses. Swallowed. No room for morals now.
No time for hunger either. He kept that part locked up. Shoved it down.
With a bloodied sword, carved strips of flesh—thick, heavy. Stuffed them inside the plate. Makeshift padding. Not pretty. Not clean. But it'd soak some of the force. Maybe buy him one more second when it mattered.
The metal dug in. The blood made it slick.
Didn't matter.
Strapped it down as best he could. Torn cloth. Belt scraps. Whatever held.
When he stood, the weight felt wrong. Off-balance. But solid.
He looked down at the mess.
"Ugly fix," Velcrith said. "It's almost like you know what you're fighting."
Desan rolled his shoulders. Winced.
"Hm. I might."
"Think you can win?"
"Yeah. Let's see if it keeps my insides inside me."
He closed his eyes. Forced himself to remember everything. Every inch of that room. Every surface. Every trick he could use. Anything for an edge.
Flexed his fingers. The padding inside the plate squelched when he moved—warm, wet against the armor. Disgusting. Whatever. If it worked, it worked.
Grabbed his sword. Wiped the blood off the hilt on a corpse's tattered cloak. No time to think. No time for doubt.
"Ready?" Velcrith asked. Voice quieter now. Almost… respectful.
Desan didn't answer. No point in talking anymore.
He loaded up his crossbow. Bolt locked in. Grip tight.
No time to waste.
Had to beat this thing before he went insane.