The demon was a cannibal.
A fucking cannibal.
The truth landed like a hammer to the ribs. I stood there, staring at the pile of limbs and flesh rotting in the shadows of the cell. The missing bodies. The silence that never screamed.
I knew it in my heart but I hoped I was wrong. And I took that hope as the answer. That their bodies were blasted or lost in the debris caused by my canon shot. But, no.
He ate them.
The ones too broken to fight, too weak to scream, too lost to even plead.
He fucking ate them.
Not clean. Not quick. Not merciful.
Alive.
I didn't have to guess. I had seen it in their faces frozen in those last moments of agony. It wasn't death that had taken them. It was horror. Real, bone-deep horror, carved into their skin, sealed in the empty sockets where eyes used to be. The look of someone realizing they were being consumed by something not just monstrous—but joyful about it.
And the bastard?
He laughed.
He stood there, dragging chains, parading that last prisoner like a trophy—and he laughed.
Not a laugh of triumph.
Not mockery.
Something else.
It sounded wrong. Too loud. Too broken. Like the shriek of metal scraping against bone. Like it could rupture eardrums if you stood too close. A laugh soaked in madness, cracked wide open and spilling.
A laugh that didn't belong to a man.
And it echoed around the stone chamber, reverberating off the walls until it felt like it was inside me, clawing at the place where anger sleeps.
Fucking bastard.
My rage was slipping—fast. Sliding through my fingers like hot oil. It wasn't the sharp, righteous kind anymore. It was deeper. Wilder. The kind that made men stupid. The kind that got you killed.
The kind I'd spent hours—days—forcing down.
Not now.
Not yet.
I clenched my fists so hard the skin broke at the knuckles. A pulse of blood, a whisper of warning. My body wanted to move. To leap. To tear him apart with whatever I had left.
But that wouldn't work.
Not with him.
Not like this.
So I shoved the rage down. Packed it tight. Sealed it under layers of breath and grit and purpose.
I was here to end something.
And right now? I didn't have what I needed.
I looked at him once more.
The demon wasn't just big. He was built like something myth forgot to bury. Every muscle on his body looked too heavy for bone. His skin stretched over sinew like armor, thick and veined and wrong. You couldn't cut through that with a sword. Hell, I'd be lucky if a bullet slowed him down.
Could I kill him?
Not now. Not without a miracle. Not without strategy.
So I counted my tools.
Guns.
I had four pistols. One rifle. They'd wound him, sure. Tear flesh. Maybe even stagger him if I got lucky with the shot. But kill? No. Not with what I'd seen of him. Not when he laughed with bullets still lodged in his flesh.
Cannons.
Useless. I didn't know how to aim them. I didn't know how to load them. And even if I could figure it out, I'd need a second pair of hands to operate one while I lived long enough to pull the trigger.
Sword.
I'd be dead before I crossed the distance. He'd rip me in half with one hand before I even got the blade up.
The crew.
His men weren't mine. Not even close. They feared him more than they feared hell. They'd follow him into fire before they followed me to safety.
So what was left?
I turned to the prisoner.
Still chained. Still half in shadow. Still watching.
A flicker of something there—resentment, yes. But not fear. Not brokenness.
There was heat in their stare. Not warmth. Not gratitude.
Fire.
It hated him. Probably more than I ever could.
And hate like that? That could be sharpened. That could be aimed.
Maybe this was the only card I had.
Because I couldn't do this alone.
And maybe—just maybe—neither could it.
So I breathed deep.
Let the rage simmer.
Let it fuel me without burning me up.
Let it be bottled in and masked by the façade of rational and calm.
This wasn't over.
Not even close.
But now… now I had a direction.
And I knew what I had to do—unleash the only thing in this ship more broken than me.