Chương 3: A spark

He'd become sick, he was sure of it. His skin was wet from sweat, and his mind was plagued by feverish hallucinations, visions of beasts standing around him, shifting silhouettes in the corner of his eyes, always moving away as he tried to catch more than a glimpse. Yet, he sensed their anticipation. The sickness must have spread from the wound on his left arm. The pain was gone now, replaced by complete numbness, something thick and pungent dripping from his improvised bandage.

He would die soon, something deep inside him told him so. With that sense of inevitability, something else became as clear as the suffering. A fierce and unyielding wish, he didn't just want to live, he demanded it of his tortured body. With gritted teeth and fingernails scratching against the metal, he drew strength from the handful of rats in his stomach. Then he saw it. Light. Faint with a hint of blue, outlining the shape of his hands and the bottle before him.

His eyes focused on the now unfamiliar sensation of sight, a bend in the pipe he had forgotten he was crawling through. He pushed himself forward in a burst of energy, rounding the bend with squinted eyes. The pipe ended, beyond was a circular chamber, twenty meters across and six high. A rusting heap of garbage and twisted metal beneath a narrow ladder that reached up to a grate. Cold light seeped through the holes above.

"Out..." He whispered. Then louder.

"A way out!" He tumbled out of the pipe with a thud, landing in a heap. Crawling to his knees, he gave a chuckle that grew into something resembling a laugh.

"I did it," he said with a sigh.

"I made it. I escaped." He looked down. The bandage on his left arm was soaked, discolored in hues of yellow and brown. Peeling it back, he revealed the wound beneath, dark veins branched from the spiraling cut, crawling from his palm towards his shoulder, while the wound itself leaked a stew-like substance. The flesh was puffy, swollen to double its regular size, and the hand hung limp, a few of the fingers missing nails.

"Well…" he said with a tilt of his head, "that doesn't look good." A sound echoed, metal grinding against metal. His muscles tensed, and slowly, he turned, scanning the chamber with newfound sight. From beyond the mound of garbage, something moved, a silhouette climbed the heap with quick, fluid motions, crawling on long limbs. Wretch's mouth went dry. It stepped into the moonlight, a warped creature slightly taller than him. Hairless, ashen skin stretched over bundles of lean muscle.

Its snout was long with jutting teeth over two black, beady eyes. Two long arms reached down with bulbous joints, ending in long claws that caught the light like polished metal. It rose on two legs, like a rat grown into a crude imitation of a human, then sniffed from atop the mound, watching him. Wretch forgot to breathe, his fingers flexing around the broken bottle. The beady eyes on the hill lit with fire.

A jolt passed through him as something familiar pulled at the back of his mind, the same way Akim had done to him many times, the recognizable killing intent of a Blessed, which revealed their true name. Krii´ttch, Ravenous Ratling"Blessed? Really?" He mumbled. It lunged, sending a screeching cascade of junk down the mound, and before he could inhale, it was on him. Wrinkly skin, bared teeth, and black, pupil-less eyes. A claw slashed at his throat. He dove to the left, moving only out of pure instinct.

Pain burst from his temple as he fell to the floor, no time to think, he scrambled upright, boots slipping on grime. Dashing for the nearest pipe, another swing whistled by his neck. He dove, hitting the metal opening with a thud and crawled inside, clutching the broken bottle. The pipe was greased with filth, making for a slippery crawl upwards, until something solid stopped his hands. A plug of rot and waste. It was blocked. There was no time to cry at his misfortune.

He twisted, raising the broken bottle towards the entrance. It was quiet, only his own hammering heartbeats pulsing in his ears. Then the light dimmed. A snout shot through the opening and it's jaws caught his leg, sharp teeth sinking into flesh. Agony erupted like an exploding steam engine. He screamed and kicked with his free leg, stomping on the head with what little strength he could muster. The beast didn't flinch. It shook its head, rending muscles and sending fresh waves of misery through him.

The bottle slipped from his grip. You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story. He stomped again, but this time, a crunch preceded the thud, glass shattering between his boot and the creature's head. The creature roared, an ear-piercing howl that made the enclosed space vibrate. And just as quickly as it had appeared, the maw was gone. Chest heaving and gasping from shock, there was only one way out.

Crawling backwards out of the pipe, he suppressed a groan as his mangled foot touched the floor. The ratling stumbled around in the waste, its claws digging into its face and its thick tail whipping in agitation. He glanced down. His left leg held weight, though barely. White bone peeked from underneath the shredded flesh. Streams of dark red seeped down along his exposed skin, pooling into his boot and onto the stone. Keeping one eye on the rat, he limped from the wall. Almost tripping over a rusted can.

The creature stumbled around in the heap of trash, just under the ladder. He picked up the can and threw it, hurtling it with aching muscles. It hit the opposite wall with a piercing clang. The beast froze, ears twitching. It exploded in a lunge towards the sound, leaning into a wide swipe that struck nothing but air. Then it paused, hunched its muscular back and turned around with a growl.

Blood drenched the naked skin of its skull, shards of glass in the brow and eyes reflected in the low light as it licked the gore from its snout and bared its teeth. It was blind. At least for now. The ladder stood in the pile of junk, he wouldn't get to it without a sound. Bastard, he thought, a feverish shiver running down his spine. They stood on opposite sides of the chamber, one with a wounded leg, the other without sight, both silent.

The beast sniffed in the air, unbothered by the stench of rot, then crouched low and crawled forward on its four limbs. Circling the room. He mirrored it, limping in a silent arc in the other direction. A glint of metal caught his eye, a rusted pipe, half-buried in the heap. Its edge, jagged and sharp. A malevolent thought surfaced in his mind. I killed Akim. I crawled out of this hell, if a sick wretch like me ended up being your end? Wouldn't that be poetic?

The beast found the trail of his blood, and its dark gray figure rose on its hind legs. Wretch clutched the pipe and yanked it down, bracing it like a spear. The sound of grinding metal was faint but clear. The ratling shot forward, crossing the room in a moment, claws slashing wide. He bent low under the incoming swing, gripping the makeshift spear tight with his right hand. There was no strength left in him to strike, the creature would have to do it for him. It obliged, blindly throwing itself forward.

The jagged metal scraped the beast's skin, then sank into its flesh, the impact drove him backward through filth, and he struggled to keep upright. Then the pipe found purchase. It skewered deeper into its chest with a sickening rip of muscle and sinew, bursting out its back. The creature shuddered, a gurgling wheeze escaping its throat. He let go, threw himself back, and scrambled up the mound toward the ladder. Gasping and laughing.

Almost there, up the ladder and into freedom, he'd steal a purse or two, pay a doctor, learn the secrets of being Blessed, and find his father. Almost there The heap rose to meet him. He crashed face-first into rusted waste, the screech of garbage grinding beneath his weight. His leg was caught. He twisted, eyes wide, a thick tail snaked around his ankle. The beast dragged him down the mound, back toward its waiting claws, blood gushing from its maw and abdomen. The grin died on his lips.

Perhaps freedom truly was too good for someone like him. Something violent welled up from within, and he let it take him.

"I'll see you in hell, then." His fingers closed around something sharp and cold. Without a thought of self-preservation, he threw himself forward. They crashed together, rolling through the rot and rust, blood sprayed as the impaling pipe ripped free from its body. The pointed scrap in his hand sank into its skull. Its claws shredded his torso. It gave a dying shriek, and Wretch answered with one of his own. They intertwined in a whirlpool of blood and violence. At some point, a maw snapped at his face.

He gave it his sickly arm willingly, plunging his own teeth into the beast's exposed neck. The creature fell to the ground, and he fell with it. He regained lucidity, a rhythmic beat from somewhere close. Thud Thud Thud He blinked blood from his eyes. Kneeling over the beast's twitching form, his right hand still lodged the metal scrap against its chest. He let it fall to the floor with an exhale.

Drenched in blood, his left arm ended in a bloodied stump, lacerations and puncture wounds littering every inch of his body. In his mouth were chunks of leathery meat, the beasts. He was too tired to spit and swallowed it whole as the corpse gave one final twitch and grew still.

"Is this more to your liking?" Wretch said, air wheezing through his throat.

"Slain. Eaten. By someone as unworthy as me." Nothing answered, only a cold creeping up his extremities and shadows dancing at the edge of his vision. Creatures of flickering black crawling closer as the warmth faded from his body, they were waiting for something. Then, in the darkness of his mind, something blinked to life. A spark. Is this death? Flames erupted behind his eyes, sputtering to life like stolen matches.

It came from within, waves of flame welling up from some buried core, each pulse hot enough to sear his mind, each with a vision in its wake. A sheep, veiled by the bloodied corpse of a wolf, ripping through sinew and flesh of its kin. A man with sharp canines and sideburns, laughing towards the moon from atop a Spire. A beast with a halo of fire in the craters of a ruined metropolis, the ground suffocated with corpses turned ash. Each fleeting vision seethed with an emotion, distilled by heat and divinity. Hunger.

Greed. Hatred. The concepts and sights tore at the seams of his mind, scraping at things he couldn't understand. He walked at the edge of madness, but his tormented body grounded him, pulling him back to the sensation of ruined flesh. The heat coursed from his head to his veins, scorching his organs and tissue, then poured from his skin in wisps of smoke, flickering out against the cold stone. Inside him, the heat drew back. Wrapping its tongues into a tight bundle, the crescendo solidified into something real.

A burning ember, and with it came understanding. Ember… Regeneration… Flesh-stealer… Blessed, finally, he thought, still at the edge of death. He drew a breath that was more a gurgle than an inhalation. Despite the heat, his mind was slipping, and he forced a few sluggish thoughts into motion. He pulled at the flame in the ember to flood his broken flesh, focusing on the blessing called Regeneration. The flame darted into his body and with a jolt, and his flesh moved.

Bones snapped, skin stitched and fever burned away, it felt like razors cutting every inch of his nerves, a pain so raw he twisted in torture. A roaring scream escaped his throat, then he slumped on the body of the ratling, and his consciousness receded. Before he fainted, a last spark of meaning flashed in his mind. A name that belonged to no one but him. Wretch, The Rat-Eater.