The forest offered no pause after the fracture in our formation.
We moved deeper into the ravine, the air thick with damp rot and the quiet pressure of unseen movement. No one spoke. Not because there was nothing to say, but because anything spoken now would reveal doubt too openly. Our line reformed out of habit rather than trust, tighter than before, yet fragile—each step measured, each breath controlled.
That was when we heard it.
A dragging sound beneath the leaves, slow and deliberate, as if the ground itself resisted being disturbed. It did not rush us. It announced itself by existing.
When the creature emerged, it was wrong in a way that unsettled even those who had steadied themselves.
Its body was misshapen, swollen unevenly, as though flesh had grown without order. Plates of hardened hide overlapped along its spine and shoulders, cracked and scarred from wounds that should have ended it long ago. One arm hung longer than the other, the claw tips worn blunt from constant scraping against stone and earth.
Its eyes followed us.
Not wildly. Not intelligently.
They tracked movement with a dull, patient awareness—something shaped by memory rather than thought. This was a creature that had learned pain and survived it.
The stench of blood and wet earth clung to its breath as it dragged itself forward, muscles shifting unnaturally beneath its hide.
No one rushed.
That hesitation was enough.
The first strike landed clean, or so it seemed.
Steel cut into flesh, but not deep enough. The creature recoiled with a shriek that tore through the ravine, then surged forward with sudden violence. Its bulk crashed into the line, forcing shields back, scattering balance. Wood split. Metal bent.
Someone shouted to finish it.
Someone else hesitated.
The monster adapted.
Muscle around the wound tightened unnaturally, slowing the bleed just enough to keep it moving. Its body dropped low, center of gravity shifting as it lunged again—not fast, but relentless. It did not fight to kill.
It fought to continue.
I stepped in before the line could break completely.
The pressure inside me did not push or pull. It narrowed. Reduced options until consequence was unavoidable.
The angle was wrong.
I struck anyway.
The blade bit into muscle instead of bone. Blood sprayed unevenly, slicking the ground, turning footing treacherous. The creature screamed again, louder this time, thrashing wildly as pain drove it into erratic motion.
This was not an execution.
This was suffering.
A trainee froze. Another slipped trying to retreat. The monster's claw caught the edge of a shield and dragged it down with crushing weight.
The line wavered.
I adjusted my stance and struck again, forcing the blade deeper, seeking structure instead of speed. The metal met resistance, then gave way.
Even then, the creature did not fall immediately.
It fought against its own failing body, nerves firing too long, instincts clinging to motion long after strength should have abandoned it. Its legs buckled unevenly—one giving way before the other—claws raking the ground as it collapsed.
The sound it made then was not rage.
It was refusal.
When it finally fell still, it did not go quiet at once.
Its chest shuddered twice more. One claw twitched. Its eyes remained open, unfocused, staring past us into nothing.
No one moved.
Not because we were afraid.
Because we had seen too clearly what it took to end something that did not want to die.
The forest swallowed the sound of its last breath.
And with it, the illusion that killing was ever meant to be clean.