Chapter 15: So close
Oswin and Aria drove toward the pond, the heavy automobile roaring down the ruined streets. They were near the town square now, passing close to its crumbling heart. The corpses—if they could even be called that anymore—twitched and lurched in unnatural spasms, their moss-covered forms dragging themselves forward. Oswin didn't bother avoiding them. The automobile crushed them beneath its weight with sickening cracks, the wheels grinding over bone and pulped flesh.
For a moment, there was hope. The road ahead was still clear, the marketplace just within reach. But then—
An explosion.
A deafening roar tore through the square. A blinding flash swallowed the street, searing Oswin's vision white. Heat flooded the air, thick and suffocating, as flames surged skyward, casting monstrous shadows against the burning ruins.
Oswin's instincts took over—his foot slammed on the brakes. The automobile screeched to a halt, steel groaning as it skidded across the stone-paved road. The force sent Oswin lurching forward, his chest slamming into the wheel. Aria barely caught herself, gripping the seat and violin as the vehicle jerked violently.
Oswin's eyes flicked to the dashboard. The abrupt stop had killed the engine. To restart it, he would need to wind the crank—a process that would take far too long. He had no time for that.
Gritting his teeth, he pushed the door open. "Out," he ordered.
Aria obeyed without question. They stepped onto the scorched street, the acrid scent of burning flesh thick in the air. The marketplace was close. The only option left was to run.
Or so Oswin thought.
Before his very eyes, the city twisted into something unrecognizable. It was no longer a ruin of stone and fire—it had become an ancient jungle.
Towering trees, the kind that took centuries to grow, erupted from the earth in mere moments. Their massive roots split the cobbled streets apart, tearing through foundations like paper. Vines slithered across the buildings, consuming brick and mortar in thick, suffocating layers of moss. Shrubs and tangled undergrowth swallowed the road, the marketplace vanishing beneath a sea of green.
The air felt dry—unnaturally so. The trees, in their frenzied growth, had drained the moisture from the surroundings, stealing even the humidity from Oswin's breath. He swallowed, his throat parched, his skin already beginning to itch from the sudden change.
It was too much.
The ground beneath him felt unstable, as though it might shift and pull him under at any moment. His vision blurred—not from the flames, not from the exhaustion, but from something deeper. Sweat beaded down his temple, mixing with the silent tears that slipped down his face. He hadn't even realized he was crying.
They had faced too much chaos for a single night.
A burning figure crashed against the massive tree that had erupted into existence mere moments ago. Its body was charred beyond recognition, blackened flesh fused with bone, its features lost to the inferno that had consumed it. And yet, it moved.
With staggering, almost mechanical determination, the figure rose to its feet, flames hungrily licking at what remained of its form. In one hand, it clutched a rapier, its blade warped from heat, and in the other, a parrying dagger, still held in a practiced grip. Without hesitation, it turned and rushed back into the fray, its weapons glinting in the firelight as it vanished into the chaos.
Oswin followed its movement, his vision swimming. His body screamed for rest—the overwhelming heat, the thick stench of burning flesh, and the sheer unnatural horror of the scene pressing down on him like an iron weight. He nearly collapsed, but he forced himself to stay upright, blinking away the creeping darkness at the edge of his consciousness.
Then, he saw it.
A two-story-long nightmare of exposed muscle and writhing flesh—a nine-headed, skinless hydra. Its massive, serpentine body slithered through the ruins, its every movement accompanied by the wet squelch of raw muscle grinding against itself. What should have been a layer of scales was instead replaced by grotesque, human-like arms emerging sporadically across its length, twitching and grasping blindly at the air. The patterns of its exposed muscle twisted and coiled, pulsating as if alive, each fiber drenched in a fresh coat of blood.
Its nine heads snapped and thrashed in unison, their skull-like faces contorted in silent screams, their hollow eyes burning with something beyond hunger.
The seven burning figures charged at it, their charred bodies moving with a desperate, almost ceremonial precision. Blades struck out, severing a head in a single swing—only for the wound to bubble, flesh knitting itself back together as a new head burst forth from the stump with a sickening crack.
Oswin stood frozen. His mind screamed at him to run, to move, to do something—but his body refused.
Because deep down, he knew.
This was beyond them.
The skinless hydra suddenly ceased its violent thrashing. Its grotesque, muscular form went unnaturally rigid, its towering frame looming over the burning figures that continued their relentless assault. Seven charred warriors struck with unwavering precision, their blades slicing deep into its blood-slicked flesh. Yet, the hydra did not retaliate—not fully.
Instead, eight of its nine heads moved in defense, snapping and coiling, intercepting the blows meant to carve deeper into its massive body. Their movements were precise, controlled—not the wild, animalistic rage one would expect from such a monstrosity.
And then, the ninth head—the one that had gone still—began to change.
Its elongated, snake-like mouth slowly unhinged, stretching far wider than should have been possible. A wet, sickening squelch filled the air as something pushed its way from the depths of the beast's gullet.
A human torso.
Skinless, drenched in glistening blood, its raw muscles pulsed and twitched as it forced itself forward. Slowly, it emerged, its grotesque form sliding free of the serpent's maw like a newborn pulled from the womb. The figure's arms hung limply at its sides, as if lifeless, but its head—its featureless, human head—tilted forward.
No eyes. No nose. No ears. Only a mouth.
A wide, lipless maw that curled into a smile.
The figure chuckled, a low, guttural sound that slithered through the air like oil on fire.
"This was a fun night," it mused, its lipless maw curling wider. "I got to crush the Church's precious little bards… and I even got some new subjects." The head tilted, as if savoring the moment. "Unfortunately for all of you, I'm bored now. Before I engulf you, let me introduce myself—"
The torso stretched forward unnaturally, sinews cracking wetly as it spoke.
"I am Caro Incorruptibilis. My friends call me Caro Inco."
And then, it sang.
The sound that escaped its mouth was not a song in any human sense. It was a melody of decay, of charred meat peeling from bone, of bodies collapsing into cinders. Each note reeked of something primal and wrong, something that gnawed at the edges of reality itself.
The seven burning figures—once warriors, once men—began to convulse. Their bodies twisted, joints snapping in sharp, unnatural angles. Flesh peeled, stretched, and melded, bones fusing with a sickening crunch. The flames did not die. If anything, they grew fiercer, as though the fire itself was feeding on the transformation.
What stood in their place was no longer seven men.
It was one.
A mass of flesh and limbs, writhing and shifting, its seven heads staring in different directions, their blackened skulls still aflame. It lurched, its movements disjointed, yet strangely fluid—like a corpse forced into dance by unseen strings.
Oswin barely registered the horror before his knees gave way. His body refused to move. His thoughts drowned beneath the weight of exhaustion and fear.
Beside him, Aria trembled, her breath shallow.
Then, darkness took them both.
The hydra's grotesque form trembled as it absorbed the fused monstrosity of the seven-in-one warriors. Flesh twisted, bones cracked, and sinew coiled unnaturally, pulling the writhing mass into a more compact shape. Its elongated body compressed, shifting and rearranging itself into something almost human—almost.
The newly formed figure stepped forward, its movements eerily fluid yet deliberate, like a predator savoring the moment before the kill. Blood still dripped from its sinewy frame, raw muscle patterns writhing as if alive beneath the surface.
Then, it saw them.
A young man, unconscious on the grass-covered street. Nearly twenty, tall—around 5'11—with a well-built frame. His short, slightly curled brunette hair was matted with sweat and grime, but his chiseled face remained striking, a sharp jawline and flat nose defining his features. Even in stillness, there was something resilient about him.
Beside him lay a girl, perhaps seventeen. Her lush brunette hair was tied in a bun, revealing a round face with a flat nose and a well-defined jawline that still carried traces of baby fat. Her delicate yet sturdy features gave an impression of youth clashing with the weight of experience.
The figure stood over them, its many mouths stretching into something akin to a grin.
"They will be fun toys," it murmured, its voice layered with amusement and something far more sinister.