Chapter 16: The Path of Blood
The night was silent. Not even the wind dared to whisper through the trees. Kim Han moved like a ghost, his stolen sword gripped tightly in his battered hands. His muscles screamed for rest, his wounds ached, but he couldn't stop.
Not yet.
He was free from the Pit of the Forsaken. But freedom meant nothing without vengeance.
Daichi Sato still lived.
And until Han carved his name into that man's flesh, his suffering was not over.
---
The Village of the Forgotten
Han stumbled into the outskirts of a ruined village just before dawn. The place smelled of rot and old death. Houses were burned down to their foundations, skeletal remains scattered through the dirt roads.
It was a graveyard.
But graveyards were quiet. Graveyards didn't have witnesses.
That meant it was safe.
Han collapsed near the ruins of an old temple, his breath shallow. His hands trembled, gripping his stolen sword like a lifeline.
He had escaped.
He had survived.
But now… what?
His stomach twisted in pain. It had been days since he last ate. The guards he had killed had no food, only weapons and armor. Steel didn't fill an empty stomach.
His body was weak.
If he didn't eat soon, he wouldn't make it.
But where?
His black eyes scanned the ruins. And then, he saw it—movement.
A shadow slipping through the wreckage.
Someone was alive here.
Han gritted his teeth, pushing himself to his feet. If there were survivors, they had food. And right now, nothing mattered more than survival.
He followed the shadow, silent as death.
---
The Butcher's Gift
The figure led him to what was once a storehouse. Inside, torches flickered against the cracked walls. The smell of something cooking filled the air.
Han's stomach growled violently.
A man stood inside, his back turned, stirring a pot over an open fire. He was tall, thick with muscle, his hair shaved close to his skull. A long scar ran down the side of his face.
He didn't look like a villager.
He looked like a killer.
Han tightened his grip on his sword.
The man didn't turn around.
"I heard you the moment you stepped inside," he said, his voice deep and calm. "A half-dead rat creeping in the dark."
Han didn't move.
The man chuckled. "No words? That's fine. You're starving. Eat first."
He gestured to the pot.
Han hesitated. The hunger clawed at him, but his instincts screamed trap.
Still, he stepped closer. His body needed food.
Inside the pot, thick chunks of meat boiled in dark broth.
Han licked his dry lips. He hadn't had real food in weeks. He picked up a wooden bowl, scooping the broth up with shaking hands.
The first sip was bliss.
It was hot, rich, salty. His body begged for more. He drank greedily, ignoring the heat that burned his throat.
Then he reached for a piece of meat—
And froze.
The shape was wrong.
The flesh too familiar.
His mind flashed back to the Pit. To the bodies. The corpses. The hunger.
His stomach twisted violently.
The man grinned. "You know what it is, don't you?"
Han felt bile rise in his throat. He dropped the bowl, stepping back.
The man sighed. "A shame. I thought you'd understand." He stood up, towering over Han. "You kill to survive. You eat what you must. That is the only rule in this world."
Han's fingers trembled on his sword hilt.
The man's eyes gleamed in the firelight. "You've already eaten it, boy. And yet, you're still standing." His grin widened. "Doesn't that mean you're one of us?"
Han's mind spun. No. I'm not like you. I'm not—
But wasn't he?
Hadn't he already considered it in the Pit? Hadn't the hunger whispered to him?
Maybe he was already a monster.
The man stepped forward, drawing a curved blade from his belt.
"No room for weakness, boy," he said. "If you won't eat, then you'll die."
Han's grip tightened on his sword.
Fine.
Let's see who dies first.
---
The First Kill
The man lunged first, swinging his curved blade with brutal speed.
Han barely dodged, pain shooting through his battered body. The man was fast—too fast for a starving corpse like Han.
Han's sword clashed against the man's blade, the impact rattling his bones. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to move, to fight.
The man laughed. "Good! There's still fire in you!"
Han didn't answer. He couldn't. His vision blurred from exhaustion. His breath came in ragged gasps.
But his rage burned hotter than his fatigue.
Daichi Sato had taken everything from him. Had forced him into the pit. Had made him suffer.
And this man—this thing—was standing in his way.
Han's grip tightened.
No more hesitation.
No more mercy.
The man swung again, aiming for Han's throat. Han ducked low, feeling the wind of the blade as it passed over his head.
Then, before the man could recover, Han drove his sword deep into his stomach.
The man's eyes widened. Blood bubbled from his lips.
Han twisted the blade.
The man let out a choked laugh. "Good," he rasped. "Very… good…"
Then he collapsed.
Han stood there, staring down at the body. His sword dripped with blood.
His first true kill.
Not for survival. Not for defense.
But because he wanted to.
The realization sent a chill down his spine.
He wasn't sure if he hated it.
Or if he liked it.
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