Exiting the Chambers of Grief—for that pit of whiny, sobbing survivors—was easy. Finding the stupid super-high-top-secret entrance? Not so much. Oh, and somewhere along the way, Anal-lyth ghosted me.

When did that happen?

Beats the fuck out of me. She was here a minute ago. I think.

"What the fuck!" I growled, spinning in a useless little circle.

Sighing, I kept trudging through the devastation, kicking rubble out of my way as I hunted for that fucking entrance. But patience and I have never exactly been besties. After a few hours—maybe minutes, who can even tell anymore, I blame ADHD amongst other conditions—

Do we even have ADHD?

Shut it!

—I finally decided: fuck it. It's not like I even wanted to go down into that mana-starved hellhole of pity anyway.

Seriously, if they don't like it down there, stop crying about it and just leave!

Everyone loves taking in refugees, right?

Ya! Make Völuspá Great Again!

"I need to kill something," I muttered.

That's when I froze—ears twitching—catching the faintest echo of voices in the distance.

My lips curled into an unnatural, elastic grin—stretching far too wide for any normal face, teeth sharpening into something a little too hungry, a little too eager.

"A patrol?" I whispered.

Priorities shifted.

Screw the stupid entrance.

I had prey.

I dropped flat to the ground, body melting into a puddle of black goo, and oozed toward the voices like a creeping nightmare.

Soon enough, I spotted them—three figures combing through the wreckage.

They looked worried—maybe even frantic—as they scoured the devastation, most likely searching for their missing comrades. Now, did they suspect something had happened to them, or were they just here to relieve them?

Either way, I found the whole situation hilarious. They were out hunting for the same poor bastards my ever-so-righteous Champion had oh-so-graciously delivered unto death.

Ah, the sweet, sweet taste of irony.

Anal-lyth is tiptoeing down the dark path, and I'm loving every minute of it.

Mwahahaha!

Now, if only we could get her to stop bitching about my methods.

Putting those amusing thoughts aside, I studied this new patrol. Three members again—a knight, a nudist, and a caster. I didn't really give a damn about their roles—or classes—or whatever they called it. From the looks of it, this seemed to be a standard patrol layout. I'd imagine they'd throw in a healer if they weren't so rare. I mean, does nobody want to be a healer anymore? Sure, killing monsters is fun, but healing people...?

Yeah, okay, that is pretty lame now that I think about it.

Whatever.

My gaze stayed locked on them as I crept closer—closer.

It was so easy I was almost disappointed.

That being said, if I couldn't make sport out of it, I could at least enjoy the agony. And oh, how I would enjoy it.

I trailed after them, unnoticed, unseen, slithering through the destruction their kind had brought to the beastkin—not that I particularly cared too much about the beastkin, but hey, it's sort of nice to feel justified.

Not that I needed it.

Or wanted it.

Eventually, they came to a stop near the area where Anlyth had taken care of the last patrol—yes, I know it was a mercy kill... still counts.

"It looks like there was a battle here," the nudist commented.

"No shit," the armored one snapped, gesturing around with a sweeping motion that screamed Captain Obvious. "Look around us."

The nudist rolled his eyes.

"No, he's right," the robed chick added, her voice a little shaky. "Look over here. There's fresh blood."

This was it. They turned their backs—just standing there like idiots—ripe for the picking.

With a manic little giggle I strangled down (barely), I lunged. My body surged out of the black puddle, silk snapping together in an elegant weave so complex it looked like skin—forming a pure white masquerade mask of a face midair, wild grin, manic glowing orange eyes, and way too many teeth.

The world slowed.

Their heads turned.

Their faces broke—pure terror, slow-motion horror show, right before instinct even had a chance to save them.

Amateurs.

No plan. No hesitation. No mercy.

Not sure why I did what came next—curiosity? My typical desire to experiment? (That last one usually involved my sexuality, but hey, who's body counting.) Whatever the reason, I wove Threads of Horror straight into the tip of my limb as it stretched—no longer an arm, but a roiling black tentacle.

It thickened at the end into something ugly and mean—like a Morningstar made by a drunk eldritch bitch—and I swung.

WHAM.

The nudist's skull popped like a gore-filled balloon.

Brain matter sprayed in a misty arc across shattered stone and crumbled ruins.

Momentum carried through—CRACK—straight into the armored one, his chest crumpling inward with a noise that would haunt nightmares.

Two bodies collapsed.

Wet meat hitting stone.

I blinked.

The robed chick blinked.

We just stood there for a second—me admiring my unexpected Picasso moment, her trying to decide if pissing herself would make her less of a target.

Spoiler: it wouldn't.

"Huh. That hit a lot harder than I thought," I muttered.

With Mr. Armor and Captain Birthday Suit now taking a dirt nap—courtesy of yours truly—I stood there, blinking like an idiot.

That... went faster than I expected.

I examined the tip of my tentacle as it pulled back in, reforming into my arm. The Morningstar-shaped head settled into my open palm.

It had heft. Real heft.

Not some gooey pretend-weight—this thing felt solid, like hardened metal forged from bad decisions and spite.

"This is from a thread?" I whispered.

With an awkward little snort, I scratched the back of my head—because clearly that's what you do after double-homicide speedruns.

As for Ms. Robes?

She was still upright. Technically. Clutching her staff like it was some kind of emotional support teddy bear that could ward off a bad nightmare if she hugged it hard enough.

Still...

Something was bothering me.

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

My gaze dropped to the semi-nude corpse at my feet—barbarians, am I right?—and I frowned.

No. I really mean it. Something about what happened didn't sit quite right.

Like a puzzle dumped on the floor, missing so many pieces it wasn't even worth pretending anymore.

"That shouldn't have happened," I muttered aloud.

"I KNOW, RIGHT?!" I immediately shrieked back at myself.

Ms. Robes flinched so hard she nearly dropped her staff.

Heh. Cute.

Looking at her, I jabbed a finger at the awkwardly folded corpse, grin splitting my face in a way that probably should've been illegal.

"He fell funny."

There was a long beat of silence, like the world itself needed a second to reboot.

Then, finally, Ms. Robes managed to stammer out a thoroughly broken, "W-What?"

"He fell funny!"

Seriously, is she blind or what?

Nah, she's just stupid is all.

Ms. Robes just stood there, gawking at me—like I was the crazy one. (Okay, maybe fair.) But I pressed on, fueled by righteous indignation and sheer stubbornness.

"Look, I snuck up on you guys, right? Gave Captain Birthday Suit here the ol' surprise tentacle-slap to the noggin—from his right side… or was it my left?" I swung my arm dramatically, a full-body windmill of enthusiasm. Yeah. To demonstrate. Also, it was totally my left.

"His head did a twisty-twist, flew off, and kaboomed against that wall." I flailed toward a pile of debris coated in brain matter on our left—right!

"You following?"

She shook her head so fast I thought it might fly off too.

"Ugh! Fine! Maybe I'm embellishing a tiny bit. His head did explode when I hit him—and sure, maybe I didn't exactly mean to follow through into the other guy's chest—but that's beside the point!"

I threw my arms in the air, exasperated.

"The point is—he fell funny!"

Ugh, what is wrong with her?

I'm as lost as you are.

Maybe she's broken. Should we get another one?

I sighed dramatically and waved toward the very obviously dead barbarian.

"Look closely. I whacked him so hard his head blew apart"—another aggressive finger-jab at the blood-splattered debris on one side—"but his body landed over there!"

I jabbed toward the opposite direction where the corpse lay.

"Explain that!"

Ms. Robes just trembled harder, clutching her staff like it might save her soul.

I looked down at the body.

Looked at her.

Looked back at the body.

"Maybe it's the angle," I muttered. Then perked up. "Come on—come here! Stand where I'm standing! Look! See it from my perspective."

I waved my hands in a frantic come here motion, like an over-caffeinated parent summoning their gremlin hellspawn.

Ew.

What?

Children.

Oh. Yeah. Children. Gross.

Ms. Robes' eyes widened in terror as she glanced from me to where Mr. Armor lay lifeless. Following her gaze, I spotted Phantasia—my sweet little abomination—contentedly munching away on her prize.

I tilted my head side to side, hands still flailing like a deranged air dancer, and let out the most dramatic, long-suffering, I'm-too-young-for-this-bullshit sigh imaginable.

"Little lady! I don't remember summoning you."

My miniature plushie-sized pudding had taken on a bit of a unicorn aesthetic.

Yeah. If a unicorn got absolutely railed by an octopus in a Walmart parking lot.

Wouldn't it be the other way around?

Shut up, biology's fake in here.

Um… actually, that was more about the pus—

No. No, we don't want to hear it. You're on timeout.

—I hate it here.

We all do. We. All. Do.

Tiny Phantasia glanced up at me with her itty bitty glowing orange eyes—pure nightmare fuel, but in the adorable sort of way that makes you question your own sanity.

She kept gnawing happily on the corpse, using Corrosive to dissolve through the flesh, which I found a bit surprising—apparently, she could use my skills too. Although, she didn't melt things nearly as fast as I could.

Maybe she likes savoring her food?

Maybe she was broken?

We're broken.

Who the fuck knows anymore. I had very few answers for anything.

What I do know is she was an aspect of me—or at least a fragment of my gooey, brain-screaming subconsciousness, stitched together with sparkly golden glue that burns like gonorrhea.

My point being!

Don't ask for the fine details about shit. I'm still out here begging someone to mansplain half this shit to me.

Like, what the fuck do all my Insights actually do?

Sure, I've got guesses—but I want hard facts. Preferably laminated. With diagrams. Maybe a pop-up book. And definitely a warning label: Not for rectal use!

But! Before I went chasing after any laminated facts, I had a current mystery to solve: Why did the body collapse the opposite way the brain matter splattered?

Like, really?

The body should've fallen the same direction my swing followed through—not the opposite.

Am I right or am I just crazy?

Actually—no. Don't answer that!

"Don't worry about Phantasia; she's just having her meal. Now, come over here. I really want to figure this out," I coaxed, motioning like a manic game show host offering trauma! as today's grand prize.

Shockingly—she didn't budge.

Wow. Rude.

With a sigh that could've peeled wallpaper, I bounced over to her like an unhinged toddler hopped up on espresso.

Will you stop with all the metaphors!

Metaphors? Don't you mean analogies?

OH MY GOD, WHO CARES, SHE'S COMPARING HERSELF TO A TODDLER ON DRUGS—FOCUS!

Wait—who gave the toddler espresso?

You did!

LIAR!

Shut up before a different one of us hijacks the narration—again!

Gently—yes, gently!—I hoisted the terrified woman upright and dragged her back toward Captain Birthday Suit's crumpled remains.

Seriously, what's with all these half-naked weirdos?

Pretty sure we asked that already.

Yeah, but it still bugs me.

Something about mana absorption or whatever. We weren't paying attention.

Standing behind her, I pointed dramatically—first at the corpse, then at the lovely blood mural splattered across the debris.

"Do you see it now?" I chirped, pure radiant energy practically bleeding out of my words.

Ms. Robes shook her head so violently I thought it might spin off.

Frustration bubbling, I paced backward like a deranged cat stalking a laser pointer.

Seriously?

Shut up! I'm having a metaphorical moment and you'll respect it.

Analogies.

Eat my anal-o'gies!

"Look! I hit him from here—head explodes that way." I flailed wildly at the blood, shattered skull, and brain matter decorating the debris. "But the body fell that way! It doesn't make any sense! Am I right? Or am I insane?!"

Cue the silent, teary flinching. Again.

Fine. Fine!

Clearly, only science could solve this.

I yanked my arm back—and mid-swing, it morphed into a gleeful, writhing tentacle. Without so much as a "by your leave," I whacked her upside the head.

THWAP.

Her head yeeted across the air like a home run ball—smashed straight into the remains of a building, splattering blood like confetti at a murder party.

Her body?

Landed perfectly—same direction as my follow-through.

My head snapped back and forth, faster and faster—

Body.

Head smear.

Body!

Head smear!

BODYHEADBODYHEADBODYHEAD—

"I forgot to add Threads of Horror!" I screamed.

I totally, epically, cosmically fucked it up.

"No wonder the head didn't explode. Ugh! I need another test subject."

I bit my lower lip, rocking up onto my tiptoes, craning my neck as I scanned the devastated cityscape—hoping, praying to spot someone. Anyone.

No luck.

My shoulders slumped in tragic, theatrical defeat.

"The world may never know."

"—Oh well!" I sang out, perky as hell, like I hadn't just been screaming about exploded heads five seconds ago.

I shrugged, already moving on.

Some mysteries just weren't meant to be solved.

I let Phantasia to wrap up her canned meal while I swiftly handled the other two corpses, hoping Devourer would kick in. I still had Absorb, but that was only good for dungeon monsters and other users. However, much to my grumbling, I didn't gain any new skills from these three fuckers.

"I really need to find another dungeon."

Despite the tinge of disappointment, the meal was good, though it lacked the distinct, matured flavor of an undead—meaning, it wasn't rotten. Which is why I love intestines so much. They've got that rich, fermented twang you just can't fake.

What? Don't you dare judge me! You weirdo meat-sack hypocrites will pay stupid amounts of cash for "dry-aged beef," but I'm the freak for liking my snacks a little more... experienced?

Bite me.

Whatever. No time for culinary critiques—there were places to go and people to eat.

Setting out, my mind was already racing, buzzing with a dozen half-formed ideas.

Next time, I wasn't just going to smash things until they stopped moving—well, not only that. I was going to sharpen my new tricks. Threads of Horror had so much potential. Probably. Maybe. Fuck it, I'd figure it out on the fly.

Right now? I wanted enemies. Screaming ones. Tasty ones. Problems I could solve with violence.

As I roamed the wreckage of the once-proud city, patrols were nowhere to be found. Just goblins. So many goblins.

And these weren't normal ones, either. No cackling, no chattering. They gnawed on their own ears and drooled like brain-dead mutants. Barely more than feral animals.

Honestly? It was pathetic.

They lunged. I melted them. They snarled. I dissolved them. It was like squashing bugs. Fun for about five minutes.

It was becoming pretty clear—numbers didn't mean shit. It was about power. About magic. Holy and Fire were still my hard counters, but everything else?

I felt invincible.

Physical attacks? Useless. Disintegration passive for the win.

Sure, something like a mountain falling on me would hurt—probably kill me—but basic bitch swords and punches? Get the fuck out of here.

The only thing that could really screw me was a serious Holy caster. Or another Anlyth throwing a tantrum. However, could she really do much when I'm in full rage-bitch Divine Stellar Core mode?

Nah. She wasn't shit.

But absent that?

I was a fucking god.

Demi.

Fuck off!

Dragging another goblin toward my growing pile, I ignored its pathetic flailing.

Yes, you read that right.

I had a pile.

Phantasia bounced around in circles, occasionally glomping one of the half-dead ones and trying to eat their faces.

It was adorable. It was violent. It was... perfect.

Until I noticed she wasn't there.

Panic gripped me.

"Where'd she go?!" I spun, frantic.

A goblin at the top of the pile let out a gurgle—then exploded in a burst of tentacles.

"There you are," I cooed, grinning like an idiot.

Phantasia's little murder babies wriggled free, squealing in pure joy.

Hive minds powered by my subconscious, am I right? Totally normal. Nothing horrifying about that. Nope. Not at all.

I decided to leave that corpse alone. She deserved it.

Besides, the goblins were barely a snack. Eating them was like chewing on gristle. Not satisfying. Not filling. Barely worth it.

So. Of course, I still ate a few anyway. Here and there, naturally.

What? Don't judge me. The urge always wins—ask any addict.

And hey—technically, I was helping clean up the city. One corpse at a time.

The beastkin refugees should be grateful, honestly.

After hours of hunting goblins, growing my pile, and wandering around aimlessly looking for that stupid entrance, I finally saw it—well, not the entrance.

Something better!

Off in the distance, framed by the glow of Völuspá—a fort. Half wood. Half ruined stone.

Fires were starting to flicker inside.

My mouth pulled into a grin—too wide, too sharp, the kind that should've torn straight through my cheeks.

Gods, I love being a nightmare!

Prey. Trapped prey.

Phantasia brushed against my leg—or, well, a few dozen tarantula-sized versions of her—squeaking happily. She felt it too.

There were people inside that fort.

And I was coming for them.

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