The pulsating blue panel lingered. No one spoke. No one moved. The champions stood in silence, eyes locked on the darkness ahead.

Scott glanced at the lion-man.

I'm surprised he hasn't charged at me yet. Guess he senses the same threat I do.

His gaze drifted to the clowns and rangers. Their faces were pale. Their legs trembled.

They won't last long in this place.

He sighed softly.

The Frost Elves, on the other hand, stood tall—eyes sharp with resolve.

Let's see how long that confidence lasts once they're inside.

The disturbing chorus of clanking, chopping, and metal scraping continued to echo from beyond the doorway. Then—a new sound. A slow drag against stone.

The champions turned.

The opaque barrier behind them began to move—scraping along the tarred road as it slid forward, shrinking the open space.

Scott chuckled. "They really want us to go in, huh?"

Without waiting, he stepped forward.

"I follow," the lion-man rumbled, pacing next to him.

Scott said nothing. From the corner of his eye, he saw the Frost Elves shift formation, falling into a synchronized march toward the darkness.

One step. Two steps. Three steps.

The shadows wrapped around him like a mother's embrace.

Four steps.

Suddenly, the darkness vanished.

Scott stopped in place, eyes widening.

Inside stretched an impossible space—larger than ten fields combined. Massive cylindrical reactors lined the area, constantly spewing crimson mist that blanketed the ground.

Each reactor resembled a towering, open pot, spewing boiling red liquid into the air.

Blood. Thick, bubbling, foul.

Thousands of liters churned and overflowed from every reactor. And the reactors? Endless.

But the blood wasn't the worst of it.

Chains dangled from the pitch-black ceiling—thousands of them—each one hooked through slabs of meat. Champion meat. Deboned, stripped of fat, organs, anything unnecessary. Some pieces were sewn together. Others pressed into slabs and hung like trophies, stacked along the chains.

Below them, transparent containers processed the leftovers—sucking blood, marrow, and pulp into larger barrels through grimy taps. Even crushed and whole bones lingered among the leftover broth.

In front of these taps stood monstrous workers.

Their skin hung in flaps. Patchworks stitched from the remains of unmatching species. Some had too many limbs. Some had none—but moved anyway. They wore blood-caked aprons, cleavers strapped to their backs like swords.

They moved with eerie silence—methodical, tireless.

Scott steadied his breathing.

The place is a slaughterhouse.

He turned. The entrance had disappeared.

The clowns and rangers followed in behind, their faces twisted with disgust. Behind them, only more of the Shed stretched on—no exit in sight.

Why haven't the butchers noticed us?

He glanced around. The lion-man was tense. The Frost Elves were crouched in anticipation. Everyone felt it.

Then—movement.

From between the towering butchers waddled a stubby creature. A squat, bipedal figure with rosy-pink skin and a swollen belly. Its apron was soaked in blood, but unlike the others, its skin was unblemished—smooth.

It looked like a sentient pig.

In each hand, it carried a cleaver, stained and dripping.

It strolled casually through the blood-mist, surveying the towering butchers like a foreman inspecting his crew.

Scott frowned.

A pig? What the hell…

The others noticed it too.

Then came the crimson system panel.

You have entered: The Shed! Trial of Endurance Initiated Objective: Survive Duration: One Hour Penalty: Death Reward: Access to the Final Zone

Another panel followed.

Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

Lifting veil of concealment Time until appearance of exit: 00:59:59

The reaction was immediate.

A monstrous roar shattered the silence.

It erupted from every corner—deep, shrieking, relentless. The butchers turned, eyes glowing red, jaws unhinged. They reached for their weapons in perfect, blood-hungry unison.

They charged.

The ground trembled with every step.

Behind them, chains dropped like serpents from the ceiling. Hundreds. Thousands. More kept coming, their iron bodies coiling and lashing across the air, seeking targets.

"Your head is mine!"

Scott heard the lion-man's roar—and felt the pressure of something fast approaching his head.

He didn't need to look.

With a flick of his wrist, the war hammer materialized. He swung it casually, catching the incoming blow.

Clang.

The impact echoed like a gong. His hammer met the lion-man's mace head-on. The shockwave blasted outward, sending the clowns and rangers flying. The Frost Elves braced, exhaling cold vapor. Ice surged from their bodies as they transformed—taller, crueler, beast-like.

Scott barely acknowledged them.

His focus remained on the lion-man.

"Looks like your weapon couldn't handle that," he quipped, eyeing the shattered mace.

The lion-man grunted and tossed the remains aside. With a swipe, he summoned a massive shield and battle axe. His eyes burned with savage joy.

"Don't worry. I've got plenty more!"

He prepared to charge—but the butchers arrived first.

"Don't interrupt my hunt!"

With a snarl, the lion-man spun, dodging a cleaver strike. He headbutted the butcher cleanly—its skull shattered. Then he kicked its hulking body like a ragdoll, sending it hurtling into one of the reactors.

At that moment, a gravitational force crushed the battlefield.

The Frost Elves, clowns, rangers, even the butchers—all pinned to the floor. Screams and groans filled the space.

Only the lion-man remained upright. His muscles bulged, veins rippling across his skin. His weapons shattered from the strain—but he stood, teeth clenched, unmoving.

Scott's war hammer pulsed in his grip. He smiled.

This bastard's barely affected, he chuckled softly.

Truly, he's ridiculously strong.

He shifted his gaze to the pig.

It remained unmoving. Still staring in his direction.

It hasn't taken its eyes off me since the veil lifted, Scott's gaze narrowed.

It recognizes me as the Primary Target… and it's stronger than the lion-man.

Then—

Splat.

Hundreds of butchers burst into chunks—flesh, blood, bone—scattered across the shed. All crushed beneath the invisible weight.

Not a single one had made a sound. Reactors dented. Chains rattled—but held.

The other champions remained pinned to the ground, groaning under the pressure.

Scott exhaled. He hadn't intended to kill them. Yet. Not if they gave him a reason to.

His gaze locked with the lion-man again. Then he dropped his hand.

The gravity vanished.

Scott spun the hammer once—and swung sideways.

An invisible force struck the champion, and the lion-man's body flew through the air, crashing into a nearby reactor with a deafening crunch.

Scott turned back to the pig.

It smiled and raised its cleavers.

"Wake up, all of you!" it roared, voice guttural and furious—completely at odds with its pudgy appearance.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Heavy fists pounded from inside the reactors. The steel distorted with every blow.

Something had woken up.

The clowns and rangers moved first, sprinting away with everything they had.

That's the smart thing to do, but… Scott sighed suddenly, shaking his head.

It was too late.

The reactors burst open. Blood boiled over. And the creatures emerged.

Massive figures, soaked in viscous crimson fluid. Steam hissed from their bodies. One reached out—grabbing a clown by the hair.

"Please help me!" she sobbed. "I don't want to die!"

Her companions snapped out of their stupor, ready to act—but they were too slow.

The creature grabbed her with both hands.

Rip.

The sound tore through the air. Her skin peeled from her flesh in a single, horrifying motion.

A blackened chain descended. A red hook latched onto the twitching limbs. More hooks followed—tearing organs, draining fluids, stripping away everything until all that remained was meat. Living meat.

The rest of the group stood frozen. Minds blank. Bodies paralyzed.

Scott didn't blink.

If they can't fight, they're dead. Even if they do... it probably won't matter.

His eyes shifted to the Frost Elves.

Now giants of ice, they fought fiercely. Their domain expanded—freezing anything that crossed into it. At the center, a spinning crystal conjured thousands of icicles, shredding enemy after enemy.

Still, none of the monsters stayed down.

They'll last. For a while, Scott thought as he glanced back at the pig.

But how long depends on when he decides to get serious.

It was still watching him. Licking its lips.

I don't like this little fucker.

Let's end this.

Scott tightened his grip on the war hammer.

Then—a deep, booming laugh echoed through the space.

Before he could turn, three massive, bloodied corpses slammed into the ground behind him, shattering even the reinforced reactors.

Scott's eyes shifted upward.

Floating in the air was the lion-man—transformed.

A golden crown hovered above his head. Radiant light cloaked his body, dancing across his muscled frame like divine fire. His very presence shimmered, as if the heavens themselves had split to let him descend.

Oh, he's serious now.

Scott smirked.

Etched on the lion-man's forehead was a glowing sigil: a roaring beast—one he couldn't identify.

So, this is his authority… but which Throne backs him?

Before he could ponder further, the air changed.

A crushing, ancient pressure filled the Shed. Every instinct in Scott's body screamed. Goosebumps crawled up his arms.

He turned.

The pig was transforming.

Its stomach expanded grotesquely, faster than its body. Limbs thickened into towering pillars—like petrified trees holding up the sky. It dwarfed the reactors, making them look like teacups beneath a titan.

Its crimson eyes beamed down like magnified sunlight. Its cleavers had grown as well—now the size of siege towers. The blood coating them twisted, screaming. Faces bubbled from the gore—twisted, agonized, alive.

Scott ignored the scale.

Instead, his attention snapped to the sigil now flickering on the apron stretched across the pig's swelling gut.

First, a circle of hooked chains surrounding a downward-pointing blade, dripping with eternal ink. Then, a cleaver crossed with a broken spine, encircled by crimson teeth. Next, an open eye carved into a slab of flesh, its iris a spiral of screaming mouths. Finally, two butcher knives crossed beneath a horned skull, framed by a crown of bones.

The sigil cycled between the four, warping with each shift.

Then came the voices. Ancient. Malicious. Unified.

"SLAUGHTER! SLAUGHTER! SLAUGHTER!"

Scott's eyes stayed fixed on the cleavers—the source of the sound. The howling faces roared, their pain and rage radiating like heat.

The Authority of Slaughter.

No wonder that creeping feeling never left.

He exhaled once, steadying himself.

His gaze flicked between the floating lion-man and the bloated avatar of butchery.

"Alright then," he muttered, uncoiling the chain around his wrist. "Let's get this over with."

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