A wave of rancid blood splatters across the ground, smoke curling from severed flesh.

  Chunks of meat lie scattered—diced, smoldering—finally giving in to death.

  I stand among the corpses of fodder and giants alike, blood-dyed hair plastered to my skull, a grin stretched too wide to tell if it’s fury or joy. Maybe both. Ruined clothes will do that to a man.

  Six giants down.

  They should call me the Giant Slayer—add it to my pitiful collection of nicknames.

  The frequency of their appearances is climbing. A trend I can’t ignore. From here on out, the ‘flood’ won’t slow—it’ll only get worse.

  I drag my blade across a sleeve already ruined beyond saving. At least something’s clean now.

  A sigh leaks out. I scan the field—nothing escapes. Every brave fleshling that dares step in the way is cleaved without thought. No one interrupts the scanner while he’s scanning.

  Clear—for now.

  If the pattern holds, another brute will crawl out within minutes. The flood’s reached past halfway to the first line already. About twenty-five lines of defense left before the fortress. Pace is holding, but it’s ramping up and fast.

  How did they survive this before?

  Guess I’ll ask later.

  Kinda busy right now.

  The ground shudders—again. Harder this time. More frequent.

  Dawn spills over the battlefield, sunrise bleeding gold across the rot.

  Most of the light still blocked by the trees.

  And then I see it.

  Deep in the ‘breathing’ jungle, a figure rises—towering, twice the size of any giant I’ve cut down. The rotten trees crumple beneath its steps. Beside it, the jungle parts—more giants marching out, the “normal” kind.

  So we really are picking up the pace.

  “Goodness.”

  I grin through the blood smeared across my face.

  I swat a fleshling into pieces—meat confetti for the dawn.

  Then I look up.

  A colossus towers over me. Humanoid. Shaped like a man. Crimson flesh, rotting like all the rest. Armless—its torso ending in useless stumps. Its head’s still there, mostly, but the entire right side is blown away, a cavern of ruin. From that wound, hair spills out in ropes, cascading down the length of its body until it brushes its knee. A grotesque parody of a mane.

  Fashionable bunch, these things. Guess wounds are the new accessory.

  The “normal” giants don’t settle on one design either.

  That first hairy brute.

  A pair of literal walking hands.

  Overgrown fleshlings, bloated to siege size.

  Rotting beasts stitched back into motion.

  I haven’t seen the full collection yet—but I’ve spotted six varieties. If that counts as expertise.

  It stops.

  Its one eye sinks into me, narrow and unblinking inside that ruined skull. The cascade of hair stirs, alive.

  The giants clustered beneath its bulk break into a charge.

  My control seeps out, stirring the ambient mana into crackling tension.

  Static blares.

  Zaps and arcs of lightning tear through the air within my reach, flaring in the space I command. The whole zone crackles like a storm trapped in a cage, every spark waiting for me to choose its target.

  Let’s be practical.

  The mana condenses into spheres around me, humming with compressed violence. I hammer them into shape—spears. Not the most creative trick in the book, but it’ll have to do.

  If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  The spears blaze, edges bleeding power, every one of them a miniature storm. One grows as tall as me—hell, a bit taller.

  I flood my eyes, my brain, with mana. Scanning. Tracking. Their movements are fast, but not fast enough.

  I raise a hand and point forward. No reason—just for show. Got to look cool, even when you’re dressed like a vagrant who lost a fight with the laundry.

  The air snaps. A thunderclap.

  My spears launch—lightning given form and speed.

  They scream across the field, frying the air as they rip through the horde. Then they crash into the giants, snapping them into bursts of light—holes blown clean through, smoke curling from their wounds as they crumple. The ground behind them craters.

  All but one.

  The beast-shape—panther flesh dragged back into motion—slips aside, the crater yawning where it stood.

  And while I’m busy with that…

  The colossus moves.

  Its cascade of hair whips forward, lancing toward me like a forest of spears.

  I throw myself upward with a gust. Hair strands whip past, piercing the ground where I stood a breath ago.

  They retract fast, lunging again, hunting me. All the while the panther barrels forward.

  Dropping hard, I hit the ground and launch—earth cratering as I drive toward the beast. Strands chasing me.

  Its fur’s a mangled mess—mostly rot, scraps of skin clinging to patches of fur. Its face is warped, mangled like the rest, but its eyes… something about them stirs familiarity. The light around it bends, swallowed into shadow.

  My blade swings overhead, lightning flaring as I aim to cut it down.

  It skids, whips its tail. Tail meets blade—the clash explodes in light, but the tail doesn’t break. I slide the edge off and roll beneath, free. A claw dives razor-sharp—I block, earth cracking under my feet. Another claw swings. I wrench the first up, weave past the second.

  Blade flares. Swing cuts deep. Lightning sears. Its right leg tears free.

  I move to finish—

  But the panther vanishes into darkness. Imperfectly. My control keeps hold of it through the haze.

  I surge forward again, blade flaring. It reappears, intercepts. My strike shatters its claws. I carve wide—earth fries, cleaved and smoking. The beast retreats into shadow.

  I conjure fast. A spear of lightning, hurled. It punches a hole through its chest.

  I push forward. Panther reels, stunned. Blade arcs again—

  I stop. Instinct snaps.

  I throw myself upward as hair-lances spear down. One strand I deflect, vaulting over. Another smashes into me mid-air, blasting me to the ground, shattering earth, throwing up dust.

  More strands pierce down, carving the field—I leap back through the gaps.

  The panther slips into shadow again.

  I land on my feet. The strands start to coil back into place. The colossus looms. The panther is gone.

  Why the hell am I grinning? Something’s wrong with me.

  I steady where I stand, my control sweeping the field, scanning for the panther.

  The colossus’s strands finish coiling back.

  Then—something whispers in my ear.

  “Lunatic. You sure everything’s dandy?”

  In the corner of my eye, myself—or the thing wearing me—stands. My special sickness. Not really a look, shadows don’t have faces. But I feel it anyway: smug, mocking, dripping with glee.

  The hair lashes down. I swing, knock a couple strands aside, vault upward, plant a foot on one, deflect another.

  All the while, I scan. The panther’s out there—waiting, ready to snap the trap shut. And the shadow keeps chirping in my ear.

  My blade screams. He mocks.

  “You know you’ll fail, right?”

  Lightning flares as I block.

  “You are so pretentious.”

  I crash to the ground.

  “Why are you even fighting?”

  I leap back.

  “Are you blind?”

  I deflect.

  “Time’s running out, dumbass.”

  I slide between strands.

  “Your poor machine.”

  The volleys finally retracts.

  “What?” I spit.

  The shadow tilts toward the line.

  I follow.

  Blood drips from the dark—almost out of thin air.

  A shadow, bleeding.

  My shadow clicks its tongue.

  “Fucking dense.”

  My mind races. The hair comes down again.

  I weave past the first strand—then it clicks.

  That damned panther—it isn’t hunting me anymore.

  It’s charging full speed toward the line.

  I snap into lightning and launch toward it—it’s already almost there.

  The strands track me, forcing me to weave between them. The colossus keeps pace, never letting up.

  Spears of hair pierce and whip, each one angled to kill.

  I dodge, ignore, press forward. The panther has to die.

  Missed strands cleave through massive swathes of the horde. One bars my step, another hooks my foot. A third plucks me off balance. I wrench free and surge on. A fourth slices across my side, burning.

  The panther’s almost on them. My soldiers keep cutting down fodder, unaware a beast as large as a bus bears down on them.

  I leap. Final chance. Earth craters beneath me, blade flashing, flaring—aiming to obliterate the panther.

  But a strand spears across, knocking me off course. A spear of lightning forms in my control and hurls away as I fall.

  It blows a hole through it, but the panther doesn’t stop.

  I jolt through dust, blade flaring once more. The panther lunges at unsuspecting prey. Only I can make it in time.

  Another strand blocks me. I slide under and swing.

  The panther splits in two.

  But another strand descends. Too close to the line. I block—earth craters beneath me as it slams down.

  It’s the last strike of the volley. I drag in every shred of mana, blade blazing as I heave the strand back up.

  Silence.

  The strands slither away, retreating to their master.

  I turn toward the line.

  The world feels cold.

  Before me lies the panther, bisected, edges smoldering. Beyond it—

  My heart sinks.

  Sweat runs cold.

  The world falls deafeningly silent even between a stampeding horde and bullets raining down on them.

  My mouth feels dry.

  The same feeling as last time, when I saw them—.

  “See.”

  My shadows sneers as it vanishes.

  I failed.

  Five of my soldiers are dead.

  Their mangled corpses lay bare between its teeth, and one lies squashed under its paw.

  Because of me.

  They died.

  What happened.

  Where did I go wrong.

  I let my guard down.

  I didn’t try hard enough.

  I wasn’t serious enough.

  I was too busy playing.

  And now, now my actions costed lives.

  As I’m lost in thought, Alfrick shouts at me.

  “Sir!”

  Turning toward him, I feel the grin gone. Whatever face I’m wearing now, I don’t recognize it.

  “Sir! The colossus!”

  He’s screaming, pointing.

  The coils of hair spear toward me.

  I react a second late—lacerations rip across my arm as I dodge before it can take it entirely.

  I steady myself, blade back in hand.

  I still have to protect the rest. Self-pity doesn’t help.

  I throw away the thoughts, mostly.

  I weave between, throw others offside. I have to push forward. I’m too close to the line. Another strand strikes forward, aimed not at me but the line. My blade flares as I deflect. I press on, dragging its attention back to me.

  I take the fight head-on, deflecting and blocking, my arms rattling under the relentless volley.

  Wait. I can fix this. The thought strikes between strands. As it cleaves through the horde, killing dozens of fleshlings—

  Their deaths remind me.

  Right. I just have to die.

  I’ll go back.

  I’ll let it kill me, then I can try again.

  Relief washes through me. The guilt clears.

  With that thought, I let the blade slip from my fingers.

  I throw my arms wide—an embrace, the deathly kind.

  I won’t mess up again.

  The coils lance.

  The first punches through my chest.

  The second takes my head.

  The rest tear apart my limbs.

  Dead.