The butchering room of Bjron the Butcher was silent.
Inside, everything was broken.
The wooden worktable, once stained with years of blood and routine, was split down the middle like it had been struck by a massive axe. But there was no axe in sight—only deep, unnatural claw marks trailing across the walls and floor, as if something had rampaged through with no regard for what stood in its way.
Rusty hooks dangled loosely from the ceiling, some twisted into unrecognizable shapes.
Others still held what remained of meat—if it could even be called that anymore. Chunks of flesh, torn and shredded, dripped sluggishly onto the cracked stone floor.
The scent in the room was unbearable.
Not the usual stench of dried blood and animal fat—but something fouler, more rotten. Like whatever had passed through this place hadn't just killed… it had corrupted.
A butcher's knife lay on the floor, its handle still slick with sweat. Bjron had put up a fight.
