The ten swordsmen froze where they stood, blades still trembling in their hands. Their attacks had landed with precision to tear her down but the girl before them remained untouched. She giggled softly, pulling a twisted grimace at their failed efforts and even still standing without any cuts on the body. Suddenly a sound came, a roar, deep enough to shake the marrow of their bones. Above them, a dome descended with impossible speed. That went inside of it like she was mermaid and dome was nothing but water. They lunged to strike, to pierce it before it closed, but too late. The barrier sealed like iron and even though they rained blows upon its surface, it did not even cut a nail length. It was as if air itself had hardened into an invisible wall, untouchable, unyielding.
The swordsmen fell back to see this, their faces were totally pale. Some lingered at the edge, glaring like cornered beasts, unwilling to admit defeat 'but you know little boy, fate was written in different way, hunh... I am going in different path, let's continue'. Little boy sat beside him just stared at her.
By the bonfire, the flames crackled, no longer a place of warmth but of horror. Within the blaze, the charred husk of a man's body sagged into ash, collapsing in on itself like crumbling stone. At his front, was the woman, her figure blackened, flesh burned to the bone, yet still upright, as if sheer will alone had anchored her against death. She had tried to shield him, to keep him from the fire, 'but fate had already written its cruel lines again, she tried to save him but....' As the man's body dissolved, fragments of his being drifted upward, glowing like embers in the night. They gathered in the air, coalescing into a single, black orb that hovered above the earth, pulsing faintly as if alive and going towards something.
Another roar shattered the silence, this one deeper, angrier, echoing from the mountains where the kingdom's true wall began. From that darkness surged a beast, a tiger, vast and terrible, its shoulders towering fifteen feet into the air. The ground shook beneath its charge, the wind howled in its wake. With jaws wide and eyes burning, it leapt upon six men who still knelt near the fire, their hands raised like worshippers at a false altar.
They were just mute, yet a low chant rattled from their bones, a murmur of fire and sacrifice or their salvation. From their navels, strands of energy bled outward, drawn like threads towards that little girl. But suddenly that tiger came there after swallowing that black orb and strike on them with out mercy.
He tore their heads clean from their necks, the sound like wet cloth ripping, and devoured them whole. One gulp, one snap of those monstrous jaws, and those royal men were no more. Their bodies twitched even after death, like lizards writhing with cut tails, each spasm mocking the illusion of life. From the torn corpses, threads of luminous energy still trickled outward, drifting unnaturally toward the girl trapped within the dome. Her eyes widened, trembling, but no words escaped her lips.
The tiger roared again, low and thunderous, and with a swipe of its claws, it ripped open their navels, tearing the source of their leaking life. Blood fountained, steam hissing as their entrails spilled. The beast bent low, dragging its massive tongue across the carnage before consuming the ruptured flesh, savouring the life-force. Then, with deliberate horror, it pressed their gaping navels against its own.
Something shifted then.
It reared back and planted a colossal paw on the armour of the burned Tai Kun. Its roar split the night, louder than thunder, vibrating the marrow of bone. The beast staggered upright, rising onto two legs with unnatural grace, its muscles bulging, splitting, reforming like waves of molten flesh. Fingers stretched longer, nails thickened into jagged claws, and its once feline frame began to resemble a towering man-beast, grotesque and godlike.
From behind, its tail thickened, veins pulsing like serpents beneath translucent flesh. The end of it twisted upward and draped across its shoulder, coiling forward. There—where fur should have been—a grotesque crown was born: six severed heads, fused together in a ring, their necks joined as one abomination. Instead of twelve eyes, only six gleamed, but they moved restlessly in all directions, pupils dilating and contracting as though alive with separate wills. No hair crowned those skulls. Instead, the skin cracked like drought-scorched mud, splitting wider, revealing black fissures weeping ichor.
Then came the sound, their mouths stretched open in unison, each voice screaming in a different tone: rage, grief, laughter, terror, agony, madness. Their chorus was not human anymore but a dirge of warped souls. At the centre, where the six skulls met, a tear split open. The topmost cranium split vertically like rotten fruit, revealing a hollow, toothless mouth, its cavern lined with twitching membranes that pulsed like a living wound. From the seam, ropes of veins extended downward, anchoring the heads to the beast's tail like the roots of a dead tree strangling stone.
The armour of Tai Kun, as though summoned, clanged and warped, fastening itself to the beast's form. Plates of steel melted and reshaped into grotesque samurai armour, etched with writhing veins and cracks that bled faint blue light. Across its navel, the six navels of them pulsed again, and from their a blackened line that circled his navel, with different ancient words engraved on it.
Its transformation deepened. Horns ruptured from its skull, twisting upward like jagged blades. Its eyes opened—three at once—fierce and furious. Two glowed like a tiger's in the dark, while on its forehead a third eye pulsed, unblinking, crowned by six angular scars that ran in stacked pairs, tapering smaller toward the crown. From its mouth, twin fangs jutted downward, tusks of bone stained red.
The skin of the beast shifted hue, once golden fur now drowning in a sickly bluish tone, striped with dark navy bands like a tiger painted in shadows. Steam curled from its pores. It beat its chest with both hands, a thunderous rhythm that cracked the air, a grotesque parody of a king's triumph.
And then, silence—save for the whisper of the six fused heads, muttering incoherently, voices climbing over one another, prayers and curses in the same breath. What had been beast and man now stood as something else entirely: a walking abomination, a demon born of hunger and betrayal.
The beast moved with a sudden violence, his roar shaking the marrow of the earth. His eyes locked onto the red-tipped woman, the one who had been staring at the small girl within the dome. He lunged, claws flashing like blades, but before his strike could fall, the small girl moved. All of a sudden, he collided with the woman, They went back to their own positions. But suddenly those two women bodies fusing in an instant. The girl was absorbed, vanishing as if she had been swallowed whole, and the red-tipped woman staggered backward, eyes wide, her breath caught in her throat.
.................
From the ruins of their bodies came a sight that defied sanity. With brutal precision, he dug into the steaming carcass and dragged free six spines, ripping them out with the sickening sound of flesh tearing from bone. Each vertebra glistened with blood and marrow, still quivering with the echo of life. The six severed heads on his shoulder opened their mouths, wailing in unholy harmony, and from their cracked skulls beams of blackened light burst forth. Those beams lashed onto the bones in his hands, fusing them into grotesque weapons. The spines reshaped, calcifying into jagged vajras — two monstrous clubs of divine desecration, humming with veins of fire and blood.
The corpses twitched at his feet, their veins slithering outward like roots, reaching toward the vajras. Thin threads of crimson bound themselves around the weapons, crawling upward, stitching muscle to bone. The air reeked of iron and rot as their blood drained, sucked dry into the weapons until the bodies were husks of parchment skin and brittle joints.
But he was not finished. With a violence that mocked creation, he ripped free two legs and their fused pelvis, grinding them together until they snapped into alignment. In his clawed hands, the bones cracked and bent into a skeletal frame, grotesquely resembling an umbrella. With their skin, he fashioned a canopy, sewing the flayed flesh together with pulsating veins, stitching as though guided by unseen hands. It was swift, savage craftsmanship—an umbrella made not of silk and wood, but of human hide and bone, bound together by dripping tendrils of living blood.
He lifted this abomination high and placed it upon his head. They pierced through the air, glowing faintly as if hungering for more souls. Beneath it, the beast stood crowned with horror, his umbrella dripping, swaying gently with every breath, a parasol of damnation.
He did not waste the rest. The shattered remains of flesh and bone, still leaking blood, he hurled into the camp where the others were merging in their grotesque rituals. Their laughter and moans of ecstasy turned to shrieks as the corpses rained upon them like meat falling from the sky. The ground became a pit of red mud, bone crunching under their feet.
.............
Then his eyes fell on her, the girl who was in that bone fire. She had clung to pole so tightly, refusing to let it go, as both was one entity her small body charred black like charcoal. He howled, a roar that split his chest and carried the grief of ten thousand damned souls. Holding her in his claws, his monstrous frame trembled, and for a moment the world itself seemed to recoil, even a beast cried that day. At last, gently, almost reverently, he laid her body upon the earth. His gaze turned bloodshot, fury replacing sorrow.
But horror does not end with grief.
....................
From the heap of corpses he had flung, something stirred. The woman's body—or what was left of it, moved with grotesque life. She ate the discarded flesh as though it were nothing, tearing into bones with jaws that split wider than nature allowed. Her hands clawed at her own face, stretching her mouth downward, tearing it apart until it gaped from her skull to her legs. Her jaw dislocated, splitting with wet cracks, her throat opening into a tunnel lined not with flesh but with tentacles, writhing like the innards of some abyssal god.
The remains of soldiers were dragged into that yawning maw, their bodies swallowed whole into the cavern of her. Inside, they were shredded, their limbs pulled apart, their cries muffled by the wet slapping of tentacles gnashing flesh. She clawed deeper, vomiting bones slick with blood, each rib and femur spat out like tools to be used. Her other hand worked feverishly, pulling those bones free, and her tentacles stitched them together with veins like ropes. The structure formed in mid-air, an obscene lattice, each joint fastened with pulsating knots of red tissue.
Floating now, she crossed her legs into a padmasana, a mockery of meditation. Her charred skin glowed with a faint, rotten light as she pressed her fingers into mudra. With each sign, the structure of bones shifted, separating and clicking into place with precision, as if following some hidden geometry of death. Veins bound them tighter, their twitching ends still dripping blood into the void.
...
The chamber quivered with the stench of rot and iron. Flesh and bone, still dripping with warm red, twisted together in her hands like clay sculpted by something not meant to be human. The remnants of bodies — organs, sinew, and ragged skin — bound themselves as if alive, obeying her will, weaving into a monstrous creation. Her hands unfolded like a bloom, the skin-petals slick and glistening, and in her grip, a flower of meat and bone took shape. From the ribcages, she tore six broken arcs of bone and carved them into a wheel that floated behind her. They spun slowly, a grotesque halo, each circle glowing faintly with a colour not of this world — sickly green, searing crimson, dull gold, poisonous violet, corpse-white, and a suffocating black. Sparks hissed from them, showering the chamber in ghostly light.
She cradled the flower-weapon on her lap, like a mother holding an infant, and began to feed. The chamber howled as the corpses that littered the ground convulsed. Limbs shivered, torsos collapsed, skulls cracked open as the marrow was pulled free. Their remains unraveled into her weapon, sucked dry by an invisible force. Even the air seemed to tear apart, threads of life drawn into her.
He stood unmoving, silent, like a widower frozen at his wife's grave. His beastly frame trembled, not from fear, but from the memory of the girl he had held moments before, now ash in his arms.
Her hunger grew darker. She sliced open the bodies of men still writhing in pain, pulling from them their virile members with cold efficiency. She chewed flesh as though it were fruit, and what she did not consume, she offered to her creation. The flower's fingers, bent into sharpened claws, became spears. She skewered the severed virile members one by one, and they clung to the bone like grotesque lanterns. They glowed, pulsing faintly, like fire-torches inverted — outside withering small, but inside swelling larger, inflamed with unnatural life.
Below her floating wheel, bones bent and shaped themselves into curved leaves, spinning like blades. They orbited her body like satellites around a corpse-planet, dripping with blood that hissed into black smoke upon touching the ground.
Her eyes opened fully, wide and unblinking. They glistened like a flower's petals drenched in dew, a beauty so obscene that any mortal gaze would be shattered, broken between lust and terror. No soul could look into those eyes and remain whole.
From her back, two new arms tore their way out with the sound of splitting tendons, they touched each of their palm, like pranam, they went upwards. By those torn ribs they broke together and made 6 rings rings. She cast them upward, and they merged in the air, twisting into one grotesque circle. She bent her legs, pressing the soles together until her total body became an iris, her torso a pupil. From afar, she was an eye, enormous, glaring. Two of her arms crossed in ritual defiance, while the other two wove the mudra of a flying lotus (Yoni mudra), thumbs pointed downward, carving an omen into the air.
The beast's roar cracked the air like thunder. His tail lashed, wrapped around the spinning flower of bone and flesh, and with an animal howl he hurled it back toward its mistress. The circles of bone again broke from the big ring, she had cast earlier slid forward in a perfect line, stacking one behind another until they formed a tunnel of rings. The weapon entered nothing but lower ribs joined each other and made an parabola with two sharp corners, and at her command, it spun faster, its speed now beyond sight. A shimmer split the space around it. The air wailed, and then with a violent thrust, she hurled it again.
His body swayed with primal precision. In one motion, he deflected the blow, his claws snapping around the umbrella-weapon that had emerged from the bone bloom. He spun it with a savage grace, twirling it around his circumference until sparks of blood and light rained in a circle. With a vicious snap, he rotated it one-hundred-and-twenty degrees, redirecting its hunger back at her. The weapon became his crown as he set it upon his head, its canopy spreading like a grotesque halo. The air cracked open as it tore past him, carving the world itself apart.
The nearby jungle erupted. Trees split at their roots, soil ignited as though veins of fire had been hiding beneath the ground. A storm of earth and ash consumed the horizon in an instant.
Unfazed, the beast ripped the vajras from his arms and hurled them forward, each spinning with impossible speed. They sang as they crossed the battlefield, streaks of steel and lightning. She reacted, but not as flesh and blood should. Her body ignited from within, glowing with veins of molten light. From her chest, a radiant beam exploded, tearing a line through space itself. The vajras collided mid-air, fusing into a single whirling disk, their spin deflecting her beam. The redirected energy cascaded toward the great dome in the distance, and the dome shuddered as if alive, then drank the light whole. Then she moved.
Her body lowered, and for the first time, she bent with desperation. The flower-broom of bone and flesh was in her between two legs, but now she used it differently. She clutched her thighs, forcing the obscene creation deeper into herself, her motions frantic, ritualistic. The chamber fell into a dreadful stillness, broken only by the wet, obscene sounds of her body consuming her own weapon. Two voices rang out from her throat—one high, pleading, the other low and commanding. They overlapped, merged, and became a single chant that was at once seductive and unbearable, a song of hunger disguised as ecstasy.
Even hardened men trembled. The swordsmen who lingered at the edge of the battlefield faltered. One whispered, "What… what is she doing?" His voice was brittle, as if speaking her action aloud would stain his soul.
An elder among them, scarred and ancient, spat into the dirt. His voice was grim. "She is birthing," He said. "Do not watch. Do not listen. This is the rite of Shonitpriya. In ancient times, not even gods could halt it. She draws the seed from every body around her, forcing it into her womb. Nine months shrinks into three minutes. The child of this rite is no child—it is a twin demon, and its hunger will devour nations. Do not let her eyes fall upon you, or she will drain your very seed where you stand, and feed it to the ritual."
But the warning came too late. Her cries rose higher, filled with notes both intoxicating and unbearable, a siren's hymn carved from the marrow of hell. Her body convulsed, bulging unnaturally, her belly swelling then collapsing, swelling again, as though life itself were being kneaded into shape.
From the obscene act, a fluid spilled, thick and glistening like molten sap. The flower-broom swelled at its tip, the bulge traveling upward with a grotesque inevitability. Each thrust carried it higher, until at last the bulb reached her womb's crest. The air snapped with a sound like bones breaking underwater.
The sap poured forth, glowing faintly, thick as blood, and from it a shape began to twist.
She pulled herself free with a scream, the weapon sliding slick and wet from her body. In one brutal motion, she hurled it outward. The foul liquid sprayed in arcs, raining down upon the earth with a hiss that burned grass to ash. The bulge tore free, landing before him, steaming.
...............
Her belly swelled like a balloon of rotting flesh. At first it grew gently, the skin stretching, pulsing as if worms crawled beneath it. Then the swelling turned violent—veins bulged, skin cracked, and the air filled with the nauseating stench of blood and wet membranes. Within minutes her abdomen had become the size of a full nine-month womb, gravid with unnatural life.
A sound split the silence, a fetus's cry, sharp, piercing, far too clear to come from within the body of a mother still seated in meditation. The cry echoed from her womb, vibrating through the marrow of every watcher. Then, without movement from her legs, her body tore itself open. Two large, egg-like shapes pushed through, sliding out wet and glistening, not hard-shelled but shrouded only in thin, quivering membranes. They pulsed faintly, twitching as if something inside them was clawing to be free.
The beast roared. His massive frame surged upward, twin vajras clutched tight in his hands. With savage fury he struck at the obscene broom of flesh and bone that remained clutched in her hands. Sparks flew, thunderous shockwaves rippled, but the weapon did not break. Again and again, the vajras clashed against it, yet always he was repelled, as though the broom were a pillar of the world itself.
Time bled strangely in that battle. Minutes stretched into eternities. And then it came—a sound no one wanted to hear. A heartbeat. From inside the eggs, low at first, then louder, each beat resonated like a drum from the underworld. Even the beast faltered, his strikes slowing as his ears filled with the suffocating rhythm of new life being forced into the world.
Then an eye appeared.
It opened not in her skull, not in the sky, but in the very air before her, she used her body pose as an eye, a great eye, flat and immense, as if a two-dimensional wound had been carved into reality. Looking directly into it was wrong; the pupil flattened into impossible shapes, as though refusing three-dimensional logic. The eye's form began to drift backward, expanding as it receded, until it was vast. Around it, rings of bone and light spun furiously, orbiting the eye like halos of damnation.
The sky bent. The eye adn rings aligned parallel to the earth. Then it pressed downward, flattening against the soil as if a god's gaze had fallen upon the ground itself. In the moment it touched, everything evaporated in a burst of crackling blue lightning. The stench of ozone drowned the battlefield. The woman whispered something, her voice fractured, incomprehensible, a chant that stabbed the ears like knives of static. Then clearly, with a smile, she spoke:
"Live twenty years, my children. Do destruction as you please."
The eggs pulsed harder, the membranes trembling with the eagerness of monsters unborn. They went away like an teleportation array.
From beyond, the remaining swordsmen shuddered. One broke into a sprint. "Tell them! Her children are born." he cried, vanishing into the haze. The woman rose. Her bare foot pressed into the scorched earth, cracking it like dried clay. She lifted the broom in both hands, eyes wide with madness, and hissed, "Let's end it. Bastard Tai."
The tiger rose to meet her challenge. His umbrella-spear spun in his grip, gleaming with a murderous aura. With a bound, he launched himself into the air, his vajras flanking him like blades of lightning. His tail lashed, spreading clouds of black smoke, poison so thick the air itself seemed to rot.
Her broom bent, reshaped, the obscene virile organs sprouting from it glowing like molten candles. She wielded them as weapons—each became a gun, a brush, a phallus-turned-barrel that spat streams of liquid like bullets of burning seed. The shots streaked toward him, each one screaming like a soul torn from flesh.
The tiger cut them down with claws, with tail, with spear—but what he killed did not die. The fluids that splattered the ground coagulated, twisting upward into crude bodies. Creatures sprouted from the soil—headless, boneless, pale things that reached with desperate arms. He crushed them, shredded them, but every piece that fell only crawled back together. White tentacles coiled like snakes, slithering around his limbs, binding his strength with suffocating persistence.
The battle raged. His armour shattered, plates splitting from his body, yet still he roared, striking, tearing, killing. But no matter how many he destroyed, more rose. Her creations multiplied in silence, tentacles wrapping his legs, his waist, his arms. His strikes grew weaker, slower. Blood dripped freely.
At last, he was held fast. His colossal muscles strained, but the tendrils only tightened, cracking his bones like green wood. His roar broke into a guttural growl. One massive hand was torn from his body, wrenched free in a spray of gore. The appendage hit the ground with a thud like a felled tree. Still, his eyes burned—not with fear, but with hatred, defiance, a fury that even mutilation could not extinguish.
But hatred cannot sever chains. One last tentacle, sharp as a spear, rammed through his side. He shuddered. The world tilted.
She approached towards him, on air. The broom pulsed in her grip, its obscene organs twitching like eager mouths. She lifted it high, then lowered it, pressing its filth to the earth. From the ground, vitality bled upward—grass, trees, corpses, even the very dust seemed to dissolve, their essence ripped away to feed her. All of it funnelled into her, into the weapon, until the land itself became a corpse.
Her voice was calm, cruel, triumphant.
"Now there is no one left to hinder me. The kingdom will be mine."