Although pain wracked his body, Rathmur gasped and forced himself up, trembling but unbroken. His left arm hung weakly, blood dripping down to the cracked stone, yet his eyes burned with a desperate fire. He tightened his grip on the jagged bone, teeth clenched, and let out a ragged roar.
"Come on, you fucking dogs!" he spat, his voice shaking yet defiant, echoing through the dungeon. The beasts answered with snarls that reverberated like thunder. Then they lunged, claws scraping the stone as the chamber erupted in chaos.
The first came low and fast. Rathmur swung with every ounce of strength, slashing diagonally across its muzzle. Blood sprayed as the bone tore flesh, but sharp fangs still grazed his forearm, ripping a deep cut. He screamed but pivoted, thrusting forward to pierce the beast's throat, yanking the bone free with a wet "SHHK!" Another shadow leapt at him from behind; he spun, swinging wild, the jagged tip tearing into its shoulder. His hands were slick with blood—his and theirs.
The pack pressed closer. One beast clamped its jaws on his leg, teeth sinking into muscle as pain exploded white-hot. Rathmur bellowed and brought the bone down in a vertical slash, stabbing through its skull until it went limp. But before he could breathe, claws raked across his back, shredding his flesh and forcing him to stumble forward. He staggered, coughing blood, yet still twisted his body to ram the bone into the belly of another beast. Their howls of pain mixed with his ragged gasps, the dungeon alive with carnage.
His vision blurred, but instinct kept him moving. Each swing was wilder, each stab more desperate, as blood gushed from torn shoulders and ripped flesh. A beast lunged straight for his throat; he shoved the bone upward, piercing its jaw, but its claws raked across his chest before it fell. He staggered back, soaked in blood, chest heaving, surrounded by corpses that twitched and snarled even in death. Still he roared into the swarm, body breaking but spirit unyielding, every breath a defiance against the darkness itself.
Needless to say, his body was left in no condition to fight. Large chunks of flesh were missing from his arms and legs, and deep wounds marred his back and stomach, torn open by countless bites.
He was drenched in crimson, his own blood mixing with that of the beasts. The dungeon floor was slick with gore, littered with mangled corpses—a scene so horrific it was as if death itself had made its home here.
Yet somehow, Rathmur remained standing. It was a miracle in itself, for no body should have endured such punishment. What pushed him to stay upright? Not strength—his strength was gone. It was his will to survive, and the gnawing thought of his mother waiting for him.
The jagged bone still rested in his trembling hands, though it looked ready to snap at any moment. And against the ten remaining beasts, each one circling with hungry eyes, he knew the truth: his pitiful weapon, and his broken body, could not save him now.
At that moment, a memory surfaced—his father's voice, stern yet gentle:
"Remember, son. We live in a world that looks beautiful, but beneath it lies bitter, ugly cruelty. Dangers, monsters, beasts, evil people. I won't always be there for you and your mother. As commander of the village guards, I could face death any day. And when that happens, you and your mother will be left alone. So become strong, Rathmur… strong enough to protect her from harm."
"I must have been seven, maybe eight," Rathmur thought bitterly. "I don't even remember clearly. But it's true—weak as I am, I've always been her only support. And now look at me… left in this pathetic state."
"Fuck… what kind of trash am I? I couldn't even fulfill one promise. It doesn't matter if it wasn't all my fault. The truth is, here I am—about to be ripped apart completely."
His thoughts dissolved as his body finally betrayed him. His legs trembled and buckled, unable to hold him any longer. His vision blurred to nothing but shadows and light. From the corners of his eyes, hot crimson tears streaked down, mixing with blood until sorrow and pain were indistinguishable.
In the bright yellow glow of the torches, the crimson gore shone even more vividly. Rathmur knelt on the blood-soaked ground, head tilted back toward the ceiling, eyes shut tight. Hot crimson tears traced down his battered face, slipping across his cheeks before dripping onto the stone below.
All around him, the guttural growls of the remaining ten beasts echoed through the dungeon. Their jaws snapped and claws scraped the cracked floor as they circled closer, ready to leap at any moment—ready to tear him apart.
"Grrrrrr… Grrrrrrr…"
The beasts lunged, claws and fangs sinking into Rathmur's flesh. His limbs, his stomach, his very body was torn apart piece by piece, and the dungeon shook with his terrible, agonized scream.
"HRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGHHHHHHH!"
"HRRRAAAAAAAGHHHHHHH!"
"HRRRAAAAGHHHHHHH!"
"HRRAAGHHHHH!"
"HAAAH!"
"HAH—!"
The cry of despair and pain reverberated through the hall, rattling the torches and echoing off the cracked stone. But after only a few minutes, the sound began to falter, fading into broken gasps… until at last, only the guttural growls of the beasts remained, filling the gory dungeon.
It was then that a melodious voice, soft and womanly, rippled through the darkness—sweet as honey, yet laced with something that made his soul tremble.
✍️ Author's Note
"Thanks for reading Chapter 4!
If you're enjoying mortals rise, don't forget to Add this novel to your Library so you won't miss upcoming chapters 🙌."