CHAPTER 193: CLEANING THE WAY

The rotted wood hissed through the muggy air. Julius pivoted on his heels, never more than necessary. A twist of the torso, an arm snapping forward like a rusted spring—deadly precise.

The tip of the wood struck the second creature not on the skull, but at the junction between neck and shoulder.

A sharp, clean crack, like a dead branch breaking. The beast collapsed, its front legs suddenly limp, its jaws drooling onto the stone before Julius crushed its neck with a quick, precise stomp—without even looking.

There was no rage in him. Just accounting. A dark, pragmatic art.

The yellow dots in the shadows shifted, drew closer in waves. The scratching turned to shrill scraping, like a tide of claws across wet stone.

They attacked together this time. Three, four, erupting from the lateral dark, others lunging straight at the massive figure blocking their path to the weaker prey.

Julius breathed like a forge bellows. Deep. Measured. Not a hint of panic. He was no longer a man, but a pivot—a fixed point around which death revolved.

He stepped half a pace back, forcing the first wave to pile up in the narrow tunnel. The piece of wood became a fluid extension of his will.

Suddenly—a short horizontal blow, slamming into a skull mid-charge. The creature crashed into the wall, head shattered, leaving a slick, dark starburst on the stone.

Then a downward stroke, like a woodsman splitting green timber. The weapon buried itself between the shoulder blades of another that had tried to leap onto his back. It let out a sharp squeal before crumpling, hind legs twitching with spasms.

Julius used a fallen corpse as a shield, jamming the still-warm body into the gaping jaws of the next before driving his weapon deep into its glowing eye socket.

A sickening crunch—like a walnut underfoot.

Dylan, pressed against the cold, slick wall of the descent shaft, felt the acid of adrenaline burn his throat. His legs trembled. Every impact, every bone-snapping crack, every gurgling death echoed in his ribcage.

He watched Julius move in the dim light like a monumental shadow orchestrating a macabre ballet. Not a single wasted movement. Every step, every turn, every blow calculated for maximum damage with minimum effort. Balanced on uneven ground, using the tunnel’s narrowness as an ally.

It was terrifyingly efficient. Brutality made methodical through years—centuries?—of practice.

The wood, saturated with black blood and brain matter, began to split. Julius felt it. When a larger creature, pustules swollen with nauseating violet fluid, rushed at him with a roar, he didn’t strike. He shifted. A quick sidestep, one massive hand grabbing the creature’s slimy, wrinkled neck, using its momentum to hurl it onto a jagged rock outcrop.

Its spine snapped with a loud crack. The beast fell still, one hind leg twitching weakly.

A pause. Brief. Labored breathing filled the silence. The air reeked of sour blood, pus, and bestial fear. The yellow dots receded slightly, hesitating before the silent slaughter.

Julius stood in the midst of a square of still-twitching corpses, his chest soaked in sweat and dark fluids. His weapon, now cracked and dripping, hung at his side. He slowly turned toward Dylan with a smile—not quite a taunt, just a heavy glance in the dimness that clearly said: Watch. Learn. This is survival.

Then his amber eyes, cold as stone, shifted back to the writhing dark. He spat onto the floor, a thick glob that mingled with the blood.

"They’re thinking it through," he muttered, voice gravelly in the tension-laced silence. "Little bastards learn fast. Too bad for them."

He adjusted his grip on the wood, finding a still-solid patch near the base. His knuckles cracked. His breath—still steady—whistled faintly through gritted teeth.

The next wave came, slower this time, trying to flank, to distract him while one skittered toward Dylan.

Julius read it instantly. He stepped back again, forcing Dylan to do the same, backing them both further into the chimney’s mouth. He left no opening. When one creature tried climbing the wall toward Dylan, Julius—without even turning—lashed out with his heel like a mule. The kick shattered its front limbs. It collapsed with a scream before he finished it off with a backwards stomp, spinning in one fluid motion to face the main group again.

The fight resumed. Slower now. More dangerous. Julius conserved his strength, his exhausted weapon. He no longer crushed skulls outright. He targeted joints—a sharp blow to the knee, another to the elbow—paralyzing, dismembering, before finishing with a stab to the throat or skull base.

It was even more horrific to watch. The howls of crippled creatures, their twitching spasms in the half-light, the implacable precision with which Julius broke them and then ended them.

Dylan closed his eyes for a moment, overwhelmed by nausea and fatigue. The stigma beneath his bandages seemed to throb—not with pain, but with a keen, almost hungry awareness of the violence exploding meters away.

When he reopened them, Julius was finishing the last of the wave—a smaller, faster one he’d pinned against a pile of stones, driving his thick fingers into its eyes before twisting its neck with a dry snap of the wrist.

Silence fell again, heavier than before, laden with the stench of carnage. Julius leaned forward, hands on knees, breathing like a bull. His weapon, definitively broken, lay in pieces near a corpse.

Scratches crisscrossed his thick arms, oozing dark blood. He straightened slowly, scanning the shadows beyond the dim gray light. The yellow eyes were gone. Only faint, furtive scratching sounds betrayed a retreat.

"Path’s clear," Julius grunted, standing with a groan. He wiped his filthy hands on his thighs, leaving dark streaks. His gaze landed on Dylan—pale and shaking against the wall. There was something strange in those amber eyes. Satisfaction? Contempt? Or just the cooled steel after the forge.

"So, bag of bones?" he growled, voice shredding the putrid silence. "Took notes? Because the lesson ain’t over. And the road’s still long."

He jerked his chin toward the dark tunnel beyond the smoking heap of bodies. "Now walk. And watch your step. It’s slippery."