Capítulo 158: Chapter 158
Molegaru sat in the dark of his small cabin, the air damp and heavy, the smell of earth and rot pressing in around him. His fingers twitched with a strange nervous energy, the way they always did before something would happen—before the terror would come. But this time, it was different. His thoughts, twisted and painful as they were, didn't focus on the usual torment of being a freak of nature. They focused on her.
He remembered the first time he'd seen her—walking through the village square like a light among shadows, a woman who didn't look at him with the same disgust that everyone else did. She didn't run when he tried to speak. She listened, even smiled, and in that moment, Molegaru knew something had shifted deep inside of him. He felt real for the first time in his life. She saw him.
Her name was Elira, and she was everything Molegaru had never dared to hope for. His face, covered in the distorted, mole-like features that plagued him—bulging eyes, sharp teeth, skin rough and dark, like something born from the bowels of the earth—made him a monster in the eyes of the townsfolk. He had been a burden, a joke, a creature that was meant to be shunned. But not her.
Elira had shown him kindness, and in return, he gave her his heart, something he never thought would be possible. The touch of her hand, the soft sound of her voice, even the way she held her head when she looked at him—it all stayed with him, haunting him in the silence of his cabin.
But the others—they couldn't bear to see her with him. They called her mad, said she was under a spell, that she had lost her mind. They warned her, threatened her, but she ignored them. For a while, it seemed as if maybe, just maybe, the world had finally let them be.
Then they came for her.
One evening, as Molegaru returned from the woods, he saw the torches first—their orange glow cutting through the thick dusk. The voices followed, low and guttural, laced with anger. The mob.
Molegaru ran, his heart pounding in his chest, desperate to get back to her. He found her on the ground, her body crumpled, eyes wide, staring into nothing. The marks on her neck were unmistakable. They had killed her. The people, his people—had killed her for loving him.
Rage exploded in his chest, so sudden, so sharp, it nearly shattered him. His body trembled, the small, filthy shack he'd called home shaking with the force of it. He stepped forward, his fists clenched, and for the first time, he wanted to kill. He wanted to destroy.
And so he did.
The first man came across him in the woods. Molegaru heard the creak of the branches underfoot, the snap of twigs. He didn't even think, just lunged forward, slamming his body into the man with all the power his deformed frame could muster. The man's scream rang in his ears, but Molegaru didn't care. The taste of blood, the rush of violence, it felt like everything he had ever known, every twisted feeling inside of him, had found its place.
The man's skull cracked beneath his hands, and Molegaru felt his heartbeat slow, the world around him becoming distant, detached. The body crumpled, lifeless.
There was no satisfaction in it. No joy. Just a hollow emptiness that echoed louder with every victim.
The village became a place of death, a place of quiet screams and unspoken horrors. Molegaru, with his grotesque appearance, was not known by name anymore. He was just the monster, the terror that had descended on the people who had rejected him. Each night, he found them—hiding in their homes, pleading with their gods, their lives ending in gruesome ways.
One after another, the town's people fell. The black stains of their blood marked the dirt paths, their broken bodies the only testament to Molegaru's rage. But it never felt like enough. It was never enough.
The ground under his feet felt softer as he walked the path of carnage, his own body growing weaker, heavier with each murder. It was like he was dying alongside them—like their blood seeped into his own, changing him in ways he didn't understand.
Then, he found the woman.
She stood alone in the square, staring at him with wide eyes, her mouth trembling. For a moment, Molegaru hesitated. He could smell the fear on her, but there was something else. Something familiar. Something warm.
Her lips moved, and Molegaru leaned in, straining to hear her words. "I loved her too."
His mind reeled. She... she knew Elira. She had loved her.
He had killed for love, but here was this woman, standing in front of him, her heart torn in the same way. He couldn't do it. He couldn't kill her.
But then the sound of footsteps reached his ears, and his body reacted before his mind could catch up. The others were coming.
The woman didn't scream. She didn't run. She just stared at him, waiting.
Molegaru turned. He heard them—more of them, the villagers, the ones who had started this all, their hatred for him still burning in their eyes. They didn't understand. They would never understand. He raised his hand, his fingers clawed, ready to fight, but the woman was there, standing between him and them.
"No," she whispered. "No more."
She stepped closer, her voice trembling but firm. "If you kill them, you will be just like them. If you kill me, you will become the monster they always thought you were."
Molegaru's heart squeezed. He felt his body tremble, the rage turning into something else—something cold and hollow. He wanted to listen. He wanted to be better, to stop the violence, to just end it. But it was too late. The blood had already stained his hands.
Before he could speak, before he could do anything, the mob descended, their torches raised high.
And they killed her.
They killed her right in front of him.
Molegaru's mind broke. There was no more thought, no more reason. He screamed, his sound raw, animalistic. His hands went to her body, shaking her, pleading with her to wake up. But she wouldn't. She couldn't.
The town's people grabbed him, dragged him to the center of the square. They didn't kill him—they didn't need to. They left him there, broken, ruined, covered in the blood of the ones he had loved.
And Molegaru stayed there, kneeling in the dirt, his heart shattered, his mind splintered into pieces.
The town watched him, but there was no satisfaction in their eyes anymore. There was no justice. There was just a man broken beyond repair.
In the end, Molegaru was left with nothing but the bodies of the people he had murdered and the woman he couldn't save. And even when the blood dried and the villagers moved on, Molegaru stayed there, trapped in that moment of horror, consumed by it. There was no redemption for him. There never would be.
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