Chapitre 38: Chapter 38 A Woodsman’s Terror

The air was unnaturally still as Kristian approached the cottage, his boots squelching softly in the mud. Gristle trotted beside him, tail swishing, but the boar seemed uneasy, his ears swiveling toward the house.

Something wasn't right.

Kristian paused a few paces from the front door, the weight of his knapsack forgotten as a sick feeling coiled in his stomach. The faint metallic tang of blood hung in the air, sharp and unmistakable. His breathing hitched, shallow and uneven.

He dropped the knapsack to the ground, the logs spilling out with dull thuds. "No, no, no." he muttered under his breath, his hands clenched into fists.

"Stay here," he whispered hoarsely to Gristle, his voice strained.

The boar let out a low grunt but didn't budge.

Kristian's heart pounded as he stepped closer, his hand reaching for the axe slung across his back. His breath caught in his throat as he peered through the open doorway.

The first thing he saw was the blood.

It painted the walls and floor in gruesome strokes, pooling beneath broken furniture, splattered across the small hearth. His parents' bodies lay sprawled near the table, faces twisted in lifeless terror, while his little brother Leo's small frame was crumpled in a corner, eerily still.

Kristian's legs stiffened, his entire body shaking. His eyes flashed around the scene frantically, and his breath came in short, jerky gasps.

Then came the sounds. Wet tearing, low growls, and the scrape of claws on wood.

There were four. Large panthers, their sleek black fur glistening with rain and blood. They hunched over the remains of his family, jaws working at tearing flesh.

A choked sound escaped Kristian's throat, part gasp, part guttural whimper. He wobbled a step backward; his muscles went rigid with shock. His body jerked violently, it seemed as if he had something similar to Tourette's syndrome.

A high-pitched squeal ripped from his mouth, followed by an uncontrollable series of barks and grunts. "N-no, no! Ack—hah—stop! STOP!" His arms jerked spasmodically, and his head snapped to the side with a sharp tic.

The panthers froze, their golden eyes locking onto him. For a moment, the only sound was the ragged wheeze of Kristian's breath and the faint patter of rain on the roof.

Then they attacked.

The first panther flew at him, claws bared. Instinct boomed to life in his skull, drowning out the tumult in his brain. Kristian's hands moved on their own accord, snagging the axe off his back in a single smooth motion.

The blade met the panther mid-leap, slicing into its shoulder with a wet crunch. The beast let out a blood-curdling snarl as it hit the ground, thrashing in pain.

"Gristle..!" Kristian yelled, his voice cracking.

The boar charged forward with a ferocious squeal, slamming into a second panther and knocking it off balance. The creature yowled, its claws raking futilely against Gristle's thick hide.

The third panther circled Kristian, its muscles coiled like springs. He swung the axe in a wide arc, forcing it to back off, but the fourth panther darted in from the side. Its claws raked across his arm, tearing through his shirt and drawing blood.

Kristian howled in agony, his body jerking in spasm as adrenaline coursmed through him. "D-damn it! Get-off me!" he snarled, hailing the axe-butt around into the panther's face.

The creature recoiled, hissing, its golden eyes ablaze with a predator's hunger.

Gristle barreled into another panther, his tusks gouging deep into its side. Blood sprayed as the beast let out a strangled cry, collapsing under the boar's relentless assault.

"Good—hah! Good boy!" Kristian shouted, his voice trembling as he turned his attention back to the others.

The rest of the big panthers faltered behind, their bodies taut, considering. One growled low in its throat and laid its ears.

Kristian's breath came in ragged gasps, his body trembling from head to toe. The tics came in waves, sharp jerks of his head and shoulders that made the axe wobble in his hands. "C-come on," he spat, his voice breaking. "You w-want me? I'm right here!"

The panthers moved as one, darting toward him with deadly precision.

Kristian swung his axe in a desperate arc, catching one in the chest and sending it sprawling. The other closed the distance, its claws slashing at his side. He cried out as pain flared through his ribs, but he didn't let go of the axe.

With a guttural roar, he brought the blade down, burying it in the creature's back.

This is not a fair battle-the last panther hesitated, bleeding. Its golden eyes moved between Kristian and Gristle, both battered, bloodied, but very much defiant.

Kristian took one stride forwards; his shoulders heaving with each breath. "Get out," he snarled-low and venomous in his tone. "Get. Out."

With a snarl, the panther stepped backwards in cautious movements, suddenly spun, and launched himself at the forest to dissolve into the shadows.

Kristian was still standing there, his chest heaving up and down while he struggled for breath. His body bucked with uncontrollable tics; these made him stagger to and fro. The axe fell from his grasp and tumbled down into the bloodied mud with a dull thud.

Kristian stood in the doorway, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. His legs felt heavy, his muscles trembling beneath the strain of holding himself upright. The axe lay forgotten at his feet, the blade still slick with panther blood. Gristle stood beside him, the boar's flanks heaving as he sniffed the air, but Kristian barely noticed.

He stepped forward, the crack of his boots against the soaked floorboards loud. His chest felt tight, each breath scraping against the lump in his throat. His tics worsened, his body jerking out of control. A sharp twitch pulled his head to one side; his arms convulsed, fingers clawing at empty air.

"Hah—haah—stop… stop it," he muttered to himself, stumbling over the words. "Not… now. Not—no, no!"

His eyes wild, his gaze flew about the room at the carnage. His father's body was near the table, hands at his chest as if to ward off an attack. His mother slumped against the wall, staring lifelessly at the ceiling.

And then there was Leo.

Kristian's knees buckled as he reached his brother's small, crumpled form. His hands shook violently as he reached out, his fingers brushing against Leo's bloodstained shirt. A strangled sound escaped his throat, a mix of a sob and a guttural bark.

"No, no, no!" His voice cracked, words tumbling out in a frantic rush. His head snapped to the side with another harsh tic, shoulders jerking as if trying to throw off the weight of what he was seeing.

Something was clutched in Leo's small hand. Kristian's breath caught as he pried the fingers open, revealing a bruised and sticky peach. Its sweet scent hit him like a blow, and he recoiled, dropping it to the floor.

"Peaches," he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Fragments pieced together in his mind as he came to a realization. It was his birthday. He had forgotten in the chaos of daily struggles, but Leo hadn't.

He must have gone to the market in secret, out in rain and mud to bring back something special. Kristian's favorite, a peach.

The peaches lured the panthers.

"Oh, Leo," Kristian choked, his voice breaking. Another violent tic convulsed his body, his head snapping forward hard enough it almost toppled him. He grabbed at his own hair, clutching it as if he was anchoring himself. "I—hah—I should've been here. Should've… stopped them. Should've—should've—"

His words broke down into a series of quick, sharp, involuntary yelps and grunts. He pounded his fist against the blood-soaked floor, and the force reverberated back up his arm. "Damn it! DAMN IT!"

It hit him like a wave, pulling him down. He hunched over the body of Leo, his whole frame shaking with sobs and tics that came in relentless waves. His mind screamed at him, playing the same cruel refrain over and over in his brain: You weren't here. You weren't fast enough. You didn't protect them.

Gristle leaned against his side and let out a low, mournful grunt. Kristian barely heard it.

He looked around the room again, his vision blurred by tears. His parents, his little brother—they were all gone because of him. Because he wasn't here when they needed him most.

He slammed his fist into the floor once more, harder this time. The blood on his knuckles smeared as he hit the wood over and over, his anger mingling with his grief.

"I should've known," he whispered hoarsely. "I should've… should've stopped it."

The guilt gnawed at him, sharp and unrelenting. He'd been out in the woods, thinking about firewood and his own burdens, while his family faced their deaths. He clenched his fists so tightly that his nails bit into his palms, drawing blood.

"I'll make them pay," he muttered, his voice low and venomous. A violent tic pulled at his face, his lips twitching into a snarl. "Every last one of them."

He didn't just mean the panthers. He meant the people that had pushed them into this life, the people that had cursed his family with an eternal illness.

Kristian levered himself to his feet, his body shaking all over. His hands flailed at the axe, grasping it tightly until his knuckles were white. His breathing came in ragged gasps, occasionally interrupted by sharp barks and grunts.

He turned to Gristle, the boar's dark eyes watching him with something that looked like sorrow. "We'll bury them," Kristian said, his voice shaking but resolute. "We'll bury them, and then… then we'll go, hah—we'll go and kill those demon worshiping bastards."

Gristle let out a low snort, his tail flicking as he moved closer to Kristian's side.

The rain had started again, a soft drizzle pattering against the roof and seeping through the cracks. Kristian did not care. He would dig and he would bury and then he would find a way to make those bastards pay for what they had done.

The rain beat down steadily as Kristian sat in the blood-soaked floor of the cottage, body shaking from grief and exhaustion. His hands lay limply in his lap, the axe beside him. Gristle sat nearby, snout buried in his front legs, watching over his boy in solemn silence.

Kristian's gaze fell on his parents, their lifeless forms huddled together in death as they had been in life at the bottom of their dug graves. A new wave of guilt and sorrow washed over him, but beneath it was a bitter, simmering anger.

They didn't deserve this. None of them did.

Suffering had shadowed his parents' lives from the very beginning. As long as Kristian could remember, their sickness had always been there, a constant shadow over their lives. They'd told him it was a curse, though as a boy he'd never fully understood what that meant.

They had once lived in the Land of Demons, a place Kristian had only heard of in fragments of whispered stories. It was a land steeped in legend, filled with powerful priests and dark magic. His parents had been born into a village near its borders, a simple life of farming and trade. But that life had been torn away when the followers of Mōryō—the ancient demon whose name was spoken only in hushed tones—descended on the village. Kristian didn't know the full details. His parents rarely spoke of it, their faces growing pale and their voices tight whenever the subject came up. What he did know was that they had been accused of defiling the name of Mōryō, though they had sworn they were innocent. The followers had branded them heretics and cursed them both.

Cruel and fine was the curse. His parents wasted with a pained sickness, the slightest actions a chore to perform for simple survival each day. The worst part of the curse left them with an aura of malevolence none could see but could feel those passing by them. To everyone else, they were contemptible, disgusting, people that one avoids or at best chased away with stones and catcalls.

That was why they had fled to the woods, building the small cottage far away from any village or curious travelers. It was the only place they could live in peace.

And it wasn't just his parents who had suffered. The curse had left its mark on Kristian, too.

He'd grown up wondering why his body twitched and jerked uncontrollably, why strange noises escaped his throat at the worst moments. He didn't understand why he couldn't stop, not when his father's patience was running thin, or his mother's face would twist in some sad expression every time she saw him struggling to speak.

It wasn't until years later that they'd told him the truth. The curse hadn't spared him. His Tourette's was its cruel gift to him—a constant, physical reminder of the demon's followers and their hatred.

The memory closed Kristian's fists. The followers of Mōryō had taken everything from his family: their health, their home, their pride. And now they were gone, leaving him solitary with the burden of their sufferings.

The rain outside grew heavier, the sound pounding against the roof and leaking through the cracks in the walls. Kristian's tics flared violently, his head snapping to the side as his shoulders jerked and his throat emitted a series of sharp barks.

"I… I couldn't save you," he whispered, his voice hoarse and trembling. "I couldn't—hah! Hah!—protect you. What kind of son am I?"

His parents fought so hard to give him a chance at life. His father, once strong and proud, had worked himself to the bone even as the illness ravaged his body. His mother, frail but unyielding, had always found a way to smile through the pain.

And Leo—poor, bright-eyed Leo—deserved none of it. He had only wanted to make Kristian happy, to bring him a peach for his birthday.

Kristian's throat constricted as he stared at the peach, still lying where he had dropped it. The scent that had been comforting a moment before now seemed like a cruel mockery.

The rage simmering inside him began to boil over. He slammed his fist into the floor, the impact sending a jolt of pain up his arm. His body twitched violently, his breath hitching with sharp grunts and gasps.

"No more," he growled, his voice shaking. "No more hiding. No more running. I'll find them—the followers, the ones who did this—and I'll make them pay."

The words hung heavy in the air, a promise spoken into the darkness of the cottage.

Gristle let out a low grunt, nudging Kristian's leg. The boy reached out, his trembling hand resting on the boar's thick hide. "You're all I've got now, Gristle," he said, his voice breaking. "But we'll survive. We have to. For them."

The boar snorted softly-his warm presence a small comfort in the cold, rain-soaked night.

Kristian now turned his gaze toward the axe, its blade smeared with the blood of the panthers. He leaned to pick it up, so balanced and proper in his hands.

With a deep, shuddering breath, Kristian stood. What the future held, he did not know, but of one thing he was certain: the curse that had haunted his family would not end with them.

It would end with him.

A/N : How we feeling about the new guy?