Slaughterborn: The Path to Godhood

The human camp lay beyond the wasteland, nestled between the jagged ruins of an old fortress. Torches lined the perimeter, their flickering light barely keeping the darkness at bay. The watchmen stood tense, gripping their weapons tighter than usual.

They had been expecting Brakar's return.

But when he stumbled into the firelight—**alone, covered in dried blood, his sword hanging limply at his side—**they realized something was wrong.

The guards rushed forward, weapons at the ready.

"Brakar!" one of them called out. "Where are the others? What happened?"

Brakar didn't answer immediately. His eyes were hollow, his hands trembling.

He looked at the men around him as if he didn't recognize them. As if they weren't even there.

Then, finally, he spoke.

"He's not a monster."

The guards exchanged uneasy glances.

Brakar lifted his gaze to them, voice hoarse, haunted.

"He's worse."

The camp fell silent as Brakar recounted the horror.

He told them about the shadow that moved without sound, the whispers in the dark, the torches that flickered and died one by one.

He told them how his men had panicked, how they had turned on each other before they ever saw their killer.

He told them how he had been spared.

The gathered humans shifted uncomfortably, gripping their weapons tighter.

One of the commanders, a man clad in iron-plated armor with a scarred face, narrowed his eyes.

"You're saying one creature did all of this?" His voice was skeptical, but there was an edge of unease beneath his doubt.

Brakar's hands clenched into fists.

"He's not a creature. He's something else."

He swallowed hard, as if speaking the next words would make them real.

"He's hunting us."

The silence stretched.

Then, one of the younger recruits—a man barely past his first few battles—laughed.

"A ghost story? That's all this is?" He snorted, crossing his arms. "You expect us to believe that one—"

A hand grabbed his wrist.

Brakar's.

The grip was iron-hard. Unrelenting.

The recruit's smirk faltered.

Brakar's voice was low.

"Say his name."

The recruit hesitated.

"Say it," Brakar demanded. "Say his name and see what happens."

The recruit opened his mouth.

Then stopped.

Because in that moment, he realized—

He didn't know it.

No one did.

No one had ever spoken it aloud.

The horror dawned on them all at once.

The thing in the dark had no name.

By midnight, the entire camp had heard Brakar's tale.

The hardened warriors dismissed it. They called him weak. A coward.

But they still kept their torches close.

The younger soldiers joked about it. Called it a myth.

But they still looked over their shoulders.

The commanders met in hushed voices, arguing about whether to increase their defenses or launch a full assault into the wastes.

No decision was made.

Because in their hearts, they all knew the truth.

You cannot fight what you cannot see.

You cannot kill what you cannot find.

And you cannot escape what is already hunting you.

Veyrath watched from the shadows beyond the torchlight, perched on the ruins of a crumbling wall.

He had followed Brakar here, unseen, unheard.

The humans had huddled together like cornered animals, desperate for safety they would never find.

Fear had already infected them.

Now, he would let it fester.

He did not need to attack tonight.

Not yet.

They would expect it. They would stay awake, gripping their weapons, straining their ears.

But nothing would come.

And that—that was worse.

By morning, they would be exhausted. Unnerved. On edge.

And that was when he would strike.

The first sign of their breaking came at dawn.

A scout, patrolling near the ruins, never returned.

By midday, another disappeared.

Neither left behind a body.

By nightfall, two more were missing.

The camp descended into paranoia.

They searched the grounds. Counted their men. Double-checked the perimeter.

But no answers came.

Only fear.

And in the darkness, Veyrath smiled.

They would break.

They would all break.

It was only a matter of time.

The camp was dying.

Not by blade. Not by fire.

But by fear.

Veyrath had seen it before—in dying kingdoms, in broken warbands, in the eyes of those who had lost everything before the battle had even begun.

Fear did not kill instantly.

It rotted.

It twisted a man's mind, turning every shadow into a threat, every noise into an attack. It made them doubt their own instincts, their own allies, their own sanity.

And when the breaking point came?

They would destroy themselves.

He just had to wait.

By the second night, they stopped searching for the missing scouts.

They were too afraid to.

Every step into the darkness felt like a march toward death.

The watchmen no longer patrolled in shifts. They sat together near the fires, backs against each other, weapons drawn, speaking in hushed voices.

Veyrath moved unseen among the ruins, watching, listening.

He did not need to strike. They were already breaking.

It began with whispers.

Low voices in the night, spoken when they thought no one could hear.

"We need to leave."

"If we stay, we die."

"No one's coming to save us."

By dawn, three men had vanished.

No one knew where they went.

Perhaps they had fled into the wastes.

Perhaps they had tried to run back to their superiors.

Perhaps—they had simply disappeared.

The others did not search for them.

No one dared to speak their names.

Because deep down, they knew the truth.

They were already dead.

The commanders tried to restore order.

Tried to stamp out the growing paranoia before it consumed them all.

Brakar—**now a man barely holding onto his own sanity—**stood before the remaining soldiers, voice raw with desperation.

"This is nothing but a trick!" he bellowed. "He's just one creature! One! We outnumber him! We can—"

A distant sound cut him off.

A faint whisper.

No words. No meaning.

Just a voice in the wind.

Soft.

Distant.

Wrong.

The gathered soldiers froze.

Brakar's breath hitched.

He clenched his fists, trying to hold his composure.

"Ignore it!" he barked. "It's nothing! A mind game! That's all it is!"

Then the fires went out.

Every torch. Every lantern.

Snuffed out.

The darkness swallowed the camp whole.

A collective gasp ran through the humans, followed by the frantic scraping of flint and steel.

Nothing lit.

Their hands trembled.

They tried again.

Still nothing.

And then—the first scream.

It came from the edge of the camp.

A voice—high, shrill, choked with terror.

Then silence.

Someone ran.

Someone fell.

More screams.

More silence.

Brakar whirled, sword in hand, his own breath unsteady.

"Stay together!" he shouted. "Hold your positions! He's—"

A blade clattered to the ground.

Another gasp.

Another voice—this time closer.

"No, no, no—"

Silence.

Brakar's heart pounded.

He couldn't see them.

He couldn't see anything.

And then—

the fires returned.

Instantly.

Abruptly.

As if they had never been gone.

Nothing had changed.

And yet—everything had.

Because in that flickering light, they saw the truth.

Two more were missing.

A man fell to his knees.

"We're all dead," he whispered. "We're all dead, we're all dead, we're all—"

Another man grabbed him, shaking him violently.

"Shut up!"

"I can't—"

"I said shut up!"

A fist flew.

The kneeling man hit the ground, dazed.

Another drew a sword.

"Stop fighting!" Brakar snarled. "We need to—"

A punch. A shove. A scream.

Another.

Then—

blood.

Someone stabbed first.

Someone fell.

And then the real killing began.

Veyrath did not lift a finger.

He simply watched.

As they turned on each other.

As they lashed out in blind fear.

As their own paranoia became their executioner.

He had seen this before.

He had done this before.

This was not war.

This was not even a hunt.

This was a slow, inevitable extinction.

The humans thought themselves apex predators.

Now, they were prey fighting over scraps.

And he was the shadow in the dark.

The thing they could not kill.

The thing they could not fight.

The thing they could not escape.

By dawn, the camp was quiet.

By dawn, only six remained.

The rest lay dead—not by his hand, but by their own.

And in the silence, Veyrath finally stepped forward.

Into the light.

Into their nightmares.

The last survivors turned.

Their faces drained of color.

And they knew—

They had never stood a chance.

They stood in a loose circle, surrounded by the bodies of their own kin, their comrades, their friends. Some still clutched their weapons, but their grips were weak. Their bodies swayed as exhaustion and terror weighed them down.

They had fought each other.

They had fled into the dark.

They had seen things they could not explain.

And now, they saw him.

Veyrath stepped forward from the ruins, his crimson eyes glowing in the fading light.

He did not charge.

He did not strike.

He simply walked.

And they flinched at every step.

Brakar stood among the last survivors, his once-proud armor now tarnished with blood—some his, some not.

His sword was still in his hand, but his fingers trembled.

He had been the one to tell them this thing was real.

That it wasn't just a monster.

Now, as Veyrath approached, the truth weighed heavier than ever.

Brakar swallowed hard.

"It's over."

One of the others turned to him, eyes wild.

"What do you mean it's over?" His voice cracked. "We have weapons! We can fight! We can—"

Brakar shook his head.

His voice was barely a whisper.

"No. We can't."

Veyrath did not stop.

The humans backed away.

But there was nowhere left to run.

The youngest of the six snapped first.

He broke into a sprint, bolting toward the ruins, toward any possible escape.

Veyrath moved faster.

A single Shadow Step.

A flicker of darkness—and he was in front of the boy.

The human barely had time to scream.

Veyrath's claws pierced his stomach, twisting.

He lifted the boy off the ground, letting him writhe, gasping, eyes wide with agony.

Then, with a slow, deliberate motion—he crushed his throat.

The body fell to the dirt.

The remaining five stared.

One dropped his weapon.

Another sank to his knees.

Veyrath did not stop.

The next one to fall begged.

He dropped to his knees, tears streaming down his face.

"Please," he whispered. "Please, I don't want to die. Please, gods, please—"

Veyrath stepped behind him.

His clawed hand gripped the man's head.

A slow squeeze. Pressure.

The human whimpered, his voice breaking.

Then—a sharp twist.

A snap.

The body slumped.

Four left.

One of them screamed.

The scream turned into a battle cry.

A final, desperate attempt to fight.

The man lunged with his sword, swinging wildly.

Veyrath did not dodge.

He caught the blade in his bare hand.

Steel met flesh and bone.

It cut deep.

Blood dripped.

But Veyrath's crimson eyes did not waver.

The human froze.

Realization dawned too late.

Veyrath's other hand plunged into his chest.

Fingers wrapped around his heart.

A slow, crushing squeeze.

The man choked. Twitched.

Then—he was still.

Three left.

The next one turned to flee.

Not toward the ruins.

Not toward escape.

But toward Brakar.

"Help me," he whimpered. "Please—Brakar—please—"

Brakar did not move.

He knew the truth.

Veyrath was not letting anyone leave.

The fleeing man tripped. Fell.

Veyrath's boot pressed against his back.

A low growl.

"…Run."

The human sobbed.

He tried.

But his legs would not move.

Veyrath's claws sank into his back, tearing through flesh and bone.

Blood splashed across the dirt.

Two left.

Brakar and the final survivor—**a woman, barely holding onto her sword—**stood frozen.

Veyrath stared at them.

They did not run.

They did not fight.

They only waited.

Brakar exhaled, long and slow.

He lifted his blade.

Not to attack.

Not to defend.

But to accept.

Veyrath stepped forward.

One last time.

Brakar swung.

Veyrath caught the blade with ease.

This time, he did not let go.

He stepped forward, pushing Brakar back, until the man's strength failed.

Until the blade fell from his hands.

Until he was on his knees, looking up at death.

The woman beside him did not move.

She dropped her weapon.

Veyrath knelt.

He studied them.

Two last remnants of a force that had once numbered dozens.

Now, they were just two.

Then, at last, he spoke.

"I've let you run away."

Brakar swallowed hard.

Veyrath's voice was calm.

"I will not let you run away again."

Brakar's breath hitched.

The woman beside him sobbed.

Veyrath raised his hand.

One final strike.

One final kill.

The bodies lay still.

The fires had burned out.

The ruins were silent.

Veyrath stood alone among the dead.

Their fear had been real.

Their **desperation, their pain, their final moments—**he had taken all of it.

And now, they were gone.

The wasteland belonged to him once more.

The humans had tried to claim it.

They had failed.

And soon, when their kind came searching for them—when they found only corpses, only silence, only emptiness—

They would know.

They would all know.

This was not their world.

It never had been.

And now, it never would be.

The last two humans died together.

And with them—the last echoes of their resistance.