Screeching sounds echoed across the battlefield.
Amidst the rubble, Bolca stood up—bloodied and beaten. He raised his twin knives once more and charged toward the Head Decadent.
"That one has no limbs—it can only attack through those powerful screams." he thought, watching as the Decadent began to inhale, the back of its oversized head expanding as it gathered air for its next sonic blast.
But then, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the other one.
The Tentacled Decadent gathered stone and debris with its writhing limbs, coating the projectiles in corrosive acid before hurling them at Bolca.
He spun backward, dodging—barely. The acidic shards grazed him, searing his skin with splashes of burning pain. But debris slammed into the Head Decadent's skull, rupturing the air sac at the back of its head. It choked, then spewed the breath it had been holding—along with a splatter of blood.
Bolca didn't hesitate.
The Tentacled Decadent lashed at him again, its tendrils snapping through the air like whips, but Bolca met them head-on—slicing through the limbs with precision. He then hurled his left-hand knife straight into the creature's singular eye.
**It screamed—blinded—**and thrashed wildly, demolishing rubble around it in a blind frenzy.
Bolca surged forward. He slashed across its leg, toppling the monster off balance before yanking his knife out of its eye.
Then he started stabbing— Over and over— Vicious, relentless—
Acidic blood sprayed across his body, burning him—but he didn't stop.
He couldn't stop.
He knew that if he did— Even for a second— It would be the end of him.
However, he forgot about the Head Decadent behind him.
And unfortunately for him… It had entered the "Fever."
Thick, armor-like callouses had formed over the back of its head—where it stored air for its devastating screams—making it nearly impossible to pierce.
It inhaled. More air. And more. Far more than it had ever managed before.
Then—it screamed.
Bolca instinctively grabbed the body of the Tentacled Decadent and used it as a shield.
The blast eviscerated the corpse, tearing it apart—and sent Bolca flying.
The sheer force of the sonic boom shattered nearby stone, cracking walls and splintering rubble.
Bolca hit the ground hard.
Unmoving.
His body was scorched—acid burns still sizzling on his skin. The sun, now rising above the ruins, cast its golden light over his burned arm and chest.
And all he could feel—was the heat of the sun.
The sun…
…was setting over a field of flowers on the outskirts of the capital, where farmland stretched as far as the eye could see. This was Bolca—one year before he became a Huntsman.
"Bolca! There you are! I was worried sick!" an old man shouted. Short and skinny, in his mid-sixties, the man rushed toward Bolca with panic in his voice.
"Dad!? I've only been gone for an hour. What are you talking about?" Bolca replied.
"You know people have been disappearing lately, right? You shouldn't be wandering around! I heard from the capital—rebels are hiding in the outskirts. They're abducting people and sacrificing them to evil spirits to stop us from ascending with the Goat Men!"
"…Okay. And where exactly did you hear that from?" Bolca asked.
"From our neighbor Mischa, who said she heard it from her brother—who's a capital officer—who overheard a janitor talking to the Governor in the meeting room!" his father replied with conviction.
"…Wh—Okay, fine." Bolca sighed. He wanted to tell him how ridiculous that sounded, but knew his father wouldn't listen.
As they walked through rows of crops, the old man turned to him again.
"Why don't you come to church with us anymore?"
"Dad… Here we go again." Bolca groaned.
"I just want you to ascend when your time comes," his father said. "The Goat Men have guided us for years! They left us the tools for survival—the trinkets, the Huntsmen… the occult!"
"Didn't those same tools also unleash the Miasma?" Bolca asked dryly.
"Fool! That was because of man's hubris! They wanted to ascend like the Goat People but didn't want to put in the work! You have to worship, show kindness and compassion, and be a good citizen to ascend! You'd know that if you actually went to church!"
They returned home, his father still rambling about doctrine and prophecy. Bolca didn't hate it, though. Over the years—especially after his mother passed—he had grown used to it. The two had grown closer, bonding over their regrets and shared grief.
And even though his father constantly badgered him about religion, Bolca was content. Life on the farm was peaceful. He was happy… until the day he went hunting for meat and stumbled upon the rebels.
He was shot, abducted, and sold off—passed from group to group until eventually, Liba found him.
And turned him into a Huntsman.
Somewhere… back there,
His father still sits on the bench they built together.
Still waiting for him to come home.
And that's why Bolca is fighting like hell—
To return to the ones he left behind.
Bolca stood and lowered his stance, his face smeared with blood, but his eyes were full of resolve. He was determined to see things through.
Meanwhile, Peeros was on the edge of his feet, dodging swiftly as the shield Decadent and the tailed Decadent launched attacks at him. He wove between them, using the shield Decadent's bulk to block the incoming bone spears from the blue Decadent.
His blade was huge and heavy, making it difficult to land clean strikes. All he could do was dodge, occasionally hurling rocks at the finger Decadent just to draw its attention.
"I can't go on like this!"
Peeros dropped his blade and charged in with his fists. He focused on the tailed Decadent, waiting for its strike. When it came, he caught it, redirecting the momentum and slamming his fist into its legs with devastating force. Bones cracked.
But that moment left him open. The blue Decadent fired its spears—some struck his hunter straps, but two pierced his thighs.
With a guttural shout, he clenched the muscles in his legs, snapping the embedded bones inside his flesh.
There was no pause.
The finger Decadent's tendrils lashed out and ensnared his arms, holding him in place.
The shield Decadent closed in and smashed into his body, blow after blow.
Peeros anchored his foot to the ground and, with a burst of strength, spun the Decadent around—snapping its finger-like tendrils that had bound him. He was shaking. Exhausted. Bleeding. His vision blurred.
Across the battlefield, Liba stood with Bacon, watching the chaos unfold.
"Ten Decadents? That's crazy…" Bacon muttered, exhaling smoke as he handed the cigarette to Liba. "When the capitals do cleanup, they bring in whole armies. Even then, it takes half a year to purge a place like this. But you… you just send those poor bastards out like it's nothing."
Liba took the cigarette, amused.
"Huntsmen in the capitals barely see action anymore," he replied. "They might as well be civilians. Huntsmen are rare resources, and no one wants to go through the 'Awakening' ritual. That's why the capitals pamper them like royalty. The average capital Huntsman kills, what—ten Decadents a year? And they barely go on hunts." He grinned. "But mine… my Huntsmen? These ones are the real deal. And after this? Whoever's left alive will be strong enough to face them."
The battlefield spread out before them like a painting of carnage.
Vina laughed as she kicked the severed head of a Decadent toward Morma, the two of them treating it like a soccer ball. Nearby, Arma swigged from his water bottle—filled with liquor, of course—while keeping an eye on the action.
Elsewhere, Igba lifted a fat Decadent into the air and drove it into the ground with a thunderous suplex, the impact cracking the pavement. Shise and two mercenaries, stationed as 'watchers,' clapped with amusement from a safe distance.
But then, there was Bolca.
Burned. Bloodied. Breathing heavily. He clung to the back of the Head Decadent, slicing through its thick hide with wild, desperate slashes. The monster howled in pain. With a final roar, Bolca plunged his hand deep into the open wound he had carved, burying his arm up to the elbow.
And lastly, there was Peeros, on the brink of collapse.
"HOW LONG ARE YOU GONNA STAY ASLEEP?!" he screamed at Nula, his voice cracking with desperation— before his body finally gave out and hit the ground.
The two Decadents moved in for the kill.
Peeros looked one last time in Nula's direction— but Nula was gone.
"Did the finger Decadent get him?" he thought, panic rising in his chest.
His gaze shifted toward the finger Decadent— Only to see it split clean in half, the pieces slumping to the ground.
Nula was awake.
In a flash, Peeros, now revitalized by hope and adrenaline, rolled to the side— dodging the Decadents' attack before springing up and delivering a crushing uppercut to the tailed Decadent.
"You could've woken up earlier," Peeros muttered, catching his breath.
Nula now stood beside him, steady and composed—fully recovered and ready for battle.
"Sorry…" Nula replied calmly. "And thank you."
He cracked his neck, eyes narrowing on the remaining enemies.
"Now—didn't you say something about taking all five of their heads as trophies?"