His flesh bubbles. It expands. Two heads grow out of his shoulders. A blinding, nuclear-like reaction explodes before Seraphiel’s eye. A three-headed dog stands before him—its body incredibly muscular, barely able to fit in the underground chamber. It must be around twenty-one feet tall, and the thickness of its limbs rivals the oldest trees.

  Its collar is spiked with rusty nails, each one piercing into the flesh of the beast. A molten-red chain hangs from it, scraping across the floor. It roars. Seraphiel is sent flying back, stabbing his talon into the floor to anchor himself. The creature twists its main neck violently, launching the red-hot chain as it ripples outward, smashing against pillars and crumbling them down.

  “Under the cathedral isn’t protected by the forcefield?” Seraphiel notices in an instant.

  The chain rushes toward Seraphiel with urgency. The air alone disrupts his one-winged flight, but he perseveres and launches straight up, dodging. The radiating heat causes his body to release vapor. The beast salivates, and due to the size of the arena it cannot pounce optimally. Instead, it rushes toward him, slashing with its claw at Seraphiel. Though he is faster, the creature’s sheer size in the confined space makes it difficult to avoid. He blocks with his wing—a nail pierces through as it clashes with his forearm. He does not react, but he is launched into the wall. A ball of dust erupts.

  The beast launches its heads, jaws agape. Bite. Nothing.

  Seraphiel has already blitzed out, using the cover of dust as a guise. He flies straight down into the main head like a nail, talons aimed. They connect. The dog does not react—his talons barely pierce, leaving hardly a flesh wound.

  “Tch.” Seraphiel shows evident irritation.

  He launches upward just as the beast’s head flicks up, aiming to send him flying. It jumps like it’s trying to catch a treat. Seraphiel evades and grows back a second wing—not to fly, but to tear off. He rips it free, holding it like a shield, then swings it toward the beast. Each hair launches outward, capable of slicing diamond like butter, pricking into the dog. They stick out like porcupine quills, yet the beast does not react.

  Holding the skeletal remains of the wing, he sharpens it into a rapier and ignites it with the black flame of his wing. He grips the bone. Blood oozes from his forehead, down the curve of his cheekbone, and into his mouth. The dog flicks its chain, and while it rushes forward, it rears its head to the floor like a bull, intending to impale Seraphiel with the collar.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Seraphiel obliges. He rushes toward the dog, sword ready.

  He connects.

  The sword snaps. The tip flies back toward Seraphiel. Flames scorch his cheek as the collar’s nail pierces his chest.

  “Ack.” He coughs blood.

  Crash.

  Seraphiel is sandwiched between the wall and the dog’s neck as it lifts its head, impaling him further with its claw.

  His wing curls around him like a curtain. He seems lifeless. Blood trickles down as his eyepatch is torn away. The dog throws him into the air and slams its jaws shut, consuming him.

  Gulp.

  The beast releases a roar of victory—interrupted by a whine of submission.

  it staggers smashing its self into the walls as the tunnel began to crash down on top of it.

  Its intestines begin tearing apart, turning into a thick sludge. The stomach lining is reduced to paste, scalded beyond recognition. Acid pools and floods downward, burning the creature from within. Its lungs deflate as it gurgles, its oesophagus filling with blood. It writhes and collapses onto its faces.

  The dog’s main eyes are torn to shreds as a blood-red figure limps out.

  An angel, made complete by its fractures, walks down the hall.

  ---

  Back to Madarame.

  The figure rises. He stands tall, hair ashen like the man of flame, skin dark like Madagascar vanilla.

  “Tell me,” he says, “why have you done this?”

  He is roughly 192 centimetres tall, well-built and vascular.

  “Your people came to my land and attempted an uncontained occult ritual—then threatened to sacrifice us. No… that can’t be it.” Madarame twirls his hair around his finger, looking up sarcastically.

  “Let me ask you—do you know anything? Anything at all? Or are you just a dolt, a clown who strikes first and asks questions later? That ritual was for the betterment of all. We Verezians were chosen to conduct it, though the ritual itself is nothing to fawn over. The Rodion—a symbol of dogged dedication—was cultivated by us until ready to be sacrificed to the ones above. In place of?”

  He asks Madarame like a disappointed tutor.

  “Me?” Madarame replies instantly.

  “Us,” the figure responds, anticipating the wrong answer.

  “In place of us. We humoured them and offered them the most cerebral and ethereal creatures we could find, all so they would not turn to man again. Forty miles from the forest where your friend murdered my kin, the ritual was interrupted while you observed from the trees. A young girl had been chosen to be toyed with by them. You have murdered this young girl—and murdered us all. Your hands are soaked scarlet in blood, and no amount of tears or entreaties will wash them clean.”

  He draws his curved blade.

  “Your spirit will be broken, and your body turned into something… else. Perhaps we will make you the next offering—an engineered beast with the taste of man but the appearance of a lump of sludge. Sentient, but immobile.”

  His voice raises.

  "Now won't that be something they would enjoy." His long limbs slither.