My steps thudded heavy against the blood-slick wood as I made my way toward the shooter—the one who'd dared fire at me with steady hands and foolish hope.
Five shots.
Three shooters.
One bullet missed.
One, I caught with my bare hand.
The rest had imbedded themselves in me, thinking they'd bring me down with metal.
But I was still walking.
Still bleeding.
Still smiling.
He scrambled to reload. Fingers shaking. Powder spilling. The others behind him scattered—two dropping their weapons as they ran, boots clattering against the deck like cowards in a stampede.
But this one? He stood his ground.
Or tried to.
I grabbed the barrel of his rifle mid-reload. The steel was still warm from the shot.
I squeezed.
He yelped, pulled—but I held fast.
The sword in my other hand moved on instinct—one quick swipe—and his pinky finger hit the wood with a wet slap.
His scream followed, sharp and short.
He dropped the rifle.
I didn't let go.
I yanked him forward with it, brought his face close to mine, close enough for him to see the blood dripping from my chest. Close enough to see the wound hadn't closed.
Not yet.
Because I hadn't let it.
I reached up to my side, dug my fingers into the fresh bullet wound. I could feel the torn muscle, the splintered edge of bone.
And there it was.
The slug.
I pulled it out with a slow twist, blood streaming down my fingers.
He struggled, gagged, tried to back away, but I kept the grip on his collar tight.
The blood dripped into his mouth.
One drop. Two. Three.
He coughed.
Swallowed.
Then went still.
His eyes went wide, wider than fear alone could make them.
I stepped back and let him fall.
"Fourth skull," I muttered.
He convulsed once.
And then the blood began its work.
I turned, the sword still wet in my hand, and set my sights on the next.
One of the others—the second of my final four—still had his sword out. Still stood with the rest, watching from behind their shaky wall of flesh and fear.
He watched me approach.
His eyes darted from my wounds to my weapon. From the man on the floor to the three who'd already been claimed.
He was calculating.
Weighing his chances.
I saw the shift in his foot. The tension in his grip.
He was thinking of running.
Thinking of fighting.
I didn't let him choose.
I moved first.
A step. A pivot.
Then the sword in my hand whipped forward—not toward his chest, not his throat.
His hand.
The one holding the blade.
Steel met flesh with a crunch, slicing through knuckles and bone.
He screamed as the blade nailed his hand to the wooden deck.
The sword stuck, pinning him in place. Blood poured from the wound, trailing down his wrist in thick, red streams.
He tried to tug free.
Tried to rip his hand off the hilt.
But I was already at his side.
I grabbed him by the hair, pulled his head back, and exposed his throat.
He begged.
Tears smeared dirt across his cheeks.
Blood poured from the fresh gash in my palm, thick and steady. It dripped into his open mouth, down his throat—hot, alive, unforgiving. He coughed once. Gagged. Tried to twist away. But it was already done.
The blood had him now.
It moved like it knew the path—like it had been waiting. It surged through him, not like poison, but like possession. I watched his pupils dilate, his limbs twitch. His breath turned ragged as the warmth inside him shifted, thickened, turned foreign.
He wouldn't last long.
He'd scream, maybe—if he had it in him.
But soon, there'd be nothing left of him but a skull… and a heart still beating for the dead.
I stood slowly, wiped my hand across my thigh, smearing blood into the torn fabric. My eyes never left him as he writhed on the wood. A man unmade.
Then I raised my arm again—slow, deliberate.
And lifted two fingers into the air.
Two.
A signal. A sentence. A countdown.
Not to them. Not really.
To myself.
To the ritual.
I had killed more than enough for two.
But it wasn't about numbers.
It was about who.
It was about meaning.
It was about who I chose to be the sacrifice.
The two skulls left—my final offerings—had to matter. Had to feel it.
Not just death.
But the descent.
The scum around me had scattered—some hiding, some trembling behind barrels and crates, hoping to be forgotten.
They had seen what I'd done to the rest.
What I was turning their friends into.
And still… two more had to fall.
I let the fingers hang in the air, sharp against the smoke-laced sky.
Let the weight of it settle.
And then I whispered, quiet enough for only the dead to hear:
"Two more. Then the ritual ends."
Then the blood could rest.
Then they could rest.