Blood began to drain. Drip. Drown. Through the oppressive smog that surrounded him, he could still see the splatters lined against the tall pine, creeping and seeping within the rough bits of bark, giving the subtle discoloration of death.
The corpse's arm was severed from the rest of him, brutally torn and tossed onto the ground, enveloped in a thick and helpless red. His nape was ripped open, the tip of his spine protruding from the gap while his head dropped beneath it. Not even the darkness could hide the body's harrowing expression. Even in death, he was scared. He was crying. He wanted to be saved.
And yet, while the spectator's eyes were still glued to the rotting corpse before him, a voice called out his name from the side. He was about to be beheaded.
"Bell!" a stern voice roared from within the treeline.
His instincts boomed to life, the thought of the poor soul before him completely falling from his mind. At the last possible second, he ducked his head towards the ground just as an almost meter-long scythe swept by his head.
It was there he could see the atrocious beast attacking him; A hideous attempt at a pitch-black mantis. Slightly larger than a grown man, its eyes were a sickening green, almost appearing as crushed eggs and dripping acid. Small spindly spikes occasionally protruded from its bone-like limbs, one of which scraped against the boy's face during the swing.
Not wasting a second, his hand reached for his waist. Pulling from a leather holster, a slim flintlock was gripped in his hands. He pressed its barrel against the beast's head before clicking down on the trigger; A near-deafening boom ripping his own ears in two.
Despite its head being reduced to nothing but remnant chunks of flesh, the boy still wasn't done.
In his other hand was a small blade—handle wrapped by a rugged strand of cloth. He lodged the tip straight through the abdomen, sliding the blade upwards and ripping through its prothorax. Strands of goop and flesh straddled the beast together, only before falling in on itself and splattering onto the floor.
It was dead.
Covered in the beast's raw guts, the boy remained on edge. The blood from his cut trickled down the edge of his face, now beginning to coat his forearm in cruor.
He did circles there; One. Two. Three.
It was only when that voice rang out in the distance once more did he finally feel safe;
"All Clear!"
His emotions turned palpable—breathing in and out so hard and frequently you'd think he was dying. In a sense, it was true; Instincts were all that was leading his body, sheathing his blade, and holstering his gun. His mind only honed in on the vicious scattering of remains by the tree.
'Oh shit..!' He repeated in his mind, completely unable to move the slightest of muscles. 'Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!'
It was only when the stern man approached, a hunter by the name of Kreuger, did he finally gain the courage to act. "What the hell happened?" He scoffed, voice deep and rugged, yet laced with the impression of indifference.
"It's Killan..." Bell murmured, scuffing the edge of his dark hair with his hand. "He's dead..." As if to confirm his own statement, he took a few paces forward. A decision he'd learn to regret.
There seemed to be more blood than body—like someone tossed his guts into a blender and spat it onto the floor. Only the frame of his bones managed to hold what little of his body remained, aside from his head, which was ripped clean off his spine.
Even worse, tenuous strands of movement would occasionally surge out. In those moments, he wanted to believe that he was still alive. That by some miracle, he could be saved. In truth, he knew better than to catch himself on fantasies, no matter how much he wanted to believe.
Before much else could be said, a shadowy silhouette began to pierce through the darkness just to Bell's left. It was Hoffman.
He ducked to the floor, grabbing at the tattered corpse as if he still had hope he was alive.
Hope.
He lifted some of the bones—blood dripping down the crux of his hands and arms. Within the darkness, he wept. It was silent, not a single sound being made, and yet it was deafening.
"That's enough, Hoffman," Kreuger spoke gruffly. Hoffman didn't respond, only continuing to shuffle through Killan's remains. "Hoffman-!" He repeated, this time gripping his shoulder and tugging him away.
Lurching to the side, he placed his arms to his chest as he stumbled back.
"Now's not the time to let your emotions get the better of you, Hoff. He's-" He stopped himself. In an instant, an almost horrified, somber look grew on his usually monotone face. Hoffman's hand had unfurled, and from it a bloodied photo, pulled from Killan's buttoned-up pocket.
It was of the four of them.
Upon seeing this, Bell felt like he was on the verge of throwing up.
'He's actually gone…' he thought. 'He can't be gone…'
Killan was the person who suggested the photo in the first place. "To commemorate our first contract!" He explained at the time.
That was two years ago—in front of the hostel where it all began. Against the photos' greyed-out tones, a vibrant grin was still lingering on his face. Now, he was dead. Something about that unsettled Bell to the core.
Kreuger, too, didn't know how to react. Only once in a blue moon did he ever get choked up on his own words. This was one of those occasions. "-He's… gone." He finally muttered out. Coming from Kreuger, that was all the confirmation they required. That was it. He was truly, genuinely gone.
They stood there for a while; complete silence. Only the wisps of passing winds blowing against the towering trees made a sound. In a way, it filled the depressing void they now stood within.
"Come on," Bell muttered out, slowly shifting his weight away from the scene.
"Wait-!" Hoffman yelled out, just before both Bell and Kreuger managed to disappear into the darkness. "What about his body?"
Kreuger sighed. "Nothing. We do nothing."