The creature lunged. Its mouth split open far too wide, ringed with teeth that shimmered wetly like polished bone. No eyes. No face. Just the constant sound of skin slapping against bark as it moved, too fast, too hungry, too wrong.
Judge didn't scream.
His blade met the monster, and surprisingly, it bled from its bones. Its eyes spat acid out from beneath, burning into the soil. The fight wasn't fast. It wasn't clean. Judge took a gash to his leg, the pain flaring like a hammer blow. He fought without rhythm, without grace. It was survival. One blow, two, a stumble, then a roar that wasn't his voice.
When it finally died, its body folded in on itself. Not in collapse — in retreat. Like the flux was swallowing it whole, or reclaiming it. Judge fell back, one hand gripping the edge of a moss-covered root. He didn't speak. Hadn't in days. But his chest heaved like he wanted to scream, like the sound was stuck somewhere between his ribs and throat.
The hallucinations had worsened.
