Chapter 2: The Truth That Breathed
It was real.
The scream had led him here, to a small clearing wrapped in mist and pine.
And in the center of it stood a creature that should not exist.
It was half-man, half-nightmare—its flesh a shifting mass of sinew and shadow, limbs too long, face too smooth. A cavernous mouth pulsed in place of a jaw, wet and twitching.
A Breakout.
Cain's blood turned to ice. The stories had been true.
He thought fast.
The legends said the only way to kill one was through its mouth—its only weak point. And it had three hearts, hidden in different parts of its body.
The creature growled, circling him like a predator. It wasn't just fast. It was smart.
Then it struck.
Cain dodged just in time, the beast's claws raking through the space his head had just occupied. He rolled across the dirt, heart hammering.
Think, Cain. Think.
He grabbed a nearby rock and threw it—not at the creature, but into the forest. A distraction. The monster flinched.
He grinned.
"You don't like noise, huh?"
Another stone. This one he slammed against a tree root. Clang. Clang. Clang.
The Breakout snarled, rising to its full height. Its jaw stretched unnaturally wide as it loosed another blood-curdling roar.
That was what he wanted.
Cain moved.
But not recklessly. He didn't charge. He threw a jagged stone into the thing's mouth.
It struck something vital.
The creature screamed in pain. Real pain.
Cain saw it now: its mouth was truly a weakness. The blade might actually work.
He sprinted forward.
Knife in hand.
Dove under the creature's lashing arms.
And stabbed it directly in the mouth.
The blade sank deep. Black ichor sprayed over Cain's arm, sizzling where it landed. The monster shrieked, stumbled, then hurled Cain against a tree.
Pain exploded in his ribs. The world spun.
But the creature was hurt.
It was real.
It could bleed. It could die.
Cain struggled to his feet, coughing. The monster writhed, its form twitching unnaturally. Beneath its skin, he saw strange pulsing shapes.
The hearts.
It was evolving now, protecting them. This wasn't over.
He wiped blood from his mouth and grinned through the pain.
"Alright, then. Round two."
---
The forest held its breath.
Cain stood tall, feet planted in the cold soil, eyes locked on the writhing horror across from him. Black blood steamed from the Breakout's open mouth where his blade still pulsed, embedded deep between its teeth. It clawed at the handle in rage, gurgling something that almost sounded like speech—but not quite.
Its body pulsed, warped, shifted. Beneath the semi-translucent skin, shapes moved. One swelled near the right shoulder. Another—barely—bulged in the lower gut.
Cain didn't flinch. He wasn't breathing heavily. He hadn't taken a single hit.
He was in control.
The Breakout surged upright with a roar that split the mist. Its jaws unhinged unnaturally wide, and despite the injury, it charged, leaving claw marks in the earth.
Cain's mind moved faster than his body.
Now… how do I end this?
He didn't wait for the Breakout to close the distance. He turned on his heel and sprinted—not away, but sideways, weaving between the trees like a phantom.
The beast roared behind him, rage fueling its charge.
Just ahead, Cain had spotted it: a natural choke point—two thick, gnarled trees pressed close together, with a jagged stone root jutting up between them. No room to dodge. No room to maneuver. Perfect.
Cain darted through the gap with inches to spare, then pivoted hard, slamming his heel into the earth as he turned to face the charge.
The Breakout followed, single-minded and furious.
Too big. Too fast.
Too late.
Its massive frame crashed between the trees—and stopped.
The shoulders wedged tight between the trunks with a bone-snapping crunch. The creature shrieked, thrashing, but the stone root caught under its leg, twisting it just enough to throw its balance.
It was stuck.
Cain didn't waste a second.
He dashed forward, eyes fixed on the exposed gut. His hand reached for a broken branch—sharp, thick, fire-hardened at the tip. Not a blade, but enough.
He leapt, driving the makeshift spear upward with both hands—right into the swelling mass beneath the creature's ribs.
There was a sickening crack and a spray of black fluid.
The Breakout howled.
Cain rolled clear just before the monster slammed the ground with one wild claw.
It was hurt. More than before.
Cain landed lightly and stepped back, eyes locked on the beast as it writhed against the trees.
Still alive. Still dangerous.
But now it was wounded… and it was afraid.
Cain moved in silence, boots pressing into the soil like a hunter nearing his prey. No hesitation. No second thoughts.
He reached for the hilt of the blade still embedded in the creature's gaping mouth. Its eyes—black, soulless orbs—twitched toward him. It tried to snap, but the knife was wedged too deep.
Cain gripped the handle, twisted—then ripped it free.
The monster let out a wet, rattling howl.
Cain didn't give it time to breathe.
He jumped, planting one foot on the tangled roots and launching himself upward. He was eye level with its face now, its jaw still hanging open, twitching with the effort to close.
He raised the blood-slicked blade.
And plunged it straight through the roof of its mouth.
The dagger sank deep. The body convulsed.
Cain gritted his teeth, drove it deeper, both hands on the hilt, forcing it through meat and bone until he felt the last resistance give way.
The Breakout shuddered once.
Then went still.
Its limbs slackened. Its jaw drooped. A final hiss of breath escaped its chest, and then—nothing.
The forest returned to silence.
Cain dropped to the ground, breath steady, blood spattered across his jacket and arms. He looked at the corpse.
"You're no devil," he muttered. "You're just meat."
His plan had been simple: prove the myths were fake. Return a hero by showing there were no monsters. Shame the village with his truth.
But now, staring down at the cooling corpse of something inhuman, Cain realized—
His plan had failed.
The monster was real.
But in that failure, he had found something greater.
Proof not of lies, but of secrets. A world deeper, darker, older than the one the villagers clung to. They had feared the mountain and whispered tales to their children.
Cain had walked into that fear…
…and killed it.
He turned toward the path back, but paused.
He could already hear it in his head—the villagers, their gasps, their disbelief.
Cain Babel killed a Breakout.
His lips twitched.
Then curled.
And slowly—quietly at first—he laughed.
A breath of air, dry and sharp, became a chuckle. Then a rasp. Then full-bodied laughter echoing through the trees. He staggered back a step, wiping blood from his face with the back of his hand, eyes wide with something bright.
He tilted his head to the sky, laughter spilling from him like smoke from a fire long smothered.
Up here, in the shadow of death and myth and silence…
Cain felt taller than the mountains.
The forest did not laugh with him.
It only watched.
Now he was going home.