Ravaged

Chapter 34

 The levels of Cruciatus' lair get progressively darker and more vile the lower into the mountain one goes. The screaming gets louder, the scent of blood thicker, the rattle of chains more common.

There are thousands of gods in Cruciatus' employ, many guards.

Of the thousands of servants and prisoners living in the mountain, not one of them is human, at least not completely. There are beings of every race and species in this world, from faeries to sorcerers. The only ones missing are sirens and seraphs.

Feng rips through the gods like they're butter and he's a hot knife. When they throw their abilities at him, Feng laughs as those same abilities affect the men who threw them, bouncing off of Feng's revitalized Reaction Field.

Nothing gets through it--not fists, not blades, not the powers of these pathetic little godlings. Everything they try to hit Feng with is turned back on them by the power of Feng's breetan and Spark.

The ones who don't kill themselves by trying to kill him die by his hands and his fire. He rips out throats, pulls out their steaming intestines and uses them like garrotes, shoves their own severed limbs into their mouths. He shreds them with his fingers, tears heads from shoulders, filets them like fish.

The ones he doesn't bother to tend to personally he burns with his fire--some slowly, others not. The scent of scorched flesh and burning hair drifts through smoke and ash and the metallic taste of blood.

Feng is covered in blood. Bits of flesh and gore cling to him like a cloak, and even his Echo jacket--used to this sort of coating--doesn't remove the substances. Feng revels in it, his grin only growing more sadistic the deeper into the lair he goes.

A choice few--some of the guards he recognizes, the officers--he obliterates with his Gift. A single touch and they are destroyed so utterly that nothing remains, their faces contorting and twisting in absolute agony for the few seconds they live.

It's no longer the prisoners and servants who are screaming and running in fear.

It's the gods.

And Feng laughs.

He leaves those who aren't divinites alone, unless they attack him. He has to kill or knock out several servants who appear to have been brainwashed or who are actually loyal to Cruciatus. Most of them are terrified, cowering away from him. A few are curious, but wisely keep their distance.

Anyone in chains is set free the moment Feng passes by. One part of his mind--a part he isn't even focusing on--is delegated to taking note of those shackles and removing them with little more than a thought or a glance, turning them to dust, unlocking them, or just making them vanish completely.

If Feng was a healer, he would heal their wounds as well, but he isn't. He would have to use an Inkflare, and he doesn't have the time for that at the moment. He's too busy going on a killing spree and enjoying it immensely.

No matter how many gods attack him at once, Feng cuts them down. Even when they try to pile atop him, even when a few of moderate intelligence collapse one of the levels on top of him, Feng keeps moving downward. They can't touch him.

Even all their abilities combined aren't enough.

Feng may be considered a minor deity in the Court of Death, but he's no mere godling. To call Feng a 'god' is an insult.

Feng is much, much more than just a god.

He takes his time moving through each level, searching out each and every single person who serves Cruciatus. A glance tells him whether they're loyal or not, whether they're worthy of life or worthy of death.