Sword of the Feral Beast

In Chang'an

A woman's scream arises only under non-lethal threat or injury, for extreme fear and despair render one voiceless.

In a corner, a hunched, ragged old man crouches, his leg bitten off mid-thigh, leaving a nauseating mix of blood and pus. His eyes, though, shine unnaturally bright beneath wrinkled, pigment-heavy lids. Deep brown irises emit a strange, frenzied light as he stares skyward.

The night sky is startlingly clear, the milky way a tranquil ribbon across the heavens.

His lips, dry and cracked, twist into a cold smile.

Nearby, a beast violates a woman. Her chest is torn open, her body half-submerged in blood, her long, black hair sticking to her exposed skin. After an initial, rusted-metal-on-rough-hide scream, she falls silent, perhaps already dead.

Who can tell?

The old man, his face twisted in a mad, terrifying grin, turns to the beast. His tribe has fallen, the victors' method clear: slay all men, behead them, their heads borne like rotten fruit; roast children's bodies for their fat; leave women and girls for their vile pleasures.

The beast, scarred and red-eyed, its grotesque form pulsating, carelessly wounds the woman further, drooling, panting with a fishy stench.

The old man's dry eyes suddenly brim with tears, carving paths through the wrinkles. He turns away, unable to bear the sight, yet spies a pair of eyes in a bush nearby. A baby, hidden by his dying parents in dense shrubbery, unspotted by the invaders.

This child, born prematurely amidst tribal warfare, weak and sickly, struggles even to nurse. A boy without the tribal beast-mark, destined for neither transformation nor combat prowess.

Unnamed by his parents, the baby, wise beyond his age, lies silently curled in the bush, unnoticed but for his large, striking eyes.

The old man, cautiously, tosses a small bone token towards the baby. The movement catches the beast's attention, but it dismisses the old man with contempt.

Ensuring he's unobserved, the old man returns his gaze to the infant, who ingeniously hooks the token with his tiny fingers, instinctively bringing it to his mouth.

Such a clever child, the old man thinks, wishing he could survive.

Forcing his gaze away, the old man bursts into tearful, raucous laughter, singing an ancient, discordant tune, like a crazed, lost wanderer.

His song is abruptly cut off as a clawed hand severs his head from his body, leaving a staunch, broken figure. His head, refusing to close its eyes, lands in the muddy forest ground. The last notes of his song seem to linger in the air, like a haunting, unyielding spirit.

A tall man wipes blood from his hands, his human arm oddly juxtaposed with a beast's claw. He kicks the old man's corpse aside, coldly urging the beast, "Muhke, hurry up."

Muhke, reluctantly leaving the woman's lifeless body, shifts form, revealing a scarred, slightly skewed-eyed man. He casts a sinister smile, lamenting the loss of even this small victor's pleasure.

The tall man's gaze sweeps over the unrecognizable corpse, his disgust evident. He transforms into a larger beast, shaking the earth with each step.

"Muhke, the chief is counting," he growls, and moves off.

Muhke spits disdainfully after him, his eyes brimming with murderous intent. He blows a mocking kiss to the woman's corpse, then disappears into the jungle.

As the invaders depart, clouds suddenly obscure the starlit sky. Rain begins to fall, quickly forming pools of blood-stained water.

After some time, a young, one-armed man, a non-transforming sub-beast of the tribe, emerges from a pile of bodies. His face etched with terror, he shakes each corpse, calling their names, receiving no answer.

He collapses, face-to-face with the old man's severed head, and breaks into heart-wrenching sobs.

He believes he's dying, that the rain will bury him with his former neighbors and kin. A sub-beast, he hid during the attack, saving his life but now feeling the disdain of his dead tribe in each cold raindrop.

Suddenly, a faint baby's cry pierces the air, reviving him. He finds the infant in the bush, small, undernourished, barely breathing.

He clumsily tucks the baby inside his jacket, shielding him from the rain, trying to share his body's warmth.

A small bone token, inscribed "Chang'an," falls from the baby. The man ties it around the baby's neck, warming it before placing it against the child's chest.

Believing, perhaps foolishly, in the token's magical power to keep death at bay, the man stands, a newfound will to survive igniting within him. He carries the baby into the dense forest, seeking shelter and hope amidst devastation.

Surviving the carnage, the one-armed sub-beast man named Zhe Yan, with a makeshift sling, binds the infant to his chest. His limited combat ability, even in full health, barely equips him for the dangers lurking in the forest.

From a young age, Zhe Yan pondered his fate as a sub-beast, questioning the celestial order that categorized beings into hierarchies, setting insurmountable gulfs between him and his kindred.

Growing up, he learned to work silently, understanding that complaints don't sustain life.

Staggering through the mud, he occasionally checks on the quiet baby in his arms, indistinguishable from other newborns in the tribe. The infant's only sign of vitality is his clear, jet-black eyes on an otherwise ashen face.

Zhe Yan suspects the child's silence isn't temperament but illness, lacking even the strength to cry.

After a grueling journey, Zhe Yan collapses on a narrow path leadin