Night fell.
In a dim, filthy alley.
Accompanied by a nauseating stench, two strong men carried out a naked woman wrapped in rags. They cautiously glanced around and then headed towards the graveyard of the small town.
"Is she dead?" asked a bald man with a scarred face.
The rags wrapping the woman were stained with filth, and from the side fell a thin bruised arm, covered in alarming scars. Her exposed feet had turned a dark blue, her skin perforated with wart-like tissues. As the breeze lifted the rags, the woman’s naked thighs were dotted with brownish-red spots, extending to her bruise-covered groin.
The sinister man carrying her head placed his hand on the woman’s nose, feeling a faint breath. The rag over her face slightly rose and fell.
"She’s still breathing, but she probably won’t last long," said the cold-faced man.
The bald man with the scarred face glanced around, signaling his companion to hurry. After bypassing some pedestrians, they quickened their pace towards the town’s potter’s field.
"What a pity," said the bald man, "she’s quite beautiful."
"If she wasn’t sick, she could have been useful for a long time."
Then he extended his dirty hand, rubbing in front of the woman’s rag-covered body; a faint moan of pain came from beneath the rags, the woman’s consciousness barely hanging on.
"Don’t waste time."
The sinister man glared at his companion and said in a deep voice, "She was smuggled in, we must handle it cleanly."
"Otherwise the leader won’t let us off."
The woman inside the rags seemed to tremble, as if attempting to struggle but to no avail; illness had ravaged her body, leaving only a battered shell of blood and flesh.
Half an hour later.
The two men carried the woman into the filthy potter’s field. The bald man with the scar threw her on the ground, pulling out a dagger from his waist, speaking coldly: "You do it, or should I?"
The sinister man covered his nose, seemingly displeased with the rotten smell, shaking his head: "You do it."
"Be quick. Lately, it’s been unsafe here, word is there’s something unclean eating the corpses."
The bald man with the scarred face nodded, gripping the dagger ready to strike.
But suddenly.
A piercing howl rang out.
"What was that?" The bald man with the scar spun around alertly, his expression wary, tinged with fear, and asked his companion: "Did you hear that? Was it a wolf’s howl?"
"Or a Ghoul?"
The sinister man’s face changed visibly, pulling out his own dagger, his fingers trembling slightly as he said: "Wolves don’t howl like that!..."
"It could be a Ghoul."
The two exchanged glances, abandoning the woman in the filthy mud, and upon seeing a pair of murky, dark yellow eyes in the distance, they turned and ran, frantically sprinting back toward the town.
Monster!
This is Dagon, the Land of Chaos, where legendary man-eating creatures often appear in the wild, especially recent rumors of Ghouls unsettling many.
No one knows how much time has passed.
In the dark came faint footsteps; the breeze over the potter’s field lifted the rags covering the woman, revealing a scar-covered yet faintly beautiful face. Her eyes, filled with despair and emptiness, stared at the night sky, lying motionless in the foul mud.
A rancid stench of decay emerged.
In the darkness appeared a hideous Ghoul’s face, black fur, murky dark yellow eyes, and drooling a foul saliva.
The woman’s empty expression didn’t change; she even lifted her hand, trying to point to her neck.
She wanted to die quickly.
She had despaired, lost the will to live, now only seeking release, whether by human or monster, it made no difference.
But the Ghoul didn’t bite her throat.
In her hollow eyes appeared a man in a black robe; the ferocious Ghoul, in front of him, appeared as a tame hunting dog. He lowered his head, revealing a gentle, elegant young face, his eyes carrying a hint of pity, softly asking: "Do you still want to live?"
The woman’s empty eyes showed a slight change; she opened her mouth, trying to speak, but no sound came out, only her chapped lips trembling slightly.
Can I still live?
She could no longer speak, weakened to the precipice of Death.
"If you want, you can still live."
The young man squatted down, reaching to caress the woman’s face, calmly saying: "I can give you Power, give you a chance to survive."
The woman trembled.
Deep hatred erupted in her eyes, igniting the fire of revenge; she struggled to rise, but her body could only twitch in the filthy mud.
She couldn’t even manage to crawl.
The woman’s expression bore a hint of despair, but then the man’s hand extended before her, palm holding a writhing, dark red flesh, akin to a beating heart, or a Demon’s fruit, with a gelatinous and eerie texture on the surface.
"Eat it, and survive," the man said calmly.
The woman arduously opened her mouth, a disgusting stench flooding her mouth. Regardless of what it was, even if it was a Demon’s heart, she would eat it; she used her last strength to chew, to swallow, as if gnawing at an enemy’s flesh and blood.