Four fingers rose into the air—but this time, they weren’t meant just for counting.
This wasn’t about four people.
This was about message.
Four skulls were needed, yes. But not four kills. No. Killing four alone would be too easy. Too small. Too expected. And I could feel it—see it—in the scum around me.
The gleam in their eyes. That sick glint of realization.
They were starting to think again. Starting to plan. Starting to breathe like people who thought they had a future.
That couldn’t be allowed.
So I pointed—four fingers, four people, all at once.
Not slowly. Not theatrically.
Just directly. Instantly.
And it worked.
The moment those fingers locked onto them, they flinched—then snapped to life like rats under fire.
They panicked.
They shouted. Barked desperate orders to the others. Hid behind trembling shoulders. Tried to manipulate the fear they were drowning in. They begged for alliances. Pushed others in front of them. Shoved guilt down the line like it could be passed off like a cursed relic.
"Don’t let him pick me!"
"Stand together!"
"Kill him now, while we still have mens!"
I could understand not a word that was coming out of them. But I understood it.
They were riling the others up—but not out of courage. No, there wasn’t an ounce of spine in them.
They were riling them up because they didn’t want to be alone.
They didn’t want to die first.
They wanted the others to share in the blood they knew was coming.
Cowards rarely want to bleed alone.
So I let them.
I didn’t speak.
I didn’t interrupt.
I just stood there.
Waiting.
Watching.
Letting the rot fester and boil.
And they brought them.
More and more.
Bodies moved in like a slow tide, hesitant, broken. Twelve now, maybe more. Some barely holding their weapons. Others hiding tears behind scowls. None of them prepared for what I had in store.
The four I’d pointed at had slithered behind the rest. Not fully hidden, but crouched behind the illusion of strength.
Let them watch.
Let them think they had numbers.
Because this was what I wanted.
Not a clean hunt. Not a surgical act of selection.
But chaos.
A riot of blood and fear and despair.
They didn’t understand the ritual, not really. They thought they could interrupt it. Outrun it. Kill it. But this ritual wasn’t bound by their logic. It didn’t fear numbers.
It fed on them.
I didn’t need to kill them all.
I didn’t even need to win.
I just needed to survive.
And let the blood do the rest.
Because once it entered them—once it flowed through their veins and woke something ancient inside—it would finish what I started.
They didn’t know they were already part of the ritual. That by answering the finger-point, by rallying themselves, they’d stepped right into the circle. Willingly. Desperately.
This was no longer a man against a mob.
This was a fire in a dry forest.
And I was the match.
I looked at them—all twelve. All breaking inside in different ways.
Some trying to remember how to breathe.
Some trying to remember what courage felt like.
And the four? The ones who thought they were clever, who orchestrated this tide and now hid in the swell of bodies?
They were already marked.
Already dead.
I would get their skulls.
But first...
I had to let the storm break.
And survive it.
That was all.
Because when the dust settled—
The ritual would continue.
The count would move.
And the girls would be one step closer to peace.
Let them come.
Let them believe.
Let them die.
One by one.
Or all at once.
It didn’t matter.
The ritual would eat them just the same.