Silence strangled.
Not gently. Not calmly.
It squeezed Lianisa's chest as if trying to wring the breath out of her.
It was no peaceable quiet—it was the aftermath of something terrible.
Lianisa knelt.
Bare feet—in dust.
Knees—in blood.
Hands—shaking.
Her fingers clutched the worn floor cloth.
Her lips kept repeating the same words:
—"Gods… if you exist… if you hear… help…"
—"Stop it… stop it… I beg you… stop…"
She didn't know how long had passed.
Maybe a minute.
Maybe—an entire lifetime.
The hut was dark; ash had settled even on the ceiling, and the walls were charred, as if breathing smoke.
Her eyes did not shine—they had long since burned out.
For the first time in her life, Lianisa fell to her knees not under duress.
Not because someone like Locris ordered it with wicked intent.
But because there was nothing left.
Her voice was hoarse, barely audible.
It didn't plead—it simply dripped, like water from a broken faucet.
—"Universe… if you exist… if you can hear me…"
—"Do something—anything… Save… even one life… one soul… a single drop of hope…"
—"You created all this—so don't let everyone perish… please…"
Outside, everything had long since fallen silent.
The screams had faded.
Wolves—didn't howl.
Fire—didn't burn.
Bodies—didn't move.
But Lianisa didn't dare even look toward the window.
Her body trembled not from cold.
She was like an animal trapped in a cage, sensing the predator behind the door.
Suddenly—Creak.
Light. Barely audible. If not for this silence, no one would have heard it.
The door.
Lianisa's eyes widened.
Her heart leapt into her throat.
Her breath caught.
"They're here. They've come. But who?"
Footsteps.
First one. Then another. Heavier. More even.
Someone was in no hurry.
She wanted to grab something… but why?
Her hands were empty. So was her soul.
And then—the door burst inward.
Sunlight, fresh and morning-clear, struck her eyes.
And with it—they came in.
Filthy. Strong. Drifters in beast hides.
Beastfolk. Not of this clan. Not the ones she knew.
—"There she is. Take her!"
They seized her. Roughly. There was nothing gentle left.
She cried out, but it wasn't a scream of fear—
it was a spasm.
The sun blinded her as they dragged her through the village.
And then she saw…
Bodies.
Everywhere.
Huge bodies. Children. Women. Men.
Those she had spoken with yesterday.
Those who'd fed her. Those who believed in peace.
All dead.
And Lianisa did not scream.
She only bit her lip until it bled, to keep any sound from escaping.
There were no tears in her eyes. There was death in them.
And only one whisper somewhere deep inside:
—"If you exist…"
The sun blinded her.
It seemed to mock—how could it shine when the whole world was dead?
Lianisa didn't scream when they hauled her out of the hut.
They dragged her, and she didn't even resist.
Hands—numb.
Legs—carrying her on their own, though she no longer wanted to walk.
Two beastfolk—strangers, coarse, reeking—hauled her like a sack.
They said nothing. They didn't care who she was.
A princess. A goddess.
To them she was—meat that still breathed.
The village streets were carpeted with bodies.
Children. Women.
Even those who had come to kill—their corpses lay beside the rest.
Shackles. Scorched fur. Torn faces.
The blood was already crusting, yet still steamed in the morning sun.
Death smelled like fear.
Lianisa did not cry. Her eyes no longer knew how.
She searched for only one face—Siris.
But she wasn't there.
"Maybe she ran. Maybe she's dead. Maybe better dead than here…"
They brought her to the main square—the very one where children had played yesterday.
Now strangers stood there.
Thirty or forty—filthy, of different races:
demons, humans, gnomes, elves, but not a single honest face.
Their eyes—dead. Their smiles—vicious.
In the center stood him.
A beastfolk.
Broad-shouldered, pot-bellied, in old, worn clothes with embroidery once costly, now—filthy.
His trinkets—bone, teeth, old gold.
A slaver.
—"What do we have here…" he drawled, as they threw her at his feet.
He circled her without stopping.
Raked his gaze from bottom to top.
His eyes slid over her chest, her belly, her thighs.
Stopped at her face.
He squatted.
—"And who might you be, beauty?"
—"What bloody little fairy tale played out here?"
He turned to his men:
—"I've got hundreds of questions. And zero answers."
—"Why is everyone dead? Why didn't we catch a single one of those… giants?"
—"And where, hell take it, did a… lady like this come from?"
He looked back at her.
—"You'll tell me, yes? You'll be polite?"
Lianisa didn't answer.
She just stared at his brow without blinking.
Empty. But inside… something still lived.
—"No matter, you'll talk," he muttered.
—"Even the proudest break. You just have to know… where to press."
And in that very moment—
A roar came from the forest.
Not human. Not bestial.
Something between.
All heads turned…
A figure stepped out of the trees.
Huge. Bloodied. A half-naked giant, wounds on every scrap of skin.
Eyes—not animal, not feral. Aware. Clear. Full of despair. And fury.
The slaver froze.
—"It's him… Hell's teeth, it's him!"
—"Take him alive! But… careful!"
The giant swayed.
One step…
Another…
And someone thought he was about to fall.
But he burst forward, an explosion of pain and blood.
He drove his knee into the first mercenary's chest—the man didn't even have time to scream.
He slammed the second with his shoulder; the man flew into a tree and his spine snapped.
A roar. A rattle. Blood.
He held nothing in his hands.
His weapon was despair.
A mage cast a spell—a lightning bolt lanced through his shoulder, and the wound tore open again.
His body wavered like a broken standard…
but he kept going.
He barely struck—just shoved, tore, hammered with elbows and feet, while his body still obeyed.
One mercenary drove a blade through his thigh.
He staggered, but seized the man by the throat,
dragged him close with such force
that the spine cracked under his fingers.
—"Stop him!!" the slaver bellowed.
Four fighters lunged with a net.
Enchanted chains snaked for his feet.
A mage smashed a burning sphere into his back,
and the giant's body buckled.
He was still on his feet.
Through pain. Through fire.
On his face—no fear, no pain. Only—scorn.
He cast one last look at the sky…
And fell.
—"Don't kill him! He's still breathing!" the slaver barked.
—"ALIVE! Our champion!"
—"Bind him in silver! Now!"
His body lay in the dust.
Heavy, hunched, like a felled tree.
Blood dripped from his side; his chest rose slowly.
Defeated, but alive.
They wrapped him in silver chains with arcanite locks.
Four mages held the containment field.
Only then…
they loaded him into a cage.
The slaver stared at him, licking his lips.
—"Now that is what I call a beast."
—"Without shackles he'd break us all."
—"But now… now he's mine."
Lianisa stood like a statue.
Her heart beat in her throat.
Her eyes—downcast, but every nerve in her body caught everything:
—glances, steps, smiles, weapons, smells.
There was no rescue here. Only the game. And survival.