Something was wrong — very wrong. Akram could feel he wasn't just restrained…
His stomach wound had been bandaged, a tiny consolation considering the situation.
"Hey… hey! Akram!" a muffled voice shouted in the distance.
Akram instinctively turned toward the distant cry... Maora! One of the members of the expedition group. He wasn't the only survivor.
"Maora? Where the hell are we? In the cannibals' camp?" Akram asked, slowly losing his usual composure.
"Yes… and only the two of us are left… partly…" Maora muttered.
Partly? What does she mean by that? Akram wondered. As he followed Maora's empty stare — a stare that looked like her soul had already left her body — he understood.
A cold shiver ran down his spine, his heart pounding at the sight of the macabre scene…
Maora's left leg had been savagely torn off, barely bandaged... Her "meal" had already begun.
"You… holding up?" Maora added.
Again, Akram didn't immediately understand what she meant. He let his gaze follow hers once more…
His right arm.
A new horror appeared before his eyes. His own right arm — completely shattered, bones reduced to dust, part of the flesh charred, maybe even partly eaten already by the horde of cannibals surrounding them…
This time the panic took over completely. His breath grew frantic, his vision blurred, sweat dripped down his face already marked by battle… Akram snapped entirely.
"HEY—HEY, IDIOT! GET A GRIP! STOP CRYING, I'M TELLING YOU!" Maora screamed straight in his face.
Akram froze for a moment and locked eyes with Maora.
"We're still alive, damn it, this is not the time to break down. We're getting out of here, we just need to think…" Maora said, before adding, "You're a genius, right? Think! And get us out of here!"
He wasn't fooled — her words were heavy with meaning, but her eyes betrayed her. She no longer had any will to live.
Yet her harsh shout was enough to snap Akram back into focus. He couldn't give up — not now, not after everything his comrades had done to save him. Vulkania still existed. He had to make it back alive.
It's just an arm. An arm can be replaced… it can be replaced… Akram repeated relentlessly, his sanity hanging by a thread. He had survived Varog the Terrible, and not by accident.
Maora relaxed slightly and managed a faint smile, relieved to see Akram regain control.
Akram didn't waste a second. He scanned the surroundings, trying to find an escape route — and a distraction that could allow him, and maybe the other prisoners, to flee.
It's sad… but we're gonna need a distraction if we want to get out of here, he thought, knowing they might have to use the chaos of fleeing prisoners as cover.
But it was clear it wouldn't be easy. The cannibals were numerous, and their camp sat nestled between large hills. Crude huts where prisoners were dragged inside — screams constantly leaking out — huge fires where freshly carved meat was being cooked…
The camp was a living nightmare.
Trying not to vomit at the sight, Akram noticed something crucial: the rope holding his right arm was much looser than the others. Maybe — just maybe — he had a sliver of luck.
But something unusual pulled him out of his thoughts. A sound… one that felt completely out of place here.
A snore.
A genuine, honest snore. So natural one could almost forget the hell surrounding them.
Akram turned toward the source, stunned.
An "asleep" man, tied to a pole just like them, head drooping forward.
A slim guy, sitting cross-legged, wearing a black embroidered poncho, military cargo shorts, pitiful sandals about to fall apart, a homemade gas mask, and a Japanese kasa hat…
He looked like a discount ronin.
The man didn't wake up — not from screams, cries, or pain. Nothing disturbed his heavy sleep.
Akram stared, bewildered.
Who the hell is this clown?
Maora also turned toward the sleeper, and instantly lost her temper.
"Wake up, damn it! What the hell is this idiot doing sleeping HERE? HEY!" she screamed at the stranger.
He mumbled in his sleep, followed by a sloppy swallow — once again radiating an absurd serenity that had no place here.
"HEY! I'm talking to you, asshole!" Maora barked.
"Mphfm… shut your ass, will you…? Lemme nap…" the sleeper muttered.
Maora and Akram were left speechless. The situation was so grotesque neither of them could respond.
Akram shook his head and forced himself back into focus. His right arm was nearly free — a blessing. When he glanced again toward the sleeper, his eyes widened.
A katana.
A damaged one, sure — but still a katana. Hanging from sleeping beauty's belt. It could free the rest of the prisoners. But he had to get loose first.
He no longer felt anything in his right arm — completely dead. That fact made the decision easier.
He needed to amputate himself to escape.
Stress washed over him again, sweat beading on his forehead, hand trembling. But there was no choice.
He prepared a tourniquet using his teeth, tightening it under his armpit to minimize the blood loss, then positioned the sharp wooden splinter sticking out of the pole beside him.
Pure mental strength was all he had left.
Maora watched — stunned, powerless.
"Akram… are you sure…? There might be another wa—"
"Yes, Maora. There's barely any muscle left, the bones are dust, the nerves are destroyed… it's basically just dead weight," Akram replied with false confidence.
The moment had come. No guards nearby — all busy feasting on the bodies of his fallen comrades.
Akram gritted his teeth, eyes wide, staring at his arm as the wooden splinter hovered above what used to be his most important limb.
He didn't give himself time to think… He went for it.
It was far harder than he expected. The splinter didn't cut well, and he didn't have the strength to rip his arm off quickly. The pain was unbearable. His screams and guttural cries cut through the camp — even blending with the suffering of others being eaten — but still standing out in their intensity.
Maora couldn't watch. She shut her eyes tight, grimacing, tears streaming down her cheeks. She accepted it, it was the only way out.
The sleeping man, meanwhile, was no longer snoring.
Finally, what remained of Akram's arm gave way.
He was free.
Blood didn't gush thanks to the tourniquet, but it was far from clean.
Akram let out a long, broken exhale. His vision blurred, his eyes lifeless, but he had no time to rest. Multiple cannibal guards had heard his screams... they were coming.
Without hesitation, Akram freed himself completely, stood up, and grabbed the sleeper's katana.
"HEY! What the hell are you doing, pork-boy? DROP THAT RIGHT NOW!" snarled a cannibal, raising a rusted blade.
They surrounded Akram instantly, ready to leap.
Akram took stance, pointing the katana at them.
"I'm waiting for you, you motherfuckers! I'll gut you all if I have to! You're NOTHING compared to Varog!" he roared, overtaken by adrenaline. He was ready to fight to the death.
Suddenly, a voice came from the shadows.
"Hey, kid…" said the unfamiliar voice.
Akram turned toward it.
The sleeping man was fully awake now.
"Free me, will you," he said, calm and confident.
The cannibals didn't wait a second longer… They all lunged toward Akram, screaming like beasts.