SLICE!
"AHHHH!!!"
THUD!
"RUN!"
CRUSH!
"P-Please... spare me!"
Ahh~... what a satisfying sight to behold.
The tavern had become a slaughterhouse.
Tables lay shattered like broken bones, tankards rolled across the floor spilling ale that mixed freely with blood, and bodies were strewn everywhere—some still twitching, others very much not.
I stood at the center of it all.
My six Hell Chains writhed around me, snapping and coiling with a will of their own, each movement precise, efficient, merciless. One chain yanked a fleeing, hulking four-armed demon back by the ankle, slamming him into the wall hard enough to leave a crater.
He'd been the "tough guy" of the group, bragging about how he's going to bend me over the bar and fuck me until I beg for death.
Now? Two hell chains were drilling into his ass.
Another chain snaked behind the bar, wrapping around the neck of a cowardly imp trying to hide and pull out a hidden dagger. The chain lifted him effortlessly, his little legs kicking uselessly in the air as his face turned from purple to black.
They weren't guards anymore.
They were meat that had forgotten it was already dead.
A demon charged me from the side, roaring as he swung a massive cleaver. I didn't even look at him. My flail moved on instinct, the spiked head arcing through the air—
CRUNCH!
His skull folded like wet parchment, the rest of his body collapsing a heartbeat later.
Pathetic.
A group of demons had barricaded themselves near the bar, overturned counters forming a shaky defense. One of them—a trembling goblin-like demon with wide, bloodshot eyes—peeked over the edge.
"T-this ain't worth it!" he screamed. "We surrender! We—"
"Surrender?" I echoed softly, tilting my head. "You misunderstand."
Two hell chains shot out, wrapping around his legs, and with one yank, he split in half from the groin up.
"There is no surrender in a pantry."
Some ran for the back door. Others dropped their weapons and fell to their knees. It didn't matter. Chains lashed out in every direction, cutting down escapees, crushing spines, and tearing through armor like it wasn't there.
Within moments, the noise died.
Silence reclaimed the tavern. Not the careful, frightened quiet of people holding their breath.
The final, absolute quiet that comes when everything that could possibly make noise has been turned into wet chunks and red puddles, broken only by the crackle of settling debris and the slow drip of blood from my weapons.
I stood ankle-deep in the carnage, chest rising and falling slowly, tongue sliding across my lower lip to catch a stray drop that wasn't ale.
"Ahh~..." I moaned, savoring the lingering high.
The rush of slaughter, the sheer, unfiltered joy of absolute dominance.
"How I missed this feeling."
The high was a heavy, honey-thick heat that pooled in my lower belly, making my vision swim with a delicious, rosy tint. I looked down at my hands, watching the thick, vermilion syrup coat my fingers before dripping onto the floor.
I was a mess. A beautiful, gory, terrifying mess.
"Now then," I whispered to the empty room, my voice sounding like velvet over gravel. "I did say I was hungry."
The cleanup part requires a more... intimate touch. I walked toward the center of the pile, my hips swaying with a languid, post-coital grace. The dark tendrils from between my thighs slithered out, no longer hesitant, but eager—starving. They fanned out like the many-headed hydra of legend, each one seeking a target.
Squelch. Squelch. Slurrrp.
"Mmm... Nngh~"
I arched my back as the first wave of 'essence' was shoved in me; it was like drinking lightning. Each demon's life-force had a different flavor. The four-armed one was gamey and tough, a bitter taste of unearned pride. The goblin had a sour, panicked flavor that was gone as soon as it hit.
This wasn't just feeding. This was... communion.
With my womb... hehehe.
My system's prompt was a distant hum, a boring, irrelevant distraction. I didn't need it to tell me how powerful this was making me. I could feel it.
"What a beautiful symphony of death... and lunch."
I lost track of how many I consumed. Three? Five? Eight? They all blended together into a single, glorious wave of devoured power.
Step!
"Hmm?"
As I was busy with my meal, a slight noise broke the gory symphony—a creak from the stairs leading down to the main floor. My head snapped up, tendrils retracting in an instant, my posture shifting from languid feasting to predatory alertness.
"More guests?" I purred.
Heavy footsteps. One set, moving with military precision, not panicked stumbling. This wasn't some fleeing drunk.
The figure emerged from the shadows of the stairwell.
He wasn't a pigman. He wasn't a thug.
"Oh!... interesting," I muttered, a genuine smile gracing my lips.
He stood tall, clad in leather armor the color of dried blood, reinforced with tarnished silver. A long, jagged scar ran from his left temple down to the corner of his mouth, pulling his lip into a permanent sneer. His eyes, a cold, piercing shade of ice blue, locked onto me, then swept across the massacre with a detached, analytical gaze. He didn't flinch. He didn't show disgust or fear.
He showed… appraisal.
"It's been a long time since I fought your kind," I said, my voice a low, dangerous hum as I called my flail back to my hand.
The demon was an Oni. A rare sight, even in Hell. Red skin, two short horns jutting from his forehead, and a frame packed with corded muscle. His entire presence screamed 'disciplined killer.'
One of the few demon types that I actually enjoyed fighting back when I was a hero, and probably the only demon race that knows what honor means.
Back in my old world, the Oni called themselves 'Samurai.' They were a warrior caste, bound by a strict code of conduct, and they were as deadly as they were rare.
Plus, they really have cool swords... the katana.
Ahh~... good old days.
When I was in need of a good fight, I would go out of my way to find an Oni to spar with. Most of the time, they would agree; some would even thank me for the chance to test their skills.
I remember one time I was too arrogant, just starting my journey as a hero, and I ended up challenging a master Oni swordsman. He disarmed me in seconds and had his blade at my neck before I could even blink. He spared me, but not before calling me weak and unworthy to wield a sword.
And being the arrogant punk I was, I challenged him again... and again... and again. Each time, he would beat me with a new technique, a new strategy, a new lesson.
On our tenth fight, he finally spoke to me after the duel.
"You have potential, little hero. But your pride blinds you. You fight with anger, not with skill. You seek victory, not perfection. When you learn to control your emotions, when you learn to fight with a clear mind and a pure heart, then you will be a true warrior."
From that day on, I started to train with him, learning the art of the sword, the art of the warrior. He became my mentor—at least in my eyes and only for a short while— he didn't officially accept me as his disciple, but he would always correct my mistakes, he would always push me to my limits, and he would always defeat me with a smile on his face.
I don't know what happened to him. We just... drifted apart. I had my duties as a hero, and he had his duties as an Oni.
But I still remember his lessons, even now.
Later, when I met my old dragon mentor, he told me that the Oni master was one of his old rivals—a friendly rivalry that spanned centuries.
"The only demon I ever respected," my mentor said.
Good memories.
I looked at the Oni in front of me, a faint smile playing on my lips. From the memories of the pigman, I learned that this Oni was his bodyguard, a silent, stoic warrior who never left his side—except when the pigman needed to count his gold or fuck it.
He probably didn't know about the slave trade.
How ironic... the most honorable race in demonkind is a bodyguard to one of the most dishonorable and pathetic demons in Hell.
And what's worse was that the mother of this Oni was killed by the pigman. Well... he didn't just kill her—he raped her and then ate her alive while her son was forced to watch. The Oni was then sold as a slave, and after a year or two, the pigman was walking in the slave market and, by chance, he saw a young Oni slave and decided to buy him.
How cruel. The two didn't recognize each other, and the Oni has been serving him for many years now, without ever knowing the truth.
"Heh... you had a rough life," I said, my voice laced with a mix of pity and amusement. "Serving a pig who murdered your mother. That's just... pathetic."
The Oni's ice-blue eyes narrowed, a flicker of confusion and disbelief crossing his face. Too bad he can't speak; the slaver master cut off his tongue long ago.
"Sigh... words are useless." I shook my head, crouching and picking a decent one-handed sword from the floor. "Come... show me your skills."