The dilapidated wooden house was surrounded.
The cold night air felt heavy, filled with a tense silence, broken only by the sound of nervous, steaming breaths from behind the filthy animal masks. The cult members didn't charge. They crouched behind an overturned cart, behind the thin pine trees, and in the muddy ditches. They had become hunters who were now afraid of their cornered prey.
A flickering, sickly lantern light leaked from the cracks within the house. A large oak wardrobe had been frantically dragged to cover the main window. But the barricade wasn't intact. The wood was shattered in several places, rough bullet holes blasted outward, not inward—a horrifying reminder of who was inside.
A boar-masked cultist nudged his wolf-masked companion.
Cultist (Boar Mask):
"Damn it... you go in, Kord. You're the biggest, he won't be able to take you down."
Cultist 2 (Wolf Mask):
"Are your eyes blind? Are you crazy? You go in first then!" he hissed, his voice trembling with a mixture of pure anger and terror. "Didn't you see what he did in the alley?! He slaughtered six people in seconds! We've lost more people tonight than Danica has finished off all month! I'd rather face Father in a rage than walk into that monster's den!"
Meanwhile, inside the house, Oldred sat on the edge of a blood-soaked bed—whether it was his blood or the previous owner's, he didn't care. The room was a disaster zone. Glass from the shattered window glittered like diamonds on the filthy wooden floor, mixed with wood splinters from the wardrobe that had been destroyed by his own bullets.
He looked down at his body. His left hand, the one of flesh—which still functioned—patiently but roughly pulled out a large glass shard embedded in his thigh, where a bullet had torn through his pants.
A hunting knife was stuck in his already-shot left shoulder, its handle protruding awkwardly. He gripped the hilt.
Oldred:
"Ugh..."
He let out a low growl, a sound caught between his clenched teeth, as he pulled the knife out.
SCHLUP!
The knife came free with a sickening, wet sound as it pulled from the muscle. He threw it to the floor, where it clattered next to a crossbow bolt he had already pulled from his side, near his ribs.
The wound gaped open. Blood flowed freely. He had to stop it, or he would bleed to death before the cowards outside gathered their courage.
He picked up the rifle he had looted. With his strong, precise bionic fingers, he crushed several shotgun shells, spilling the valuable black gunpowder into his leather-gloved palm.
He looked at the gaping wound on his left shoulder, where the bullet and knife had entered. It was bleeding heavily, a pulsing red hole. Without hesitation, he poured the gunpowder directly into the gaping wound, sprinkling it until it covered the torn flesh. The black powder immediately turned into a dark red paste as it touched the blood.
He took a wooden match from his coat pocket. He struck it with his bionic fingernail.
KREK!
For a moment, he stared at the small, dancing flame. Then, he dropped it onto his shoulder.
SSHHHHHHHFFFFTTT!!
A horrifying, loud hiss echoed as the fire exploded, burning the gunpowder and his flesh. The acrid smell of burnt meat and sulfur immediately filled the air, so thick it made the eyes water.
Oldred didn't scream. His body tensed like steel, his back rigid, his jaw clenched tightly behind the mask. Thin white smoke billowed from his shoulder. The wound was now sealed under a horrifying layer of black char.
Painful? Of course. The pain was excruciating, like hell itself had exploded on his shoulder. But pain was just a signal. And he had long since learned to ignore signals.
He took the remaining gunpowder. He repeated the process on the gaping wound on his thigh. Again, that terrible hiss. Again, that smoke.
He sat there in the smoky silence, listening to his own slow, steady heartbeat, and the sound of the panicked whispers from the besiegers outside. He had patched himself up. Now, it was time to hunt.