In the dead of night, thunder cracked across the sky.
Rain slammed against the windowpane as lightning lit up the room in stark white flashes. Marino's eyes flew open. Gasping, drenched in cold sweat, he bolted upright in bed.
Heart pounding, he looked down at his hands, then began frantically patting down his body.
Nothing.
No red skin. No claws. No horns.
He exhaled slowly, relief washing over him—followed almost immediately by disappointment. A strange, hollow ache settled in his chest.
It was… just a dream?
No. No, it couldn't be. It felt too real—every blow, every roar, the weight of that monstrous power… it had meant something.
Still not convinced, Marino threw off his blanket and stood up, hastily undressing. He examined himself carefully, turning in front of a cracked mirror like a madman searching for hidden runes.
But there was nothing.
No new muscle. No glowing eyes. Just the same skinny limbs and pale skin.
Then—hesitantly—he looked down at the most important thing.
He gently poked it.
Still small.
His face fell.
He sighed and sat at the edge of the bed, naked and defeated, a single drop of rain sliding down the window like a tear mirroring his soul.
"Damn," he muttered. "That sucks."
A quote floated through his mind from the old world—a voice he vaguely remembered, maybe a meme, maybe a movie:"It's not the size of a man's dick that matters, but the size of his heart."
He stared blankly at the wall.
"…Bullshit."
That was the kind of thing weak men said to console themselves, he thought bitterly.
No—he knew the truth. Power wasn't given. It was earned.
Through passion. Through struggle. Through relentless, grinding, soul-crushing effort.
He clenched his fists, still staring downward with determination burning behind his eyes.
"My pp will grow strong," he declared with grim resolve. "For I am but a boy—and I still have time."
But it wouldn't happen by accident.
Greatness demanded sacrifice.
Purpose. Action.
He stood. The wind howled outside. Thunder growled again like an ancient beast.
A strange calm settled over him. The dream—it meant something. It had planted a seed. Though his body hadn't changed, something inside him had. His mind felt clearer. His spirit felt louder.
This was no ordinary night. And he would not treat it like one.
Marino moved to the small wooden closet in the corner and flung it open. He pulled out his black clothes, then wrapped himself in a rain cloak with a hood that draped low over his face. A thin black scarf went around his neck. Lastly, he donned his worn leather gloves.
He turned toward the mirror.
The boy who stared back was no longer just Marino.
He looked… dangerous.
"In the dark of night," he whispered, "I stalk. Nothing is true. Everything is permitted."
A grin tugged at the edge of his lips.
Yes… now he looked like a true medieval assassin.
He didn't want to be a criminal, of course. But this was medieval times—there were no cameras, no fingerprints, no digital footprints. As long as he didn't get caught, what was the harm?
He stepped quietly toward the window, placing a booted foot on the ledge.
Time to test the limits of fate.
The rain hit his cloak. The wind caught his scarf.
A new chapter had begun.
Marino, in his infinite teenage wisdom, had devised a master plan.
The path to power, he reasoned, lay not only in iron will and training—but in eggs. Glorious, protein-packed eggs.
And where could he acquire such treasures?
The Northern farmhouse.
His plan was simple: each night, he would sneak under cover of darkness to the chicken coop and steal their eggs. Like this, he would grow stronger, both in body and stealth. Perhaps he could even become a true ninja—master of shadows, silent as the night wind.
And, if fortune smiled upon him… maybe he'd catch a glimpse of her. The dark-haired farm girl. The one with the eyes like stormclouds and a laugh like spring rain. She didn't know it yet, but destiny had plans for them.
Marino pulled his scarf up over his nose, covering the lower half of his face. Only his eyes remained visible—narrowed with purpose.
Silently, he crept to his bedroom door and slowly, ever so slowly, pushed it open. The hinges groaned faintly. He froze.
To the right was the room where his parents slept.
He held his breath and listened.
Nothing but soft snores.
Perfect.
He slipped into the hallway, moving like a shadow, each footstep deliberate and light. At the top of the stairs he paused, then descended one creaky step at a time, skipping the fourth step—it always groaned the loudest.
To his right: the door to the outside world.
To his left: the kitchen.
And in the kitchen, curled in the warm glow of the dying fire, lay the horned beast—a great, shaggy creature with curling black horns and sleepy yellow eyes. Surrounding it were three of his sheep and the seven hellspawn lambs that Marino swore were born purely to torment him.
He paused.
A true ninja needed a blade.
Careful not to rattle a single pan, he tiptoed into the kitchen and reached for the knife rack. His hand closed around an 18-centimeter bread knife—sturdy, sharp enough, and more importantly, dramatic-looking. He slipped it up his sleeve.
"Of course," he whispered to himself. "What is a ninja without his blade?"
The horned beast shifted slightly in its sleep. Marino froze, then backed away slowly, one step at a time, until he was out of sight.
At the front door, he slid on his fine black leather shoes—stolen from the merchant's son two weeks ago. They fit perfectly now.
He undid the sliding lock as quietly as he could, then cracked the door open.
The wind slapped him with cold rain. The scent of wet earth filled his nose.
He stepped into the night.
Leaving the door unlocked behind him—because true ninja always left a way out—Marino set off up the winding path that led toward the Northern farmhouse.
Rain trickled down his cloak. His breath fogged in the cool air.
He didn't care.
He was on a mission.
A mission for eggs… for power… for destiny.
And perhaps, if the gods were kind—
A glimpse of her.
The Northern farm was the perfect target.
Set against the craggy hills beyond Sagres' crumbling stone walls, the farmhouse stood like a lone sentinel beneath the rain-washed stars. The only lights in town came from the smoldering temple brazier near the chapel of the Divine Flame, now barely visible through the rain. All else lay buried in the midnight dark.
To the south, the last home of the village ended a hundred paces back. To the north, nothing but windswept moors and the twisted trees of the Godswatch Grove for leagues. No travelers, no watchmen. Only beasts and the dead walked north of Sagres at night.
Marino moved like a shade through the gloom, boots squelching in the sucking mud. His cloak, soaked and heavy, clung to his back like a second skin. Around him, the rain fell in curtains, as if the heavens were trying to wash the world clean.
When the farmhouse came into view, he dropped low behind a moss-covered stone and surveyed his target.
A crude wooden gate, two meters high and bound with iron nails, stood between him and the farmstead. Beyond it, he could make out the silhouettes of buildings—thick clay walls, thatched roofs sagging with rain, every window shuttered tight.
But it was the coop that drew his eye.
It loomed behind the main house, half hidden by the old well. Too large for any ordinary chicken roost. Built with care, oddly reinforced. A peasant family would never spend that much effort on fowl—unless there was more to them than feathers and eggs.
Still crouched, Marino smeared cold mud across his face, drawing crude, jagged lines beneath his eyes like a hunter of ancient myths. He whispered to himself in a hushed tone that echoed the sermons he had once overheard in the chapel:
"In shadow, I walk. In silence, I strike. Sigmar sees not what Morr hides beneath his cloak."
With that, he scaled the gate, the old wood groaning faintly beneath his weight. He paused at the top, eyes scanning for movement.
Nothing.
Only the whispering trees and the low growl of distant thunder from the sea cliffs.
He dropped down inside the courtyard, landing on the balls of his feet. The ground here was soft, thick with wet straw and chicken droppings. The smell of damp feathers and rusted iron filled the air.
He crept along the edge of the main house, hand brushing the hilt of the knife hidden in his sleeve—a simple bread blade, but in his imagination it gleamed like a dagger forged in the forges of Nuln.
Every step forward was careful, deliberate. A single twig cracked, and he froze, breath caught in his chest.
But no torch was lit. No door opened.
The house remained silent.
He passed the bathhouse, its domed roof slick with rain. Then the old forge, dark and cold, but still reeking faintly of ash and blood. Tools hung like butcher's hooks from its walls.
Finally, he reached the coop.
A warped ramp led up to the door, slick with rain and streaked with old claw marks. From inside came the faint clucking and rustle of feathers. One rooster let out a grumbling crow, half-asleep, as if sensing something unnatural in the air.
Marino grinned beneath his mud-covered scarf.
Eggs and stealth. Strength and skill. I will take both tonight.
And if some daemon-cursed rooster tried to peck his eye out—well, let the gods bear witness.
He'd fight it like a true shadow of Sagres.
Rain lashed against the clay tiles above as thunder rolled like the drums of war. Marino, soaked and shivering under his muddy cloak, crept up the slick wooden ramp to the chicken house. Lightning tore across the heavens, illuminating the coop in a cold, pale light. He slid the latch open with a slow creak and stepped inside.
Rows of nesting shelves lined the narrow walls, stuffed with restless, wide-eyed chickens. Their feathers puffed, their heads twitched at every noise—unnerved by the storm outside, or perhaps by the shadow now standing among them.
Marino barely had time to shut the door when another lightning bolt struck nearby, the flash searing through a grime-streaked ceiling window. In that instant, the chickens saw him—his muddied face, the unfamiliar scent of desperation and hunger—and chaos erupted.
"Cluck-cluck-cluck! Cock-a-doodle-doo!"
The cacophony was deafening. Feathers exploded into the air as the chickens bolted to the far side of the coop. Marino grinned beneath his scarf. Perfect. The storm's my cover. Dozens of eggs now lay exposed and undefended.
He reached forward.
That was his mistake.
A bone-chilling cry echoed from the rear of the coop—an ancient war cry that froze even the storm for a second.
"COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO!"
From three directions, they came. Roosters—titanic in courage and bred for war. The Left one, quick as a striking snake, darted across the shelf like a bolt of fury and clamped down on Marino's gloved hand with claws and beak.
"AAH—YOU MOTHERF—!"
Before he could finish cursing, the others were on him. One slammed into his shoulder, another clawed at his legs, and a fourth latched onto his hood, flapping wildly.
They were relentless. Screeching. Pecking. Tearing.
Marino cursed and flailed, the leather of his coat absorbing most of the damage, but pain blossomed from every blow. He slapped the rooster on his hand with a satisfying THWACK.
"Co-COOOO!" it screamed as it hit the ground, feathers spiraling.
"GET SLAPPED, NOOB!" Marino barked, fury rising.
Another slap sent the second to join its brother, dazed. That left two. The one at his shins kept scratching like a demon, and the one on his head now clung to his face, claws digging through the cloth.
He bent low and slapped the third clean off, but just then—the last one struck.
Its claw raked across his right eye.
"AAAGH! YOU—YOU GODS-DAMNED COCK!"
With fire in his blood, Marino grabbed the shrieking beast with both hands and hurled it across the coop. It hit the clay wall with a dull thud and flopped to the floor, twitching.
Panting and wincing, Marino yanked off his glove and reached up to feel his face.
Three shallow cuts traced down beside his right eye. Blood mixed with rainwater, trickling down his cheek.
"Damn…"
His breath came ragged and hot.
And then—it spoke.
"Yes... YES, MARINO. Do it.Kill. Slaughter. Destroy."
The voice was like gravel ground between teeth, oozing with glee.
Thunder cracked. His pupils dilated. In the far corner of the coop, the roosters—those once-proud defenders of their realm—now huddled, feathers puffed in fear, staring at the boy with bloodstained gloves.
Marino's hand trembled as he drew his hidden blade from his sleeve—eighteen centimeters of steel gleaming with the promise of revenge.
He pulled his glove back on, grinning through the pain. His eyes glinted red with the storm's fury.
"You're gonna pay for that..." he growled, stepping forward.
The storm screamed above as Marino took another step toward the cowering roosters. The knife in his hand pulsed. Not with light. Not with life. But with a heat—something deeper. A hunger.
"Yes…" the voice whispered again, curling around his mind like smoke from a pyre."Let go. Give yourself to me. To us. You are no longer boy… You are wrath made flesh."
His hand stopped shaking.
The red in his eyes began to spread—like ink spilled in water, until the whites were swallowed whole. Twin infernos now burned in his skull. The pain of the cut was gone, replaced by a feverish heat in his veins. Reason faded. All that remained was instinct. Hatred. And hunger.
Marino's lips peeled back into a madman's grin as he raised the blade high.
"Time to dine," he muttered. "You pecked the wrong damn demon."
The blade came down.
Once.Twice.Over and over.
Feathers filled the air like snow. Blood sprayed the wooden walls. Screeches of agony echoed through the night, but no help came. None would dare cross the storm, nor guess what hell unfolded in the chicken coop.
Marino lost himself in the slaughter. His hands worked on their own, slicing, carving, crushing. The wooden floor turned slick with gore. Chickens tried to flee, but found only the knife—or his bare hands. At some point, the blade snapped, but he didn't stop. He didn't need it.
He bit.
He tore.
He fed.
There in the darkness, surrounded by twitching corpses, the boy-turned-beast fell to his knees and began to feast like a wild dog. Chunks of meat vanished into his mouth, ripped raw from bone. Blood smeared across his face, soaked into his cloak, dripped from his chin. His teeth tore flesh like they weren't meant to.
Then he began to sing.
Not with melody. Not with grace.
But with madness.
"🎵 Oh flesh, oh meat, so sweet, so red,Dripping warm as the living bled…*
A taste divine from beast and bird,*The crunch of bone, the dying word…*
Feathers, skin, blood, and bone,*In the dark, I feast alone…*
Juicy, bloody, warm delight,*I'll feast 'til dawn replaces night!* 🎵"
He laughed between verses, stuffing more into his mouth. His hands—no longer human—now bore faint scales and dark claws. His tongue flicked long, blackened at the tip. Blood sizzled on his skin like it craved it.
The voice in his head was silent now—no longer needing to speak. Its will and his were one.
In the chicken house of Sagres, under the storm's fury, a monster was born.
And no one would believe the horror that began with a single stolen egg.