Nightfall. The Forest.
The monster emerged at dusk.
Grog had been waiting for hours, hidden behind a fallen log, watching the cave entrance with the patience of a hunter. The apple's gift kept him alert, focused, his senses sharp despite the long wait.
Now the beast was here.
It was massive. Twelve feet of muscle and claw and teeth. Its skin was gray, like old ash, stretched tight over a frame that seemed built for destruction. Its head was too large, its jaw hinged wrong, opening wider than any natural creature's should. Teeth gleamed in the fading light—rows of them, each one sharp as a dagger, stained brown with old blood.
Its hands ended in claws that could gut a man with a single swipe. Its feet were the same—each toe tipped with talons that had carved deep furrows in the earth around its lair. The thing had been killing for a long time. Enjoying it.
And its eyes.
Red. Burning. Intelligent in a way that made Grog's skin crawl.
The monster sniffed the air. Turned its massive head. Those red eyes swept across the forest, searching, testing.
Grog didn't move. Didn't breathe.
The sword pulsed against his hip. Warm. Ready.
For a long moment, the monster stared in his direction. Then it turned and walked into the trees.
Hunting.
Grog waited until it was fifty yards away. Then he rose and followed.
---
The monster moved through the forest like it owned the place.
It didn't hunt like an animal—crouching, stalking, hiding. It walked upright, confident, almost casual. Every few steps it would pause, sniff the air, listen, then continue. It knew nothing in these woods could challenge it.
Grog followed at a distance. Stayed downwind. Used every scrap of stealth he'd learned in two lifetimes.
The monster led him east, away from the cave, away from the village. Deeper into ancient forest where the trees grew thick and the light barely reached.
After a mile, it stopped.
Sniffed again.
Turned.
Looked directly at Grog's hiding spot.
Grog froze.
The monster stared for a long moment. Then it smiled.
It was a terrible expression—too wide, too knowing, full of teeth and hunger. Saliva dripped from its jaws, steaming in the cold air.
"You've been following," it said.
The voice was wrong. Deep and rumbling, but with something underneath. Something that made Grog's teeth ache and his vision blur.
He didn't respond.
The monster took a step toward him. Then another.
"I've known you were there since you left the cave." It laughed—a grinding, awful sound that echoed through the trees. "Your smell. Your heartbeat. Your little magic sword. I've been waiting to see what you'd do."
Grog stood. Drew his sword.
The blade sang in the darkness, light bending around it, disappearing into its depths.
The monster's eyes flickered to the sword. Narrowed.
"Pretty," it said. "Not enough."
It charged.
---
The monster was fast.
Faster than anything that size should be. It crossed the distance in seconds, claws sweeping toward Grog's head.
Grog dodged.
Barely.
The claws passed inches from his face, close enough to feel the wind, close enough to hear them slice the air. He rolled, came up swinging. The sword bit into the monster's side—deep, carving through gray flesh like it was warm butter. Dark blood sprayed, hot and rank.
The monster roared.
Swung again. Wild. Angry. Its claws caught Grog's shoulder—not deep, but enough to draw blood, enough to hurt.
Grog ignored the pain. Swung again. Another cut, this one across its thigh, deep enough to expose bone.
The monster stumbled. Just for a moment. Blood poured from its wounds, steaming in the cold air.
Grog pressed forward. Sword singing. Each strike finding flesh, drawing blood, wearing the beast down.
For a moment, he thought he might win.
---
The monster caught him.
A backhand—casual, almost dismissive—caught Grog in the chest. He flew through the air, hit a tree, crashed to the ground. His ribs screamed. His vision blurred. The sword flew from his grip, landing twenty feet away, its glow dimming without his touch.
The monster approached. Slow now. Confident. Blood dripped from its wounds, but it was still standing. Still dangerous.
"You fight well," it rumbled. "For a human. But you're still just meat."
Grog pushed himself up. His body protested. His head spun. Blood ran down his face from a cut somewhere above his eye, filling his vision with red.
The monster loomed over him.
"I'll eat your heart first," it said. "Then the rest. You'll feed me for a week."
It raised a claw for the killing blow.
Grog's hand found something on the ground. A rock. Useless.
But his fingers closed around it anyway.
And something inside him shattered.
---
The world turned red.
Not figuratively. Not poetically. The world became red—crimson and scarlet and the deep, wet red of fresh blood. The forest vanished. The monster vanished. Everything vanished except the rage.
It came from somewhere deep. Deeper than memory. Deeper than thought. Deeper than the two lifetimes he'd lived. It was ancestral, primal, a thing that had slept in his blood for generations, waiting for a moment like this.
And now it was awake.
Grog stood.
The monster's claw came down.
Grog caught it.
Bare-handed. Stopped it cold.
The monster's eyes went wide. Impossible. This shouldn't be possible.
Grog squeezed.
Bones cracked under his grip—a wet, splintering sound that would have turned his stomach an hour ago. The monster screamed—a high, awful sound that cut through the red haze.
Grog pulled. Hard. The monster lurched forward, off balance, its massive body stumbling toward him. His other hand found its throat.
And lifted.
Twelve feet of nightmare. Lifted off the ground by a man who should not have been able to move it.
The monster thrashed. Its claws raked his chest, his arms, his face—deep wounds, terrible wounds, blood pouring from a dozen gashes. Grog felt nothing. Felt nothing but power. Nothing but rage. Nothing but the red.
He threw it.
The monster crashed through trees. Splintered wood. Broken branches. It landed fifty feet away in a heap, its body twisted, its leg bent wrong.
Grog walked toward it.
Not ran. Walked.
Each step left a footprint in the frozen ground—too deep, too powerful, the earth itself cracking under his weight. His body hummed with strength he'd never known. His vision pulsed with each heartbeat, red and black and red again.
The berserker.
Fully awake now. And not done.
---
The monster tried to rise.
Its leg wouldn't hold. It collapsed, snarling, claws digging into the earth as it tried to drag itself away.
Grog was on it before it could move a foot.
His hands found its head—one on the jaw, one on the skull. The monster's red eyes blazed with terror. Real terror. For the first time in its existence, it understood what prey felt like.
It tried to speak. Tried to beg. Only gurgling sounds came out.
Grog pulled.
The monster's neck snapped with a sound like breaking branches. Its body went limp.
But the berserker wasn't finished.
---
Grog's hands tore into the monster's chest.
Not with weapons—with bare hands. Fingers found purchase between ribs, pulled, ripped. Bone cracked. Flesh tore. Blood poured over him—hot, thick, covering his face, his arms, his chest.
He reached inside.
Found it.
The heart.
Still warm. Still pulsing faintly. Massive—the size of his head, dark and glistening.
He pulled it out.
Held it up.
The red haze loved this. Loved the blood, the warmth, the proof of victory. It sang in his veins, demanding more, demanding everything.
Grog raised the heart to his mouth.
Bit into it.
---
The taste was indescribable.
Warm and rich and alive. Blood ran down his chin, his neck, soaking into his clothes. The muscle was tough but he tore through it, chewing, swallowing, taking the monster's power into himself.
He ate without thought. Without pause. Just consumed, again and again, until half the heart was gone.
The berserker purred with satisfaction.
Grog knelt in the monster's blood, surrounded by the wreckage of their fight, eating its heart raw.
---
Slowly, the red began to fade.
It didn't want to. It fought him, clawing at the edges of his mind, demanding more blood, more violence, more death. But something in him pushed back. The part that was still Grog. The part that remembered friends, loyalty, purpose.
He dropped what remained of the heart.
Looked at his hands.
They were destroyed. Fingers torn, nails ripped, skin shredded from breaking through the monster's ribs. They should be useless. They should be screaming with pain.
He felt nothing.
The wounds were already closing. He could see it happening—flesh knitting, skin reforming, the berserker's gift working faster than anything natural.
He looked at the monster's corpse.
Twelve feet of nightmare. Dead. Torn open. Partially eaten.
By him.
He'd done this.
He didn't remember choosing to. Didn't remember deciding. The berserker had taken over, used his body like a weapon, and he'd just... watched.
I can't control it, he realized. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
The thought should have terrified him.
Instead, it just felt true.
---
He stood.
His body was covered in blood—the monster's, his own, mixed together until he couldn't tell which was which. His clothes were ruined, hanging in shreds. His hands, already healing, still looked like they'd been through a meat grinder.
He found his sword. Picked it up.
The blade pulsed. Warm. Reassuring. It didn't care what he'd done. It only cared that he'd won.
He sheathed it.
Looked at the monster one last time.
Then he walked toward the village.
---
The walk was long.
His mind cleared with each step. The red faded further, retreating to wherever it lived when not in control. By the time he reached the edge of the forest, he was almost himself again.
Almost.
He could still feel it there. The berserker. Sleeping now, but awake. Aware. Waiting for the next time he lost control.
I need to understand this, he thought.
He stepped out of the trees.
The village lay ahead, dark and quiet. Ordinary people sleeping ordinary sleeps. They didn't know what walked among them.
Grog walked toward the inn.
His hands, still healing, left bloody prints on everything he touched.