The one who laughs last

Two spears stab toward me, aimed straight for my skull. I drop, slamming onto all fours like a dying beast. The impact rattles my frail bones, pain flashing white-hot up my limbs, but I shove off the ground anyway. A reckless, clumsy leap sends me forward. My femur cracks, grinding against itself. The sound is drowned out by my own snarling groan.

I crash into a goblin, my hand finding its shoulder, my fingers digging in. I pull, and its body tears open like rotted fabric. There's nothing poetic about it—just skin and muscle ripping free in chunks, a spray of steaming blood painting the air.

The goblins shriek in their guttural tongue. It's maddening. Deafening.

But it's nothing compared to the wet, bubbling noises coming from me.

The meat draped across my body ripples, twitching and spasming as if it's alive. Veins pulse erratically, spilling rivulets of fresh blood down my back. Strips of intestine slither and constrict over my arms, tightening with each move.

I don't know how I'm still standing. I don't know why my legs haven't just collapsed entirely. My ribs are poking into my lungs, my chest feels like it's caving in, and my heart—well, I think it's still beating.

But who cares?

Another step forward and a big chunk of green skin falls from the cloak with a splat. I barely notice as I rise, trembling, to my feet. The meat cloak writhes again, almost pulling me upright itself. Strands of tendon loop over my knees like braces, holding the shattered bones together long enough to shuffle forward.

My smile stretches wider than it should, splitting the corners of my lips as a result of my imperfect control. Blood seeps into my teeth as I bare them. The goblins freeze, staring.

I laugh, or at least try to. A gurgling sound escapes instead, mixing with the mist of blood that's started to seep from the cloak. It spreads around me in a thin, red fog, turning the air thick and damp.

They falter. I see it in the quiver of their legs, the hesitation in their grips on their crude weapons. One goblin tightens its hold on a spear, only to step back a moment later, its resolve crumbling.

The shaman isn't faring any better. The creature has collapsed, crawling on its belly, shaking like a leaf in a storm. It mumbles incoherent prayers or curses, the faint glow of magic flickering uselessly in its trembling hands.

"COME ON!"

My voice tears out of me, more howl than words, sharp and broken like my body. More blood bubbles in my throat, forcing me to cough between jagged laughs.

Pain blooms anew as my vision tunnels and one eye goes dark, leaving me half-blind. A fresh surge of adrenaline—or whatever is keeping me upright—floods my veins, drowning out the panic of sudden blindness.

One goblin takes a step back, the fear written all over its green, face.

"Not so bold now, are you?" I rasp, though I doubt it understands.

I lunge—if it can even be called that. A broken leap, more animal than human, lands me on top of the cowardly thing. Its brittle frame collapses under my weight, the snap of bones mingling with its panicked squeals. My hand closes around its chest, and with a thought, everything inside it liquefies. The sound is soft and beautiful—a wet, gurgling crunch that echoes as its cries cut off mid-scream.

But the others? They're running.

Four of them remain, carrying the shaman as it continues to mumble and make frantic hand signs. Its wide, bloodshot eyes never leave mine, though. They're locked on me, filled with a terror so pure I almost pity it. Almost.

I try to chase, but my legs betray me, crumpling under the strain.

Fine. If I can't run, I'll crawl.

Dropping to all fours once more, I begin to move. My one good hand digs into the earth, clawing forward, while my legs drag behind me. The cloak of flesh ripples and spasms, bits of meat peel away, sloughing off my frame in wet clumps.

I don't care.

Broken jumps and half-steps push me forward. The goblins are getting further away, their frantic movements kicking up dirt and grass as they flee.

But I'm learning.

A soft chime rings in the back of my mind, but I shove it aside. I don't have time for that.

The meat cloak adapts under my will, shifting to suit my needs. More muscles tighten and wrap around my fractured bones, holding them in place like splints upon splints. Foreign tendons knit into mine, melding, pulling me upright once more. Much of the remaining flesh falls away, lightening my burden, while sinew and cartilage reinforce what's left.

I run.

Not fast, not gracefully, but it's enough. My heart pounds, faster than it should, forcing blood through veins that have no business working. My punctured lung expands and contracts, dragging in ragged breaths as I will it to function. My remaining eye blurs, but I keep it locked forward, focused on the shaman.

The agony is overwhelming. Every step is a symphony of pain, every breath a knife in my ribs, every thought a scream in the void.

But I've never felt more alive.

I want more.

I need more.

I fall and I crawl. I get back up and keep running. I fall again. And again. And again.

And then I sprint.

The ground blurs beneath me as my body burns, breaks, and rebuilds itself in real-time. Every step brings me closer. The goblins begin to run faster, but it doesn't matter.

I'm gaining.

The shaman twists its head to look back at me, its gaze a raw mixture of fear and hate. The jagged edges of its sharp teeth glint in the sunlight as it bares them, and a guttural growl—deep and venomous—rises from its throat.

"Good" I rasp, my lips tearing at the corners as I grin wide.

Every step feels like a gamble, my muscles tearing with each desperate movement. My good hand claws at the ground, pulling me forward when my legs falter. The stump of my other arm hits the dirt uselessly, and I will the flesh to mold, to grow— knitting myself back into something functional.

The voices are back, murmuring just below the threshold of thought, guiding the fleshcrafting. Cartilage snaps back into place. Bone fragments shift and realign, reinforced by layers of pulsing goblin tissue. My heart races like a war drum, and I shove it harder, faster. The blood in my veins is no longer just mine.

The shaman chants, its guttural cries almost as desperate as its subordinates whom struggle to carry it.

A rock, clutched tight in the shaman's shaking hands, begins to glow. Pale, sickly light seeps from the cracks in its surface, growing brighter with every whispered word.

It throws the stone in my direction.

Fast.

Unearthly fast.

I barely see it—the way it tears through the air, faster than my broken body should be able to comprehend. But I don't need to see it. My remaining senses tingle, and something in the back of my mind whispers warnings. I duck, barely evading the projectile.

His aim is good, but predictable. His wrist telegraphed the motion from the moment he raised his arm. I didn't see it though, my vision is nowhere near that good anymore.

Feel? Did I just feel it? one of the voices whispers, but I shove the thought aside.

The rock hits a tree behind me.

BOOM

The familiar shockwave roars, a concussive blast that flattens the undergrowth and sends splinters flying past me. What remains of my cloak ripples violently, but I stay upright. My legs threaten to give out, but I don't stop.

Because I have already won.

I lunge forward, ramming into the goblins like a battering ram.

They tumble with me, their bodies snapping under the force of impact. One goblin screeches as I crash into it, my hand clawing at its flesh. The moment I touch it, its skin sloughs away like wet paper, its muscle and sinew stripping under my command. It gurgles, choking on its own screams before crumpling into a husk.

The others fare no better.

Their screams fill the air, high-pitched and desperate, before fading one by one. Blood pools around us, seeping into the earth. The shaman tries to crawl away, its chanting now incoherent, but the last remains of my cloak lash out like a predator, constricting around its limbs.

I laugh.

And laugh.

And when it's over, only my laughter remains.