Fittingly dubbed “little demonids”, chorts boasted a host of distinct devilish features on an eerily humanoid frame. A pair of hooved legs supported their stumpy bodies, their furred backs sprouted webbed wings that were too minuscule to function, and twisted ivory horns crowned their maned heads. From afar, one could confuse them with a satyr, another goat-like humanoid, but once close enough, the semblances began to fade. Chorts were more akin to beasts than humans, with beady golden eyes, fanged smiles and matted fur covering most of their rough, greyish hide.

  Unlike their city-faring cousins, chorts preferred living in the seclusion of human civilisation, burrowing deep within forests and marshes across the Northern Continent. They were infamous for their malicious nature, carrying out devious acts ranging from abducting children to starting barnfires. While usually acting in solitude, some reports have mentioned seeing them exhibit “gang” behaviours as of late. Bearing stolen armaments from abandoned battlefields, they assembled posies and organised greater crimes such as highway robbery and land domination.

  One member of such gangs had been trudging across the damp, thick mud, dragging behind a short sword that left a deep trail in the earth. He mumbled and snorted as he lazily scoured the area for threats, struggling to carry out his guard duties due to the pitch darkness. As if that had not been enough, the ongoing downpour was weighing his soaking mane onto his face, obscuring his sight even further and irking him infinitely.

  Suddenly, the creature felt an unusual presence, a raspy, airy hum whistling through the faint sound of trickling rain against the soil. He twists his body almost completely, brandishing his sword and staring into a lightless corridor beyond the bushes. Momentarily, the scene began to shift as a pair of bright golden orbs revealed themselves, contrasting the never-ending darkness. They peered down right at the small monster, freezing him in fear as a shining beam of silver lept across them, sweeping in a brilliant arch like a comet in the night.

  The poor beast had little time to reconcile his senses, let alone react to said reconciliation, before he could feel the ruthless cold of steel cut across his shoulder. Its keen edge sent a short-lived shock of pain through his body, before it turned into sweet nothings as his bust came tumbling onto the very ground he walked.

  Emerging from the fog and the shadows was the imposing frame of Viktor, flourishing his slender blade, “Long Silver”, by his side. The curved end of its sharper edge was soaked in a patch of crimson that slowly faded to the rain.

  Grimacing, he sternly stared at the disembodied head of the foul beast before whispering to himself,” Seems we’ve arrived.”

  The tracks led Viktor deep within the sunless marshes, where the dense forest thinned into an opening. Sparse trees and shrubbery lay scattered across a vat of creeping mist, surrounding a short, rocky mound. Atop the hill, perched a gargantuan oak, bare and ghastly, its leafless branches spread far and wide, hosting an array of stolen memorabilia. Weapons, jewellery, fabrics and bones dangled from thin ropes that hung to the distant branches of the bestial monument, an attestation to the residents’ ruthlessness.

  Facing the centrepiece, Viktor marched into the fog, holding the decapitated head of a chort in front of his own. Mockingly, he puffs his chest, throws his other arm wide, and announces, “MONKEYS! YOUR KING HAS RETURNED!”

  Drawn by the discourteous display was the meagre shape of a humanoid, peaking out from an alcove beneath the arching roots of the great oak. His flaming eyes darted in fury before settling upon his nemesis. Clenching his teeth and flaring his nostrils, he waved a stolen pistol, yelled a bunch of indiscernible commands, and retreated into his cave.

  Simultaneously, five chorts appeared through the mist before Viktor. The nest’s vanguard held long bronze pikes, which they wielded towards the uncouth intruder. They inched closely, surrounding him from all sides, cackling and snorting as they prepared to puncture him thoroughly.

  WHOOSH!

  They dash in, the heads of their spears hurling forward. One of them, exclaims, beaming with pride as his blade pierces flesh. Alas, his joy is short-lived, as he comes to realise he’d only pierced the disembodied head of his previously fallen comrade.

  Viktor, however, had successfully somersaulted above his assailants, dodging their assault before gracefully landing a few yards ahead. Wasting no time, he turns immediately back towards the pikemen, drawing his revolver and firing into the crowd from his hip.

  Bang, bang, bang, bang. The old firearm, aptly named “Heavy Iron”, fired a hefty round of lead into the unsuspecting beasts. Every bullet hits its target, bursting the chorts’ heads on impact like grapes beneath a wine-maiden’s feet.

  Unfortunately, the gun jams, leaving a traumatised chort glaring in fear towards the merciless predator, who was staring begrudgingly at his firearm.

  “Excuse me a moment,” says a frustrated Viktor, fiddling with the chamber of his gun,” You piece of shit.”

  He slams the black-iron cylinder, concurrently sending the fifth round flying towards the chort. Looking up in feigned surprise, he stares right through the clean, bleeding gash through the beast's skull before it collapses onto the thin sheen of water on the damp soil.

  Curious to see the result of the scuffle and intrigued by the blasts, the commander makes a second appearance. Furious, he sends out an array of chilling cries, akin to the screams of sirens.

  Viktor stares ahead unshaken, stoically listening to the cackles and clicks of chorts heeding their master's calls. Steadily, they crawled out of their burrows onto the open marshes, creeping through the mists and peering from behind the trees. Each of them deviously smiled through a set of yellowed fangs as they dragged spears and blades wielded with murderous intent.

  Viktor sighs, “Finally, some real work.”

  He draws a wide grin across his cheeks as his eyes glow golden and take their empowered form. Bracing to leap into action, he places his palm against the hilt of his blade, wrapping his middle and ring fingers around the cold, ridged handle. His finger slips through the side rings as his thumb rests against the near end of the spotless silver cross-guards.

  Suddenly, he sprints forth with superhuman vigour, leaving streams of splitting mist in his wake. He was darting so quickly across the field that it would be difficult for anyone, man or beast, to predict his footing in his blur of motion.

  As he turns a corner, he is met with a blade-wielding deviant. Before the creature could even look his way, Viktor drew Long Silver from its scabbard, swinging it into a vertical arch. The unyielding edge of the sliver blade ripples through the flesh effortlessly, splitting the poor mishap in half as he guts spilt beneath him.

  Shifting his pace east, he quickly draws Heavy Iron to send a bullet hurling towards a distant chort, rupturing his neck and granting him a painful death.

  Twisting forwards once more, he rushes towards an oncoming spearman. He feints to the side before sending his boot colliding with his ribs, punting him violently into a tree to shatter his spine.

  The chort's spear, now dislodged from his grip, was floating mid-air from the momentum. Viktor grabs it and launches it at another beast, puncturing his face right between the eyes as he falls to his knees.

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  Viktor dashed forward, the path momentarily clear, but his approach was disturbed by an attempted ambush. A dagger-wielding chort, eyes crazed with bloodthirst, lept from atop one of the trees, intending to slit Viktor’s throat. Privy to such attempts and adept of the senses, Viktor detects the approach. He reaches backwards with his hand to yank the beast’s mane and slam him into the ground. Squealing and attempting to rise, the chort was met with the leather sole of Viktor’s heavy boots, bringing him a vile and shameful death as his head burst beneath his adversary’s feet.

  Blood rushed from below Viktor and splattered across his face as he stared down at the deceased pest. His eyes brightened, his teeth flashed white, and he let out a malevolent chuckle as he breathed in the iron-tinged smell of blood.

  Invigorated with violent lust and the spirit of the hunt, Viktor turns his head to the sound of oncoming clicks and cackles that fell over a consistent quaking. Through the parting mists, he could see the threat approaching him. A horde of chorts, armed to the teeth, swarmed under a single banner that transcended language barriers.

  “KILL THE HUNTER!”

  Standing straight on, Viktor placed his one hand on his holster and the other on his blade. He closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath.

  He could smell the metallic scent of blood, the earthy scent of rain against the soil, and the vile scent of excrement of the dead.

  He could sense the hard ridges of the contoured handle of his sword, the warm texture of the hard leather of his holster, the cool moisture of the raindrops trickling down his visage.

  He could hear the battle-hardened screams of beasts, the clanging and clattering of bloodthirsty armaments, the quivering rumble of the earth below.

  He exhales, “Ahhh.”

  This was it, to him; this was perfection. No fancy bathhouse or expensive getaway could induce the sense of uniquely exhilarating calm Viktor currently felt. For this is where he truly belonged, amongst the frenzy and chaos, amongst the blood and sweat, amongst the heat of the moment. This was what he lived for. This was the dance.

  He dashes in.

  He cuts to the left, slices a chort.

  Turns right.

  Kicks another chort into a third.

  He twists, dodges, cuts twice, two more down.

  He draws, he fires, he dashes, another down.

  He feints, then slashes, then dodges, then slashes, then shoots; another three down.

  Viktor took the form of an elaborate performer, effortlessly evading his enemies as he cut through their ranks. One foot then the other, he immaculately twirled as geisers of blood merged with the low-hanging clouds of the swamp. It wouldn’t be long before the scene would be veiled by a layer of dense crimson mist, masking the beautiful display of gore from all who sook audience.

  As the onslaught continued, the chorts began to simultaneously change their approach. Choosing to flee the scene in cowardice, hoping to survive the exchange rather than emerging victorious.

  Viktor, plagued with an urge to kill and festering with murderous intent, would not allow this. Loading his heavy iron, he cast its long, thick barrel towards the deserters, picking them one by one. Bullets flew with faultless aim, and the fight turned to a grim massacre as all hopes of peace were vanquished.

  Standing in solitude within a pool of blood, Viktor howled maniacally, sickeningly elated by the gorish scene. As his laughter faded, he would take a moment to breathe in, processing the newfound quiet of the atmosphere.

  Eerily silent, the pitter-patter of rain against the ponds of blood and water below was ever so obvious, softly interrupted by intermittent gusts of wind.

  RAAAAAAAA!

  A blood-curdling scream pierces the air, followed by distant heavy panting. An unseemly end to the moment of peace.

  Genuinely startled by the roar, Viktor was back in full focus, peering through the mist towards the perpetrator of this disturbance.

  Not too far ahead, posing menacingly in the distance, was another humanoid beast of vastly different shapes and proportions. Standing about as tall and weighing about as much as a brown bear on two legs, the hairless oaf flaunted a layer of waxy pale skin. Its heavy base sat upon a pair of chubby limbs, and narrowed up to its shoulders, where two long, muscular arms stretched all the way to the ground. About as thick as its shoulders, its girthy neck supported the fanged head of an unsightly ghoul.

  Viktor had figured without a doubt that this swamp troll, otherwise known as an ogre. Tough, man-eating brutes that favoured a reclusive lifestyle. They showed barely any signs of intellect and lived mostly in solitude, with rare occasions of opposite-sex couples being their greatest gatherings. Rarely leaving their caves, they only ever posed a threat to those who trespass on their territory.

  This ogre, however, seemed to make an unlikely pact with the band of chorts.

  “Well,” Viktor mutters to himself,” that explains the tree.”

  Whipping his sword violently, he flings the thick layer of blood off its gleaming surface before sheathing it in its scabbard. He pats the twisted silver pommel twice over, then rushes towards the charging beast.

  As he closed the distance, Viktor elegantly pounced at the beast, using an element of surprise to his advantage. Wrapping his slender legs around the oaf’s neck, he pulls himself towards its snub-nosed face. He looks down into its bloodshot, dilated eyes before sticking the muzzle of his pistol right between them. With a gleeful smile, he yanks his trigger.

  Plink. Nothing happened.

  “Shit,” he exclaims, staring down the barrel of his jammed pistol.

  Spluttering with rage, the ogre yanks Viktor off his face and tosses him aside, sending him tumbling into the trunk of a tree. His back almost snapping from the collision, Viktor struggles to rise to his feet as his adversary prepares to charge him once more.

  “Motherfucker,” Viktor cursed, using his one hand to support his knee as the other pressed against his lower back, “guess we do this the old-fashioned way.”

  He rolls his neck, squares his shoulders, braces his core and splits his stance. Staring right at the oncoming wagon of a beast that intended to claw his head off clean, he grimaced and inhaled, awaiting its approach.

  Soon, the beast was within striking distance, swinging at Viktor with lethal force and astonishing velocity. Alas, it struck nothing but wood, as the steady hunter had preemptively ducked in towards his left. Viktor stares right at the beast through cat-like pupils; his eyes emanate a burning gold like twin suns. Poised as one could be, Viktor rips a powerful left jab.

  TRAK!

  The heated fist collides with the troll’s chin hard and true, sending him into a haze as he recoils.

  Shaking his disbelief away, the fuming troll hurls another swipe at the hunter, who once again weaves the attack. This time, Viktor shifts his weight at his hips, driving through his legs into a walloping jab.

  POW!

  It lands across the cheeks, dazing the beast further and prompting him into complete rage. Screaming with anguish, the troll begins a mindless onslaught, desperately attempting to disembowel his opponent.

  Unfortunately, the calm and confident hunter had long won the mind game, reading every move the troll made two moves prior. Ducking and weaving, the hunter lay down his own counter assault, hooking and jabbing back at the monster after every failed strike. Eventually, Viktor exhausted the fiend, rendering it too stunned to comprehend its bearing.

  Examining his staggered target, Viktor smiled eerily and clenched his fists. It was his turn to launch an onslaught of strikes, and he was going to relish every second of it.

  POW! TRAK! BAM! PUK!

  Viktor cast a flawless combo of violent jabs and hooks at the ogre’s bobbing head, sending teeth and blood flying with every landing blow. Concluding his bloodied performance, he winds up and hurls a steaming uppercut into the beast’s jaw, bringing it to its knees with its pupils rolled into its skull.

  THUNK!

  Grabbing its gaping jaw by the bottom teeth, Viktor pries the ogre’s mouth wide open, piercing into the vile abyss within. He grimaces against the wafting scent of rot emanating from its guts before sending his hand firmly down his viscous throat. With a violent jerk, he pulls his arm out of the beast, clasping its oozing entrails above its face. He casts the innards aside, ripping them from the beast, and bringing an end to his foul existence.

  “And that’s that”, he sighs, rubbing his hands against his trousers.

  Pacing confidently, Viktor, the victor, made his way up the hill, watching his footing as he climbed the rain-soaked rocky surface. There, he was met by his ultimate adversary, the frenzied commander, wielding a worn blunderbuss. He held the pistol like one would hold a rifle, placing its handle square against his shoulder with his other hand below the barrel.

  “Put that down before you hurt yourself now,” Viktor asserts, gesturing mockingly with his hand.

  Irate, the little monster clenches his teeth and pulls the trigger, firing the old armament at the vulnerable hunter. Fortunately for Viktor, the bullet barely misses, scraping his cheek and leaving behind a stinging cut.

  “You little shit!” retorts an angry Viktor, as he reaches behind his back to produce a hunting knife. He hurls the hunting knife at the beast, striking him in the shoulder, effectively disarming him.

  Screaming in agony, the chort retreats into the alcove, where he stumbles onto his back. He yanks the blade from his body, sending a shock of pain as blood comes flooding out of the bare gash. Desperate, he turns onto his stomach and begins to crawl towards the back of the borough, leaving behind a viscous trail of crimson.

  Viktor, who had since rushed his approach, had made his way to the little tunnel beneath the tree. He stood dark and menacing by the entrance, casting a strapping silhouette against the pale grey canvas of the wuthering heavens.

  He marched towards the pitiful gremlin, straddling his frame as he stood above him. Wielding the very blunderbuss the commander had dropped, he aimed the barrel right at the commander’s skull.

  “You almost had me, you son of a bitch,” he growls at his opponent.

  Relinquished, the chort let’s out a final cry, “RALVA!”

  BANG!

  Viktor executes the last of the beasts, a fitting, final act of gore, bringing an end to tonight's special dance.

  Panting and gathering his breath, Viktor watches as blood pools beneath the monster’s corpse. The consistent flow, pitched against the inconsistent trickle of rain, had an almost hypnotic harmony. However, Viktor was on the clock and, as such, had to get going.

  He looks up from the cadaver and into the dark corner of the alcove. There, he is met by a pair of large bright eyes, brilliantly blue like the glaciers of Nifflheim. They sat atop a fair and delicate face, which, while usually adorable, its expression left it nothing short of ghastly.

  Viktor shudders. That was the one.