Number 666 was exhausted, his stomach rumbling with each gasping breath.

  But he could not bring himself to look away from what remained of his companions, his brothers in spirit.

  217, a close friend, an aide and partner, in the valley rites for decades now. 101, was talented, a prodigy, but just a kid taking the place of his sick father.

  The spirits had blessed both of them with great boons. They were not supposed to die, not here, not today.

  666 felt his stomach move, either in anger or in trouble digesting what he had just consumed.

  The perpetrator of this crime was already within him, being digested to nourish his demonic form. He could only hope his companions found solace in the revenge he had reaped.

  The murderer had been an unusual being, not of the veil like his own people, and wielded magic detached from boons and blessings.

  More... physical than spirit.

  A disturbing thought arose.

  There was only one manner of being that 666 knew to be so. Yes, the murderer had even worn similar clothes. Black mostly, but with pieces of white.

  666 exhaled, wispy smoke curling outwards from his lips, his magnificent, red belly rising.

  No, that was impossible.

  He could not have survived, let alone become the victor in a fight against a God, a white-robed one, even if it were one that had fallen to darkness and corruption like the valley spirit.

  This ordeal must be a trial by the white-robed ones to test his piety and worship. It had to be.

  The heat of his imp form was getting to him, and Number 666 flexed his rippling, red body, his full belly heaving with each motion.

  He was now an aged man. His body failing, his boon less controlled than ever before and with it, the interest and blessings of his spirit.

  It should have been him, not them.

  Their deaths would weaken their position among the other tribes, not in the short run, for he still remained, but eventually, someday. They would need much time to recover from this.

  Worse yet, was that this had happened on ritual day, ruining their rite to appease the cursed wolfen spirit of the valley. A bad omen, and fuel for the other tribes to interfere.

  His elongated tongue flicked to the side, and 666 glanced around the forest, or what remained of it. 101's sword boon had carved a large swathe through the forest, felling trees to clear an entire area.

  The sounds of their fight and the collapsing trees had probably reached the other tribes by now. Before they grew finicky and came over, to usurp the rights for their rite, 666 had to make a move.

  He had to complete the ritual, for the sake of those lost, and... for those that yet lived. He hurried, searching around for the bowls of blood.

  While 101 had left his hidden in the nook of a distant tree, 217 had lost it in the battle, completely shattered now.

  666 chuckled, his belly heaving with a low, rumbling laugh. It could have been great fun to point out his friend’s failure compared to the new kid, but his amusement receded.

  They were gone now. It was only him left.

  666 hurried to gather more blood, his immense belly getting in the way...

  The rumbling in his stomach had gotten worse, when suddenly it moved again, louder than before.

  Problem was, this was agony.

  His innards were being stabbed, torn and mauled apart from the inside out.

  A bloody scream ripped out his throat, as a sudden bulge stretched his belly, tearing through vital organs, skin stretching like rubber.

  Something was inside him. Something that wasn’t supposed to be there.

  The pain and shock of the experience knocked him to his knees. The prone posture was the opening that was needed, as the something carved its way out.

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  Number 666 began to vomit without end, with blood, flesh and gore splattering onto the ground for several long, agonizing minutes. His insides were being rearranged, destroyed, as some fiendish creature grew and grew within him, pushing out his stomach walls as it did so.

  His once massive, magnificent belly was now grotesque and over-expanded, twice or thrice the expected size for a pregnant woman.

  666 gagged, and out of his lips fell a grotesque fleshy tube, some organ of his own, now hanging out of his throat.

  He screamed, choked and screamed some more, suffocated by his own guts. He wanted it to end, just end, just give him peace, and… it finally did.

  The bulge in his belly expanded further, and like a ripened fruit or a balloon that had reached its limit...

  His throat exploded first, a limb tearing through his jugular. Then his torso burst, two feet rupturing outwards.

  666 was no longer whole, merely an exploded carcass, patches of loosely connected limbs and organs. He could not even scream anymore, but what remained of his perception watched as… they came out.

  It was that man, consumed by the Imp, who should have been half-digested, mashed meat and bone by now, but…

  Though barely alive, though wounded and broken, though caked in blood and gore, the man still lived. His splintered, half-digested bony hands held onto a lump of red, some organ of his own, and fed upon it like a rabid beast.

  That man–that murderer–no, the dark robed one.

  Number 666 shuddered.

  Whether it was the icy grip of death or fear of a fallen God, he was unsure.

  The spirits, beings of the veil beckoned him. In death, he could join them in their realm, eternal peace. But he dared not answer, for he had to live. He could not die. He could not pass, not without completing the rite. If he fell here, his tribe would be in precarious position–

  He had to fight.

  Rage, anger and fear. 666 experienced many emotions during those last few seconds.

  But despite the struggle to be proactive—he remained mortal in the end.

  ***

  Ding!

  [Warning: Conditional Undeath failed. Only partial healing of injuries was completed.

  HP: 2/10. Remaining Blood Points: 0/10.

  Warning: No Blood Points remain.]

  Annoying. He swept the screen away and returned to his feast.

  Ding!

  [The Vawulan(?) has survived despite complete consumption by a greater being, turning the tides and consuming them in return.

  Congratulations, you have earned the title Unpreyed I.]

  Ding!

  [The Vawulan(?) has survived in defiance of convention, remaining conscious without blood, proving their position as an A?b?e?r?r?a?n?t? existence.

  Congratulations, you have earned the title A?b?e?r?r?a?n?t? I.]

  Annoying. The words were truly annoying.

  Mere walls of text that dared to distract him, trying to steal away his meal.

  Veins rising, he slashed them away, and tore through the tough flesh, rich juice seeping down his chin.

  sumptuous feast could pacify his anger. And what a flavor it was.

  Intense, delicious, perfect and divine. It satiated him entirely, in thirst, hunger and everything.

  Unfortunately, it ended quicker than he wanted to, so much so that he found himself licking his fingers, pining for more.

  Ding!

  [+3.4 BP consumed. (3/10) BP remaining.]

  Ding!

  [Congratulations W?u?r?k?a?n?(?), your L?u?p?i?n?e? ?S?p?i?r?i?t? recovers and the ?Sp?i?r?i?t?s? ? of the World herald the ?h?o?w?l? of a new g?u?a?r?d?i?a?n? ?o?f? ?t?h?e? ?V?e?i?l?.]

  Notifications in quick succession, designed to steal his attention.

  His anger peaked.

  That was it. He lost it. He would capture the one responsible, he would rip them apart and feast on their–

  Ding!

  [#?#!, +1 Free Stat Points, +7 M?E? ?(?M?o?o?n?l?i?g?h?t? ?E?s?s?e?n?c?e?) gained,!#?#

  First V?i?t?a?l? ?H?e?a?r?t? consumed.]

  Miles blinked, awakening from his mindless stupor.

  The first thing he realized was that he was extremely weak, suffering from dire thirst. But somehow, it had not taken over his mind, for despite the torturous burn for blood, his mind remained his. Just enough to notice the latest of the notifications.

  ‘...What did I just read?’

  He chuckled in disbelief, 'There is no way…’ and he read it again.

  Vital Heart. He had not read wrong.

  Miles began to mutter, “No… no… no, no, no,” reaching for his hair in desperation, flinching as he felt the wet, caked blood on himself.

  “I–I suffered through the thirst, used the spike and leech to replenish blood, so I wouldn’t, so this wouldn’t–”

  He stared at himself, his body and tattered suit covered in scarlet life, gore and digestive fluids. Then at his hands, still twitching to the warmth of a phantom heartbeat.

  “This isn’t me. T-That wasn’t me. It wasn’t. It couldn’t be.”

  He retched, coughing, gagging, trying to force himself sick and throw up. He tried until his throat was as sore as it was burning with blood thirst. But he couldn’t succeed.

  Miles could feel it.

  Though he wanted to feel disgusted, he was not.

  Though he knew he should claw at his throat, he did not wish to.

  Some twisted part of himself was more than satisfied with the meal and… even looked forward to more.

  Miles let his bloodied hands fall, and with them, himself. He fell backwards, ignoring the squelch of blood and gore, even the splatter of innards, as his back hit the ground.

  Old Zhan had been right. He had waded into a path he was unprepared for, and he had paid the price for it.

  There was no coming back.

  With that, Miles stopped thinking, not moving even (not that he could move much weakened as he was) and just let himself suffer the burn of the thirst.

  His eyes closed as he lay there, as still as the tattered carcasses of the Numbered savages surrounding him.

  Once upon a time, he would have been disgusted by his current state, by where he had decided to lay down.

  But no longer.

  Why would he?

  He was a monster, after all.