he child’s feet made no sound against the broken stones as it drifted closer, head tilting in a way no living creature should. Guts didn’t flinch. He simply adjusted his stance, Dragonslayer raised a hair’s breadth off the ground, ready to strike.
The rosary of bones rattled again, and the child smiled — a wet, splitting grin that tore too wide across its face. From the mist behind it came more figures, slipping free like maggots from a carcass: dozens of them, men, women, children, all with the same blank, broken eyes. Each wore a rosary. Each staggered forward in silent worship, as if drawn to him by a thread he could not see.
The Brand on Guts’ neck howled, hot blood seeping down his collar. He gritted his teeth.
“Come, then,” he muttered under his breath, voice low and feral.
The Dragonslayer sang as it swung.
The child’s head snapped back in a spray of black mist, and the sword’s momentum carved through the throng behind it. Bodies burst apart not like flesh and bone but like smoke clinging desperately to form. Yet for every one he felled, two more surged forward, empty hands clawing, reaching for the warmth of his blood, the anchor of his soul.
As he fought, he realized the truth: they were not attacking.
They were begging.
A thousand dead prayers pressed against him, and Guts, as always, had only one answer to give.
Echo Beyond the Code 