Crack.
The sound wasn't just heard—it was felt. A deep, awful vibration in my bones as the Deviljho's jaws crushed the upper half of the girl's skull like ripe fruit.
Her neck snapped backward unnaturally, the lower jaw barely attached.
Her body twitched violently, still kneeling, the rest of her staring into nothing as blood exploded from her severed throat like a broken pipe.
Splatter.
Her teammates screamed in that same foreign tongue—full of horror, rage, pain. One of them rushed forward with a Lance.
Too slow.
The Deviljho lifted her corpse like a rag doll and thrashed.
Her spine cracked. Her arms flailed—one torn free by sheer force. The rest of her slammed into a tree so hard the bark split, leaving a smear of blood trailing down like red paint.
Her helmet rolled to the ground beside me—cracked open, her eye still inside.
I couldn't move.
Not because I was weak.
Because I had no idea what I had just been thrown into.
I wasn't in a game.
I wasn't even dreaming.
This was real.
The smell of blood.
The heat of the monster's breath.
The way her fingers had almost touched mine before everything was ripped apart.
I backed away on hands and knees, slipping in wet, sticky dirt.
Her blood.
I tried to scream.
Nothing came out.