Chapter 405 This one thought it could escape. And that simply wouldn’t do.

The rat bit down on the next one, but not to kill. No, it wanted more than just to eat. It wanted to enjoy its feast.

It tore at soft skin, peeling it open with slow, deliberate gnaws, savoring the tiny, pained writhing beneath its grip.

The poor hatchling, too weak to even cry properly, twitched as its tail was slowly chewed away. The rat’s whiskers trembled as it savored the thin, fleshy strip before moving onto its leg. It gnawed to the bone, the crunch sickeningly small, pitiful, a sound no one in the room would hear over the storm.

Another hatchling tried to flee— feeble, helpless, blind. It barely wriggled out from under its siblings before a clawed foot slammed down on its back, pinning it in place. Tiny limbs flailed, mouth opening in a silent, breathless scream. The rat leaned down and sank its teeth into the back of its neck, not to kill, but to tear.

It pulled. Skin peeled, sinew snapped, the hatchling’s weak body convulsed.

Another tiny hatchling, no bigger than Hermits finger, trembled in the nest of straw, its siblings’ feeble cries filling the darkness like dying embers. It was weak, miserable, barely even knowing what fear was—only that something terrible was happening, something that made its tiny heart hammer so fast it felt like it might burst.

With a frantic whimper, it scrambled forward, tiny hands pushing desperately at the dry hay, trying to dig, trying to vanish. The straw rustled softly as it clawed with all the pathetic strength in its body, pushing itself deeper, deeper, its frail feet kicking at the air in a desperate attempt to disappear. But it wasn’t fast enough.

The rat had seen.

It cocked its greasy head to the side, beady eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. The others had been easy—squealing, writhing little things that had no fight in them. But this one? This one thought it could escape. And that simply wouldn’t do.

The rat’s yellowed teeth parted, and with a sudden, cruel snap, it clamped down on one of the tiny, flailing feet. A wet, horrid crunch. The hatchling let out a pitiful, breathless squeak, so faint, so weak that it barely sounded like a cry at all—more like the last whimper of something already halfway dead.

The rat didn’t pull it out. Not yet. No, it held the tiny, twitching thing in place, feeling its pitiful heartbeat stutter with terror as it squirmed, as it tried to dig deeper, even while trapped in the monster’s grip.

Another crunch.

It bit harder, gnawing straight through the brittle, baby-soft bone. The foot was gone. The hatchling twitched violently, its tiny body jerking, spasming in agony. But it was still trapped, its head buried in the straw, still trying to dig even as its blood dripped down in hot little beads.

The rat’s whiskers twitched. This was fun. It let go—for just a moment. Just to let the little thing think it had a chance.

And for a brief, wretched second, the hatchling dragged itself forward with its last ounce of strength, its tiny, mangled leg kicking, kicking, kicking—

Then the rat grabbed the other one.

It yanked the hatchling violently backward, dragging it from its pathetic hiding place, hauling its tiny, shaking body out of the safety of the straw and into the cold, cruel world. The hatchling squealed, tiny hands reaching, grasping for the nest it would never reach again. The rat held it up by its remaining leg, dangling it in the air like a broken toy.

The rat did not eat. Not yet. It had learned something in its wretched life: food tasted better after it stopped screaming.

The tiny hatchling dangled from the rat’s filthy jaws, its mangled, half-eaten leg twitching weakly, its soft, pitiful body still trembling with the last embers of fight it had left. It chirped weakly, a tiny cry that barely even left its throat. A sound of agony. A sound of desperate, hopeless pleading.

The rat ignored it.

Instead, with a sharp jerk of its neck, it swung the hatchling’s body like a club. The soft, delicate form collided with one of its nestmates—a tiny, whimpering thing that had been curling in on itself, trying to escape the nightmare.

CRACK.

The impact sent the tiny sibling tumbling across the nest, a streak of fresh blood smearing against the hay as it rolled. Its breath hitched, a tiny, hiccupping squeal of pain slipping from its weak lungs. The rat let out a wet, pleased chitter. Again. It swung the hatchling harder.

THUD.

This time, two of them went flying. Their fragile, half-formed bones snapped like twigs on impact. The air filled with weak, reedy wails, their suffering so helpless, so small, so utterly meaningless.

Again. SMACK.

One landed on its back, its tiny, curled limbs twitching as it struggled to right itself. Another rolled straight into the wooden wall of the crate, where it lay motionless, blood pooling beneath its tiny head.

Again. CRACK. Again. THUD. Again.

The hatchlings slammed into each other, one after another, their frail bodies tumbling and flailing, bouncing off the walls, landing in crumpled little heaps. But the rat didn’t stop. Not as the hatchlings grew too dazed to cry, their feeble little squeaks fading into wet, gurgling whimpers. Not as the one in its jaws went limp, its once-kicking limbs now swaying uselessly with each brutal swing. Not as the nest became sticky and wet, straw darkened with streaks of blood, tiny, broken bodies lying in a grotesque pile of shivering, twitching things barely clinging to life. Only when the one in its mouth stopped moving entirely, its tiny mouth hanging open, a trickle of blood dribbling from its nose—only then did the rat pause. 

It dropped the broken thing onto the nest, where it lay amongst its shattered siblings, breathless and still.

Then, with a twitch of its whiskers and a satisfied chitter, the rat turned its attention to the next one.

The next hatchling, its ears once proud and upright, tried to defend itself, but the rat’s claws slashed through them, leaving only ragged strips of flesh hanging. The hatchling let out a guttural scream, its hands clutching at the ruins of its ears as it stumbled backward, blood pouring down its face.

The rat’s cruelty knew no bounds. It turned to another hatchling, slamming it to the ground with a clawed paw. The tiny creature let out a choked gasp as the rat stood on it, its full weight crushing the hatchling’s fragile body. The hatchling’s stomach and guts spilled from its holes, its body convulsing as it puked and defecated itself in agony. Yet, somehow, it was still alive, its tiny chest rising and falling in shallow, labored breaths.

The next victim tried to defend himself with a straw. Its tiny, malnourished body quivered so violently that it could barely keep hold of the long straw clutched in its frail little hands. Its siblings lay in broken heaps around it, pitiful, twitching things too weak to cry anymore. The nest smelled like puke, feces, piss and terror. But the hatchling had no other choice.

It gripped the straw like a weapon, holding it up with both hands, its breath hitching, its underdeveloped chest rising and falling in frantic, panicked gasps. Its soft lips peeled back, revealing tiny, useless teeth. He clicked and chirped, a threat. A last stand.

The rat paused. It blinked its beady eyes at the pathetic, trembling thing before it. Then—it laughed. A horrid, wet chitter. The sound of mockery. Of cruelty. Of a beast that knew it had already won.

The rat’s whiskers twitched. Then it moved with a single swipe. The hatchling saw nothing but a blur of claws. A burst of pain exploded across its tiny hands, and suddenly, the straw was gone. Sent flying from its grip like nothing more than a discarded toy.

For half a second, the hatchling froze.

It was the smallest of the brood, its body no bigger than a newborn mouse, its translucent skin stretched thin over its tiny frame. Its large, glassy eyes widened in terror as it stared up at the rat, its tiny mouth opening in a silent scream. But before it could make a sound—

The rat struck.

Its filthy paw came down in a blur of claws, slamming into the hatchling’s face with a sickening THUD. The force of the blow sent the tiny creature sprawling across the nest, its frail body tumbling like a discarded doll. Blood splattered across the hay, and the hatchling’s world spun, its vision blurring as its tiny ears rang with the impact.

Before it could even cry out, the rat was on it again.

A second blow. A third. A fourth.

Each strike was a thunderous crack, the sound of flesh and bone giving way under the rat’s relentless assault. The hatchling’s soft flesh bruised and split, its tiny body unable to withstand the brutality. A brittle rib snapped with a sharp crack, and the hatchling let out a choked, gurgling sound as it coughed up a thin line of blood. Its broken lip trembled, and its tiny arms flailed weakly, trying to shield itself from the onslaught.

The rat’s claws raked across the hatchling’s belly, still hollow from days of starvation. The force of the blow caved its fragile stomach inward, its insides twisting painfully. The hatchling’s tiny legs kicked feebly, its tail curling around its bruised body as it shuddered violently. It couldn’t fight. It couldn’t even beg. All it could do was curl into a ball, its tiny arms clutching its head as it tried to make itself as small as possible.

But the rat wasn’t finished.

With a snarl, it grabbed the hatchling by its tail, its claws digging into the soft flesh. The hatchling let out a weak, garbled wail, its voice barely audible over the rat’s guttural growls. The rat dragged the hatchling across the nest, its tiny claws scraping against the blood-soaked straw.

Then, with one final, sickening twist, the rat lifted the hatchling high into the air—

And slammed it down.

The hatchling’s body bounced once, its limbs flailing limply before it finally came to rest. A soft, broken whimper escaped its mouth, a sound so pitiful it could shatter even the coldest heart. It lay still, its tiny chest rising and falling in shallow, labored breaths. Blood pooled beneath it, staining the hay a dark, ugly color.