Chapter 427 Just a Screaming Meat Puppet like all the Others

Suzuka crossed her arms, tilting her head as she gave Butcher a long, theatrical once-over—his hulking, greasy frame, his meaty fists still twitching with residual violence—then glanced back at Hermit, her lips quirking into a dubious smirk.

"Ummmm," she drawled, tapping a finger against her chin.

  "Are you sure about this, champ?"

She gestured vaguely at Butcher, then at Hermit’s comparatively tiny, trembling form.

  "I mean, look at him. He’s basically a walking meat sack with anger issues, and you’re, well…" 

She waved a hand.

"You."

A pause. Then, with fake encouragement, "Don’t get me wrong! I’m proud of you! Finally standing up for yourself—wow! Growth! But…"

She leaned in, her voice dropping to a stage whisper. 

"Are you absolutely, positively sure you don’t want me to just, I dunno, turn him inside out real quick? It’d be way faster. Less… messy for you. But hey! If you really wanna get your hands dirty, be my guest! Just…" 

She smirked. 

"Try not to die, yeah? That’d be embarrassing."

"I'M NOT WEAK! I can lift a whole brick now!" Hermit shrieked, stomping his foot like a toddler denied sweets. His face turned an alarming shade of green, snot bubbling at his nose as he wildly gestured at Butcher. 

"I CAN DO IT! HE'S JUST—JUST A STUPID MEANIE WHO NEEDS TO STOP BREATHING RIGHT NOW!"

He spun back toward Butcher, who was still too dazed to fully process the absurdity of the situation, and punched him in the gut with all the force of an angry kitten.

"SEE?! SEE?!" he wailed, shaking his stinging fist.

  "I HIT HIM! AND I'LL HIT HIM AGAIN! AND—AND—"

His voice cracked into a sob.

  "I'LL KEEP HITTING HIM UNTIL HE STOPS BEING ALIVE AND THEN I'LL KICK HIM TOO!"

Hermit’s chest heaved, his fingers twitching at his sides as he glared at Butcher with wide, wild eyes. His mind—clouded by rage, grief, and the unfamiliar rush of violence—spun with the dumbest idea imaginable.

"We’ll settle this…" he hissed, "like real goblins!"

He jabbed a trembling finger toward the fighting pits—a bloodstained, filth-crusted hole in the ground where slaves and warriors alike were thrown to brawl to the death.

"The pit! Whoever walks out… wins! And you—!"

He whirled on Suzuka, "You promised! No interfering! No matter what!"

His tiny fists clenched, his entire body shaking with the weight of his own terrible decision.

"I have to do this! Even if—if he breaks me! Even if I die! I’ll drag him to hell with me!"

Butcher, finally snapping out of his daze, looked at the pits.

 After entering the ring, Hermit and Butcher stood facing each other. Kaka was still unconscious next to Suzuka, laying on ground like overstuffed potato sack.

 Butcher should have been eager. Should have been laughing. But he wasn’t.

Every muscle in his body was locked in terror, his beady eyes darting between Hermit and Suzuka, who stood at the edge of the pit with her arms crossed.

He didn’t move. Didn’t dare. Not after watching her unmake the world.

Then, Hermit charged.

His scrawny arms flailed wildly, his claws swiping at the air like a kitten trying to fight a wolf. There was no skill, no strategy—just blind, childish fury.

"RAAAAH!" he screamed, his voice cracking as he punched Butcher in the stomach—or tried to. His tiny fists bounced harmlessly off the brute’s thick gut.

Butcher flinched—but not from pain. From fear. His gaze flickered to Suzuka again.

She hadn’t moved. Hadn’t blinked.

He swallowed hard.

Hermit’s tiny fists pummeled uselessly against Butcher’s rock-hard gut, each strike landing with a dull thud that did absolutely nothing except make his own knuckles ache. 

"Y-You—You stinky! You big dumb! You—You poop-face!" he screeched, his insults about as threatening as a soggy leaf. 

"You smell like rotten poop and your Muma was a mud slug!"

Hermit kicked his legs furiously.

"Take this! And—And your teeth look like old corn! And your nose is all—all lumpy like a squished toad! Y-You—stinky! You big dumb poop sack! Your face looks like—like boiled butt meat! And—and your breath smells like rotten eggs left in the sun!"

At first, Butcher stood frozen, his hulking frame rigid with terror as Hermit’s pathetic fists bounced harmlessly off his gut. Every weak punch made him flinch—not from pain, but from the sheer, gut-churning fear of Suzuka’s wrath. His beady eyes darted to her again and again, waiting for the moment she’d grow bored and reduce him to a screaming meat puppet like she had the others. But she just stood there, arms crossed, face still, her shadow stretching long and monstrous across the bloodstained pit.

And then—he realized. She wasn’t going to stop this.

A slow, greasy grin split his face.

"Heh… heh, heh... Ya lil’ shit."

His meaty hand shot out, clamping around Hermit’s throat and yanking him off his feet like a ragdoll. Hermit’s squeal of shock was cut off as Butcher slammed him spine-first into the ground, the impact rattling his teeth, his vision exploding into white stars. Before he could gasp, Butcher’s boot crashed into his ribs—once, twice—until the sickening crunch of bone echoed through the pit.

"Where’s yer fancy magic friend now, slave?!" Butcher roared, spit flying as he stomped on Hermit’s wrist, grinding down until tendons snapped and tiny bones popped like firecrackers. 

Hermit’s scream was piercing, childish, "WREEEEE!" 

His free hand clawing uselessly at the dirt as tears and snot streaked his face.

Butcher laughed, his confidence surging with every second Suzuka did nothing. He dropped to his knees, his weight crushing Hermit’s legs as he grabbed a fistful of his wrinkled scalp and smashed his face into the ground.

"This for yer shitty Lyn," he snarled, yanking his head back only to slam it down again. Blood sprayed from Hermit’s nose, his whimpers wet and broken.

"This for yer stupid hatchlings," Butcher growled, repeating the motion, each thud louder than the last.

His meaty fist closed around Hermit’s ears, his thick fingers digging into the soft, velvety flesh with a grip like rusted iron. With a wet squelch, he yanked Hermit up, lifting him clear off the ground by his own sensitive appendages. The pain was instant—white-hot and searing—as the delicate cartilage stretched to its limit, threatening to tear. Hermit’s scream was a strangled, gurgling thing, his claws scrabbling uselessly at Butcher’s wrists, his legs kicking air.

Butcher only laughed, his stinking breath washing over Hermit’s face as he leaned in close.

“Ohhh, I remember something,” he sneered, shaking Hermit like a doll.

  “I remember how ya looked at dat cat girl—Lyn. Pretty thing. Soft. Ya wanted her ta carry yer pathetic hatchlings, didn’tcha? Like she was somethin’ special. Like you actually thought she’d want yer nasty lil’ spawn squirtin’ inside her. Hehehe—pathetic! Yer whole life, just beggin’ for someone to let ya play papa, ain’t that right? Well, guess what?"

He loosened his grip just enough for Hermit to gasp—then, with a sudden, brutal pivot of his hips, he drove his knee upward in a devastating arc crushing Hermit's ball sack.

A wet, popping crunch echoed through the pit, the sound of something vital rupturing deep inside Hermit’s body. The force of the blow lifted him clean off his feet, his legs splaying wide before he slammed back down into the dirt, his spine arching in a silent, agonized convulsion.

His mouth stretched open impossibly wide, his jaw unhinged in a soundless scream, his throat too paralyzed by shock to even vocalize the agony. His legs twitched, his claws dug into his own thighs, his entire existence narrowed to white-hot, all-consuming torment.

 Butcher roared with laughter, clutching his gut as Hermit vomited bile, his mouth stretched so wide in soundless agony it looked like he was trying to swallow his own scream.

"THAT’S FER DREAMIN’, SLAVE!" Butcher bellowed, wiping tears from his eyes.

  "Now ya won’t ever gotta worry ‘bout knockin’ up nobody! HAH! MERCIES FROM BUTCHER! Don’t worry, ya'll be joining her real soon—tell Lyn I said hi when ya see her in hell."

Butcher roared with laughter, slapping his gut as he watched Hermit convulse, his body curling and uncurling like a dying insect.

“HAH! How’s dat for hatchlings, slave?! Now ya won’t be layin’ nothin’!”

Hermit couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. All he knew was pain. And Butcher’s laughter, echoing in his skull like a curse.

Then, with a wet, guttural chuckle, he leaned down, his rancid breath hot against Hermit’s ear.

  "And this… for thinking you could ever be more than breeding stock."

His rotten teeth sank into Hermit’s shoulder, ripping through flesh like rotten fabric. Hermit shrieked, his body convulsing as Butcher worried the wound like a dog with a toy, shaking his head until blood arced through the air in glistening ropes.

Through the haze of pain, Hermit’s swimming vision locked onto Suzuka—still watching, still unmoving.

And in that moment, he understood. She wouldn’t save him. This was his fight. His to win. Or his to die in.