Chapter 51 And still, they laughed.

The sound of the cleaver slicing through flesh and bone echoed in the air, sharp and final. Butcher, the most sadistic of all the evil goblins in the breeding farm, had ended Lyn's suffering in one swift, brutal stroke. Her scream was cut short, the terror frozen on her face in that last, horrific moment. I stared, unable to move, unable to even process the sight before me. My body felt numb, cold, as if the world had drained of all feeling.

Lyn was gone. Just like that. One moment, she was there, fighting, crying, hoping for mercy. And in the next, her life was snuffed out, reduced to nothing more than a limp body slumping to the ground, blood pooling beneath her. My brain, as small and fragile as it was, couldn’t wrap itself around the scene unfolding before me. It was as if my eyes were lying to me, showing me a nightmare that my mind refused to accept as real.

I had prayed, silently, desperately, for something, anything to happen. That maybe, at the last second, some stroke of luck or divine intervention would come and save us. But there was nothing. No one came. The world was indifferent, and Lyn’s life ended in the most violent, heartless way imaginable. 

Butcher, with his gleeful, sadistic grin, took a step toward me. His yellow, crooked teeth glistened with the delight of a job well done. In his grotesque hand, he held Lyn’s severed head, her lifeless eyes still wide with terror. Blood dripped from her neck, staining the ground as he scampered over to where I knelt, frozen in shock. Without a word, without a second thought, he dropped her head onto my lap with a sickening thud.

My arms moved on their own, driven by some primal, instinctive need to comfort, to protect what was left of her. I hugged her head close, her hair sticky with blood, her face still warm but rapidly cooling in my hands. I turned my head slowly, my eyes locking onto hers - those empty, terrified eyes that no longer saw anything.

A low, guttural sound escaped my throat, something between a sob and a whimper. I rocked back and forth, holding her head as if it were a child needing comfort. My fingers traced the curve of her cheek, the place where her skin was soft, and the sharp, jagged cut where the cleaver had severed her from life. My breath came in ragged gasps, but I couldn't cry. There were no tears left. Only the numbness, the overwhelming shock of it all.

The moment Lyn’s head rolled onto my lap, the world seemed to stop. Everything went silent - no more screams, no more vile laughter, no more heartbeat in my ears. I stared down at her lifeless face, frozen in mid-scream, her eyes wide open but vacant, staring into the void. My nut-sized brain still couldn’t process the horror before me.

  This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. How could she be gone? How could my beloved Lyn be nothing more than a head, her body somewhere far from her?

My hands, shaking uncontrollably, instinctively wrapped around her head, pulling it close to my chest as though I could bring her back by sheer will. This couldn’t be real, I kept telling myself, my mind racing in circles, unable to grasp the finality of it. Maybe if I held her tightly enough, her warmth would return. Maybe her eyes would blink, maybe her lips would move again...

But they didn’t. Her blood, still warm, soaked my hands, staining my face as I pressed my cheek against hers. I could smell the iron tang of it, mingling with the stench of death that filled the breeding farm. My body convulsed in disbelief, my heart hammering so hard it felt like it would burst through my chest.

I looked up at the Butcher, his cruel, twisted grin spreading across his grotesque face as he stood there, towering over me. His blood-soaked cleaver glistened in the dim light, a reminder of how easily he had taken Lyn’s life, how her existence had been snuffed out in an instant. He scampered forward, his movements quick and animalistic, reveling in my misery.

Dropping Lyn’s head on my lap was an act of utter cruelty - the final insult to her life. He didn’t care about her screams or her pain. To him, it was nothing but sport, a twisted game to break what little spirit we had left. I was kneeling in the dirt, still clutching her head as if she were some broken doll, my face contorted in disbelief. I didn’t even have the strength to cry.

And then, from the shadows, came the sound I dreaded most. Laughter.

Rakrak, the vile master of the breeding farm, erupted in hysterical laughter, his voice booming through the air like the crack of a whip. 

"BRAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHGHHAH! Shitty slave! Do you think you can plot behind my back?! Think again! Bragahagahagagahag!"

His elite guards, those evil goblins who thrived on our suffering, joined in. Their laughter rang out, echoing off the walls, a chorus of malevolence. It was as if my pain was a grand joke to them - a source of pure entertainment.

Their laughter pierced through the haze of shock that had consumed me, and in that moment, the reality of what had just happened hit me like a boulder crushing my chest. 

She was gone. Gone forever. I had failed to protect her, and now her blood stained my hands. Her head lay limp in my lap. The weight of it, the lifelessness, was too much for me to bear.

I felt something inside me break.

My hands began to tremble harder as the blood smeared across my skin. My face, already twisted in disbelief, now contorted further as raw grief overtook me. A scream - a primal, guttural scream - tried to tear its way out of my throat, but nothing came. Only the sound of my ragged breath, shallow and broken, filled the air.

I wanted to scream, to wail, to tear the world apart with my agony. But I couldn’t. I was nothing but a hollow shell now, holding onto what remained of the one thing I had cared about in this nightmare.

And still, they laughed.

They laughed as I cradled her severed head, as her blood soaked my filthy skin, as my mind shattered into a thousand pieces.

And in that moment, I realized the depths of our suffering meant nothing to them. We were playthings, toys to be broken and discarded. Our lives, our pain, our love - it was all a cruel joke, a form of twisted amusement.

Lyn was gone. And I was alone in a world where mercy did not exist.

 Suddenly, a crash echoed through the farm. The gates shuddered, and the walls trembled as if the very ground beneath us was roaring in anger. Loud shouts filled the air, and I lifted my gaze just in time to see shadows leaping over the defensive walls. The gate creaked open, and through it poured Cat people. Feline warriors with sleek bodies and sharp claws, moving with deadly grace. And at the front, leading them, was Cat Boss, his eyes blazing with fury.

He had come for Lyn.

My heart seized in my chest. He had come to rescue his daughter, but it was too late. I had failed her, failed to protect her, to keep her alive long enough for her father to reach her. A wave of guilt surged through me, heavier than the fear of death itself. I looked at Lyn’s lifeless face in my arms and knew there was no redemption for me.

The battle erupted around me in a storm of violence and chaos. Evil goblins screeched and howled, scrambling to defend themselves as Cat Boss and his warriors descended upon them like avenging spirits. Rakrak, the foul goblin master, leaped from his throne, his twisted sneer faltering for a moment as he saw the fury charging toward him. Thinking himself cunning, he believed he had lured Cat Boss into a trap. His cruel mind had tied Lyn's tortured, mutilated body to a pole, a grotesque display for the cat people to see, thinking that her broken form would shatter their spirits and instill fear in their hearts.

But Rakrak had gravely underestimated the rage of the Cat people.

With a deafening roar, Cat Boss and his warriors transformed into their humanoid forms, their bodies bulging with muscle, their claws extending, and their fangs bared in pure, unbridled fury. The transformation was terrifying - a wave of primal anger that seemed to ripple through the air itself. Their eyes, glowing with wrath, were locked on one thing - revenge.

Rakrak’s goblins were no match for them. The cat warriors tore through the ranks of evil goblins with no mercy, their claws slashing and cutting down anything in their path. Blood sprayed into the air, and the shrieks of dying goblins filled the farm like a grotesque symphony. They showed no mercy, none. Whether it was an evil goblin or one of the slaves cowering in fear, the cat people’s rage did not discriminate. They were unstoppable, driven by the grief and anger of seeing their kin slaughtered and tortured.