Cursed Devourer

Blood stained the dirt. Screams echoed through the trees, a chorus of steel clashing, bones breaking, and war cries shaking the battlefield. The mercenary force pressed forward, carving through the chaotic front lines of orcs and goblins with grim efficiency, though not without losses of their own.

They were warriors-for-hire, some more experienced than others, their contracts bound to coin, duty, and the promise of victory.

Their leader, Marithia, moved like a golden tempest among them.

Her long blonde hair, braided for battle, streamed behind her as she cleaved through an orc's thick hide with her golden longsword, the edge glowing faintly with divine magic. She was a vision of war and beauty intertwined, clad in ornate golden armour that shimmered in the flickering torchlight of the battlefield.

"Hold the left flank!" Marithia barked, her voice carrying over the chaos. "Don't let them regroup!" She twisted just in time to parry an axe strike from a hulking orc, the force rattling her arms. With a swift sidestep, she slashed across his midsection, her blade cutting deep, spilling blackened blood onto the trampled earth.

Nearby, a battle-hardened man with a greatsword fought with brutal efficiency. His name was Dorian Salo, a veteran mercenary, broad-shouldered, thick-bearded, and clad in worn but sturdy steel plate. He wielded his massive two-handed sword with terrifying strength, cutting through a goblin's head with a single swing.

"We're losing too many of the greenhorns!" Dorian called out, shoving a corpse off his blade. "They don't know how to handle these damn orcs!"

Marithia glanced around—he was right.

The weaker, less-experienced mercenaries were falling fast. The orcs were brute warriors, their strength overwhelming. The goblins, meanwhile, used cowardly tactics, darting in with poisoned daggers before retreating into the shadows.

Another mercenary—a slim, dark-skinned woman with short-cropped hair—let loose a flurry of firebolts from her hands, searing a wave of goblins trying to ambush their archers.

Arin, their battle mage.

"These goblins are rats!" she growled, her hands glowing red-hot as another orb of fire erupted from her palms. "Kill one, and three more take their place!"

Another mercenary fought nearby—a scarred brute named Rollo, a towering warrior with battle axes in both hands. His face was marked with old wounds, his one remaining eye burning with fury as he hacked into an orc's collarbone, splitting the beast nearly in two.

"Fight harder!" he bellowed, his deep voice shaking the battlefield as he kicked another orc into the dirt. "Or do you want to die in the mud?!"

Despite their strength, despite their superior tactics, the battle was still costly.

A young mercenary—barely out of his teens—lunged at a goblin, only for a second goblin to ambush him from the side, driving a poisoned dagger deep into his throat. He gasped, choking on his own blood before collapsing.

"Dammit," Arin snarled, seeing the young fighter fall. "We can't keep this up forever!"

Marithia cursed under her breath. They were winning, but barely—the enemy was too dug in, too desperate.

Then, suddenly—

Everything stopped.

...

A presence swept over the battlefield like a cold wind. A muderous aura so thick that suffocated all those present.

Everyone—human, elf, orc, and goblin alike—froze.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence.

Then, he stepped forward.

A tall, perfectly built figure emerged from the trees, moving with unshaken confidence, his steps unhurried, effortless. The killing intent he emitted pulsing like a ferocious heartbeat in tandem with his strides.

He was nude.

Not a stitch of clothing adorned him, yet his presence was overwhelming. He was divinely sculpted, with a powerful but lean frame packed full of coiling muscles, black hair shifting between shades of white, grey, and gold, and eyes unlike anything in this world—swirling, ever-changing, impossible colours.

And a weapon of mass-destruction swaying between his thighs.

The human and elven mercenaries stared in confusion, shock, and—among the women—barely contained flustered intrigue.

A young archer among them turned beet red, unable to look away from his godly appearance.

One of the orc warriors growled, raising his weapon, but even they hesitated, sensing something off about him.

"What… the hell?" Dorian muttered, greatsword still gripped tight.

Arin was the first to speak among the humans.

"Who in the gods' names is this?" she whispered, unable to tear her gaze away.

The goblins chattered amongst themselves in their guttural tongue, trying to determine if this was a new enemy or something far worse.

Malik stopped a few paces away from the battlefield, arms loose, relaxed, his gaze sweeping over both forces with casual interest.

Then, finally—

"What exactly is this fight about?"

Silence.

Some of the orcs and goblins muttered amongst themselves, but they clearly did not understand his words.

But the humans and elves did.

Marithia, still standing near the frontlines, stared at him with barely concealed bewilderment.

He was unnatural.

Everything about him radiated power, and yet he stood there, unbothered, completely unfazed by the battlefield before him. And as if that wasn't enough— he was really attractive, radiating a seductive charm mixed with danger that seemed to enchant those who saw him.

Marithia quickly stepped forward, forcing herself to regain composure.

"I…" she hesitated, quickly recovering. "Who are you?"

Malik smirked, his posture still casual, relaxed.

"I'm the one deciding if I should get involved."

Her brows furrowed, her green eyes locking onto his swirling ones.

She swallowed, but did not break eye contact.

"My name is Marithia," she introduced herself, voice composed despite the lingering red on her cheeks. "We are mercenaries, hired by a noble lord to eliminate this encampment and reclaim his kidnapped son."

Malik's gaze swept the battlefield again.

"You can call me Malik." He exchanged a quick greeting.

Then he smirked.

"So… who do I kill?"

Marithia blinked, stunned.

Kairo chuckled in Malik's mind.

"Oh, I think I'm going to like this."

The battlefield hung in stunned silence.

The air, once filled with the cries of war, was now thick with tension, every warrior—human, elf, orc, and goblin alike—frozen in place.

And at the center of it all, Malik stood, utterly unbothered, his divinely sculpted form on full display.

Marithia had seen many things in her years as a mercenary. She had killed men twice her size, fought against monsters of the deep, and stood before arrogant nobles who thought they could buy her loyalty and body.

Yet nothing in her experience had prepared her for this.

The stranger before her was unlike any man she had ever seen.

He was impossibly perfect, his muscular build sculpted to inhuman perfection, his hair shifting between shades of white, grey, and gold, and his eyes…

Gods, his eyes.

They were not natural, shifting through every color imaginable, impossible to pin down. Hypnotic. Otherworldly.

And he was completely naked.

Marithia forced herself to keep her composure, but it was difficult.

Her gaze flickered downward, against her will.

She immediately regretted it.

Her face burned with heat, and she clenched her jaw so hard it nearly cracked.

'Focus, Marithia! You are a warrior! You are a professional! You are not some common tavern wench! Gods, why is everything about him so… big?'

A bead of sweat slid down her temple, but she swiftly straightened herself, gripping the hilt of her sword to ground herself.

Behind her, Arin, their battle mage, let out a low whistle, her sharp golden eyes flicking up and down Malik's figure.

"Well," she murmured under her breath, just loud enough for Marithia to hear. "That's a hell of a weapon."

Marithia inhaled sharply.

Dorian, their grizzled greatsword-wielding mercenary, gave Malik a more practical once-over, his lips pressing into a firm line.

"I don't like this," he muttered, gripping his weapon tightly. "He's too calm. Too… controlled."

Marithia agreed.

This man—whoever, whatever he was—was dangerous.

But that wasn't what unsettled her.

It was the way he moved, the way he spoke, the way he stood there with complete and utter confidence—like he already knew he was the strongest thing on this battlefield.

'Gods help us if he's right,' she thought.

The orcs and goblins chattered among themselves, some still confused, others glancing between Malik and the humans, trying to determine if he was friend or foe.

Then one of the orcs, a massive red brute with twin axes, decided to stop thinking entirely.

With a roar, the orc charged forward, his weapons raised high.

Malik didn't even turn his head.

"Looks like they are deciding for you." Kairo snickered in Malik's mind.

The orc swung—a reckless, powerful overhead strike that burst with crimson energy, aiming to split Malik in two.

It never landed.

Malik moved faster than anyone could react, his body shifting with unnatural fluidity as he sidestepped the trajectory of the blade, its metal edge whistling past his face. His jaw unhinged, making the horrific sound of dislocating bones as it morphed, and his teeth elongated into razor-sharp dragon fangs that glistened under the rays of sunlight that broke through the treeline.

And before the orc could even process what had happened—

Malik leaned forward, his body growing a foot taller as his mouth clamped down on the orc's skull. A sickening CRUNCH echoed across the battlefield.

The top half of the orc's head was torn off.

Blood sprayed in a gruesome arc as Malik ripped away bone, flesh, and brain matter with his fangs, his inhuman mouth lined with dripping gore.

The orc's headless body twitched, staggering for a brief moment before it collapsed to its knees, then fell face-first into the dirt.

Malik swallowed the bite he'd taken in one gulp, and a satisfied grin stretched from ear to ear. He exhaled slowly, licking the blood from his lips as his teeth shifted back to normal.

The soul of the orc was absorbed into his own, a flash of information flooded his mind as he gained the DNA of the orc he'd eaten.

'So that's how it works... I didn't expect it to taste so good.' Malik buzzed internally. Not only did he discover another aspect of his shifter abilities, but he was hit with the realisation that it tasted like a five-star dinner.

'Whether it was the soul or the flesh that tastes so good, I don't know. But I felt Soul Devourer activate so I will lean towards that.'

While Malik thought about the boons of eating the orc, the battlefield was in a different state.

Silence.

Absolute silence.

The mercenaries were frozen in place, staring in horror, awe, and confusion.

Arin was the first to break the silence.

"Holy. Shit."

Dorian's grip tightened on his greatsword to the point where his knucles began to creak, his entire body tense as he stared at Malik with wide eyes. 'Definitely not human.'

Marithia…

Marithia was trying very hard to remain calm, to act as if she hadn't just seen a naked, impossibly attractive man bite an orc's head off like he was eating fruit.

"What. In the actual. Fuck?" She couldn't help but let slip. But everyone was on the same page.

Even the elves, usually composed and unreadable, looked visibly unsettled by the scene.

The goblins screamed and bolted, retreating toward their crumbling camp.

The remaining orcs hesitated, some growling, others gripping their weapons uncertainly.

No one knew what Malik was.

And that was what frightened them most.

"You're really making an impression, aren't you?" Kairo laughed in Malik's mind. "I think you broke them."

Malik ignored the carnage at his feet, his eyes sweeping back to Marithia.

"So," he repeated, calmly, as if he hadn't just brutally executed an orc with his bare mouth.

"What do I get for helping you?"

Marithia inhaled sharply, forcing herself to snap out of her stunned state.

She took a deep breath, steeled herself, and spoke.

"We work for gold and treasures," she said, voice regaining strength, "since we will earn quite a hefty sum if we complete this mission, we could always split the rewards with you? Or do you have something else in mind?"

Malik tilted his head slightly, as if considering.

His swirling, shifting gaze locked onto her.

For the first time in a long time, Marithia felt small.

This man—this thing—wasn't just strong.

He was beyond human.

And he wasn't asking questions for their sake.

He was choosing whether or not to get involved.

Finally, Malik smirked.

"Fine," he said simply. "I'll help…"

Marithia sighed in relief. "Okay we-"

The air grew heavier.

"But I want something else instead. I want information." Malik interrupted, his gaze never faltering, a subtle killing intent leaking into the atmosphere.