Ghoul: Re Insanity

The door creaked as Noroi stepped aside. He did not look back. Did not hesitate. He simply sat, spine straight against the wood, arms resting on his knees. His eyes—black and unreadable—drifted lazily over the group.

Judging.

Then, he spoke.

"I don't care. Kill him. Eat him. Makes no difference to me."

The words fell like a guillotine.

Silence.

Then—a blur of motion.

The weakest one, half-starved and shaking, snapped first.

He didn't hesitate. Didn't plan. He simply lunged.

Amatsu barely saw it before the impact sent him crashing sideways. His ribs groaned under the force, breath ripped from his lungs. The cold stone beneath him felt real—more real than anything.

Panic surged. He twisted, flailing, trying to push back— but his fists were small. Weak. The man was twice his size, heavier, desperate. His blows landed, but they did nothing.

The ghoul's hands clamped down, fingers digging into Amatsu's arms, his shoulders. A knee jammed into his gut. Pain. A sick heat bloomed behind his eyes.

Then—teeth.

The man's jaw unhinged, his breath foul with rot. The fangs sank into Amatsu's arm.

Skin split. Flesh tore.

White-hot agony seared through him.

A scream tore from his throat.

But the man didn't stop. Wouldn't stop.

The sucking, tearing sound of his own body being ripped away was all Amatsu could hear.

His vision blurred, tunneling into nothing but pain. The scent of blood was thick, clogging his nose.

He turned his head.

Noroi still sat there. Watching.

No reaction. No movement. Nothing.

Of course.

How stupid.

Nobody was coming. Nobody would save him.

Only his strength would decide his life.

The thought sent a surge of something sharp through him. Not panic. Not fear.

Rage.

His fingers scrambled, blind, across the stone beside him. Found something. A jagged rock, cold and rough.

He gripped it tight.

Then—he swung.

The rock cracked against the man's skull. A dull, wet thud.

The ghoul flinched.

But he didn't let go. Didn't stop biting down.

So Amatsu did it again.

And again.

And again.

Harder.

Harder.

Until the man growled, body twisting, teeth tearing away.

Not enough.

Amatsu raised the rock one last time.

The rock came down hard. A brutal, bone-crunching thud.

The man jerked back, skull split, blood dripping from the torn skin. His balance wavered—legs shaky, movements sluggish—but he did not fall.

Did not stop.

His eyes, wild with desperation, snapped back to Amatsu.

But he was not alone.

A second ghoul, ribs jutting through his skin, charged forward. Another—eyes sunken, lips cracked with dehydration—followed close behind.

Two more.

Starving. Desperate.

Amatsu felt it.

A sinking weight, cold and absolute, wrapping around his lungs like a noose.

Death.

Amatsu's breaths came ragged, broken, each inhale sharp with the taste of blood. His body felt distant—a puppet of torn sinew and shattered will. The stone beneath him was cold, but his skin burned.

The ghouls closed in.

Two of them, starving, empty-eyed, driven by a need deeper than thought. Predators. And he—just a boy. Prey.

His fingers twitched against the blood-slick ground. No weapon. No strength. No escape.

He tried to move, to run, but his limbs felt slow—heavy. His body knew what his mind refused to accept.

He wasn't getting out of this.

A sound left him—something between a gasp and a whimper.

The first ghoul lunged.

And in that split second, he saw it. His own death.

Teeth tearing into his throat. Hands ripping his flesh apart. Darkness swallowing him whole.

It was inevitable.

Noroi still watched, unmoving. Of course, he wouldn't interfere. Why would he?

Nobody was coming.

Nobody was going to save him.

His heart pounded—too fast,

too loud.

His vision blurred.

His heart pounded—too fast, too loud.

His limbs wouldn't move. His breath came in shallow, useless gasps.

This was it.

The second ghoul was almost on him. His arms tensed, his lungs burned—but no matter how much he screamed at his body to move, it wouldn't.

Run.

It was a useless thought. His legs wouldn't carry him fast enough.

Fight.

Another joke. His fists had done nothing. His body was breaking. His vision was already darkening at the edges.

Die.

His throat clenched.

A moment stretched into eternity.

The ghoul's fangs parted. He saw his own death reflected in their wet, slicking edges.

His body flinched—some desperate, animal instinct—

but it was already too late.

What was he thinking?

Trying to fight them with just his fists? With this weak, small body?

They weren't just bigger. They were older. Stronger. Hungrier.

He was a child.

They were killers.

His body screamed: run. Submit.

But something inside him refused.

The moment they reached him, the world shifted.

Then—the hunger surged.

A new pulse—low, deep, and terrible—throbbed through his veins.

Something in his stomach twisted.

Something inside him woke up.

His eyes changed.

Black bled into red.

And then—it burst free.

A wet, sickening squelch. A mass of flesh and sinew erupted from his lower back.

Amatsu felt it.

Not just its weight. Not just its movement.

He felt his body change.

The pain in his arm dulled. The torn flesh, still fresh, began to mend.

Slowly. Too slowly.

Noroi's gaze sharpened.

He had seen Amatsu's bikaku before. That much, he knew.

But this?

This was rinkaku regeneration.

A chimera?

Or genetic mutation?

It happened faster than thought.

One moment, Amatsu stood there—small, bleeding, back pressed against the wall of death itself.

The next—it was free.

A grotesque, bloated tendril exploded from his spine. Slick. Pulsing. Starved.

It coiled mid-air, twisting with a mind of its own, flesh drippingg like something freshly birthed—something that should not exist.

The weakest ghoul—the one still staggering from the rock to the skull—never even had the chance to scream.

The maw clamped down.

Wet flesh folded inward.

Bones snapped like twigs, marrow crushed into pulp.

Then—swallowing.

A sick, gluttonous churn.

The body collapsed inward as if it had never been whole to begin with. A heartbeat later, there was nothing left.

Just the squelch of consumption.

The others froze.

They weren't just staring at him anymore.

They were seeing it.

The change in the air—thick, heavy, wrong.

This was no longer a fight.

This was slaughter.

The second ghoul lunged anyway.

It wasn't bravery. It wasn't even defiance.

It was desperation.

It had to eat.

It must eat.

But the Serpent was faster.

Before the ghoul's claws could even graze Amatsu—

A leg was gone.

Ripped clean off in a single snap. The body collapsed forward—shock barely setting in before—

The arm.

The torso.

Flesh shredded, limbs pulled apart like wet paper, vanishing into the writhing coil of the Serpent's mouth.

The wet, sucking gulps drowned out the dying screams.

The third ghoul turned to run. Instinct overriding hunger.

His feet slammed against the stone—desperate, stumbling, blood-slick.

He didn't look back.

He didn't need to.

The presence behind him—that thing—was too close. The sound of it, wet and shifting, filled his ears.

He sprinted harder.

Too slow.

A snap of movement—the coil struck.

Something wrapped around his waist—tight, huge, wet. His breath hitched—a strangled gasp punched from his lungs.

No. No, no, no.

He clawed at the flesh binding him, nails scraping against the slick surface. It squeezed. His ribs groaned, his back arched—instinctual, desperate.

Still tightening.

His legs kicked wildly, his body jerking as if he could fight it—as if there was hope.

There wasn't.

The pressure became unbearable.

He choked on a scream—air forced from his lungs.

His ribs cracked. His spine gave way.

His mouth fell open in a broken, bubbling gurgle. Red spilled down his chin. His body convulsed once—

then went limp.

A final twitch. A final, useless tremor of dying nerves.

Then—

nothing.

The Serpent pulled inward.

A sick, gluttonous squelch.

A heartbeat later—he was gone.

Silence.

The air hung thick with the scent of fresh death.

Amatsu stood at the center of it all—unscathed.

His body was whole. His heartbeat steady.

Full.

And he felt it.

The cells—stolen, absorbed—settling into his flesh.

Strength trickled through him. The Serpent was not just part of him.

It had grown stronger.

Noroi stepped forward, his expression unreadable. Then—

A chuckle.

Low. Dry. Amused.

"Not bad for a first fight."

His gaze flicked to the blood-slicked stone, the remains—scattered, half-digested, unrecognizable. Then, back to Amatsu.

"Ah." Noroi exhaled, stepping closer. "It doesn't just kill, does it?" He glanced at the remnants, then at Amatsu. "It feeds."

Amatsu exhaled.

The hunger had quieted.

His body felt different. Stronger. Warmer.

"They died as they lived—starving."

The thought came quiet. Distant. A truth without weight.

The stone beneath him was wet, slick with the remnants of what had once been men. The air was thick with the scent of death, but it did not stir him. Did not repulse him. He only breathed it in, lungs filling, exhaling slow.

His ribs no longer ached. His arm no longer burned. The wounds had closed. The blood had been reclaimed.

Nothing wasted.

His body had learned them—those desperate things, all gnashing teeth and empty bellies. They had lunged for his flesh, thinking him prey. But in the end, they had only fed him. Strength, bone, sinew—all of it taken. Absorbed.

He looked down at his hands. Small. Pale. Clean.

No trace of struggle. No proof of violence.

The Serpent had devoured everything.

A quiet certainty settled in his bones.

"Hunger is no longer mine to feel."