Chapter 13: A Head Can Be A Weapon Too

The men were statues of horror, their faces drained to a sickly white, their mouths agape as the scene before them burned into their minds.

The boy they’d mocked, the kid they’d expected to see pummeled into the dirt, had instead turned their world into a slaughterhouse.

Right before their eyes, he’d latched onto their comrade, not with a quick kill, but with a slow cruelty, sawing through his neck like a craftsman carving wood, holding the head aloft like it was a trophy.

The brutality was unthinkable, the calm on his face inhuman. They’d seen death before, dealt it themselves, but this was different.

This was a demon cloaked in a teenager’s skin, killing with the indifference of slicing a carrot.

The leader, the driver who’d leered at Charlotte with vile intent, especially felt his heart hammer against his ribs, his throat dry as ash.

He was no stranger to blood, his hands were stained with it, lives snuffed out for profit or pleasure, but never like this. Never with such cold precision, such empty eyes.

Mika’s gaze, devoid of rage or glee, terrified him more than any scream or snarl ever could. It was the look of someone who didn’t see a human before him only a task to be done.

His instincts screamed to flee, to run until his legs gave out, warning that this boy was death itself, a force they couldn’t fight, no matter their numbers.

But the warehouse had one exit, the entrance where Mika stood, a blood, soaked sentinel blocking their escape.

To live, they had to go through him, so gritting his teeth, the leader clutched the machete at his side, its weight a frail comfort.

"Don’t freeze up!" He shouted, his voice cracking but forceful, trying to rally the others. "He’s just a kid! Yeah, he got one of us, but that was a cheap shot, a sneak attack! We go at him together, he’s got no chance!" He brandished the machete, his eyes wild, forcing courage into his words despite the terror clawing at him.

The others hesitated, their faces etched with dread. The sight of their friend’s head, its lifeless eyes staring back as Mika held it, had shattered their nerve. Blood still pooled beneath the corpse, a dark mirror reflecting their fear.

They wanted to run, to vanish into the night, but the leader’s words stirred a flicker of sense.

Numbers were on their side, five against one, so trembling, they gripped their machetes, their knuckles white, drawing courage from stolen glances at each other.

Three of them, spurred by desperation, roared to life, charging Mika with machetes raised, their shouts ragged and fierce.

"I’ll kill you!" One bellowed. "I’ll cut you to pieces!" Another screamed, their blades glinting as they slashed down, aiming to hack him apart.

But Mika moved, and the world bent to his will.

Swift as a shadow, he raised the severed head, holding it like a shield before the descending blades.

The first machete struck, sinking deep into the skull with a wet crunch, lodging in bone.

"Thwack!~"

Before the man could yank it free, Mika twisted, angling the head to catch the second machete, its blade biting into the cranium, stuck fast.

"Crunch!~"

The third man swung, his machete arcing down, but Mika shifted again, impossibly fast, and the blade buried itself in the head’s ruined flesh, trapped alongside the others.

"Bash!~"

The three men froze, their weapons ensnared, their momentum stolen in a heartbeat and before they could release their grips or flee, Mika suddenly struck again.

His dagger flashed in a single, fluid arc, a silver blur that instantly severed flesh and bone with surgical precision. Two of the three hands, still clutching the machetes, fell to the ground, severed at the wrists, blood spurting in wild jets.

The men who realised that they lost a limb staggered back, their screams piercing the warehouse, raw and animalistic.

"Ahhhh! It hurts!" One wailed, clutching his stump, blood gushing between his fingers.

"Ahhh! My hand! Aughh! He took my dann hand!" Another sobbed, collapsing to his knees, his face twisted in agony.

The third crawled backward, whimpering, his eyes locked on his severed hand, still gripping the machete embedded in the head, while the head still in Mika’s grasp, was now bristling with machetes like a grotesque porcupine.

Wanting to escape the demon that stole their hands, the trio tried to crawl away, dragging themselves across the blood, slick floor, their moans a desperate plea for mercy.

But Mika wasn’t done. He stepped toward the first man, his boots squelching in the crimson pool, and loomed over him.

The first man looked up, his face a mask of terror, his mouth opening to beg, but Mika’s foot came down, swift and merciless.

"Squelch!~"

His heel crushed the man’s skull with a sickening crack, bone caving inward, brain matter bursting in a grisly spray. The man’s body twitched once, then stilled, his face obliterated into a pulpy ruin.

The others barely had time to gasp before Mika moved again. He tucked his dagger into his pocket with a casual flick, then reached for the head he held, yanking one machete free with a wet schlick.

In a single motion, he drove it into the second man’s chest, piercing his heart.

"Quelch!~"

The man’s scream cut off into a gurgle, his body arching as blood frothed from his mouth, his eyes dimming as he slumped lifeless.

Mika didn’t pause, pulling another machete from the head and swinging it in a brutal arc, as the third man’s head flew from his shoulders, rolling across the floor, his body collapsing in a fountain of blood.

"Slash!~"

The remaining three men watching this massacre, the leader, the older man, and the one who’d lusted after the little girl, stood frozen, their faces ghost, white, their minds trapped in a nightmare.

The older man, his nerve breaking, bolted for the side of the warehouse, his boots pounding the concrete as he veered away from Mika, desperate to escape.

But Mika’s eyes flicked to him, tracking his flight with unsettling calm. He plucked the last machete from the head, its blade dripping, and hurled it with a flick of his wrist.

The weapon spun through the air, a deadly blur, and buried itself in the man’s skull with a wet thud.

"Thwack!~"

Blood sprayed, the man’s legs buckling as he pitched forward, his body crumpling to the ground, lifeless, the machete protruding from his head like a grim marker.

Now only two remained the leader and the man who’d spoken of defiling the child. The latter, driven by sheer terror and desperation, gripped his machete and charged, his scream a wordless wail of defiance.

He swung wildly, not caring if he lived or died, his blade aimed for Mika’s chest. But Mika was ready.

He drew his dagger again, and before the machete could fall, he struck, once, twice, a dozen times.

"Stab!~ Stab!~ Stab!~ Stab!~ Stab!~"

"Stab!~ Stab!~ Stab!~ Stab!~ Stab!~"

"Stab!~ Stab!~ Stab!~ Stab!~ Stab!~"

The blade plunged into the man’s chest, a frenzied storm of stabs that tore through lungs, heart, ribs and blood erupted, a fountain spraying Mika’s face, his arms, his chest, soaking him anew.

And unable to handle the blows any longer, the man staggered, his machete clattering to the ground, his body riddled with wounds, tens, dozens of punctures leaking crimson, before collapsing, a lifeless husk, his eyes staring blankly as blood pooled beneath him.

Now, only the leader remained, his machete trembling in his hand, his body locked in place by a fear so deep it paralyzed him.

Mika’s gaze also settled on him, cold and indifferent, and he began to walk forward, the severed head still in his hand, dripping blood with every step and seeing this, the leader’s eyes widened, his breath stopping as recognition struck.

"Y-You!" He stammered, pointing a shaking finger, his voice cracking with terror. "You’re the boy, next to Charlotte! The one who saved her! I saw you get hit! You were dead! You’re not supposed to be here!" His words tumbled out, frantic, his mind unraveling as Mika advanced, unanswering, his silence a blade sharper than the dagger.

Seeing him approach with no intention of stopping, the leader’s nerve broke. He tried to run, his legs churning, but fear betrayed him, and he stumbled, crashing to the concrete. He then clawed at the floor, crawling desperately, his machete forgotten, his sobs echoing in the warehouse.

"Please!" He wailed, turning to face Mika, his face streaked with tears. "I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it! It wasn’t my idea! I was hired, someone else made me do it! I’m innocent! Please, let me go!" His voice cracked, his hands raised in supplication, begging for a mercy he didn’t deserve.

But Mika didn’t pause. With a casual indifference that chilled the air, he knelt beside the man, his blood-soaked shoes inches from his face.

The leader opened his mouth to plead again, but Mika moved. He gripped the severed head with both hands, its ruined face staring blankly, and raised it high, like a hammer poised to strike.

"Ah, wait don’t—"

"Thwack!~"

The leader’s scream was cut short as Mika brought it down, smashing it into his skull with a bone, shattering crunch.

The man’s body spasmed, his face contorting in agony as blood and bone mingled, the impact caving his forehead. But Mika didn’t stop. He lifted the head again, slamming it down, again, again, again.

"Thwack!~"

"Squelch!~"

"Crack!~"

"Bang!~"

Each strike was a wet, pulpy thud, skull splintering, brain matter bursting in grisly sprays and the leader’s body writhed, his limbs jerking in a dying dance, until finally the heads, victim and executioner, were a mangled fusion of blood, bone, and gray matter, indistinguishable in the carnage.