25

  Deep in the hidden reaches of Maharlikan lands—so deep that no map, no traveler’s tale, nor even the scholars of Aurum dared speak of it—stood a hall carved into the earth itself. The stone was black, smoothed by age, and veined faintly with red as though it still pulsed with something living beneath its surface. The torches lining the walls flickered with a sickly, dull flame that cast long shadows which seemed to move even when all bodies were still.

  Before the great elevated staircase, ten figures kneeled in two rows of five. They were draped in robes of dark red and black, hoods drawn low so that not even the hint of their faces could be seen. Their posture was unwavering, heads bowed, hands pressed to the stone floor. None dared raise their gaze.

  At the center of the hall between them was their offering.

  A woman.

  She stood upon the cold stone floor, bare as the day of her birth, her arms crossed feebly over her chest and lower body. Her skin was soft and fair, unmarked—too perfect for this place. Her hair fell freely over her shoulders, trembling with her fear. Her breath was shallow and sharp, and though she tried to remain upright, her knees shook beneath her.

  She had not been brought willingly.

  At the top of the stairs sat a throne—no, not carved, but seemingly grown from the stone itself. Its shape was twisted and elegant, and it emanated a presence that pressed upon the lungs, making it hard to breathe near it. Upon that throne rested a man.

  He was tall—too tall by natural standards—with long hair the color of midnight that fell to his shoulders. His body, draped in a silk-black robe, spoke of strength and predatory grace. His face was handsome, almost perfect, but there was something wrong beneath the beauty—something ancient, hungry, and entirely inhuman.

  They did not speak his name lightly.

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  He was Barang.

  The Great Barang.

  The Devourer of Soul and Body. Cursed King of the Insects. Weaver of Plagues. Breaker of Flesh.

  The hall was silent when he stood. The air tightened.

  Step.

  His foot touched the first stair.

  Step. Step.

  Each step echoed through the hall, a sound like a heartbeat under the stone.

  None of the ten kneeling figures looked up. To look upon him without leave was death.

  He stopped before the woman.

  She stared forward—but her eyes trembled, and her breath came quick. She wanted to scream, but her voice had long since fled her.

  Barang leaned forward—his face inches from her neck, then her shoulder, then her hair. He inhaled deeply, slowly, savoring her scent.

  A soft, horrifying sound emanated from his body—like insects chittering under skin, like thousands of small legs scraping bone.

  The woman’s mind began to collapse under that sound.

  Barang moved around her, step by step, leisurely—like a predator circling prey that could no longer escape.

  He stopped behind her, his breath touching her ear.

  A smile curled across his lips.

  He seized her by the throat—not harshly, not roughly, but with the inevitability of a closing trap.

  Then his mouth met hers.

  But it was not a kiss.

  It was a feeding.

  His lips locked hers open, and the sound returned—writhing, churning, crawling.

  His spine rippled. His back opened, ribs flexing outward like the petals of a grotesque flower. Something alive shifted under his skin. A centipede, as thick as a man’s finger, crawled beneath his flesh, traveling upward.

  It forced itself out through his ear.

  The woman tried to cry out, but she could not—her breath was his now.

  The centipede crawled from him into her mouth, disappearing into her throat.

  She convulsed.

  Her skin grew pale.

  Her eyes rolled back—white and empty.

  Her fingers twitched weakly, then fell still.

  Slowly—slowly—her body collapsed to the floor. Her once flawless skin began to sink and dry, as if life itself had been drained from her in a single moment. More centipedes—thin, large, many-legged things—crawled from his back and into her corpse, feeding.

  The ten kneeling figures lowered their heads further.

  And in perfect unison, their voices rose:

  “ALL HAIL GREAT BARANG.”

  Barang, still savoring the taste upon his lips, ran his tongue across them slowly.

  Satisfied.

  He turned, his robe falling back into place, the chittering beneath his skin quieting to a soft, contented hum.

  He climbed the stairs.

  And once more took his seat upon the throne—silent, watching, waiting.