Transmigrated as the Cuck.... WTF!!!-Chapter 102. Monster

"Why the fuck am I overreacting?" Arawn muttered to himself, voice gravelly and low—more breath than sound.

But even that quiet murmur was enough.

The gaunt man—mid-swing, mid-torture—jerked as though struck by lightning. He twisted around sharply, the rusted hammer still clutched in his bony hand.

And behind him, barely illuminated by the flickering torchlight, knelt a man with a face mauled and bloodied beyond recognition.

He looked like a corpse risen from the grave, yet his amethyst eyes glowed with something far worse than death.

Arawn.

The torturer blinked, confused, as though the presence in front of him couldn’t possibly be real.

"Who...?"

He tilted his head like a curious bird, uncertain whether this was a new prisoner or some deranged lunatic that had stumbled in by mistake.

But then, without a second thought, he adjusted his grip on the hammer and began to approach.

Each step closer made his skin crawl—but he ignored it.

He didn’t stop.

His instincts screamed at him, blood whispering in his ears to run, to flee, to get away from this thing, but he pushed it all aside, as he always had. He was the one who instilled fear, not the other way around.

Standing just a breath away from Arawn now, the man raised his hammer.

"Die, freak."

SWING!

The hammer cleaved downward with brutal intent—yet passed cleanly through Arawn’s head.

The impact never landed.

There was no crack of skull, no spurt of blood.

It was as if Arawn didn’t exist.

The gaunt man flinched violently, recoiling in disbelief. His arm trembled. He looked down at the hammer, then at the unmoving figure before him.

The chill started then—deep and creeping.

He didn’t feel the resistance of flesh, of bone—nothing. As though the air itself had swallowed the blow.

For the first time in years, the cellar—a place where he had laughed, screamed, and inflicted pain without consequence—began to feel unfamiliar.

Unwelcoming.

Wrong.

Utterly, irredeemably wrong.

The flickering torchlight no longer offered warmth.

The shadows cast across the blood-slick walls now seemed to shift and pulse with a life of their own.

The once comforting silence—the silence he’d always enjoyed during his little "sessions"—now became unbearable. Thick. Suffocating.

His skin began to crawl.

Sweat broke across his forehead in rivers, trailing down his cheeks and neck.

Then—

A touch.

Something cold and heavy brushed against his back.

He froze.

He didn’t turn.

He couldn’t.

All rational thought fled his mind in that instant, replaced with a singular, primal instinct: Survive.

His breath caught in his throat as he felt it again—breath.

Hot, ragged, unnaturally close.

Inhale.

Exhale.

INHALE.

EXHALE.

Each breath was loud, like the growl of a beast just inches from his ear. Each exhale carried a stench—metallic, like blood and rot, making his stomach twist.

His heart pounded like a war drum. Adrenaline surged, but his body refused to obey.

He couldn’t turn to look.

He didn’t want to see.

Terror—pure and unfiltered—wrapped around his spine and squeezed.

And then came the worst of it—

Warmth.

A presence directly behind him, pressing in close. Not touching, but somehow still there. Oppressive. Familiar in a way that defied reason.

His legs gave out. Urine soaked through his trousers. The foul stench of fear spread like a miasma around him.

He didn’t even care.

He wanted to scream, to run, to claw his way through the walls and never look back.

But he couldn’t move.

His fingers trembled violently. The hammer slipped from his grasp, clattering to the stone floor. The nail pouch followed, spilling its contents in a metallic cascade.

Clink. Clatter. Clink.

The sound echoed sharply through the cellar, unnaturally loud in the otherwise dead silence.

But it brought no relief.

No comfort.

The sound merely emphasized the truth:

He was alone—with something that shouldn’t exist.

He tried to speak, but his mouth only opened and closed like a drowning man gasping for air.

He tried to steady his breath.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

But even that simple rhythm betrayed him.

Because the breathing behind him—once eerily synchronized—had changed. It was no longer just air. It was wet now. Gurgling. Muculent. Liquid.

Then—drip.

Something warm landed on his shoulder.

Another drop followed. Then another. A slow, deliberate rhythm, as if time itself was leaking onto him.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Swallowing his terror, the gaunt man slowly raised a trembling hand to his shoulder. His fingers brushed the substance lightly, almost hoping it was sweat or condensation. Anything else.

But as he brought the slick fluid into view—lit faintly by the flickering torchlight—his heart stopped.

It was blood.

Dark, fresh, and still warm.

Panic clawed at his lungs, but he dared not scream. Someone was behind him. He could feel the presence like a mountain pressing into his spine. Towering. Heavy. Cold.

And the cellar... it didn’t help.

The torches that clung to life on the walls were barely flickering now, casting long, quivering shadows that danced like demons.

The stale stench of death and rot had become overbearing. Silence ruled the air. No rattling chains. No whispers. No distant sobs. Just... nothing.

That absence began to bend his perception.

The stillness.

The pressure.

His psyche frayed.

He couldn’t decide between running or fighting. So, instead, he chose a third option: don’t move at all.

But instincts eventually forced motion into his limbs. Step by step, he began to move forward.

One shaky footfall at a time.

And the sound followed.

Step.

Behind him—another step.

Step.

Then another.

Each movement he made was mirrored exactly. No closer. No further. Like a predator toying with its prey, matching his pace, step-for-step.

But it never attacked.

It merely followed.

For thirty long minutes, he ascended the stairs. Each creak of the old wood felt like it might betray him.

Each breath—each drip—tightened the noose around his neck. He could still feel the warm blood tracing down his back, soaking into his ragged shirt.

Finally, he reached the top.

The door loomed before him like salvation.

His hand fumbled for the latch. He pushed. And the door opened with a slow, aching creak.

Freedom.

Bright light flooded into the staircase. The sunlight stung his eyes, but he didn’t care.

A smile—thin, fragile, yet real—spread across his face.

He’d survived.

Or so he thought.

As he stumbled out from the cellar, the tavern above greeted him with ruin.

The floor was cracked and bloodstained. Broken chairs and splintered tables lay scattered. Walls bore scorch marks, and shards of glass glistened like tiny daggers across the room.

But despite the wreckage, his companions stirred.

Rough men with bruises and busted lips, wiping their wounds and sharing groans of pain—perked up at the sight of him.

"Hey, look! Shorty’s alive!"

"No way, not a scratch on him! Did that bastard let him off?"

"Heh, who knew he had balls of steel?"

"Damn, maybe he scared that monster off!"

Laughter echoed across the broken tavern, cheers rising in mock celebration.

He took one hesitant step into the light.

The torch glow behind him faded, swallowed by the brilliance of the surface.

The warmth of the world above greeted him—, open air, the sounds of distant birds.

And yet.

All sound stopped.

As he stepped fully into the room, silence dropped like a guillotine. The laughter died mid-breath.

Cheers turned into gasps. The air changed. Everyone stared—not at him, but behind him.

Their expressions twisted from joy to disbelief, and from disbelief into terror.

Mouths opened, but no words came out. Eyes widened until veins popped. Someone dropped their cup. Another stumbled back.

He felt it then—pressure.

Crushing. Immense. Overwhelming.

And against every instinct, against the very fabric of his survival—he turned around.

There, standing in the arch of the cellar’s entrance, half-shrouded in shadow, was a man.

Or perhaps not a man.

He towered above him.

His face was a broken sculpture—twisted with deep gashes, chunks of flesh missing, blood caked in thick layers. long trails of red streamed down his neck.

He looked like death itself had crawled out of the earth—and remembered vengeance.

Arawn.

But not as he was.

Not as anyone had ever seen him.

Not a man. Not a boy. Not a monster.

Something worse.

A demon of memory.

Before the gaunt torturer could even register the sheer horror before him, a single hand shot forward—quicker than his eye could follow.

SNAP.

The hand wrapped around his face—engulfing it entirely.

He didn’t even get a chance to scream.

With a single, brutal motion, Arawn yanked backward.

The sound that followed was indescribable—a sickening, wet rip as layers of skin were torn clean from his skull.

The man’s body convulsed.

Blood sprayed across the floor, painting red arcs in the air as the exposed muscle and tissue beneath were laid bare to the world.

He fell.

Twitched.

Collapsed.

And for six full seconds—

Silence.

Then—

Screams.

Horrific, unending screams.

From every throat in the tavern.

A chorus of terror that split the air and shattered the illusion of safety.

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