The middle of the Cafe was largely vacant, except for the few senseless ones who decided to stick around in an open field. They were being taught their mistake at this moment, and Nilbog decided not to attend the lesson. He ran back to the Chef’s now dozen knife-wielding group without engaging any further Ghouls.

That last fight largely included luck, major luck, a lot of luck, and an extra side of luck to keep him alive. He did not delude himself with the results.

With how low his Constitution was, one mistake was all it took for the Ghouls to rip through him. It did help that the Ghouls had the mental capacities of children--they might be able to easily bite his neck off, shred his bones, and toss him around, but they were still children.

By this point, Nilbog had already figured that the Ghouls purpose was not to wipe them out. If it was, they could have easily started from the kitchen in groups, attacking from one side to the other. Without weapons, the Ghouls could have traded hits. A thrust that could go through front and back from a Ghoul was no match to the mighty fork that might go two inches in, even if stabbed correctly.

Instead, the Ghouls apparently decided to uphold a code of honor, and for the most part, only engaged on one versus one. Nilbog figured that the only reason he was out-numbered was that he attacked more than one Ghoul, which was understandably foolish.

That, Nilbog noticed as he got closer, was also extremely odd. The closer he got to the Chef’s group, the more ravenous eyes he saw. They moved with power, with convection, throwing their entire weight with each slash and thrust.

These were supposed to be middle to high-class brats, who probably had one servant for holding their dicks as they pissed and another to wipe the shit from their bottoms, but there, in front of him, were vicious men and women huddled up in a rough circle, lashing out forward with fervor, undiverted by the ones who were missing an arm and an eye right next to them.

The ones who did lose a limb did not seem to notice, the blood in their eyes knowing only to go forward, and to hit and to kill and to ruin. A good portion had the mind to began casting Life Force skills, ranging from the common but vital Empowerment to the rarer external attacks.

Doyan lead the charge, stepping forward uncontested as his cleaver chopped whichever unfortunate limb was in range. Any Ghoul brave enough to get close was skewered by the crazed men and women, and any Ghoul which escaped the dancing blades was chopped down with an earth-shaking bellow.

A Ghoul used one of its brethren as a trampoline, jumping and landing on top of some tall man, who promptly lost half of his skull as the thing bit into it like it was swiss cheese. The Ghoul jumped off before the body hit the floor, attempting to land on its next victim but instead meeting a wide variety of weapons. A spear was added to the fray from somewhere.

Nilbog swallowed, saliva going down like rotten milk. This was not how the world worked. There was too much death around, too many screams and bellows from people that should have been cowering in their pink boots. The dying held a face full of ecstasy and shivering and the living seemed eager to join them.

Nilbog went still. Out of the corners of his ears, he heard grotesque cackle in the distant, its pitch raising and lowering, its voice ever changing. It echoes changed from a bird's strangled cry to a rabid dog's low growl and then contorted into a twisted, fiendish giggle. It increased in pitch, becoming an excited, happy child’s laugh. A little girl’s laugh you would hear on the streets, or maybe a little boy chasing his older sister through the busy market. Pleasant and serene, it inched closer, each note a scene, each echo slightly more vivid than the last.

Fear came back. It coiled in tight ropes around his limbs, slowly itching itself into his skin. Nilbog snapped his head around, trying to hear the whispers, trying to see the moving things. He saw nothing, but the oppressiveness increased. He felt the high ceiling fall and the ground scoop up towards him. He turned away, his body straining itself. He needed to leave.

The smell of blood was like a coat in the air. It found its way into his mouth, too, its metallic flavor soaking his tongue. He swallowed, tasting nothing. Something heavy twitched, then, inside of him.

He began to hear the piano again. Distance sang it far away, now, but increasing in intensity, in fervor, in its weight. Dizziness followed. Following dizziness was further loss of control. It was numbness. It was a creeping cold. The fear was in his blood now, making its way up to his veins and twitching his body in ways unknown to him. His muscles tensed, relaxed, then pulsed. It was an invasive thing, those musical notes were. They wiggled inside, dancing gleefully. He felt them, foreign and inquisitive, poking inside of him.

It was a mental attack. She was trying to get inside his head. He willed his body to move. It did not comply. Player Killer activated, but so did the memories.

Nilbog did not want to look, but the feeling was there. She was there. He was there. They were always there, right where he left them left, abandoned to the fates he cursed them with. The taste, the taste was still there, right under his tongue and in between his teeth.

Shaking overtook him. He held his head in his hands, trying to escape the ocean that was bearing on him. The water seeped in through his ears and eyes and down his throat. He was still there, still staring as he sat next to her, the venom eating through his flesh.

He willed away the music again, just like he had done previously, with all the conviction and minuscule power he had within his tiny body. Something kindled within his heart, sending warmth throughout his body.

Everything was gone. Sweat dripped down his forehead and his body. He felt his bloody tongue, bitten it at some point. He was panting uncontrollably. He opened his eyes, too, unaware he had closed them. Everything was normal. Everything will turn out fine. He would survive. One step after another, that’s how he always did it. He struggled to his feat, picking up the knives, glancing around.

Nothing.

He took a step forward.

Claws coiled around his heart, squeezing curiously. Gently, as if not to alarm him of its presence.

With a scream, Nilbog broke into a neurotic sprint. He screamed inaudible things. He received the Terrorized status but he could not read it. He ran through chairs and bodies. He fell but ran on with all his limbs, his numb hands making as much leeway as his dead feet.

The oppressive air lessened but followed closely, tugging at the ends of his ears, becoming enraged, agitated at his insolence. It was angry and Nilbog was sorry, very, very sorry and swore he wouldn't do it again and make it up but he did not stop running. He felt it breathe down his neck with its teeth bared against his skin before he threw himself into the midst of the Ghouls and knives and screams and flying limbs and bodies.