The Beast Unleashed

Chapter-1

“Loser!”

“Outcast!”

Voices echoed through Malakai’s mind from every direction. Shadowed faces danced in the dark, hissing and spitting at him. He stood in the center of it all, the world around him suffocated under the weight of their scorn.

“Abomination!”

He jerked awake.

The nightmare bled away, as reality set in harshly. He looked around at the familiar sight of his rickety house, barely holding itself together. The walls sagged like weary shoulders with the paint, chipped and jagged, curling from damp wood. The air reeked of mildew and sickness, of poverty so thick it lingered on the tongue. Yet in all its flaws, it was home.

Tessa lay beside him.

A little comfort washed over him at the sight of her small figure curled in the blanket, though the sound that followed cut him deeper than any insult. The cough was dry and violent, rattling her fragile body until she whimpered.

Malakai reached for her immediately, lifting her tenderly.

“Easy, angel,” he murmured, holding her upright as another cough tore through her chest.

He pressed a tin cup of water to her lips, steadying her trembling fingers. Each swallow was rough against her throat, but the fit passed and her breathing softened.

Brushing damp hair from her burning-hot forehead, he forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

The memory crept up like a dark cloud, filling his head. The sound of his wife’s soft laughter fading into weak coughs, the hollow of her cheeks as the illness consumed her. An image of the shallow grave he had dug with his bare hands flashed before his eyes. He couldn't even afford a coffin.

She had loved him when no one else dared. She had chosen him. Him, the town’s most unwanted. And it had cost her life.

Now the same illness gnawed at Tessa.

“Here,” Malakai said quietly, pressing a small crust of bread into her hand. He watched her nibble at it, the last food in the house, while hiding the twist of hunger in his own belly. His stomach ached for relief, but he would not take from her. He never would.

When she finished, he tucked the blanket around her thin shoulders as if willing warmth into her frail frame.

“I’ll be back soon, angel. Remember, don't open for anyone except Daddy, okay?”

Her little hand clutched his wrist, trembling with the effort.

“Don’t go, Daddy,” she whispered, the plea interrupted by coughing fits.

Malakai leaned close, kissing her fevered forehead. He lingered there, breathing her in, terrified of what it would mean if he failed her too.

“I have to,” he said softly. “I have to find money for your medicine.”

Her eyes searched his face, glassy with fever and fear. He pulled away before she could see the c***k in his resolve.

Straightening, Malakai glanced around one last time before opening the door, the hinges groaning as if the house itself disapproved.

The chilly morning air met him like a slap as he stepped outside.

Even at dawn, the streets of Pultuvur were alive with movement. Merchants barked prices over one another as children darted between stalls, their laughter filling the air. The smell of smoke and rotting fish braided together and horse hooves clattered against cobblestones, mixing with the grind of wooden cart wheels.

Malakai kept his head low as he walked, though it didn’t spare him from the stares. Pultuvur always had a way of reminding him he did not belong. Crowds parted as he walked by, the smiles fading from their faces.

He passed the corner where he usually sat. A flat stone lay by the gutter, half-hidden in the shadows. There, he would stretch out his hand with hollow eyes begging for alms that never came.

Coins rarely fell into his bowl, but spit always did. One evening he had returned home with the bowl nearly full, not of copper coins, but of phlegm and mockery. He had dumped it into the dirt outside, burning with shame, scrubbing the bowl raw until his knuckles bled before daring to let Tessa eat from it again.

A pair of men passing glanced his way. One muttered something under his breath making the other snort loud enough for Malakai to hear. Laughter followed, sharp and careless. Malakai simply drew in a long breath and straightened his back. Today, he was no beggar.

He had dressed in what passed for his finest clothing, though “fine” was a generous word. The tunic was too tight around the chest, loose at the sleeves, too threadbare. The trousers sagged awkwardly at the knees, patched so many times it looked like a quilt. But he had smoothed every crease and even run a comb through his tangled hair.

It was the best he had.

The brewery stood near the square, its stone walls washed with the rich smell of malt and yeast. He had noticed a placard there the day before that announced vacancies. That sign had kept him up most of the night. If he could get work, if he could earn even a handful of coins… maybe Tessa’s medicine would no longer be a dream.

Hope drove his feet forward. But hope was a fragile thing in Pultuvur.

He had barely made it through the brewery’s door before a shout rang out. “You cursed man! What do are you doing here?! You think I’d let you bring bad luck into my business?!”

The owner’s meaty hands seized his collar before Malakai could answer, and hurled him back into the street. He hit the ground hard, the mud from yesterday’s rain soaking through the knees of his patched trousers. The crowd turned instantly.

Murmurs began to ripple through them. They leaned in with glistening eyes and scorned expressions like he was an animal on display.

“How selfish. Doesn’t he know what he is?”

“Everything he touches wilts away.”

“Of course, he carries that thing inside him.”

Malakai pressed his palms into the muddy water and pushed himself to his feet, filth dripping from his clothes. Their whispers hurt more than the fall. He had heard them all before, but each word was sharper now that he had dared to hope.

He said nothing, already accustomed to the ridicule. Malakai’s story began long before Tessa, long before his wife.

Abandoned at infancy, he had never known his parents, never known a home. From the start, he had been unwanted, unloved, and of no use to anybody.

Then the beast came. It stalked villages at will, slaughtering cattle, destroying houses and leaving corpses in its wake. Its roars shook the night, and the whole town trembled. Even the bravest men hid behind barred doors.

The chief had promised to bring salvation. And in the end, he had delivered, but not in the way the people had expected.

They had bound the creature in the town square, chanting rites older than the town itself, and needed a vessel to imprison it. The vessel had to be of pure innocence. So the people chose to drive it into the body of a child. A child they would not miss. A child with no family name, that had no future, and possessed no voice to protest.

That child was Malakai.

They had expected him to die screaming or burst apart under the monster’s hunger. But he hadn’t.

The years passed, and he lived as though nothing were inside him at all. Growing up, he'd stand before a mirror, shirt open, staring at his reflection. His only reminder was the mark etched across his chest, dark and ridged, like he'd been branded by fate. It was not death that haunted the townsfolk when they saw him. It was the reminder. That a beast still lurked, caged in flesh, waiting.

He was not a man to them. He was the vessel. An abomination. Everyone hated him. Everyone except Thomas, his best friend. And her.

Talia, the woman who had chosen him when no one else would. She had laughed with him, shared his silence, and held him without fear of the scar. She had been his first and only warmth in a cold world.

But Talia was gone. And Thomas… Malakai had not seen him in weeks.

Now, there was only Tessa.

With his jaw clenched and eyes fixed on the cobblestones, he turned and headed home, their murmurs trailing after him.

Just as Malakai turned down the narrow path toward his home, a voice called from behind.

“Hey, buddy.”

He turned to see Thomas.

As always, Thomas wore that easy grin, the kind that could win hearts in an instant but also meant trouble was closeby. Even in rags, he carried himself with a swagger that made people forget his empty pockets. Where Malakai struggled beneath the weight of the world, Thomas walked like he barely felt it.

“Thomas,” Malakai said, surprised.

His friend’s expression faltered to something softer as he looked him over, eyes dragging across the mud-soaked patches and weariness in his face.

“How long, Malakai?” Thomas asked quietly. “How long before you stop letting these people treat you like this?”

Malakai’s throat tightened. He wanted to answer, but the words entangled with the silence he had lived with his whole life. What could he say? That he endured for Tessa’s sake? That there was no other choice? His mouth opened, then closed again.

Thomas placed a hand on his shoulder, his eyes sparking with the familiar fire of schemes and dreams.

“I have something,” he said. “Something that can solve all your problems. Get you the coin you need. Enough for Tess’s medicine. Enough for more than that.”

Malakai’s gaze snapped to him, searching.

Thomas leaned closer, his grin returning sharper, almost dangerous. “I know you swore you’d left that life behind. But I need you for one last job.”

"Uh, I—"

"Come on, would I lead you astray? Don't answer that. Look, I've got a heist,” Thomas whispered, the word curling like smoke between them. “A heist that could potentially change everything.”