Plundering Worlds: I Have a Shotgun in a Fantasy World-Chapter 46: The Story of Ghouls

Shadows stretched across the village square, long and dark. The temperature dropped fast. The air was dry and brittle, carrying dust even at night.

Kael remained on the low wall, sword across his lap. He watched the dead forest to the west. The blackened trees stood motionless, skeletal branches reaching toward the darkening sky.

The villagers had retreated into their homes. Doors closed. Shutters latched. The square emptied.

Except for the woman.

She sat in the center, still rocking the bundle of cloth and straw. Still humming.

Footsteps approached from behind.

Kael glanced back.

The old man walked over, slower now, favoring his left leg. He carried a clay jug in one hand and two wooden cups in the other. He stopped a few paces away.

"Mind if I sit?" 𝒇𝙧𝙚𝓮𝙬𝙚𝓫𝒏𝓸𝓿𝓮𝒍.𝓬𝙤𝓶

Kael gestured to the space beside him.

The old man lowered himself onto the wall with a grunt. He set the cups down and poured from the jug. The liquid looked dark, almost black in the fading light. He pushed one cup toward Kael.

"Rice wine. Weak. But it’s something."

Kael took the cup and drank. The taste was bitter, watered down. He could barely feel the alcohol.

The old man drank from his own cup, then refilled it.

They sat in silence for a while.

Then the old man spoke.

"You’re going out there tonight."

Kael nodded.

"You ever hear the story? About how the ghouls started?"

Kael turned his head slightly. "No."

The old man stared into his cup, swirling the liquid.

"There was a hunter. Good man. Strong. Took care of his father—old, couldn’t work anymore. Just the two of them."

He paused, took another drink.

"One day, they went up the mountain together. Hunt was bad that season. They had to go deeper, farther than usual." His voice dropped. "Got lost."

The old man’s fingers tightened around the cup.

"Night came. Fast. They couldn’t find the trail back. The father was tired, couldn’t walk much longer. Then they saw it—a temple. Old. Half-collapsed. But it had a roof."

He drank again.

"They went inside. Lit a small fire. The father said he’d rest a bit, then they’d keep going at first light." The old man’s throat worked. "But the father... he didn’t wake up."

Silence.

"Heart gave out. Just like that. The hunter checked—no breath, no pulse. Dead."

The old man set his cup down. His hands shook slightly.

"So the hunter sat there. Next to his father’s body. Waiting for dawn. He didn’t know what else to do."

He rubbed his face.

"Then he heard it. Crying. Someone weeping outside the temple."

The old man’s voice grew quieter.

"He looked out. Saw a shape. Tall. Taller than any man. Its hair hung down—all the way to its feet, covering everything. He couldn’t see a face. No eyes. No mouth. Nothing."

His breathing turned shallow.

"And then... it spoke. Called the hunter by name."

The old man stopped. Swallowed.

"How did it know his name? He’d never seen it before. Never heard of anything like it."

He picked up his cup again but didn’t drink.

"It came closer. The hunter backed away. He was terrified. But it kept talking. Gentle. Soft. ’I came to comfort you,’ it kept repeating. ’Don’t be afraid. I’m here to help.’"

The old man’s hands trembled.

"The hunter wanted to run. But his father’s body was there. He couldn’t just leave it. So he stood his ground, grabbed a stick from the fire—only weapon he had."

He paused.

"The thing walked past him. Sat down right next to the father’s head. And then... it started crying again. Loud. Wailing. It bent forward, pressed its face—where its face should have been—against the father’s face."

The old man’s voice cracked.

"The hunter saw the skin split. Peel away. Like something was sucking it off. The father’s cheek tore open. Then his forehead. His jaw. The flesh just... came apart. Underneath, bone. White and clean."

He closed his eyes.

"The hunter tried to stop it. Swung the burning stick. But it didn’t react. Didn’t pull away. Just kept crying. Kept pressing its face against the corpse."

The old man opened his eyes. They were red.

"By the time the sun rose, the father’s body was nothing but bones. All the skin, all the meat—gone. And the thing... it stood up, turned around, and walked back into the forest."

He drained his cup in one gulp.

"The hunter ran. Left everything behind. Made it back to his village and told everyone what he’d seen."

The old man refilled his cup with shaking hands.

"A week later, people started disappearing. Hunters going into the forest and not coming back. Bodies found with the flesh stripped off. And sometimes, at night, people heard crying in the woods."

He looked at Kael.

"That’s how it started. Or so they say."

Kael stared at the dead forest.

"You believe it?"

The old man laughed—bitter and dry.

"I don’t know. I used to think it was just a story. Something to scare children." He gestured toward the forest. "But then the ghouls started showing up here. And people started dying."

He drank again.

"Real or not, something’s out there. And it eats the dead."

Kael set his cup down and stood.

The old man looked up at him.

"You really going out there?"

Kael drew his sword. The blade caught the last traces of twilight.

"Yes."

The old man nodded slowly. He poured himself another cup.

"Then good luck. And if you see one of those things..." He trailed off, staring into his drink. "Kill it fast."

Kael walked toward the forest.

Behind him, the woman’s humming continued, soft and endless.

---

The dead forest waited.

Kael stepped between the first trees. The ground crunched under his boots—dry leaves, brittle twigs, cracked earth. The air smelled of rot and char.

The trees were blackened, their bark peeling away in long strips. Branches hung at broken angles, some touching the ground. No leaves. No grass. Just skeletal wood and bare dirt.

Kael moved deeper.

The darkness thickened. Moonlight filtered through the gaps above, pale and weak. Shadows pooled between the trunks.

He walked for ten minutes. Twenty.

Then he heard voices.

Faint. Scattered. Coming from ahead.

Kael slowed. He shifted his weight to the balls of his feet, reducing the sound of his steps. His hand tightened on the sword’s grip.

The voices grew clearer.

Laughter. Low and hoarse. Someone coughing. The wet sound of chewing.

Kael crouched and moved forward, using the trees for cover.

A clearing opened ahead.

Firelight flickered in the center. A small pit, embers glowing red. Around it, shapes moved.

Kael stopped behind a thick trunk and looked.

Seven figures. Maybe eight. Hunched over something on the ground.

They wore rags—torn cloth wrapped around their bodies, barely covering them. Their hair was long, matted, filthy. Their skin was pale, stretched tight over bones.

One of them tore at something with his hands. The sound was wet, tearing. He brought a piece to his mouth and bit down. Blood dripped from his chin.

Another figure crouched beside him, reaching for the same thing. They fought over it briefly, snarling, then one yanked it free and crawled away to eat alone.

Kael’s eyes adjusted.

The thing on the ground was a body. Human. Dead. The limbs had been pulled apart. The chest cavity was open, ribs cracked and spread. One of the figures had his hands inside, pulling out something dark and glistening.

Kael’s jaw tightened.

These weren’t ghouls.

These were people.

Starving. Desperate. Insane.

They had given up everything to survive. And now they fed on corpses.

One of them stood and turned toward the forest. Kael saw his face—sunken cheeks, eyes too wide, teeth stained red. The man sniffed the air, then turned back to the body.

Kael stepped out from behind the tree.

The group froze.

They looked at him. Firelight reflected in their eyes—yellow and feral.

One of them hissed.

Kael walked forward.

The nearest one scrambled to his feet, clutching something in his hand—a bone, stripped clean. He raised it like a club.

Kael’s sword flicked out.

The man’s head separated from his shoulders. The body crumpled. Blood sprayed across the dirt.

The others screamed and charged.

Kael moved.

His blade cut through the first one’s throat. The second lunged at him from the side—Kael sidestepped and drove the sword through his ribs. The third tried to tackle him—Kael kicked him in the chest, caved in his sternum, then brought the blade down on his neck.

Four left.

They scattered, running in different directions.

Kael pursued the closest. The man stumbled over roots, gasping, clawing at the ground. Kael caught him in three strides. One slash across the back. The spine severed. The body dropped.

Three.

The next tried to climb a tree. Kael grabbed his ankle and pulled him down. The man hit the ground hard, ribs snapping. Kael finished him with a thrust through the heart.

Two.

The remaining pair ran together, deeper into the forest. Kael chased them. They were slow, weakened by starvation. He closed the distance in seconds.

One turned to fight, swinging a jagged rock. Kael blocked with the flat of his blade, then cut upward. The man’s arm came off at the elbow. He screamed. Kael silenced him with a strike to the skull.

The last one fell to his knees, hands raised.

"Please! Please! I didn’t—I had to—there’s no food—please—"

Kael looked down at him.

The man’s face was hollow. His eyes were wet, desperate. His hands shook.

Kael’s sword came down.

The man’s begging stopped.

Silence.

Kael stood alone in the forest, surrounded by bodies. Blood soaked into the dirt. The fire in the clearing still burned, casting shifting shadows across the trees.

He let out a slow breath, wiped his blade clean, and sheathed it.

[Aether: +0.9]

Barely anything. They were too weak. Too broken.

Kael turned and walked back toward the village. He would rest, then tell the villagers the truth—that the "ghouls" were nothing more than starving men driven past reason.

He walked the narrow path toward the village, boots grinding against dry soil.

As he drew closer, he saw them. Crows circling low against the dark sky. Others perched along the bare branches near the outskirts, their silhouettes jagged against the fading light.

They called to one another—sharp, rasping cries that carried too clearly in the cold air.

The raucous cries of crows tore through the silence.

A sudden sense of unease tightened in his chest.

He quickened his pace.

The cawing grew louder as he neared the village edge.

He walked faster—then faster still—until the stride broke into a run.

The smell hit him before he reached the square.

Blood. Fresh. Heavy in the air.