Filth-eater

• Zymon, DarkFantasy, ShortStory

“Stop! Stop, you abomination!”

The voices of Jachum’s pursuers were growing fainter, but still, they kept running. That was a problem.

He ran faster, but he could only keep it up for a few more minutes. Then he’d slow down, eventually depleting his energy reserves. This situation felt more hostile than usual—he wasn’t expecting a simple beating. No, they were going to end his life.

Branches slapped his face as he dashed through the woods. His lungs and legs were already burning. This was the end. To preserve what energy he had left, Jachum came to a halt. The sudden silence was deafening. He turned to face the group and pulled the last beeswax packet from his pouch. It had been saved for more important occasions, but staying alive took priority.

“Come on, get him!”

Leaves rustled about twenty steps away, and soon the face of the first man emerged.

“There! You go right, you two go left!”

The group took positions to corner Jachum.

“We’re going to decorate the trees with your guts, monster.” Grins revealed rotting teeth… ironically.

“I think you’ve misunderstood the situation, gentlemen,” Jachum said, still clinging to a faint hope that this could end without bloodshed.

“Oh, I don’t think so. We know your kind, filth-eater, and we won’t let you feast on our people.”

“Filth-eater? That’s new. See, I don’t eat people. It’s just that my weak stomach only tolerates pre-digested food.”

Well… technically, they weren’t wrong. He could eat decomposing bodies. But he had sworn never to. It was just bad luck that these men had seen him gnawing on a rotten tree trunk. He’d run out of food—food that otherwise was considered gourmet—so what was the harm in turning to nature’s resources in a peaceful, empty forest?

But of course, they wouldn’t understand that. Their connection to the world was stuck at the level of tasting.

“You won’t talk your way out of this.”

Blades flashed in every hand. Four attackers. Eight blades. Too many.

Jachum had no options left—and no time to think. He snapped open the beeswax packet, revealing an enormous worm. The reek hit the men instantly, sickening them and giving Jachum a few precious seconds to swallow it.

The creature was perfectly rotten. It dissolved in his mouth like butter—if butter were mixed with sand. And the taste… the taste could knock out an ordinary person for days, maybe even kill them. The taste was death itself.

Jachum fought to keep the worm—and everything else—inside his body. A few gags later, he managed to swallow the cream.

The effects were immediate.

Pure energy surged through him. It would have torn him apart unless he moved—which he did. One motion, and the tall man behind his left—Jachum’s senses were already overloaded—had his heart pierced with his rib. The punch was unstoppable.

The other three attackers didn’t realize what had happened to their mate and charged at once.

Jachum moved before thought. The first lunged; he twisted aside and caught the man’s wrist mid-swing, driving his elbow into the attacker’s throat. As the body dropped, another blade cut across Jachum’s arm—he ignored it, stepping inside the swing and grabbing the second man’s face from behind.

With a wet, tearing sound, he simply ripped the skin off the skull. The scream that followed didn’t last long.

The last attacker froze. Jachum turned, blood dripping from his fingers. For a moment, they just stared at each other. Then he stepped forward. Grabbed the neck and pushed the man’s head into a tree. Bones and wood cracked in harmony.

Silence.

Jachum stood among the dead, breath heavy, energy still pulsing in his limbs.

His stomach rumbled. He just needed food—real food. Aged. Prepared. Black garlic. Fermented roots. Goat cheese dusted with ash.

“I am a filth-eater… am I?”

The energy buzzed through his veins, refusing to settle. He turned and walked. Then jogged. Then ran-not from guilt, but from what might come next.

“Filth-eater.”

The word echoed louder with each step. He’d been called names before. But this one… this one fit. Too well.

He’d tried to be something else.

Tried.

In the end, his sprint slowed into stillness. His chest heaved. His thoughts spun.

Then came the clarity—sharp and burning.

“I am a filth-eater!”

The shout cracked the forest silence. Birds scattered. Small creatures fled the underbrush.

“I am a filth-eater,” he repeated—quieter now, almost whispering for himself.

“And I am going to eat somebody.”