Chapter 81: Three Months of Hunger
In an abandoned mine on the western side of the North—
A place well hidden from the Draken Duchy and other nobles.
It was the perfect place to hide. The mine had long been closed down. No one would suspect that a bunch of bandits would take shelter here.
It was perfect for Bjorn as well.
It had been three months—three long months since he’d holed himself up here—wounded, humiliated, and burning with a rage that hadn’t cooled in all that time.
Bjorn sat near the flickering light of a low-burning lantern, its glow casting long shadows across the jagged walls of the abandoned mine.
His arm still bore the scar from that night—a deep, ugly wound that never fully healed, no matter how many low-grade potions he poured over it.
Three months.
He clenched his jaw as the memory surfaced again—of that brat from the Draken Duchy, Alice, and the way she’d looked down on him like he was nothing. She hadn’t even been trying. She just wanted him out of the way—like a bug under her boot.
And she wasn’t alone either. She had a knight of her family with her.
If she’d been alone, he knew he might’ve stood a chance against her. But with her knight? It would’ve been suicide to face them.
That’s why he ran away the moment he saw them.
It wasn’t easy. The chase continued for three days, but he managed to outrun them thanks to the sudden change in the northern climate.
The snowstorm of the North had saved him.
He knew that if the snowstorm hadn’t begun at that moment, he’d be dead—long before he even had the chance to survive.
That’s why he’d been hiding.
For three long months.
He spat to the side, watching the saliva sizzle faintly as it landed near a faint trace of residual mana on the stone floor.
"Damn nobles..." he growled.
The mine was quiet now.
Most of the others—thieves, mercenaries, and other scum—were either asleep or out scouting for supplies. Bjorn preferred it this way. He didn’t trust them, and he didn’t need distractions.
Is it a sin to kill a human?
According to Bjorn the Butcher, the answer would be no.
As a butcher, he had killed many animals in his kitchen to satisfy the hunger of his customers—the hunger of nobles.
At that time, they ate those meals happily, without a second thought, never knowing—or caring—where the meat came from. That made it easy for Bjorn to justify what he’d done since.
Killing a human? What’s the difference?
Meat was meat.
He had started small. A traveling merchant who wandered too far into the woods. A drunk nobleman separated from his guards. A patrolman who got too curious about the old mine.
They were all just meat to him.
But killing them would be a waste, right? As a butcher, he killed animals to make food.
So why waste human meat, then? To him, they were no different than livestock .
To Bjorn, meat was meat—no matter the source. A pig squeals when you slit its throat. A man begs. Different sounds. Same end.
He knew he couldn’t serve human meat to customers.
That’s why he ate them.
He didn’t want the meat to go to waste.
The taste was different, but he... had grown used to it.
The first time, he’d vomited. The second time, less so. By the fifth, he chewed without flinching.
Now?
Now, he craved it.
There was something about it—human flesh—that tasted richer, warmer. Especially nobles. Their meat was... softer, sweeter, better fed. No tough sinew like the peasants. No stale dryness like old mercenaries. The young ones, especially... they were a delicacy.
Bjorn licked his cracked lips, staring into the flickering flame of the lantern like it held answers.
The hunger gnawed at him again.
It was time to hunt once more.
After a long, three-month absence.
Tap—! Tap—! Tap—!
From the far end of the mine came a sound—shuffling steps, the clinking of tools. Bjorn turned his head lazily.
It was Rook, one of the newer ones. A skinny, twitchy man with more bones than muscle and a gaze that never sat still.
Bjorn slowly stood up.
Rook gulped in fear as he drew closer to Bjorn.
After all, he didn’t want to become the next meal for this psychopath bastard.
Now he was close—less than a meter away.
Bjorn stood tall, his broad shoulders framed by a weather-worn cloak that looked like it had seen years of use.
His build was thick—not sculpted like a knight’s—but solid, like someone who worked with his hands, and often.
His arms were heavy with muscle, veins visible beneath rough skin marked with old scars.
His eyes were a dull gray, flat and unreadable, like steel left out in the cold. Not cruel, but distant. Used to blood, and not bothered by it.
Bjorn’s hair was unkempt, pulled back loosely with a leather tie. Strands still fell across his brow when he moved.
His clothes were simple—dark, durable fabric beneath a thick apron stained with old, dried marks that might’ve once been blood or grease.
A cleaver rested on the belt at his hip—not decorative, not polished, but sharp.
"B-Boss... I found a merchant," Rook stammered. "They are going to pass through this area in a few hours. Two wagons. Lightly guarded. Maybe four or five escorts, tops."
Bjorn didn’t speak right away. He just stared—the kind of stare that made Rook’s spine feel too loose inside his skin.
Finally, Bjorn moved—slow, deliberate—stepping into the lantern’s light. The cleaver on his belt swung slightly with the motion, glinting for a heartbeat.
"Merchants," Bjorn muttered, voice low and heavy like stone dragged over stone. "Haven’t had merchant meat in a while..."
Rook swallowed hard, unsure if he was supposed to laugh or stay silent.
He stayed silent.
Bjorn looked up, his dull gray eyes locking onto Rook’s jittering ones. "Two wagons, you said?"
"Y-Yeah. They’ll be taking the pass road near the old ridge trail. Just before dawn."
Bjorn grunted. "Good. Tell the others. We move soon."
Rook gave a quick, jerky nod and practically ran off, the sound of his footsteps echoing down the tunnel.
Bjorn turned back toward the lantern. He reached into a nearby crate and pulled out a battered whetstone, then dragged it across the cleaver’s edge with slow, steady strokes.
Shkkk—shkkk.
He didn’t smile. He never smiled.
But there was something close in his eyes—an anticipation.
Not just for the raid. Not just for blood.
For meat.
He could already taste it. The lean muscle of a wagon guard. The tender fat of a well-fed merchant woman. The marrow from the bones...
Grwoool—!!!
His stomach growled.
"Three months," he murmured. "Too long."
And now, at last, the hunt would begin again.
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Outside, above the mine, the wind cut cold through the mountains. Clouds gathered overhead, moonlight flickering through like dying embers.
Far below, a pair of wagons creaked along the narrow trail, unaware of the predator waiting in the dark.
Unaware that they weren’t transporting goods tonight.
They were delivering themselves.
To Bjorn the Butcher.
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Author Note:
Thanks for the reading the Chapters of mine.