The detonator hissed, and for a moment, the world stopped.
Then, the explosion tore through the night with a deafening thunder.
The improvised altar disintegrated in a blaze of fire and bone.
The impact tore the Glawackus from the ground, hurling its shapeless mass into the air. Mid-flight, its body burst apart — twisted flesh, disfigured limbs, fragments of human skulls embedded in steaming entrails.
The creature's ribs were ripped out like flaming spears, embedding themselves in nearby trees. Tendrils of muscle and skin snapped in the air before dissolving into clouds of thick, black blood.
The beast’s cries — if they could still be called that — were a chorus of human voices, as though all of Glastonbury’s dead screamed together in that final moment.
The medallion, flung into the air by the blast, shattered further upon hitting the ground. Each crack emitted a wave of invisible pain that made the earth itself tremble.
Jonathan, struck by shrapnel and searing heat, collapsed to his knees, feeling his flesh tear in dozens of deep cuts. His blood mingled with the creature’s, forming a putrid sludge that swallowed the quarry floor.
When the dust settled, only twisted remnants remained — scattered like macabre offerings.
The forest fell silent, as if even it feared to look upon what was left.
Jonathan, still breathing in shallow gasps, knew:
The creature was dead.
But something within him had been broken forever.
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