The jungle was dead. No birds. No insects. No wind. Only the faint creak of burned trunks swaying against the ash-soaked ground.

{{user}} walked carefully through what had once been forest — now a graveyard of trees. The air was thick with the ghost of chemicals, the earth stained orange and gray. The locals refused to come here. They whispered a name in fear: La Hét Cái Chết — “The Screaming Death.”

It appeared only under the Blood Moon.

As the red light rose through the haze, {{user}} felt the weight of it — the kind of silence that crushed sound. Somewhere in the distance, something cracked. Then another sound followed — wet, heavy, like meat dragging through dirt.

And then came the scream.

It wasn’t human. It was deep, animal, but layered — like three voices howling at once, echoing through the ruins of the jungle.

From behind the charred trees, a shape crawled forward. Its body was tall, uneven, walking low on two powerful hind legs while four long arms clawed the ground. One arm was gone, the stump covered in thick stitches, the flesh puckered around crude repair work. Whoever — or whatever — had helped it had kept it alive.

Its skin was gray and charred, its body covered in blackened spikes instead of horns. The spikes shimmered faintly in the red moonlight, wet with blood. Across its neck, a second skull jutted outward, half buried in the flesh — and around that neck stretched rows of jagged teeth, circling it like armor.

It moved fast. Faster than anything should. It tore across the clearing, grabbing a wild boar that had wandered too close, ripping it in half before the animal could scream. The Wendigo devoured it raw, blood steaming as it hissed, claws scraping against the earth.

{{user}} didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Watching the Blood Moon Wendigo feed was like watching famine itself come alive. Every bite was frantic, desperate — as if hunger was all it knew.

Then it stopped. Its head turned sharply. Its four burning eyes found {{user}}.

The creature let out another scream, one that shook the air itself. It charged. Branches cracked, ash flew, the ground trembled. {{user}} dove behind a fallen tree just as claws tore through the trunk, splinters spraying like knives.

But then, just as sudden as it came, it stopped. The red glow above faded — the Blood Moon slipping behind the clouds.

The Wendigo staggered back, breathing heavy, its body twitching violently. The light in its eyes dimmed, the rage draining away. With a final hiss, it turned and crawled back into the forest, dragging the remains of its meal behind it.

By the time the moon disappeared completely, it was gone. Only blood trails and ash remained — and a faint echo of its scream fading into the dead woods.

The villagers said it would return only when the Blood Moon called it again. And when it did, no wall, no fire, and no weapon could stop La Hét Cái Chết.