Zayn''s head snapped up, and his eyes locked onto two figures standing at the edge of the scene. It was the carpenter and her sister, their faces frozen in horror as they took in the grotesque scene. They were carrying some crates in their arms—but their attention was entirely on the lifeless man and Zayn crouched over him.
Zayn groaned inwardly. "Just my luck," he muttered, standing and letting the claws slide into his grip once more.
What would he even say to explain the situation to these two? He was standing over a completely burned corpse with two bloody bone weapons in his hand and all the wounds and injuries on the body could easily tell the story of what happened here. It wouldn''t be something he could explain.
''Should I kill them? It would stop them from exposing me and it''s not like they''re real right? They are all just from the Story so it shouldn''t matter'' he wondered inwardly.
The carpenter opened her mouth, likely to demand an explanation, but Zayn''s attention shifted sharply to the pile of fireworks. His heart sank as he noticed the faint glow emanating from the dark crystalline substance within them. Worse still, the necklaces on the women''s necks were beginning to shimmer with an ominous light.
"Shit," Zayn hissed, gripping his claws tightly.
The carpenter and her sister barely had time to react before Zayn charged forward, his claws gleaming in the dim light of the smoldering battlefield.
A short while later...
Zayn stood in the silence of the aftermath, his breath uneven, beads of sweat mixing with the blood splattered across his face. His eyes were locked on the ground, where the half-charred bodies of the carpenter and her sister lay crumpled at his feet.
Their twisted forms still bore traces of their incomplete transformations, the grotesque mutations halted mid-process by their deaths. For a moment, the world seemed muted, the air thick with the acrid stench of burnt flesh.
Zayn stared at their corpses, his expression vacant, as if lost in the haze of his thoughts. The battle was over, yet an unfamiliar weight pressed on his chest.
He let out a long sigh and muttered, "What the hell am I doing?"
The question lingered in the air, unanswered. Zayn didn''t move, still gazing at the lifeless forms as doubt began to claw at him.
Everything he''d done since entering this Story felt... wrong. Disjointed. Why did I opt to kill them so quickly? Why did I charge instead of retreating or coming up with a plan? The thoughts spiraled.
He tried to trace back his steps, scrutinizing every decision. None of this makes sense, not even to me. His actions since arriving here felt impulsive, alien to his nature. He''d been reckless, just following random people who said they knew him. Ignoring blatantly troublesome tells like the bald boy''s behavior and the villager''s lack of names and now acting without a plan.
That wasn''t him. He wasn''t someone who rushed into things blindly. He was a planner, meticulous, and careful. He''d always prided himself on that.
Back then—when he decided to shoot up the school and kill those bastards who fucked his chance at life—he''d planned it all. Every step, every move. He made sure his targets were at school, he studied the floor maps, and teacher-student routes to classes to prevent the more annoying teachers from stopping him. He didn''t kill everyone indiscriminately.
The specific ones who survived had been left for a reason. But here? Here he''d been... careless. Sloppy. Or was he always like this? The doubt gnawed at him, twisting his memories.
He knew who he was but how easily he did all of these things in the Story without doubling back bothered him.
Shaking his head, Zayn dismissed the thought. "It''s the damn Story," he muttered to himself. ''It had to be.'' There was so much he didn''t understand about this place, its rules, or its effects. Maybe it was the Story that was clouding his judgment, driving him to act out of character. That explanation was enough for now.
He exhaled sharply, his focus shifting back to the bodies at his feet. The sight of them brought clarity, pushing the existential thoughts aside. Instead, he analyzed what he saw.
The carpenter and her sister were different from the Blood Claws—he could see that clearly now. While the Blood Claws had been born directly from the necklaces, these transformations had been triggered by the strange glowing substance in the fireworks along with the necklace.
He remembered how the smaller Blood Claw had emerged from his necklace in a burst of fire without transforming him. Same as the sickly man.
"This is different," Zayn muttered, crouching near the bodies for a closer look. The connection was clear: the material in the fireworks. It had caused their necklaces to react differently compared to earlier, merging into their flesh instead of producing an external transformation.
He figured the Blood Claws appearing from the necklaces was the norm as to his knowledge there wasn''t some sort of outer element involved like the substance.
Physically, these transformed women had looked more menacing, with elongated claws and disfigured faces that seemed almost predatory. But in reality, they were weaker.
The stepfather''s flames had been hotter than the two Blood Claws, but slower than both Blood Claws overall. His strength and intelligence were equally lacking—his movements had been wild and uncoordinated, unlike the Blood Claws'' agile and tactical attacks.
"They''re inferior," Zayn concluded, his tone detached. Whatever purpose these transformations served, they weren''t comparable to the Blood Claws.
They were easier to kill and less effective. He couldn''t fathom why they''d exist, much less how they fit into the bigger picture of the festival or the Red Flame.
Rising to his feet, Zayn stood amidst the unsettling scene, the acrid scent of burnt flesh still hanging in the air. His eyes drifted back to the pile of fireworks, now imbued with an ominous presence thanks to the strange glowing substance.
A single question dominated his mind, What was the Chief planning to do with this stuff?Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.
He mulled over the possibilities, trying to piece together the fragments of this twisted puzzle. ''Is the Chief trying to transform the villagers?'' The thought crossed his mind, but it didn''t sit right.
The version of the Blood Claws created by the glowing substance was, without a doubt, inferior to those born directly from the necklaces. The creatures were slower, weaker, and lacked even the rudimentary intelligence that the original Blood Claws displayed. Why would anyone want to use this material if the results were so subpar? Zayn scowled, the weight of the inconsistencies pressing on him.
The method to even produce them from the few confrontations he had, where also convoluted. It was just bizarre.
He could even imagine what the chief wanted to do with the fireworks and this substance. The fireworks would be launched into the air, exploding to rain down the substance across the villagers who wore necklaces. Transforming them into these things. While the process might technically work, it seemed overly theatrical for something so straightforward.
He considered the idea he would want control of them but that too seemed stupid. ''The villagers are already pliable, docile, and blindly loyal to the village. The Chief wouldn''t need such an elaborate mechanism to control them.''
Zayn frowned deeper, the dissonance gnawing at him. The purpose wasn''t control. It couldn''t be.
Then another thought struck him—something he''d noticed but hadn''t given much thought to until now. The Blood Claws he''d killed earlier had exuded a faint, golden light after their deaths. It wasn''t just light; it was energy, an almost ethereal force that seemed to flow into his Outline. Each time it happened, he received a message in his ears about toppling an obstacle, like the Story itself was acknowledging his actions.
But these three—the stepfather, the carpenter, and her sister—had produced no such phenomenon. There was no golden light, no energy flowing into him. Even the familiar voice that echoed in his mind after defeating the Blood Claws had been silent this time.
Frowning, Zayn called for his Outline, drawing it into view. The familiar web of glowing, translucent lines forming his notebook levitated before him, representing his progress within the Story. He scanned it intently but found no changes or messages. It was as if he hadn''t killed anyone at all. What the hell is going on?
The realization left him uneasy. Something was missing, something crucial about the nature of these transformations and the Chief''s intentions.
Zayn''s thoughts were interrupted when he noticed something odd at his feet. A thin trail of blood began to snake across the ground, moving unnaturally. His gaze followed the trail, noting that it didn''t flow outward as it should have. Instead, it was heading toward the village center, where the festival was being held.
He turned to see where it originated, and his stomach twisted. The blood was seeping from the bodies of the stepfather, the carpenter, and her sister. It wasn''t pooling or dripping—it was flowing, purposeful, as though guided by an unseen force.
Zayn crouched, examining the phenomenon closely. This isn''t natural, he thought, his instincts flaring. Something about this screamed danger. He reached out, grabbing a handful of dirt and throwing it over the trail to block its path.
For a moment, the blood seemed to stop, pooling around the dirt as if it were considering an alternative. Then, with a sudden fluid motion, it veered around the obstacle.
"Dammit," Zayn muttered, trying again. He threw more dirt, rocks, and anything he could find, creating small barriers to impede the blood''s flow. He even tried using his bare hands to stop it but It adjusted each time, weaving through or around his attempts like a predator evading traps.
He even thought of going to the bodies to stop it but then something changed.
It shifted tactics.
The blood sank into the ground, disappearing from view entirely.
"No, no, no," Zayn muttered, frantically searching for where it might reemerge. But the ground remained silent, undisturbed. Whatever force was guiding it had taken it beyond his reach.
Zayn straightened, his fists clenched around his bone claws. His instincts screamed at him that something was terribly wrong. Whatever the Chief was planning, this blood—and the strange material in the fireworks—were critical to it. And now, the blood was heading straight for the heart of the village.
He turned his gaze toward the festival, the flickering light of the bonfire visible in the distance. "I need to figure this out fast," he muttered under his breath, his grip tightening on his weapons.
Zayn turned his focus back to the pile of fireworks, the glowing substance still faintly pulsating within them. The weight of the situation pressed on him; this moment felt pivotal, a critical point in the Story that could shift its trajectory depending on his next move.
The pile sat precariously, its potential for chaos barely contained. He knew he couldn''t leave it here. If the Chief''s plan relied on these fireworks, then the best course of action was to dismantle or destroy them, disrupting whatever was in motion.
Zayn knelt by the pile, inspecting the containers. He remembered how narrowly he had prevented them from igniting earlier during his fight with the stepfather and the two sisters. His jaw tightened. ''One wrong move, and this whole place would have been blown out of existence.''
As he deliberated, his eyes drifted toward where the carpenter''s sister had fallen. Something clicked in his memory—the two of them had been carrying boxes when they arrived. He recalled the sister mentioning that she was working on her own version of fireworks.
Curious, Zayn stood and approached the boxes. The first one was charred but intact. He crouched down and carefully pried it open. Inside were rows of cylindrical fireworks, crudely made but functional. The craftsmanship was amateur compared to the Chief''s elaborate designs, but it wasn''t the construction that caught Zayn''s attention.
He grabbed one and twisted it open, spilling its contents into his palm. His lips curved into a small, wry smile. "Perfect. The problem just solved itself."
Meanwhile...
At the village square, the festival was nearing its climax. The crowd stood in hushed anticipation as the Chief neared the end of the rites. His deep voice carried across the square, his words laced with the authority of tradition.
Those older members of the crowd, who had been present for previous festivals could tell that he was going extra slow today. Yet, the sky above refused to darken making them feel they were just imagining it since the sun hadn''t fallen yet. The red hues of the sunset lingered unnaturally, casting the village in a constant state of twilight.
As the Chief chanted, his expression subtly shifted. A frown creased his brow as he felt something—an unsettling presence. Glancing down, he saw his elaborate necklace glowing faintly, its crimson hue pulsating in sync with a strange sensation climbing his leg.
He looked down and saw it: a thin, flowing trail of blood winding its way up his clothes. It crawled with purpose, spiraling toward the necklace.
The Chief didn''t flinch. His face remained calm, though his eyes flickered with questions. He watched as the blood disappeared into the necklace, the glow intensifying for a brief moment before fading. Then, as if hearing a voice only he could perceive, he nodded slightly with a look on his face.
The Chief turned to a group of strong men standing near the front of the crowd. They were muscular laborers, respected in the village for their strength and reliability. He beckoned them forward with a wave of his hand.
"The carpenter and the village healer," the Chief began, his tone steady but carrying a faint edge of urgency, "have gone to my house to retrieve something vital for the festival. They are running late."
The men listened intently, their expressions resolute.
"I need you to go and assist them," the Chief continued. "It''s behind my house, and you''ll recognize it by its wooden crates and coverings. Bring it here as quickly as you can. The festival cannot proceed without it."
The men nodded immediately. For the festival, and especially for the village, they would do whatever was necessary. Without hesitation, they set off toward the Chief''s house, their steps purposeful.
The Chief turned back to the crowd, addressing their murmurs with a reassuring smile. "Do not worry. Everything is proceeding as it should. The full festival will commence soon."
Yet as he spoke, his gaze shifted upward, lingering on the sunset-streaked sky. The unnatural redness had remained far too long, defying the natural cycle of day and night. He frowned inwardly as if straining to hold something.
The Chief''s expression smoothed as he returned his attention to the villagers. His voice rang out with conviction, pulling their focus back to the festival preparations. But deep inside, he could feel it—something was amiss, a disruption in the order of things.
And as the village square remained bathed in the eerie red light of the sunset, Zayn moved closer to setting the stage for what would come next.