He stumbled over, yet again. A cerise arc flashed through the air, spilling liquid crimson, freely as a fountain would spill water.


    Another loss, another wound spilling the price.


    Tattered clothes were piled in the corner, outweighing the freshly pressed shirts, devoid of cuts or holes in them, a raining rarity amongst his collection. But it didn’t matter. Not if he was going to be felled once again, at the hands of a merciless mentor.


    He could feel his gullet fill up, with a gurgling spill, as the puckered patch over his throat closed up, but the liquid tumbled over, searing his gullet. He had to cough out the rusting stench, dark globs dribbling down in droves, as he gathered himself, his sword in hand. Slashes rushed forth, returned with a multitude of cavities in turn, running holes through his bones, sending palls of singed flesh, up in smoke.


    More holes in old shirts.


    He gritted his teeth.


    A day that would bring an end to defeat.


    That was all he could look forward to. But for the time, he had to get to collecting all the fallen bodies. Rotting bodies. Gathering up spilt guts and knackered corpses, getting around to the only kind of work he knew how to do. A mindless activity. But one that needed doing.


    Akin to how he fell to Lilith’s miasma and her ferocity, spilling blood, cold as ice. Walking off death, as nothing more than a walk in a park. And rising from the grave, ready for another bout of brawls.


    At the end of his toils, he could sight a faint glimmer. One of hope. One he had to test out. One he had to see for himself would work out. Worst he had to offer in severance, was a sentence carved in red, one that he spilled in droves on the daily. Nothing new. Perhaps a slim permanence in the way of matters, drawing his end to a close. A merciless and peaceful close.


    If it ever came to be.


    But he couldn’t rest easy, knowing he hadn’t tried his hardest to survive, to thrive. To return to dust, was far easier, than resisting the urge. To stay as he was. To sway not to the whims, beguiling him. Seducing him. Urging him. Begging him.


    And yet, his routine continued. Gathering up the corpses. Piling up the dead. Shaping up his shrine. To build and build, till he carved from flesh, bone and blood. To erect a homage to the life he’d led, from the ingredients he’d gathered. A true hunter-gatherer lifestyle that brought him back to the roots of life. An honest life. One where killing and surviving were the only metrics of worth, measured. The scales of life and death, weighed by a slim difference in skill, derived from evading one or the other, depending on the time of day, and swing of mood.


    A dark path, he’d never expected to tread. A path furthest from grey.


    Dyed black.


    Or red.


    Depending on the freshness of the blood spilled. Or the light it was spilled under. Whether it be moonlight or sunlight.


    Exhaling a sigh, he plopped down on his makeshift cot, in an exhausted mound. He cared little for the fleshy titbits hanging over the plush seat, or the strands of fallen hair. All that mattered was a place he could rest. Rest till the next bout started. Till he was called in for his part in the act. Churning out his toil, as the cog in the ploy. A questionably never-ending chore, dragging on till who knew when. Perhaps a swifter end was in need.


    Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    It didn’t take long, till his lids dipped, tipping his world over to darkness.


    A rhythmic pounding sounded. A melodic thumping that sent sparks with each beat, working away at a red-hot piece of molten metal. A known world. One he had forgotten of, with the passing of time.


    He stood at the entryway, at the precipice of an exit he could sling out of, in a hurry.


    The cloud brewed an angry swirl above, flashing white, and competing against the rhythmic pounding, with a vengeful roar, beckoning a wet fall from the heavens.


    The first drops of foreboding fell, wetting his nose, prickling his scalp.


    Heaving a heavy sigh, he weighed the odds. He could run now. Or he could run later. Running was an option he could always fall back to. It didn’t matter if he did it now or later. Better to know what he had decided to abscond from, than flee without knowing. A fool’s errand to reach a journey’s end and receive no reward for the drudgery. Worse than a slave forced to work with no recompense.


    Working as a cog in a wheel, didn’t mean he had to adhere to the mindset of one. It was time to break free.


    Forging on, he ducked under the wooden frame, wading his way through. The darkness clung to him, his surroundings nothing but an unknown expanse, darker than an unenlightened mind. The pounding of metal continued, beckoning him towards a flame lit at the centre, far away. And yet close by. Reeling him towards the hearth, a figure ignited by the orange embers, sat hunched over a slab.


    The pitter patter of rain thundered outside, a steady hum, competing against the forge’s melody. A sizzling coolness washed over, as he made his way over, standing before the forge.


    The hammer clanged against red hot bone, flattening and kneading it, into a sharpened edge. He couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at how the bone hadn’t shattered yet, under the pounding by the smith, who shaped the blade into a katana’s thin edge.


    His gaze switched over to the weaponsmith, pounding away. Donning an armour of iridescent scales, sweat clambered over his hairless forehead, spilling droves of perspiration, unreserved.


    “Juke?” uttered Azrael, a deep melancholy gripping at his heart.


    He watched his mentor, pounding away, forging a blade, devoid of a hilt. The red-hot bone sent up flickering yellow sparks, the slab of stone that held the molten blade for pounding, thrown into an orange tongue of conflagrations, from the hearth hosting the fire.


    The pounding of metal ceased, replaced by the ever-present pitter-pattering of rain, with a coarse rumble that roiled past.


    Picking up a large set of pincers, the molten bone was dropped into liquid crimson, sizzling and boiling as blood would.


    “It is time,” came a voice, as expansive as the very skies themselves, dribbling past Juke’s lips. And yet it sounded nothing like Juke. More of a scaly reptile’s words, parting the heavens in waxing and waning waves, at moments least expected.


    The scales of armour over Juke shimmered, iridescent and blinding. Glowing with a radiance that nearly blinded Azrael. Instinctively, he held up a hand, streaming rays of light past the space between his fingers. He peered past the gaps and met a warm gaze. It held him in place, with a vice-like grip, clamping his feet. The thought of running, was nothing but a fleeting memory, fleeing his mind.


    A pair of pincers brought the cooled length of bone back to the forge, laid out over the slab of stone.


    The glow transmuted into a white, blinding beam, throwing the chamber awash in its brilliance. In a blink, the light vanished, fading to nothing but petals of fleeting cherry blossoms that turned to dust, upon touching the dark ground.


    Azrael looked about, expectant of more guests.


    He spun around, but met nothing but rampant darkness, skulking about the corners. Clenching his fists, he steeled his resolve. Walking up to the forge, he found the cooled down bone, beckoning him. A cool length of blade, bound by no hilt.


    Reaching down, Azrael traced the edge, curving under his fingertips, as he brought his hand over to the base. In a firm tug, his fingers closed around the bare blade, where the hilt was meant to be. His clutched it firmly in his hand, till his palm loosened a wet warmth. He could feel the bone blade settle in, becoming one with his hand, as an extension of himself.


    Swinging the freshly forged blade, the weight felt just right, as though he was born to wield the weapon.


    A smile touched his lips, as jagged bones jutted out his wrist, clambering over his fingers, sheathing the base of the blade and fingers in a pommel wrought from his own bones.


    It was time. No more planning. No more bodies to drag over.


    It was time he acted out his plan. Whether it failed or succeeded, mattered little. He had no choice but to follow through. Death had been on his heels since he was born, nothing had changed. Except, he had a chance to turn the tides of demise, with his own two hands.