《Our Demons Within》


 Chapter 1

    I really wish, more than anything, that I was scared right now. Terrified even.


    But I''m not.


    I remember a time when those errant thoughts used to chill me to the bone. I''d chastise myself harshly for even thinking about it, crying my soul out at the very thought of it. Oh how I wish I was back in those days. I was burdened back then, but nothing a hardworking and motivated person couldn''t correct. Now? I''d long since passed the days of being able to see a future for myself. What''s the point? I''m not happy. I haven''t been for a good while, and quite frankly? I hate this world just as much as it hates me, if not more. Which is saying a lot.


    Recently, I''ve even grown too tired to wear my mask around people. I quit exercising my funny, optimist persona out of the sheer exhaustion that acting so contrary to what I actually believed took on me. With it, I lost the little value that society had afforded me. Even my cynical self was impressed at how quickly I was cast aside once I no longer fit societies mould. It only took a couple of days for people to stop asking me if I was alright, of which I was thankful for. Their half-hearted pestering only cemented my beliefs. People absolutely loved to lend a helping hand, given that they don''t actually have to go out of their way at all. Just a few meaningless words and they leave believing they''ve done their good deed for the week. Their never-heard-before platitudes single handedly lifting me from the pits of depression.


    I wish.


    A little part of me wanted my so called friends to fight tooth and nail to rescue me from whatever ailed me, but I knew that was unrealistic, for a plethora of reasons. They had stopped inviting me to things rather quickly, and again, I couldn''t find it within myself to care. The majority of the time I spent with them was wondering how long I would have to stay before I could make a reasonably believable enough excuse to go home. Their abandoning of me was completely understandable. I used them, and they used me. Some might call it shallow. I fundamentally disagree. I think it was probably the least shallow thing I''d ever experienced. It was a complete acknowledgement of human relationships, and their inherently transactional nature. No pretence of love or caring, and for that I was truly grateful. You wouldn''t keep a broken vacuum cleaner because you had a prior relationship with it. The broken is cast aside to make way for the new. It brought me a fleeting feeling of joy to have my beliefs proven.


    And yet, these beliefs are the reason I hate this life, this earth, so much. Ironic that I was pleased when it turned out I was correct that the earth was so shit. The realisation was but another nail in my coffin... literally.


    Heh.


    I''d realised one morning a few months ago that I no longer cared about people thinking I was okay. I no longer had the empathy that used to have me try and make them laugh, just so that I wouldn''t burden them with my true feelings. Maybe some of you reading this can sympathise with this. Or is it empathise? I can never remember. Regardless, not many would say it out loud, but people fucking hate being around depressive people. Nobody wants to be around a sad cunt. Now, don''t get me wrong, I''m not angry at that, nor do I blame them. I agree in fact. It''s the same reason why I put this mask on all that time. Positive energy begets positive energy, negative energy begets negative energy.


    Needless to say, it didn''t surprise me the reactions I got when my mask slipped.


    "Stop moping about all of the time. You''re depressing me. just smile." See, usually, on the rare chance that someone would catch me by myself, and I hadn''t time to prepare my homemade slightly-amused, yet restrained smile, this was where I''d give them a toothy grin and say something like "Moping? Me? I think you need an eye test Mark. Youare cracking on in age after all." And then we would engage in some playful banter, me using canned lines I had thought of months beforehand for this exact scenario.


    But when it happened to me last week? I couldn''t even bring myself to respond. I didn''t smile. I didn''t do my usual, half-cheek raise, that would flatten my eyes into crescents, apparently showing I was slightly bemused at his comment. I didn''t do anything. I just sat on his words, ignoring his follow-up that I can''t even remember, until he left the room.


    "Just man up. How bad can it be?" Yes, Karen, just as you overcame your trauma when your husband disagreed on the type of flowers you would have at your wedding, let me overcome my trauma in the same way. With a massive holiday and a few mimosas.


    So that brings us to today. I... I-


    I folded the letter and placed it on top of the wobbly nightstand. It wasn''t finished, and by all rights I had more to say, but honestly, I couldn''t be bothered with it any more, and quite frankly, it was becoming more vitriolic than I''d like. I think they''ll get the general point of it anyway. Or maybe not. But again, I don''t really care.


    I didn''t bother making it out to anyone. I have no family, and I only tolerate those thatI call friends so that people wouldn''t be weirded out by me spending all of my free time alone in my flat. Making it out to any single person would only be negatively affecting their life, for no particular reason on my part.


    Not to worry, I figure the cleaning lady will find me in the morning. I hope she didn''t find the hetfy tip suspicious. And that she would forgive me for the trauma. Or did I? This was the first consciously selfish act I had taken in how many years? Decades even? I felt quite giddy at that realisation actually. It felt like I had a choice for the first time in my life. That I finally got the best of fate.


    I lay my head against the aging headboard of the creaky motel bed, twisting the cap of the pill bottle until it came off in my hand, and downed the entire thing with a hearty swig of vodka. This was something I had decided on a long time ago. I think I was eighteen maybe?


    ''If you''re gonna go out, then you may as well trip balls as you''re going.''


    I still held that sentiment. Just because I''m offing myself doesn''t mean I can''t have a little fun with it in my last moments.Haha, I remember when I had first come up with that. I was keeled over in a fit of half-laughter, half-crying.


    The pills were already kicking in it seems. Quicker than I thought. Not that I had any experience with drugs or hallucinating, but the portal that had ripped itself open in my motel room seemed to make the answer obvious. I marvelled at it''s design. The feats that the human imagination was capable of were truly amazing. A black line, thinner and darker than anything I had previously seen in my life, drew itself steadily down from the ceiling of the, albeit it short, motel room. It stopped out of my vision, I assumed on the floor, but my vision was blocked by the foot of the bed. A rumble began. Beginning at a low thrum, and working itself up into an almost earthquake level thundering. The cause soon made itself known, as a number of monstrously large blood-red fingers forced themselves though the thin black line. One of the jagged, serrated, and sharpened nails that tipped each finger found its path blocked by an oak bedpost, the claw barely noticed, cleanly carving through the structure as if it wasn''t there. Prying the portal open with great effort, the fingers tensed and shook, struggling massively against the assumed weight of the portal, the numerous small cuts along their hide leaking an almost maroon coloured blood. A small splotch of said blood spat from the tip of the foremost finger and landed not a foot away from my head, impacting against the cheap headboard.


    Craning my neck away to avoid the mass of blood, I used a hand to dab at the small amount that had splashed across my face, my attention still fully focussed on the human-head sized bloodstain on the headboard.


    My jaw dropped.


    The blood was much more viscous than you''d expect. I''d previously watched snake venom''s effect on blood online, and this reminded me much of that. The blood was more akin to goop, making its way slowly down the length of the headboard, but what really made me surprised was the acidic nature of the blood. The headboard was being eaten. It sizzled and sputtered, chewing through the headboard and gaining pace as if it was a hot knife through butter. A really hot knife.


    It took me much too long to remember that I currently had some of this liquid smeared on my face, and with a weary hand, I touched the surface of where it had landed and felt... Nothing. No pain.


    As I expected.


    I wasn''t going in to this experience unprepared. I had done my research on the method and the drugs I would use. And even the nature of hallucinogenic trips. If you allowed it, a good trip could turn into a bad trip in a matter of seconds, and that was clearly what was happening now. I could see a less prepared man being tricked by his brain, believing that he was truly being eaten by some kind of mysterious trans-dimensional blood-acid.


    This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    Wait.


    Blood-acid?


    Ah. As in similar to the infamous alien in the movie I had watched last week? I had researched that also. Just like a dream, your brain would take both conscious and unconscious memories and stimuli in order to influence your imagination during drug-fuelled trips. Nothing out of the ordinary.


    I let out a genuine ear to ear smile. I knew I was right. This was the right way to go. I hadn''t had this much fun in who knows how long. Possibly ever.


    With the opening of the portal, the objects within the room reacted instantaneously. The curtains ripped from their rail one by one, zipping inside of the portal and across to the who-knows-where that the portal lead. The lamp followed soon after, only pausing briefly as it tugged once on it''s cord before being yanked from the socket and following the fate of the curtains. Even the bed I sat on scraped harshly across the floor, only stopping when it met the immoveable mass of the fingers. The lamp shade from the ceiling light whipped into the portal, the light fixture itself only bending to the will of the portal, and not coming loose.


    It wasn''t long before even the locked motel door began rattling, threatening to fly from its hinges and join its brethren within the portal. I gave the scene a last once over before releasing my iron grip on the headboard. Giving my arms a quick wave, I realised I wasn''t being pulled by the vacuum of the portal. Obviously. I don''t think feeling as if gravity was doubled was a particularly rare hallucinogenic side effect, but having a portal drag you sideways, now that might be a first.


    To think that all of this was happening as I lay comatose on the bed, frothing from my mouth. Awesome. I''m glad that this is the last thing I will ever experience.


    You hear stories of people jumping, or otherwise, and when they were rescued they would always say "As soon as I jumped I realised how easy my problems were to fix. I''m glad I survived.".


    I wonder why I''m not having those thoughts. If anything, I''m much happier that I chose this. This experience is probably one of the best moments of my life. Truly fun.


    I stood from the bed, the covers and pillows eagerly joining their friends within the portal, no longer anchored by my weight, and walked over to the insanely large opening. I noted that I was walking quite stable for someone in my state, but the largest likelihood was that I wasn''t even walking at all, and only imagining these events with half lidded, rolled over eyes.


    I raised a hand and touched the vanta-black portal.


    Cold. Very cold. So cold that I reacted much as you do when you touch something extremely hot, but no matter how much I pulled, my hand wouldn''t come free of the substance, in fact, I was being pulled into it. Like quicksand. The more I pulled and struggled, the deeper my hand was being sucked into the blackness. I foolishly pressed my other hand on the portal, subconsciously seeking a leverage point to push my weight against. I couldn''t even regret my mistake as I was swiftly drawn into the portal, and only managed a quickly drawn deep breath before my face was dunked into the void.


    I can''t remember how long I waited with bated breath, afraid that the void would be devoid of oxygen, eager for the darkness to give way to something else.


    Is this...? Is this it? Is this death? The drugs were really kicking in now. Even though I was surrounded on all sides by an unknowingly deep blackness, with no way to orient myself, I could feel the room spinning, my eyes feeling as though they were stuck in a loop, moving back and forth without pause. I frothed at the mouth. I willed my arms to wipe it off, but they didn''t seem to care for my instructions, only spasming erratically in response. I could feel my mind being peeled from the current situation, the complete darkness disallowing me from knowing whether my eyes were open or shut. I''d heard similar stories from drug addicts online, they could be in the most important situation of their lives, but alas, their mind wandered, and their consciousness ended up in a different plane entirely, completely apathetic to their current circumstances.


    I dreamed.


    It was a strange and grandiose dream, unlike any I''d ever had before. I was watching myself fall from a great height, completely without control of my movements. I could physically feel the air brush past my skin, but It didn''t phase me, somehow intrinsically, I knew this wasn''t me. For a reason I can''t even describe, I knew fundamentally that I was detached from this version of me I saw falling, and thus, I watched it similarly to how one would watch a movie, mostly unconcerned with the fate of this person. It helped that this version of me was probably a decade younger than I currently am. Perhaps my subconscious telling me that my trauma started from the age of thirteen? Who knows.


    The clouds zipped past, and the world made itself known. Great plumes of smoke towered into the skies, and my doppelg?nger adjusted himself just slighty, his body falling diagonally for a while, narrowly avoiding flying headfirst into one of those plumes.


    The world got closer, and I looked down onto what now made itself clear to be a grand battlefield. Skirmishes were being fought all across the upturned brown flatland, but not by tanks and artillery however, the groups seemed to be fighting head on with each other. A mounted group cleaved their way through their enemy, their impact visible even at my height. Imagine if ancient strategists could view a battlefield like this.


    The din of battle was drowned out by the overwhelming rush of air, the ground getting closer with every second. I descended... I? No. That didn''t feel right. How could this be me if I wasn''t even in control. No. This was... Aralmann. As is normal in a dream state, the first thing to come to my mind was set in stone, and thus my doppelg?nger became Aralmann forever and always. Aralmann continued to fall, tucking his arms by his side to quicken his descent, now hurtling towards the rapidly nearing earth. His adjustment from earlier had flew him away from the centre of the battle, landing him inbetween a mass of currently waiting warriors. When the earth had become only tens of metres away from crushing him into a paste, he flicked his arms outwards, and completely unlike you''d expect from a human doing such an ineffective action, his descent actually slowed to a controllable degree, only forcing him into an awkward, stumbling landing amid the troops, instead of outright flattening him into a me-flavoured mancake.


    "GAGLEG KOR''PET DU MAGSKE!?" A reverberating shout bellowed through the battlefield, outright flattening some of the smaller troops around Aralmann. He ignored the shout, choosing to survey the scenery before him instead.


    These troops... they were orcs.


    At least as I could best describe them. Overly large, tusked, dim-looking humanoids. I suppose there was one distinction to be made, which was their blood-red skin. I''d also noticed that I... Excuse me, Aralmann, was stark naked.


    "GAGLEG KOR''PET! MAGSKE!?" Aralmann seemed to notice the roar this time, meeting eyes with the creature that had issued the shout. A monstrously large twin-horned Devil. It''s blazing yellow eyes bore down a force upon my soul, giving it the impression of being larger than it already was. It stomped a pace forward, which was a sizeable distance for something as massive as itself, the casual swing of its arm batting away a group of careless red-orcs that were unlucky enough to be distracted by the commotion enough to forget to move out of the way of this beast. Orcs vaporised at it''s touch, what was once their innards became outards, splattering messily over their comrades, which only turned to invigorate them more, the now even-redder orcs bellowing a gurgling warcry, weapons raised high. The hands it used to make orc-smoothies were more beast like than the hands that had pried open the portal I noticed.


    "You know not to whom you speak, half-blood. This Great One''s words are too valuable to be wasted upon such a pitiful dog as yourself. Perish."


    So... Aralmann has a little bit of an ego...


    Aralmann waved his arm, and the Devil marched forward, visage twisted in unrestrained fury. Devilish and orcish howls assaulted my ears, similar to when the start up music in the cinema was set just a little too high, and would jolt you out of your seat. Aralmann didn''t seem to mind. The Devil continued forward, lowering his hulking mass into a short stance in order to- No.


    The Devil was falling.


    The colossal body smashed into the ashy war-ground, sending a wave of soot barrelling throughout the surrounding area, along with a deafening bang.


    "I am exhausted so? After only dealing with such an inconsequential foe? By Araleve, what have I become? I apologise, boy, I can not guarantee your survival through this. Hold steady, and you might even live. You had some poison within your system so I cleared it up for you. Sorry, but I must hand it back to you now."


    I felt a sucking feeling, similar as to when I had entered the portal, and before I could question it, my body was back in my control.


    I managed only a brief, confused grunt before my overworked muscles spasmed uncontrollably. The mind-splitting headache rendering me unconscious before my body even hit the ground.

 Chapter 2

    "A report has arrived, General Tu izu. It''s from the Wildlands." An eye patched man entered the large tent, speaking to the back of the sitting general.


    "Relay it to me, and without formalities, if you would." The general cocked his head sideways, sipping his tea in small increments, affording only the barest of attention to the soldier.


    "I apologise General, but the commanding officer of the Wildlands, Commander Wam Muren, asked that he be able to make the report himself."


    "WHAT? Why is the commanding officer here? Do not tell me the Wildlands have already been lost!?" The general bounded out of his seat, one hand on his stomach, and one stroking his beard, his rotund build easily upending the table he was sitting under.


    "I apologise, General, all I can say is that the Commander''s troops did not seem overly exhausted. I can not speak any further on the matter." The eye patched soldier bowed slightly, clearly refusing to speak any further on the matter. During a scuffle between commanding officers, it was best to smile like a fool and refuse to play toward any side.


    "Commander Wam Muren requests an audience with the General." A broad shouldered man parted the opening to the impressively sized tent, not waiting for a confirmation of his request. The spacious tent housed multiple tools necessary for strategy, along with a long and wide table, who''s chairs were filled with army old-heads, each sporting an impressive rank, and an even more impressive history. The man who would stand a full head above regular soldiers found himself in a room of his equals, with the general standing a head above even him.


    "Commander Wam Muren greets General Tu Izu and his cabinet." Muren dropped to one knee, feeling the varying stares of the old men bear down on his body. Some tried to intimidate him, some curious, and some simply apathetic to his arrival.


    "Explain." The general stood at the opposite end of the long table, back turned to the commander, his single utterance caused nodding heads and harrumphs of agreement amongst the old men.


    "A High-Daemon was summoned."


    "WHAT?!" "LIES!" "IMPOSSIBLE." The shouts of the veteran warriors bellowed out from the war-tent, nearly sending Muren stumbling, and cutting off his sentence before he had managed to finish.


    "SILENCE!" Tu Izu''s voice thundered across the room. Travelling far off into the encampment, no doubt waking some panicked soldiers.


    "Explain." Tu Izu annunciated his words, more for his cabinets ears than Muren''s.


    "By your will, Great General."


    Muren stood, and with a gesture, an aide to his left began handing out roughly written and stained documents to the men gathered. The general motioned away the aide, denying the report.


    "I was patrolling the Wildlands, per orders, when we were ambushed by a Daemonic troupe thrice our size. We bunkered down and were successful at fighting off the initial waves, after a time we realised that our success stemmed from a mysterious lack of elites within the enemy ranks, and on the fifth night I received a report from Petty Scout Penn, detailing the missing enemy elites were spotted at a fortified location two miles to our north. I communed with my cabinet, and together we came to the conclusion that it was less of an ambush, and more that the enemy foot soldiers were protecting their elites. I mobilised my Mounted Hussar troop, and at the break of dawn the following day, cut a swarthe through the enemy ranks, intent on crushing the gathered elites through the element of surprise. We only realised what was being done too late, and the enemy succeeded in summoning a High-Daemon, sacrificing countless elites in the process."


    Muren spoke slowly and clearly, trying his best to not leave out a single detail. He expected a rebuttal at every corner, the grizzled warriors trying to uncover out his objectives and motivations at every junction, but to his surprise, the war-tent fell silent.


    "The enemy elites succeeded in summoning a High-Daemon, and you stand before me today? Your armour barely worse for wear? You would have me believe you were able to escape such a being?" The general looked down upon the soldier, implicitly threatening unspeakable torment should Muren lie to him.


    "The High-Daemon lies slain."


    "INSOLENCE!"


    Muren met the general''s powerful gaze, allowing the splinters of the destroyed table to pierce his skin. The general was genuinely furious now. Muren could feel it in his bones. An overwhelming aura.


    "Correct me if I''m wrong, Commander Muren. You would take credit for having slain a High-Daemon today? Something I would be hard-pressed to survive an encounter against?" The general''s stare increased in pressure, and Muren found that his feet could not be moved from their position.


    "You are mistaken, Great General."


    "Continue."


    "I take no credit for the killing of the High-Daemon. Along with my men, I was prepared to die in order to inflict a meaningful scar upon the beast, but as we advanced on its position, we found it face down in the dirt, dead from a single slash across its throat, practically beheading the creature. The elites that had been sacrificed in the summoning of the monstrosity meant their army was relatively weak after the High-Daemon''s demise, allowing my men to quickly route the enemy, which is why I stand before you today, barely worse for wear." Muren matched the gaze of the general, watching his expression waver from his retelling. The old men all long since stunned into silence from his report.


    "... If your tale is true, this will be a story retold countless times throughout the Empire. Tell me you have more than your word alone, Muren, so that I may tell this to my superiors without being laughed from my post." The General rubbed the bridge of his nose, worry quickly replacing his anger.


    "I have a scout that has swore under oath to me and my subordinates, that he witnessed the events of the Daemon''s demise." Wuren postured behind him, and a weaselly looking man entered the tent, quickly falling to both knees.


    "S-Scout T-Tellim greets General and his c-cabinet." The man... boy? The boy lowered his posture way more than necessary, and knelt with both knees, in a flagrant error of military protocol. He was only a general, not a Royal for Nuwa''s sake.


    "Stand before you commit a crime neither of us could walk away from, Scout." The general''s voice was fair but powerful, almost lifting the boy from the ground itself.


    "Please, retell your version of events." Tu Izu gestured for the scout to continue on.


    "W-we were patrolling the Wildlands General, per-" Tu Ziu sighed, interrupting the scout. "I''ve heard as such. Please, tell us about the High-Daemon, and please, disperse with the nervousness, you are among friends here." A lie, but a convenient one.


    "By your will. My scout detachment witnessed a gathering of enemy elites, confirming Commander Muren''s theory that we were winning due to underwhelming enemy forces. My squad captain, Petty Scout Penn, tasked me with staying behind and documenting enemy movement, as he returned to make a report to Commander Muren."


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    "And it was after he left that you witnessed the birth of a High-Daemon, yes?" The general cocked an eyebrow, eager to hear the scouts story.


    "Correct, General. Their was a commotion within the enemy fortification, and I prepared to escape in order to notify the Commander of enemy movement. It was then when a shockwave knocked me flat, and when I had righted myself, a towering, twin-horned High-Daemon stood within the ruins of the fort, it''s glowing yellow eyes like beacons in the morning hue." The men across the table''s faces paled. Even the general seemed shocked at the tale. Only those unlucky enough to have crossed paths with a High-Daemon knew of their gleaming yellow eyes. Not something this scout should have been able to know.


    "Continue."


    "By your will. It walked through the remains of the fortress, tearing the thick walls down without even noticing they were there. I hunkered down as flat as I could amidst the knoll, not even daring to move in fear of alerting the monster. It was then when a man dropped from the sky, landing not a few metres away from the beast."


    "... A... Man? A human man dropped from the sky in front of the High-Daemon?"


    "Correct, at least as far as I could tell General."


    "Continue." The aged veterans all waited with bated breath, hunched forward on their chairs like children listening to their fathers grandiose stories, eager to know the ending of the scouts report.


    "There is not much more to say, General. The wretched beast bellowed a heart-wrenching battle-cry, confirmed by all of our surviving men, and the man simply waved his arm towards the Daemon, the monster creasing over and dying without fanfare, the collapsing body of the gargantuan beast sent a wave of soot over the battlefield, which allowed me to escape and report to Commander Muren what I had witnessed."


    The experienced warriors, veterans of hundreds of battles, all looked around the table, trying to find an ounce of falsehood present in the scouts tone, but all came up empty, the tent falling into an eerie silence.


    "This man, what did he look like? Any symbols? Clan insignia?" The general and his cabinet inched even closer to the edge of their seats, glued to the scouts every word.


    "I apologise. the distance was too great, and my squad captain feared that the elites would notice our position should we get any closer. I was only able to tell one thing, and that was that the man was completely, stark, naked." The men deflated upon knowing that the scout hadn''t witnessed the appearance of such a powerful potential ally, and one from their lands no less.


    "Sigh, experts, eccentric one and all, and I assume you''re both prepared to testify as such, under oath, before the Magistrate?"


    "By your will." The scout and Muren replied in sync.


    "... Do you have any idea what this means, Muren?" The general raised a hand, indicating for Muren to approach, and walked over to the war board, giving Muren a chance to speak in relative privacy.


    "I am an old-guard of His Majesty The Emperor''s army, veteran of countless battles. I am no Royal Pridebearer, but I daresay I know more than most. Should your words hold true, this happening will shake our empire to it''s core. For such a hidden dragon to be both capable, and willing to kill a High-Daemon so easily, and all the way out in our Wildlands no less. This news may travel all the way to the Emperors ears."


    "Something else, Great General, there was a survivor found within the ranks of the enemy. A boy. Beaten and broken, likely a slave. He... He has traces of daemon ichor engraved into his face. Our healers tried their best, but as you know, it is a volatile substance at the best of times, and it seems he will never see out of his left eye again. My head medical officer theorised that he was an early experiment, the enemy elites trying to summon the High-Daemon with his body and soul as the conduit."


    The nature of the conversation quashed the upbeat expression of the general like a bucket of water over a fire. The discovery of a hidden expert living within the Wildlands, though mysterious, could only mean good things for the Empire, and by extension, Tu Izu, but that didn''t mean there were bright days ahead. If that expert had not acted, what would have come of the situation? The Wildlands would have almost certainly been lost, and with it, Wam Muren. Although they weren''t an integral part of the Empire''s lands, the enemy usurping any area was a great cause for concern, not to mention the scathing condemnation that would be placed directly at General Tu Ziu''s feet, and that is without even talking about the fact that there would be an uncounted for High-Daemon prowling the Wildlands, ready to strike at civilisation at anytime. In such a distressing situation, Tu Ziu''s hands would be tied. He''d be forced to request a reinforcement batch of powerful warriors, and he''d be personally flabbergasted if his superiors and detractors didn''t use such a perfect situation to have him removed from his post.


    Or worse.


    The boy''s ordeal, however, was one not uncommon within the hearts of the citizens, too many had their homes, friends, and families destroyed by the enemy. Suffering at their hands was something that could be sympathised with all throughout the empire. That being said, not many suffered as greatly as he did, nor at such a young age. And even less lived to tell the tale. Assaulted with Daemon ichor? The boy would be lucky if he lived long enough to learn simple addition, let alone live a long and healthy life.


    "A shame, by any measure. Will he survive?"


    "My medics tell me he is in a comatose state right now, they''re unsure when he will wake. If at all." Muren dejectedly stated. It was stories like this that fuelled the hearts of soldiers and common men alike. This was what the enemy did, their influence one of pure malevolence, only destruction and misery left in their wake.


    "I see... I will leave it to you, do as you see fit Commander." The general grasped Muren''s shoulder, leading him back toward the long table. "Captain Bu, arrange a carriage for myself and Muren, along with his scout. When I report this to my superiors, they will want you witnesses there with me. Understood?" At the end of the day, Tu Izu was glad that his upstart Commander was the stalwart and courageous man that he had taken him for, prepared to die in combat in order to wound an enemy he could never hope to defeat. He was surely one worth investing into.


    "You would do better to prepare more than a carriage, Great General."


    "And why is that, Muren?"


    "I assume the Magistrate would want to see the corpse of a High-Daemon, no?"


    Tu Ziu bolted out of the war tent, his cabinet sharing confused glances before joining him. Following the gazes of the floored soldiers all around them, Tu Izu''s vision finally fell upon the otherworldly large corpse of a High-Daemon, Its sand stained red corpse no doubt all the way back at Commander Muren''s barracks, and yet, it''s prone body still dwarfed over the structures of his camp.


    The stories that would be told of today were already flooding through general Tu Izu''s mind, each time increasing in their farfetchedness. How would his rivals react if they heard the corpse of a behemoth high-daemon sat within his encampment? News travels fast, and Tu Izu guessed it would be less than a day before he was swamped by letters. Sent from his rivals, detractors, allies, and superiors alike. Perhaps the Star of Izu was set to rise even higher.


    "You''re going to need a bigger carriage..."

 Chapter 3

    I awoke with a start, the disgusting stench and stickiness a telltale sign of cold sweat. Reminds me of my brief phase of getting night terrors in my teenage years. Not an experience I would like to repeat, if possible. The headache slammed into me considerably worse than any hangover I had ever experienced, causing me to have to swallow a surge of bile before I threw up over myself.


    "Easy... Easy now." A man''s voice whispered to me, dabbing a towel on my head, forcing me back down into a laying position.


    "You''re injured. And it''s quite bad, at that. I''ll fix you up, no worries, but for now you need to rest." The man seemed concerned enough, so I did as he said. I relaxed my insanely sore muscles and melted into the bed. The supine position alleviated my headache a little bit, to my relief. The half dream, half hallucinogenic trip flooded into my memory. The demon hands, the portal, the impromptu skydiving, the slaying of the gargantuan monstrosity. I couldn''t help but smile. That was seriously fun. Where on earth could you have that type of experience? Impossible.


    Damn it.


    I failed. I fucking failed.


    "Failed? Failed at what?" Oh, seems as though I said that out loud. Well, given the circumstances, I''m sure there''s not much he doesnt know. He''s probably just asking to make conversation, to make sure I don''t slip back into unconsciousness.


    "Failed at taking my own life. Doctor." I spat the last word. It wasn''t as though I disliked this man, but asking such an obvious question to someone recovering from a humongous overdose, what other answer did he expect.


    "Oh. I see. I see. I apologise for asking such a question. Though let it be known, I am no Doctor, just a humble field medic." The man seemed to take my retort in stride, and thankfully didn''t seem to blame me too much for snapping at him. I was getting real sick of his method of speech though, So grandiose, who does he think he is?


    "How long have I been here?"


    "You''ve been under my care for just shy of a month, kiddo. But worry not, I''ve taken care of you day and night during that time." I felt him smile at the last part. I didn''t see it, my eyes were still adjusting to the light of the room. But I felt it. Somehow.


    "One month, huh. I''m curious, has anyone come to see me?" I couldn''t help myself. My curiosity got the better of me. I wonder if any of my so call friends have stopped by and left some flowers. Knowing them, they''d have forgone that for writing a ''meaningful'' social media status, ''wishing'' for my speedy recovery, instead.


    "Has anyone come to see you? You mean...?"


    "My friends. My estranged aunt twice removed. Any of them. Have any of them come?"


    The ''field medic'', whatever that meant, was quiet for a long time after I answered his question. I''m surprised I managed to survive at all with this man looking after me.


    "I''m... I''m sorry. You were the only survivor we found. The rest were long dead before we arrived. My deepest condolences."


    The rest? What on earth was he talking about now? I grabbed the towel from my head, swiping his arm out of the way in order to get a look at this doctor-turned-prankster. My eyes adjusted to the light of the room and I blinked a few times, to clear away the floaters.


    The room...


    This is not what I expected. I definitely wasn''t in a hospital. Unless it was a hospital in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. But I lived in a city. The room reminded me of a lower tech version of the log cabin''s I used to look at buying. Before I realised I was never in my life going to be able to afford them, that is. Everything in the room was carved from wood. From the door, to the bed, the nightstand, the house itself.


    "Where... Where am I?"


    "You are in this ones humble abode, located in the village of Angelsrun, on the outskirts of the Fendlip provence. It is a long travel from where you were originally, but I thought the distance would do you good. Was I wrong?"


    Village? Angelsrun? Fendlip? What in the fuck have I gotten myself into. This man is insane. A psycho. I''ve been kidnapped by a psychopath. Life never fails to amaze me with the twists it has planned. Truly.


    "Who are you?" Maybe I could get a name from the psychopath, to give to police when I managed to escape this insane situation. Or more likely, I could scratch it down somewhere for the police to find after he cuts my head off. Would anyone even notice I''m gone? I did quit my job after all.


    "Field Medic Orwell, at your service." The man stood from his stool, smiling deeply and bowing at the waist.


    "Orwell... That is your last name? You don''t happen to have a first name do you?" Who knows, maybe I could get lucky.


    "Oh no no, unlikely. I am not of high birth. Why do you ask? Are you?" High birth? My head is spinning. Is there a classification beyond psychopath? This man might qualify.


    "No."


    "I see. No worries. We can''t all be Royal-born now can we?" Orwell chuckled heartily at his own so-called joke, a jarring scene if there ever was one.


    The man quietened down, though his smile stayed plastered on his face. He seemed to be an average size man, though he was built considerably well, especially for a Doctor, sorry, Field Medic, excuse me. He had a short mop of pitch black hair, similar to what you would see on a military recruit who had let his buzzcut grow for a tad too long. He looked handsome enough, but his face was littered with scars. I don''t know what I expected from my would-be murderer but whether the scars were self inflicted or not, they told of a great amount of pain and suffering.


    "HEAR YE, HEAR YE. DEATH COMES A CALLIN''. THE HEART PLUNDERING DEVIL OF FENDLIP IS HERE. BRING OUT YOUR WOMEN, CHILDREN, AND BRONZE, AND WHO KNOWS? MAYBE I''LL LET SOME OF YOU LIVE. HAHAHAHA" A shout echoed through the walls of the cabin, compounding my already mind-splitting headache. What now? Could life possibly throw me any more curveballs? I''ve been kidnapped by a scarred psychopath, and now we''re being plundered by bandits? Fuck it. Couldn''t get much stranger than this.


    "I apologise. I wasn''t able to get your name until now. Would you give me the honour?" The psycho didn''t seem to hear the commotion outside, only clasping his hands together and moving closer to my bed. I''m not giving this man my real name. Nope.


    "... Aralmann. The names Aralmann."


    "Splendid. A beautiful name. A little morbid, but to each their own. Well, Aralmann, there seems to be a small commotion happening outside, so do forgive my absence for a short while. Lie down, and rest well." The leather-armour cloaked man made smoothly for the door, not bothering to shut it behind him. His dedication to his role was impressive, that being said, I''m not letting this chance to escape go. I wanna die, but I don''t wanna be tortured before I go. Nope.


    I arched myself up from the bed, shuffling towards the edge, each movement sending shots of pain across my back and into my limbs, causing uncanny spasms. The bed was strangely high off the ground, and I had to use the stool as a stepping stone to get to the floor. Why would a bed be so high up? And why am I so concerned with a psychopath''s bed height preferences? I made for the door, and rejoiced to find it slightly open. At least I''m not in a dungeon. Count your blessings, eh? The sunlight assaulted my eyes. Brighter than I''d ever experienced it, causing my headache to return in full force. I tried to walk but my foot slipped on a rock, and I plummeted to the ground, exasperating my already injured condition. I willed myself to get up, but no matter what I tried, my arms couldn''t lift my weight from the floor. They just slipped under the pressure and weakly lay by my side. I slumped up against the wall of the cabin, resigned to my fate when the leather bound Hannibal Lecter found me trying to escape.


    Stolen story; please report.


    My eyes gradually adjusted to the light, the incoming scenery leaving my jaw hanging open. We were actually in a village. A genuine village mind you, not a modern day ''village''. There were women and children pottering about, a few men sporting leather garments, all with their shirts peeled off, each impressively built compared to the average man I knew. They ushered the children indoors, a mix of stone huts and wood cabins. The entire village was carpeted in a luscious and well kept green grass, and the walls were large and thick wooden spikes, as wide as tree trunks, giving the villagers a wide berth. A few houses connected to a small farm area, and I noticed a few herbs and plants growing in their fields. The villagers, contrary to what you''d believe, didn''t seem too bothered about the sputtering of bandits pouring in from the entrance gates.


    "DID YE NOT HEAR MY CALLIN''? AND TO THINK I WAS SO GENEROUS. RENALD, GO AN GRAB ME SOME WOMEN. AM HANKERIN FOR A-"


    "SILENCE!" Orwell roared, flattening the bellow of the bandit leader, making me flinch in pain at the added stress of the headache. He stood at the front of the gathered villagers, though they didn''t seem bothered enough to take any sort of formation.


    "Ye see, usually, I''d offer ye a paltry sum, tell ye to get on yer merry little way, and see yer off with a smile on me face." Orwell spoke, hunched over as though his back was in pain. His entire accent, tone, and posture had done a 180. When he was talking to me he sounded like a pompous twat, hellbent on abusing an encyclopedia to make himself seem smart. But now? There was something about his accent that sent the hairs on the back of my neck to tingling. My body was pumping adrenaline throughout, telling me in no uncertain terms to forget about my injuries, and make for the hills.


    "But naw, curse the gods, fer today''s yer unlucky day. Ye see, I''ve got a patient in me abode, and he''s been through a lot. Yer impotent screechin'' is the last thing he needs to hear. So I''m gonna gut ye. Nice and quick mind ye. Not wantin'' more screams now are we?" Orwell motioned to an older woman amongst the villagers, and she spoke a single word to those gathered, ushering them all inside, similar to the children.


    "Ha.. Haha... Hahahahaha. HAHAHAHAHAHHAA" The bandit leader erupted in laughter, his men following soon after. Orwell laughed with them. He disappeared. The laughter was cut off as quickly as it had begun. Orwell stood in the midst of the bandits, the leader staring him down with manic eyes, holding tightly onto the entrails flowing freely from his stomach.


    "You-" The bandit leader started, but his head spluttered against the grass with a wet thud before the word was finished, his body following soon after.


    "Naw. I told ye now, didn''t I? No more noise." Orwell held his finger up to his lips, shushing the remaining wide-eyed bandits. One of them screamed. It didn''t last long. More bandits screamed. More bandits were silenced. For good. I could barely see his movements. And as far as I could tell, he had no sword, so how was he slicing them so easily?


    "tis'' like teachin'' math to a bloomin'' goat, this is."


    It wasn''t long before a single bandit remained, flat on his ass with both hands madly covering his mouth. An ever-widening puddle flowed from between his legs. He made a small whimper, which elicited a tut from Orwell.


    "Naw. Listen closely now, would ye? Ye see, I like to think me and the bandits round ''ere have something of a workin'' relationship. They walk away with whatever pittance I decide to give em'', and I don''t hang their guts from me gates like dead pigs. Now, you lot..." Orwell pointed weakly to the mass of limbless and headless corpses. "yer big city bandits, forced out into the countryside by Nuwa knows who. So I don''t expect ye to understand. Ye think ye have struggled? Ye haven''t tasted real struggle. Now go run off, and tell whichever mother-suckin bandit group you decide to leech off of who lives here, ye?"


    The bandit started to speak, before once again grasping furiously for his mouth, deciding to nod madly instead.


    "Ye look like me chickens eatin'' grain. Now run off ''fore I change me mind, aye?"


    The bandit scampered to his feet, falling a good few times before he gained traction, and sped off out of the gate as if Orwell was chasing him down. The shirtless men that had remained behind wasted no time in pilfering the dead bandits corpses, and hoisting them up onto a nearby cart. A few of them swapped words with Orwell, and he replied in kind, grasping the shoulders of the large tanned men, laughing along with them amicably.


    So. A few things. I was wrong about this being in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. Never in my life have I heard of such a thing as this happening on Earth. I could imagine a group of hippies making a farming village to live off of the land from, but a group of bandits? They''d go to the police, not gut them and pilfer their corpses. Nobody even seemed to mind. The kids are back to running around the village screaming and playing for fuck sake. A kid just stole a coat from a headless bandit and is now pretending to be one, as his friends play the heroic adventurers slaying him. I-...


    Wait... Does that mean... Did I really slay a demon? What the fuck is happening right now. I''m gonna throw up. Don''t tell me the portal was real too... I- I... I brought my hands to my face. They were shaking, not to mention hurting like hell, my fall clearly adding a few more injuries to my roster. But no, that didn''t concern me right now. They were small. Like children small. I had child hands. I am a child. A child.


    It... It could be worse?


    I could be an old man. Right? I mean it''s not like my formative years were the worst years of my life, and probably definitely laid the foundation of the trauma that culminated in me attempting to take my own life. Right?


    Well, at least I was right about one thing. Orwell is definitely. Definitely, a psychopath.


    So... Progress?

 Chapter 4

    "Drink this, Aral. Tastes like shit, but so does all the best medicine, you''ll be right as rain in no time."


    Orwell practically forced the spoon into my mouth.


    He wasn''t wrong. It really tasted like shit. Shit blended with metal. Also a hint of banana, strangely.


    He''d been giving me this concoction four times per day. Breakfast, dinner, tea and just before nightfall. If I''m not eating, I''m sleeping, at the minute. Without fail, no matter what I do, I can''t keep my eyes open for more than a half hour without drifting back off into unconsciousness.


    The worst part? I dream the same dream every time.


    Just a pitch blackness. Within my dream, I see myself lying comatose on the floor of this blackness, and theres nothing I can do nothing except walk around. I tried to wake my dreaming self up, to no avail, the version of me that looks like he''s actually getting a good night''s rest just snores and turns in his sleep, much to my frustration. Sometimes he''ll sleep talk, but it''s nothing of any sense, just meaningless grumbles and words. Sometimes he''ll whisper "great one", whatever that means, but it''ll always set the dude to smiling.


    Thankfully, Orwell wasn''t as insane as I gave him credit for, and to be honest I feel a little bad at profiling him that way.


    Evertime I would wake, he''d be in the room, and as soon as he''d notice me awake, he''d head over with a cheerful, if encyclopedic, greeting, and some surprisingly tasty food. Thank god his food doesnt taste like his medicine. I don''t think I could survive. He''s yet to slip back into his gangster-esque accent, and seems set on annoying me with his flowery speech and long words. To my relief, there haven''t been any more dealings with bandits, but whether that is due to Orwell I couldn''t say, though if I was a bandit, I''d stay well away from this unassuming village. I mean just on a logical level, it doesn''t seem overly prudent to antagonise the short tempered murder-medic. Regardless, I''m glad they haven''t returned, I think I threw up half of my bodyweight after I recovered from my stupor that the sight of Orwell gutting them had given me.


    One of the village children even giggled at my thousand yard stare, but to his credit Orwell scolded the little, soon to-be-murdering, psychopathic bastard.


    "how long until I can walk, Orwell?" The man always seemed averse to giving me news straight, which forced me to ask extremely pointed questions, making sure I got the answer I wanted, and not some flowery speech that meant fuck all in the long run.


    "No idea, kiddo. Could be next week, could be next year. Your muscles were overused, and that''s putting it lightly. Imagine if a newborn squatted a boulder, and then imagine what his muscles would look like after it. That''s you. You''re the newborn."


    Gee thanks. He was averse to straight answers, but when you actually managed to wrangle them out of him, you better not be a sensitive soul, because his words were almost always a backhand to your ego.


    "Why am I here? Why are you looking after me?" This was the question I had been gearing up towards for a while. What did I have that he was aiming for? By all measures, I had been nothing but a drain on him for the almost two months I had been here. He told me not to worry about expenses and that he had more than enough to live on, but how much could a medieval medic make?


    "You are too cynical, Aral. I was on the medic squad that found you that day, and it just so happens I was retiring soon anyway, so I offered to take you in and look after you. The Commander acquiesced. I can see it in your eyes. You''re wondering what plan I have for you. It can''t be helped, you''ve been through a lot for one so young, and it''ll be a while longer before you can shed that mindset. Trust me, I speak from experience. I promise you, the day you are healed, you can leave here for good, if that is what you wish." Orwell gently rubbed my shoulder, his eyes sincere.


    I mean... When you put it like that, what argument can I make? I''m not going to allow him to treat me like this without paying him back. That just goes against everything I stand for.


    "...Thanks. I''ll pay you back. Promise."


    "Sigh. I did not save you because I thought it would benefit me in the long run, Aral. You will accept my care for what it is. And if you try to pay me back, I''ll break your legs. After they''ve recovered of course, I''m not a monster."


    He was smiling, but I really don''t doubt he''s telling the truth.


    "Listen. I''ve been meaning to show you. You were too brittle when you first came here, but you''ve calmed down a lot, so I thought I''d get it out of the way now. Look." Orwell produced a small hand mirror from behind his back, hesitating briefly before putting it in my hand, squeezing my grip shut with both of his hands.


    I fought my way out of his grasp, which was a little too tight for my liking, and raised the mirror to my face. Thank god he finally gave me one. I was wondering whether mirrors even existed in this technological age, and I really wanted to see my youthful face again.


    "Unwrap the bandages Aral."


    I did as he said, and unwrapped the multitude of clean bandages that covered my face, they essentially only left my right eye and mouth open. I-


    I covered my mouth with my other hand, swallowing the surge of bile that jumped up my throat. My stomach dropped, my heart rate speeding up. I looked like a burn victim. There was something otherworldly about seeing your own face so scarred. Something about the permanent nature of it that shook you to the core of your being. From the socket of my left eye, across my cheek and temple, and over my ear, my skin was a pinkish red hue, all of it completely mangled. My left eye was white with impotence. It was a relatively small scarring compared to some of the horrific burns I had witnessed online, but it changed my face completely. It aged me much more than was fair for a ''child'' of my age.


    The blood-acid. From the motel demon.


    Where it had touched my hair, it had turned my normally black hair into a bleached white, which left a sizeable portion of my hair a completely different colour than the rest.


    "I''m so sorry, Aral. I tried my best. I really spared no expense. I-"


    "Its okay." I comforted him. Why would he apologise? It''s not as if he did this himself. Besides, I''ve grown to trust him this past month. Other than him killing a few people, people that were almost certainly up to no good, Orwell was a pretty stand up guy, and at the very least, I could tell his dedication to my recovery was sincere. Mysterious, yes, but sincere nonetheless.


    "Why did it turn my hair white? Surely it should have scarred my scalp instead, burning through my hair?" I also had questions. Plenty of them, and I didn''t want my only contact in this world to be upset with me.


    "So you know it was Daemon ichor that did this to you?" Daemon ichor? Orwell once again with his flamboyant use of language. Just say Demon blood. We''re alone buddy, there''s no one you have to impress.


    "Yes."


    "I see. Well, not much is known of the effects of Daemon ichor, but what we do know, is that it has acidic physical properties. But that isn''t everything. In truth, it only physically presents itself as acidic, when in reality what it is doing is actually stealing the life force of that which it comes in contact with. Inanimate objects are ate through as if it is acid, skin is mangled similarly, and hair is stolen of all of its vibrance. Apparently scholars liken it to how our hair turns white in old age. This... This also means that it is extremely hard to recover from. Medicine capable of restoring life force are few and far between, I myself have never seen such concotions." I know I''ve been in this world for too long, because the mention of something ''stealing life force'' doesn''t actually make it to the top fifteen list of things I have to ask about.


    If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    "If... Daemon ichor... acts like that, then are injuries similar to mine common? I assume from how you refer to them as ''The Enemy'', that battles are fought often."


    "Actually... No. I''d imagine you could only find a handful of people with injuries similar to yours throughout the Empire, if that. Only High-Daemons and above have ichor, at least according to history books, and to have injuries from one would mean that not only was the Daemon injured enough to bleed, but that you also survived that encounter. I imagine quite a few powerful warriors have sported injuries similar to yours, but none currently alive. At least that I''ve seen or heard about." I see. So I''m an outcast. Again. Excellent. I need to take my mind off of this. It''s seriously too much for me to handle right now. They talk about having ''enough on your plate'', but I need a few tables in order to house all my issues right now.


    "Orwell, tell me another story, please."


    At first, it was Orwell that had began telling me these stories on his own, posting himself up near my bed on his stool so that I was forced to listen, nodding and agreeing just as I used to when Karen would tell me stories of her honeymoon. I''d laugh when I was supposed to laugh and frown when I was supposed to frown. But eventually, he won me over. These weren''t meaningless and boring stories about how Orwell went on a ''totally rad'' night out and ''drank so much'', they were from books he housed in a small bookshelf on the opposite wall to my bed, close to his own bedroom door.


    He claimed that he had read them all so much that he could recite them word for word by heart, and he wasn''t joking. I complained originally that he was essentially reading me bedtime stories, like I was some sort of child, to which he said, "Firstly, you are a child, and secondly, these works are historical fact. They''re exaggerated a little bit for effect sure, but the events depicted actually happened. In some cases, there are people alive today who were actually present for them." I doubt the veracity of that statement, but if he was telling the truth, these books made it to the top of my questions to ask list. The acts talked about within were supernatural in nature. Completely out of the realm of human possibility.


    "Of course. This one is called, ''The Swordsman'', written by His Emperor''s Pridebearer, Captain Jellel Otsui." Orwell plucked a book seemingly at random from the shelf, and brought it over, sitting across from me on his stool.


    "My first gift was that of a family sword, passed down on my first birthday by my father. As a child I marvelled at the hilt, gripped at the pommel, felt the guard, traced my finger down its middle, all the while mesmerized by my young reflection in the blade. Since I first touched that sword it had very rarely left my side. The weight of the longsword was not something that I felt inconvenienced my young frame, if anything I felt lost without it, only feeling whole again when its large mass weighed me down.


    From when my muscles first developed enough to be able to carry it aloft, I have trained in the sword. Every day I swung until my arms gave out, but never once did I allow myself to drop the sword. I have lived a long life, highs and lows aplenty. I have lived through the arrogance and passion of youth, the zeal and commitment of adulthood, and now, as an old man, I have sat back, acquiescing to the new blood, allowing them to create their own tales.


    Never once, though, never once in my adult life have I called myself a Swordsman.


    I have seen enough violence to make a hardened warrior queasy, and have cut through many things, people, and Daemons alike, but a Swordsman I am not.


    I used to fancy myself a Swordsman in my youth, true, and a fair few joined me in that sentiment, labelling me a dragon amongst men. It was that praise that fuelled my youthful arrogance, which found me joining His Majesty''s army in his effort against the Daemon invasion. The youngest to achieve Knighthood in decades, they called me. I wouldn''t be anywhere but the frontlines, I was the strongest, the greatest, ''Invincible Under the Sun!'' I screamed.


    Then I met a Swordsman.


    The Swordsman.


    It was ordered from a commanding officer, an enemy army was coming, and it was coming fast. Travel north-west and rendezvous with the main force, hunkering down until they hit.


    I waited for days in the war-tent, whetting my blade unceasingly, shivering with anticipation for my first large scale conflict. Eventually, the war bugles bellowed and our entire troop rose to the occasion. I took my place proper, standing in front of a myriad of soldiers, only behind a handful of commanders.


    A great fog arose far out, gaining pace towards us, looming tall over our army like an angry god.


    A single man stepped from that grey gloom.


    The mist, in an almost intelligent manner, no longer decided to continue its great advance, stopping urgently as if an impenetrable and invisible wall had blocked its path. His sword lay lazily sheathed at his waist as he trot forward, the rabid howls of our army doing naught to mar his stroll through the fields.


    And then he looked at me, and I understood, like a lightning bolt illuminating my ignorant brain.


    This... is a Swordsman.


    I am but a man wielding a sword. Foolishly, I thought myself a Swordsman because I could cut steel with my blade. Laughable. To think I was so far away from the truth. His wordless gaze laid bare all I was lacking and more.


    Some tell me that towards the end of my career, I achieved greater heights than that swordsman ever did, but I know that false. There has never been a night since where I do not see his red eyes staring down at me from his lofty perch, an unscaleable mountain forever out of my reach. I have achieved much, that is true, the first of my name to be appointed a Royal Pridebearer, the official weight of the Emperor assisting my every move, but never have I even dreamed of being able to cut a man''s confidence without drawing my sword.


    And yet, I can''t even allow my warrior spirit to dream of clashing with that man, for it was him that allowed me this long and prosperous life. He had the power, will, and means to cut me down upon the battlefield that day, and yet he did not. I never understood that. Not until I had already retired.


    I was tending my garden, when a bug landed upon my arm. I moved to squash it, but at the last second, I stopped myself. The bug flew off, and I understood. I am the bug, and he is the hand. That was the reason I was granted life that day. Nothing more and nothing less than the whims of a being beyond my comprehension. How pitiful."


    "A good story, right?" Orwell stroked the leather bound book, I had witnessed him reciting them from memory, but he said that reading them was just as enjoyable for him as it was for me. A peculiar man.


    "And that one, is it real?"


    "As real as you or I. The Otsui family have birthed Pridebearers ever since Jellel''s time. They are one of His Majesty''s closest supporters."


    Amazing.

 Chapter 5

    "Whoa... Whoa... Easy now." Orwell supported my arm, stopping me just shy of falling. I could walk now, which was a relief. Not very well, mind you. I could probably do a lap of Orwell''s house, at a stretch... Maybe. Villagers had started visiting me too, no doubt under pressure from Orwell.


    Or maybe he threatened them. I wouldn''t put it past him.


    The older woman I had watched escort the adults back inside away from the bandits called herself Granny Momo, and despite my asking for her proper name, she insisted I refer to her as such. Orwell called her that also, so it wasn''t too embarrassing, I suppose. She was the village chief, and basically ruled her kingdom with an iron fist. Orwell had once made a face at her behind her back, much to my enjoyment, and she had swung around, betraying the speed a woman of her age should be capable of, in order to swat him harshly in the head. Also much to my enjoyment. Laughs were few and far between lately, so-


    Wait... lately? When was the last time I actually genuinely laughed before being transported here? Am I forgetting because it''s not something you tend to remember, or was it really that long ago? Regardless, Granny Momo always brought me a pastry treat, which she called ''Fuddies''. They were delicious. Truly, genuinely delicious. Sometimes she would come with her grandchildren, the oldest was a young teenager- No, again, he would be older than me now, wouldn''t he. Being in a different body is tough work. Anyway, the oldest was a boy maybe two years older than I currently am, at about fifteen, and the youngest, a cute, freckled, red-haired pigtailed girl, was probably ten.


    They were alright.


    The youngest was extremely blunt about my injuries, especially my hair, often asking to play with it, and the oldest was quite clearly being forced to be here. I appreciated the effort, but I was way past my teenage years, so making conversation with them was tough. Not to mention they were from a different world, which widened our frames of reference even further. Jonglir, or Yonglir as it was pronounced, the oldest, only wanted to talk about one thing. ''How good of a hunter are you?'', ''What is the largest Gir you''ve ever seen?'', ''Have you hunted Gir?''. My answers didn''t appease him. Apparently asking "What is a Gir?" is grounds enough to warrant staring in abject astonishment, before wordlessly leaving the room. I can''t help it Jonglir, I''m not from this world. I wouldn''t expect a martian to know what a smartphone is now, would I?


    The young girl, Yuili, was my favourite. She had a talent. A talent superceding any I''ve ever seen before. She could make an almost infinite supply of fuddies appear from every one of her pockets.


    The best part?


    She wasn''t averse to trading me for them. One fuddie per minute she was allowed to play with my hair. Perfect. Apparently it was the first time she''s ever seen someone with white hair. Her grandmother was getting up there in age, but still only sported a scant few grey hairs, nestled sporadically within her golden brown hair.


    Orwell at first was opposed to her climbing on my bed in order to play with my hair, but I assured him I didn''t mind, not to mention Granny Momo''s glare, threatening him with all sorts of obscenities should he try and reprimand her granddaughter.


    There were a few others that visited, a few hunters, who were surprisingly a pretty even spread between men and women. I suppose biology doesn''t mean much when there are humans capable of tussling with a who-knows how tall Demon. Sorry. Daemon. That was something I had learned rather quickly. People were extremely reluctant to mention Demons existing, and when they did, they would always refer to them as Daemons. I asked Orwell, but apparently I was the weird one, and ''Demons'' wasn''t a spelling he had ever heard of. It was a small distinction, I suppose. Not one I should spend any time worrying over.


    Guiding me down onto the edge of the bed, Orwell let go of my hand, allowing me to fall backwards out of exhaustion. I was recovering, that much was I was aware, but damn if I ever thought walking could be so physically intensive. Orwell assured me this was but the first step to clear on my journey to recovery. But it was a step. A step few others could even dream of taking. He made sure I knew that. Apparently, in the field medic''s expert opinion, I had something of a hardy constitution. I had tried to convince Orwell that my left eye was working, but he only gave me a sympathetic look and told me, "Many experience phantom limbs when they lose theirs. I apologise, but I''ve checked, checked, and checked again. The ichor ate through your eye. It''s been healed over, but it''s as white as the morning mist." I know that much, dolt. I even checked, testing my depth perception. Everything is A-OK, and If anything, my eye feels even better than it used to. Don''t judge a book by its cover, man. You should at least know that much.


    It wasn''t long before I had slipped into sleep, still dreaming the same dream. My doppelganger, or maybe I was astral projecting? Anyway, my other self was still sound asleep, probably dreaming of a grand adventure, whilst I was stuck here in an endless black void. He even had the gall to look supremely comfortable, sprawling his limbs as if he was laying on the worlds warmest bed, snoring loudly all the while. I don''t even snore for fuck sake!


    I did notice one thing. My dreams didn''t seem to last long, thankfully. I would only be watching myself sleep for a few minutes before waking, Orwell telling me I had been out for hours. Small blessings. If I had to watch that arrogant bastard sleep for hours on end I would probably go insane. It didn''t take long until my eyes opened once again, the roof of the cabin taking up my vision. It always surprised me when I woke up here. Each time I assumed this was all an elaborate dream, one I''d awake from in my apartment at any moment.


    "Hiya Aral." Yuili executed a running jump, landing awkwardly on my bed from a considerable distance, the reverberations from the impact causing me no small amount of pain.


    "Hello Yuili."


    "''Hello Yuili''? What are you? An old man? It''s Yu! Say ''Hiya Yu!''"


    "... Hiya Yu."


    "Hiya Aral." Her toothy smile was obnoxious, yes, but also contagious. I really couldn''t be mopey when she was around.


    "Want a fuddie?"


    "You want to mess with my hair again?"


    "Nope. Not this time. I want you to come outside! You''ve never left this stupid shack this whole time!"


    "I don''t think I can, Yu."


    "Alright... Two fuddies then?" Damn... This girl knew how to negotiate. Another talent of hers.


    "Three."


    "Done."


    Yu helped me to the best of her abilities, apparently Orwell had left the cabin when I was asleep, and Yu didn''t know where he went off to, so I was forced to rely on a ten year old girl for support, and to my chagrin, she was strong. Stronger than me at the very least. Was that surprising or not? I was essentially a cripple after all, with next to no muscle mass. I had trouble walking laps around a room, and she was an insatiable little ball of energy. I suppose it made sense.


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    She ushered me to the door, and for the first time since the bandits attacked, if you could even call it that, I walked into the village. Unlike my first time, there was no falling over this time. Progress. We walked all of one house away until I physically couldn''t walk any further, my legs seizing up and threatening to buckle under my own weight. I was skin and bones, and my legs still complained. Pathetic. Yu didn''t seem to mind, leaving me leaning on the wall as she skipped into the house. The house which I''m pretty sure wasn''t her own, and returned with a chair. I would ask where she wanted to sit, but I doubt there was a force powerful enough, even in this world, to make Yu sit still for more than a minute.


    I watched her skip around, pointing to things and describing their name and what they were, as if I was slow in the head. Jonglir had almost certainly up played how mentally incapable I was to his sister. Still, I nodded along, content to listen to her point to a tree, and annunciate "tuhreee.", After which, she would point to me, and I''d say "Tree.", Earning a round of applause from Yu. I was humouring her, yes, but I didn''t mind. She was a kid, and honestly, seeing her smile and laugh was the purest thing in the world. I even started pointing to things on my own, just so she could ''teach'' me what they were. If the days could go on like this, I might even play up my injury just to spend time like this.


    "Daddy!" Yu dropped what she was doing almost immediately, bounding over towards the village gate, welcoming the incoming hunters. Her father was the villages head hunter, no doubt the cause of Jonglir''s hunting obsession. I don''t blame him, fathers are our heroes, or so I''ve heard. Orwell was shoulder to shoulder with Yu''s father, Rammel, both men speaking amicably among themselves. Rammel stood a good couple of inches above Orwell, and wore a gruff stubble, where Orwell was clean shaven. Orwell certainly looked more civilised than the large hunter, Rammel''s long hair swept back into a high sitting ponytail.


    Jonglir wasn''t far behind his sister, obviously infatuated by his strapping father, but lacking the skin thick enough to jump him like Yuili did. Rammel grabbed Yuili mid jump and swung her around a few times, eliciting joyful screams from the girl. It wasn''t until Rammel beckoned him over that Jonglir ''reluctantly'' joined them, though his lack of hesitation betrayed his posturing. Jonglir closed in on his father, offering him a hand, at which the hunter looked, before erupting into laughter, the other hunters joining him, much to the embarrassment of Jonglir.


    "Don''t tease him! He always talks about how strong you are daddy." Yuili, forever her brothers defender. Though in this case, it seemed she exasperated the situation, as Rammel and his hunters only laughed harder at her statement, Jonglir''s face becoming beet red as he stormed off towards their cabin.


    "Decided to come outside huh?" It was only now I noticed Orwell had broken off from the hunters, somehow sneaking up to stand beside me.


    "Fat chance. I was bribed." And boy was it worth it. What was a little physical pain for three fuddies. I''ll take that trade any day.


    "Regardless, it''s good to see you out of the house, and getting some sun will only help." He clasped me on the shoulder, a gesture I was starting to become familiar with, as he would do it at least once a day.


    "Where did you go? I thought you were the village healer. Or medic. Or whatever."


    "The hunting squad was meeting up with their comrades from the village over, a small gathering they participate in once a year. Five of the local villages and tribes compete in a little hunting competition, the winner getting all of the spoils of the trip. Along with bragging rights for the next year. It''s all in good fun. Promotes unity amongst the villages, at least according to hag momo." Orwell seemed genuinely happy. I''m glad.


    "I heard that!" A shout came from the hut we were posted up outside of, the tone a telltale sign of Granny Momo''s annoyance. Orwell flinched at the realisation, hunkering down below the window in order to not be seen. I couldn''t help but crease over in laughter. He might be a psychopath that kills without hesitation, but he was damn scared of Granny Momo.


    "Quick! Run!" He whispered urgently, before scooping up the chair I was sitting on, with me on it, and dashing for his cabin.


    "And you better bring my chair back too!" Granny had just finished when Orwell slammed the door, making sure to glance out of the window a few times to make sure we had no pursuers.


    "So... You helped the hunting squad win the competition?" I started the conversation of my own volition. I was genuinely curious. Usually my conversations were very reactive in nature, I surprised even myself when I heard my own question come out.


    "Me? Hunt? No way. And Angelsrun winning the competition? Even less of a chance. I don''t know the first thing about hunting. I mainly went to trade with the healers and merchants of the other villages. And also in the off chance that someone gets injured during the competition. They didn''t, by the way."


    "If they lost, why were they in such high spirits?"


    "Winning isn''t everything, Aral. They learned from their betters, and came home to their family in one piece. What''s not to enjoy?" Orwell was more serious than usual with the last statement. It seems he either wanted me to understand it, or he wanted me to answer it. I don''t know which.


    What''s not to enjoy?


    What''s not to enjoy about coming home to your loving family?


    "I don''t have a family to come home to."


    Excellent work, me. Great way to kill a conversation. Ten out of ten. Just let your crippling anxiety and past trauma leak into the discussion. He''ll love that. Now heres the part where he smiles weakly, offers me a pitiful glance that says ''sorry'', and gives me a short yet meaningless platitude, after which he''ll find an excuse to leave, pr-


    "You''ve got me. You''ve got Yuili. Jonglir. Granny Momo. All of us would mourn if you didn''t come back."


    Wow. I wanted to disagree. I really did. But his sincerity wouldn''t allow me to.


    "You''re just saying that." I couldn''t help myself. I felt like shit as soon as it came out. That''s what I had always wanted to say to those that only pretended to acknowledge my suffering, and yet I never would. And now, when someone was actually sympathising with my trauma, I snubbed him with a snide remark. Way to fucking go. I couldn''t help but break eye contact, lowering my head in shame.


    It took a while for Orwell to speak, and I feared he''d leave, but his reply sent shudders through my body. Loosening tears I didn''t know I was saving.


    "I understand ye don''t think highly of yourself. A do. But a made ye a promise. I''d fix ye up. And I intend on keepin'' that promise. But there''s one thing a man should never do. And since no one''s been there to teach ye that, I''ll take it upon meself." Orwell crossed the distance between us, quicker than I could react, and grabbed me by the shoulders, forcing eye contact. "Don''t ye ever fuckin'' snub those that care about ye again, or al drag ye out by ye ears and force ye to apologise to Yu meself. Understood?" His accent came out in full force. It wasn''t this pronounced when he was dealing with the bandits. I could only nod weakly, periodically wiping away my tears with my sleeve.


    I''m glad I came here.

 Chapter 6

    I dropped the chair in place, aligning it with the others before stepping back to view my handiwork. It had been three months since my emotional talk with Orwell, marking roughly the six month mark of my entry to this world. Today was a special day, or so I''ve been told. The beginning of a new calendar year. The people of the Empire all celebrated birthdays on the same day, that day being new years.


    I suppose it made sense from a low-tech stand point. Why catalogue and celebrate one hundred different unique birthdays when you could all just get together once a year and proclaim you were all a year older. Genius if you ask me.


    I had mostly recovered from my physical injuries, which Orwell claimed was a ''veritable miracle''. His words, not mine. Running a marathon was out of the question, but I could keep up with the other children at least. But not Yu. Never Yu. How she found the energy to be hyperactive all day every day, I''ll never know. Perhaps fuddies were the secret? No that didn''t make sense, I was already eating enough of them, and I don''t think I could in good faith fit more into my diet. Orwell already claimed I was eating too many as it is.


    Today also marked another cause for celebration within Angelsrun. Jonglir''s coming of age ceremony. At the grand old age of sixteen. And with it, he would have the right to start working in the village. The only mystery was which job he would choose to pursue. Hmmm.... Truly a difficult question.


    Not.


    He was already parading himself around with the hunting squad, despite the fact that there was apparently a trial of combat before you could even qualify for the squad. Jonglir was either supremely confident, or supremely ignorant, and honestly, it could go either way.


    That being said however, he was filling out his youthful frame, clearly taking after his large-boned father. Jonglir had already been a head taller than me when I had first come here, but now he was at least a couple of inches taller than even that. I presume he got all of the growth genes, as I don''t think Yu had even grown a centimetre in the entire time I knew her. Something I''m sure her father Rammel was grateful for, as he was currently carrying her on his shoulders, and had been doing so for a while.


    I wont lie. Back on earth, I hated celebrations. I would hide myself in a corner before finding an excuse and leaving early, preferring to be by myself rather than around a mass of people. It''s not that I even particularly wanted to celebrate by myself or anything, I just didn''t understand the majority of celebrations altogether. To me it just seemed like a thinly veiled excuse to get shitfaced. Birthdays, though. Birthdays I hated the most. Something of a personal grudge.


    Never having a family meant that my birthdays, at best, were lacklustre, and at worst, never happened in the first place. It became a point of personal hatred for me. What''s the point of celebrating being a year older? One more year spent on this shit earth. Excellent. So a betting man might assume that a celebration of hundreds of birthdays at once might be my idea of a perfect nightmare. And honestly, if you asked me a month ago, I might say the same. I was wrong.


    I''ll admit, there is something infectious about Angelsrun''s holiday spirit. Everyone is out and about, arranging tables and chairs, setting bonfires, skinning game and/or cooking it, placing banners and other party paraphernalia. I don''t know why I''m more accepting of it than when I was back on earth, but I figure it''s got something to do with the villagers sincerity. It''s just a community coming together to all accept and celebrate their birthdays in conjunction. To cheer on the many youngsters that were coming of age.


    "Slacking already?" A hand gripped my shoulder, and for once, it wasn''t Orwell. Though I wished it was.


    "No ma''am." I tried to take off, but the grip became tighter, binding me in place.


    "Ma''am? Do I look that old to you?" Shit. I''m dead now. Avenge me Orwell.


    "N-not at all. You are in the prime of your life! No! I mean... You look... Young?" The grip became even tighter, and I prayed to all of the gods I knew to send an angel to rid me of this demon.


    "Eruel, leave the boy alone would you? His sweat is staining the furniture." Granny Momo chastised her daughter. My angel has cometh! Rejoice.


    The demon named Eruel hesitated for a second, before releasing her grip on my shoulder entirely. I see where Yu gets her blatant disregard for my injuries from. Her mother. Though I''m infinitely glad Yu isn''t as cruel as Eruel. I don''t think I could take two of them existing. Wait. Granny Momo is cruel and harsh, her daughter Eruel is cruel and harsh, does that mean Yu will grow up to be like that? Please no.


    You would think that the villages head hunter would be the one to wear the pants in his household, but you would be sorely mistaken. Not that I''d ever seen them physically fight, but whatever Eruel ''suggested'', was done without hesitation, and those that did hesitate, earned a glare that could rival the yellow eyed Daemon, making them swiftly regret ever not listening.


    "He was staring into dead space again, mother. Orwell himself asked us to distract him if he ever gets like that." Eruel argued with her mother. Not a smart idea. If Eruel was a Demon, then Granny Momo was the Devil.


    "And that makes it okay to scare the little tyke senseless, does it?" I don''t think I''ve ever seen someone argue on equal standing to Granny Momo, I silently thanked the gods that she was batting for my team on this occasion.


    "I-"


    "Thats enough. I have a speech to make, and you''re wasting precious time. Now come along, daughter of mine." Granny Momo cut off her daughter mid sentence, heading off towards the wooden stage that had been constructed just today. It was amazing what a community could do when they put their collective minds towards it. There was a lot of effort spent for only a day of celebration. Not that I was complaining.


    Eruel gave me a swift glare before following behind her mother, taking their place on stage. I got the assumption that she somehow blamed me for her argument with her mother. Something I would pay dearly for later. Why was I always the unlucky one? God help me.


    "My friends, my family, and the royal pains in my ass that make up my beautiful village of Angelsrun." Granny addressed the whole village, just in time for Orwell to usher me into a chair beside him, pulling me close to the long table that housed a number of faces I was familiar with. Rammel, Yu, Jonglir, and a number of others that I had interacted with in passing.


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    "Today is a festive day, a great day indeed. And in no time, we shall make merry, reminisce, talk about our current affairs, and plan toward the future. But first, I welcome on the stage the youngsters that will come to make up the next generation of Angelsrun. Our future foundation. Please give a warm welcome to the youths that are coming of age this fine day."


    The entire village erupted in applause, something I was shamefully late in joining in with, as Granny Momo announced the participants names one by one.


    "Relleka, Tomir, Husote, Ganggrir, Hiyile, Yae, and last but not least, Jonglir. Please make your way up."


    The youths all made for the stage, backs straight and heads held high. I suppose this ceremony was more important than I had originally thought. It was probably one of the only times they would be under the spotlight, so to say. All of the faces in the village watching them. I assume there would also be a potential marriage suitors spin on the event as well, as was common in medieval tribes and villages, though no one had spoken to me about that particular topic. Which was to be expected, I suppose. I was occupying the body of a child after all. Or perhaps it was something so integral to their culture that they assumed I already knew, though I doubted that, as I had already shown my lacklustre knowledge when it came to everyday living in this world.


    The youth all presented themselves, standing shoulder to shoulder upon the stage, and looked over towards the awaiting villagers.


    "To begin the ceremony, from first to last, I will now ask you your name, and your chosen profession. Beginning with you." Granny momo stalked behind the youths, ending at the start of the line, addressing a girl.


    "I am Relekka, Granny momo, Daughter of Frenenik and Tunai. I wish to be a Winemaker."


    "At''s me girl!" Her father Frenenik shouted from the audience, a rather jolly and rotund man of the hunters squad, who had apparently already had enough to drink, if his red cheeks were anything to go by. His interruption earned an embarrased smile from his daughter, and a harsh glare from Granny Momo, the latter of which went completely over the unbeknownst hunters head.


    The ceremony passed without any more interruptions, each youth eagerly stating their name and chosen vocation, and in barely any time at all, Jonglir was called upon.


    "I am Jonglir. Son of Rammel and Eruel. Grandson of the Village Chief. I wish to be a hunter."


    The least surprising event of the night, Jognlir''s statement of wanting to become a hunter. I envied him in a way. To be so determined to follow a path, I wonder how that felt.


    "And you are aware there exists a trial of combat, a necessary test, before one is appointed an apprentice hunter?" Granny Momo questioned.


    "I am"


    "Very well, then, so that we may swiftly proceed, I invite head hunter Rammel upon the stage, so that he may test this upstarts talent."


    Rammel could be best described as a gentle giant, always careful not to inadvertently hurt anyone by carelessly swinging around his large frame, but the aura he was giving off right now was not one of a father going to welcome his son. He grabbed a table cloth, wiping away crumbs from his mouth, and stood. Tall and straight, his height easily dwarfed the majority of the villagers, and didn''t lose to anyone in the hunting squad. He took a step toward the stage, and on his second, he kicked off from the ground, bounding through the air to land neatly on the impressively sturdy wooden stage, sending only a handful of splinters into the air at his arrival. Which was less than I expected.


    "Understand this, son. You may be my child, and I do love you more than life itself, but I will not go easy on you today. The opposite, in fact. I will say it plainly. I do not want you to be a hunter. It is a tough, gruelling, and most of all, a dangerous job. The hunting squad has the highest rate of lethality amongst all of the jobs in this village. I have lost friends. I have lost brothers." The atmosphere became tense, and I swear I could feel the skies darken just a touch. I could feel my heart pound just a tad harder and quicker in my chest. The uncomfortable feeling of cold sweat gearing up, and I wasn''t even the one this was being directed at. It reminded me of Orwell dealing with the bandits.


    Am I just a coward?


    "I would prefer you stay at home, take a safer vocation, get married, and give me some cute grandchildren to play with." The last sentence garnered a few subdued giggles from the audience, the majority of which coming from members of the hunting squad. Though the seriousness and severity of Rammel''s tone prevented anyone else from joining in.


    "That being said, it would take a fool to not understand your dedication to following my footsteps, and the footsteps of my father before me. So I will test you, Jonglir." Rammel produced two swords of equal design and size. Simple iron, yet clearly sturdy and effective. He threw one of them in an arc, of which Jonglir caught, with only minimal effort on his part. I don''t think that''s something I could do. A display of consumate skill in it''s own right.


    "To pass this test, all you have to do is cross blades with me. You do not have to win."


    Rammel''s declaration hushed the already silent atmosphere of the village, seeming to even quieten the bugs and wind. The type of eerie silence that is not often encountered.


    "I thought you said you would not take it easy on me, father. You still take me for a child." Jonglir spat the last word. Though I couldn''t tell whether he meant it as a statement or a question. not often did I interact with Jonglir, but I had never seen him this angry. What little I knew of him allowed me to understand that he was a boy that wore his heart on his sleeve. You always knew where you stood with him. An admirable personality. One I appreciated greatly.


    "That is not all, Jongy." For the first time during his speech, Rammel''s eyes softened, and I swore I could see a tear trail down his tanned face. It didn''t last long.


    "Look into my eyes son." Jonglir complied.


    "I swear this upon the graves of my father, and his father before him, if you take a step forward, I will end you. Come."


    He was not lying.


    That was the only thing that went through my mind. He was not lying. He was not joking. He was-


    A hand on my shoulder drew my attention, Orwell''s concerned gaze allowing me to release a breath I didn''t even know I was holding.


    Was I going to see a father slay his son today?

 Chapter 7

    "Come."


    The atmosphere paled in an instant. I''m almost certain Orwell''s hand on my shoulder was the only thing keeping me from passing out. That or running away.


    I looked around.


    I wasn''t the only one being affected, but I was definitely the one being affected the most. The children were cowering behind their parents, Yu wearing an extremely rare frown, but otherwise fine. But me? I was sweating bullets. My heart was beating through my chest. I was practically hyperventilating. My vision narrowing into tunnel vision. Every fibre of my being was screaming at me to stand up and run the fuck away from this situation. Right now.


    Jonglir steeled his grip and swallowed, deeply contemplating his father''s words. The scene played out as such for a few tense moments, Jonglir shifting his weight, but nonetheless refusing to step forward. I could almost see the gears shifting in his head.


    To live, or to achieve the only thing he''s ever wanted?


    And then he moved.


    It wasn''t a step, nor was it a particularly large movement. His foot only extended an inch or so forward.


    Rammel''s eyes shot open. Anger palpable throughout. Bloody black tendrils of pure, unrelenting, condensed rage shot from his being at a speed faster than the mind could fathom, stopping just a hair''s breadth short of Jonglir''s foot, curling and whipping at his form. They hissed at his impudence, promising a world of agony and suffering should the boy move but a centimetre forward into their domain. Their twisted tongues licked at the barrier between them and their quarry, each and every tendril telling tales of torture and torment, unashamed of their depraved desires. Rage. Fury. Rampage. Death. Their words tugged at the corner of Rammel''s consciousness. Let us go, allow us our fury. Allow us to rip and tear and shred. Allow us to annihilate and destroy, to injur, maim and kill. How beautiful would the world be if you would just let us free?


    Rammel''s sword remained in the same position it had always been, but to me it looked as if it was placed against Jonglir''s throat, ready and willing to behead him at the slightest movement.


    I kicked my legs out from under my chair, forgetting they were too short to touch the ground thanks to my young frame. I needed to leave. Now.


    Orwell gripped me tighter, bringing me into a hug, but allowing me enough room to keep my eyes on the scene. I blinked. My dry bloodshot eyes thanking me for the respite with a slight reduction in the stinging feeling they had been producing.


    Jonglir''s foot shot back to it''s original position, possibly even further back than it had been. If Rammel''s verbal warning was a threat, then the intent Rammel was emitting now was a promise. A promise with zero room for negotiation.


    If Jonglir moved, he would die.


    Jonglir stared down his father, refusing to break eye contact even though Rammel''s gaze was filled with malice. Jonglir''s expression cycled rapidly through a multitude of emotions. Anger. Helplessness. Fear. Sorrow. Bewilderment.


    With a sigh, he finally settled on dejected acceptance.


    "I... I can''t." Jonglir whispered. I had assumed it was a figment of my imagination until Rammel answered.


    "Speak up boy!" Rammel roared.


    "I... I CAN''T! I can''t. I can''t take a step forward. I can''t. I give up. I''ll become a fisherman." Jonglir dropped the sword down by his side, the iron blade crashing loudly against the sturdy wooden stage. His knees hit the stage soon after. My heart ached. Though not nearly as hard as Jonglir''s, I reckoned. The cries of the boy rang throughout the village, only serving to punctuate the silence.


    Rammel sheathed his sword, the tendrils disappearing as soon as they had come, and walked toward his son, scooping him into his arms the same way he would carry Yu everyday.


    "Congratulations, boy. You pass."


    "Do not go easy on me father. I failed." The boy spoke sporadically, interspersed through sobs.


    "I wouldn''t dare, young hunter. I will tell you a truth, I lied earlier. This test was not about clashing swords with me." Rammel smiled sweetly towards his son, wiping away his tears with his thumb.


    "It... It wasn''t? You aren''t lying to me?"


    "I swear on my ancestors, Jongy. A hunter is not a warrior, son. Our job is not to fight to the death. Never forget that. Our job is to hunt game so that our village may eat. So that it may prosper. I apologise, my son, but it was a lesson you needed to learn dearly. A headstrong hunter can only be a detriment for a village. For what use is a hunter that thirsts for battle? He will only find himself killed, and will only serve to strain the resources of an already poor village." He held his son close, allowing the boy to shed tears, away from the prying eyes of the crowd.


    "In failing to meet my challenge, you proved to me that you place your life above your pride. You were prepared to take on a job you hated, so that you could contribute to Angelsrun and her people. You have no idea how proud that makes me, son."


    Jonglir drew back, and met eyes with his father. Wiping away his tears for the last time, and hand in hand with his father, he turned, head held high, to meet the watching stares of the villagers.


    "I, Rammel, head hunter of Angelsrun, husband to Eruel, son to the late Gilmesh and Frea, and most importantly, Father to Jonglir and Yuili, hereby welcome my son Jonglir to the hunting squad."


    "WOOOOOOOO!!!!!" "WELL DONE JONGY!!!!" "THATS MY BROTHER!"


    The village erupted in a standing ovation. Shouts, screams, and hollers aplenty, Jonglir took it all in stride. It didn''t take long for Yu to bolt up on stage, but to the disappointment of her father who was waiting for her with arms open wide, completely ignored him and instead leaped into Jonglir''s embrace, who twirled her around just as Rammel usually would.


    "I knew you could do it, Jongy!" Yu was back to her usual self, smiling and jumping around gleefully, as if nothing had happened.


    "You okay?"


    I released my grip on Orwell, his question waking me from my stupor.


    "... Sorry about that." I was gripping him tightly. Tight enough that if it was him doing it to me, my bones would have been ground to dust under his strength. I reached for a table cloth that Orwell offered, wiping my sweat stained face. I needed a bath.


    "What in the world was that?" How in god''s name did Rammel make me just about piss myself from fifty feet away? And it wasn''t even directed at me.


    "I assume you''re talking about Rammel''s Fervour?" Orwell cocked an eye at my question.


    "I''m talking about whatever Rammel did that made me want to run for the hills and never come back."


    "His Fervour. It is not something you should concern yourself with at such a young age, but as it effects you to such a degree, I presume a small description shouldn''t be out of order. Perhaps it may even lay your worries to rest." Orwell pulled my chair parallel to his, giving us a small semblence of privacy amongst therambunctious party atmosphere.


    "Fervour is an ability fostered by years, sometimes even decades, of gruelling and arduous training. It is the condensed essence of our strongest and most principal emotions. Powerful enough that our corporeal sentiment takes on a physical manifestation. It usually takes repeated exposure for one to even be able to perceive it, but I suppose it''s not beyond the realm of possibility for you to already be past that stage, considering your history. Rammel has fostered a Fervour of unrelenting rage. I do not blame you for being so affected, there are many who have reacted much worse upon seeing it for the first time. To reach his level, you would have to spend a decade bathing in the emotions of anger, rage, and fury."


    Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    "He doesn''t seem like such an angry guy... "


    "You have not known him for long. There was a time when it was Rammel being appointed as an apprentice hunter. He had only worked alongside his father, Gilmesh, for a month when he saw his hero pinned to a tree by a stray arrow. A troupe from a neighbouring village chanced upon our hunting squad, and thought that they could steal our quarry. It was an accident. A malicious, unhonourable, enraging, unnecessary accident. Rammel''s mother passed not long after, her heart broken. The hunter that loosed the arrow offered his head in apology to Rammel, but the boy refused. Make another village suffer? Take another families father from them? What was he to do?"


    I think Orwell wanted me to answer that, but nothing I could think of saying seemed to be enough.


    "A towering, unrelenting, all-consuming fury, and yet no target to unleash it upon. I hope, Aral, that you never get to learn the depths of an impotent rage such as that. Rammel left the village not long after. Just walked out in the middle of the night. He doesn''t talk about that time much, but from what I can gather, he went to live within the Foreboding Forest for ten years. Or maybe he travelled. Regardless, on the tenth anniversary of his fathers death, he walked back into Angelsrun. A changed man. Condensed his Fervour at the tender age of twenty six." Orwell looked over his shoulder to the celebrating Rammel, who was hoisting his son up in the air like one would a trophy.


    "He overcame his trauma?" That came out a little more eagerly than I had planned.


    "Something like that. Not quite. Condensing your Fervour, it''s a bottleneck along the path of Martial Strength. Imagine all the times when you''ve been bottling up your issues and emotions. It doesn''t work. And then something snaps, and they flow out of you. Whether that is you telling a family or a friend, or you having a mental breakdown. At the end of the day, you have actualised your emotions, and now that they are no longer inside of you, you can begin the process of rebuilding. Fervour is like that."


    Condensing your Fervour allows you to actualise trauma, and then rebuild from the wreckage once it''s out of your system. It allowed Rammel to overcome it to a point where he could not just survive, but thrive and prosper, making a wonderful family of his own out of the charred ruins of his parents senseless deaths.


    I looked across the party towards him.


    He was shuffling Jonglir''s hair with one hand, and carrying the hyperactive Yu in the other. He leaned in for a kiss which was reciprocated sweetly by his wife, Eruel. Granny Momo came over, and from her pose, seemed to be chastising him for threatening Jonglir, at which he awkwardly rubbed his head, apologising with a smile. Granny was just posturing. I''ve seen Granny Momo mad, and this wasn''t one of those times. She likely knew more than anyone else that the Jonglir of a few hours ago was unfit to be a hunter, and if I knew anything about the woman, she might have even masterminded the whole thing.


    Was that possible for me? Could I put my past where it was supposed to be. In the past? Or was I too far gone to be saved? If you asked me a year ago, I think the answer wouldn''t come as a surprise to you. But lately, I''ve been feeling a lot better. Not just about myself, but in general. I think I''m beginning to believe I deserve redemption.


    "You''re smiling." Orwell remarked offhandedly, digging into a succulent piece of meat.


    "Yeah... I suppose I am."


    "Happy new years, Aral. That makes you, what, fourteen?"


    "Twent-Nope. No idea. I have no clue how old I am. But happy new years to you too, Orwell." I nearly came clean there. Don''t do that. If only I didn''t start speaking like a robot, the ruse would have been perfect. My lack of knowledge regarding my age made Orwell pause slightly, for some reason. Well, I suppose that''s something not many people simply forget.


    "Well, you''re fourteen now. Better get used to it." I don''t know what else I expected. Deciding how old I was on his own was a very Orwell way of doing things.


    The night lasted long, much later than I had expected, only ending when Relekka''s father, Frenenik, had long since drained the villages wine reserves. I supported Orwell back to our cabin, a welcome change, as not a month ago, it was him helping me.


    "Say, Orwell." If I had questions, I supposed there''s no better time to ask than when he''s piss drunk.


    "Whatz it?" I guess I''ll take that as an acknowledgement of my question? Drunk people... Not a memory from earth I particularly miss.


    "Can I learn to condense Fervour?"


    "Naw." Short and to the point. Exquisite. Also happening to lack any meaningful detail.


    "Why not?"


    "Fervour is the culmination of a long ''an arduous trek on the path of Marshall prowess. Martel. Marshel. Martial. Ye, that''s the one. A long and arduous trek on the path of Martial prowess."Fourth time''s the charm, eh. "The mind ''an the body are different, but they supplement one another. The stronger the body, the stronger the mind. The stronger the mind, the stronger the body. Such is life. To try and condense Fervour with a body as weak as yours? You''re just askin'' to be turned into a vegetable. Like... Aralmann soup. Hahahaha." That was a joke? And a good enough one to warrant him stumbling out of laughter? To each their own I suppose.


    "... Then teach me to fight. Make me strong. Strong enough to handle it, like Rammel." I''m surprised something so selfish came out of my mouth. I was expecting a refusal, but the attraction of having an opportunity for an emotional cleansing was too good to give up. If I could have one selfish request in my life, this would be it.


    "Go and learn from Rammel. He''s the head hunter. I''ll put in a good word for you."


    "I don''t want to learn from Rammel, I want to learn from you."


    "Is that the limit to your ambition? To only become strong enough to handle your Fervour?"


    "It''s important to me, Orwell."


    "You think you are the only one to strive for Fervour? That you are the only one with a past you wish buried? I will not teach one who only strives for Fervour. Not only because it would end in your almost certain demise, but because Fervour is not something that can be achieved with such half hearted resolve." Orwell wiggled his way out of my grasp, clapping himself on the cheek, I assume to try and sober himself up.


    "Tell me, right now, Aralmann, why you wish to be strong. do not think. Just say it."


    Why? Imagine if Rammel was an enemy. He could beat the fight out of me without even drawing his sword. Why else would I want to learn to fight? So that I could survive.


    "So that I can be strong enough to survive."


    "Liar." His reply was swift.


    "You think yourself a good liar, but I''ve been lied to my entire life. You pale in comparison. Don''t ever think you are smart enough to lie to me, boy. I''ve watched over you from the days when you were a battered and broken half-corpse, ready to keel over and die at any minute. You said it yourself, you tried to take your own life. I''ve seen many emotions flicker through your eyes, but survival was never one of them."


    "I-"


    "The hunting squad is going on a commemorative trip the day after tomorrow. Jonglir''s inauguration hunt. Go along with them. Sometimes one can only see the truth when they exit their comfort zone. I''ll ask you once more after you return. If you return. But know this, lie to me again, and you can get out of this house. I won''t tolerate a liar under my roof."


    I tried to argue, but Orwell had already entered his room, shutting the door behind him. I walked toward the door but his snores were already reverberating loudly throughout the house.


    Well, I guess I''m going hunting.

 Chapter 8

    "What''s in the bag?"


    Rammel stood tall over me, easily twice my height, with his arms crossed in frustration and a frown on his face. His attitude only became scarier when I remembered his Fervour from two days ago. I hope with all my being that it is something he can control, and doesn''t simply appear when he is angry. I don''t think I should tell him that this bag was given to me by Yu, and a quick glance told me that it was literally just a bag full of fuddies. Was she mass producing them?


    "Er... well... Just some things Orwell gave me for the hunt."


    That seemed to appease him at least, as he turned away from me and began helping the other hunters with preparing for the hunt. Nobody asked me to help, or gave me a task to do, so I just waited awkwardly on the sidelines for them to finish. One look was all it took for me to tell that Jonglir was definitely not happy with me being here, and honestly, I couldnt blame him. He had toiled for years to join the hunting squad, culminating in a test that I definitely did not want to partake in, and here I was getting a free pass to join the hunting squad on their trip, no doubt orchestrated by Orwell, who had a mysterious amount of influence within the village.Well, I suppose it isn''t completely strange, Doctors back on earth were regarded quite highly too.


    "Step to it, Aralmann."


    My monologuing had distracted me, and when I came to with the help of Rammel, they were already at the gate leaving, and I was here sitting with a gormless look on my face. I''m glad I made a spotless first impression with the hunting squad.


    I jogged along to catch up with them, having to skip to keep pace, my small legs not being able to walk as fast as they were. We entered the treeline, firstly, the grassland was interspersed with thin shrubs and tall grass, but that soon give way, being replaced by densely packed thick trees, denying the forest floor sunlight with their wide reaching canopies. The light level within the forest was vastly darker, testing the limits of my vision immediately. The sun had just began to rise, as this was the early hours of the morning, but only a fraction of it made its way through the leaves of the humongous trees.


    Whereas I repeatedly tripped and fell, my foot getting caught on upturned roots and sticks, the hunters, Jonglir included, moved through the forest floor with a practised efficiency. They avoided dry autumn leaves and fallen sticks alike, moving quieter through the forest than I was capable of doing on grassland. It didn''t help them too much I presume, as I was making enough noise to compensate for the lot of us. Another point deducted from their opinions of me. I noticed various scratches lining certain trees throughout the forest, something that tickled a memory from my past life. Humans and animals alike would mark trees, a sign of potential threats when made by humans, and a marker of territory when made by beast. I guessed that the triple pronged scar that stretched the circumference of a hearty oak tree was decidedly not human made.


    I traced the mark of the scar with my fingers. It was a deep, clean cut. The bark of the tree had began trying to reclaim the gap, and even though I''m no expert, I could guess that the cut was made a while ago. The scar began about a foot above my head and ended easily eight feet up into the tree. A bear maybe? The tree itself was inside a rarely spotted clearing within the forest, a rather spectacular beam of sunlight piercing through the canopy to give illumination to the tree''s marking.


    A snapping noise distracted me from my wonder.


    I turned to see the source of the commotion, almost falling flat on my backside when I locked eyes with the perpetrator. And I would have, if not for the tree preventing my fall. A beast stared me down from behind an extremely large and thick tree. Its head was birdlike in nature, but freakishly massive, and was connected to a long, pink, snake-like neck. The creature''s plume was pitch black in colour, only interrupted by a sizeable pink scar running down and through one of its eyes. The eye itself looked uninjured, unlike my own. The rest of the beasts body remained hidden behind the tree. The neck craned up and down, surveying the scene, probably debating whether I was bait or not, and even if I was, whether it would take said bait. It sniffed twice, its eyes being drawn down to the small bag I was holding.


    Fuddies. It had been drawn by the smell.


    Who knew my ultimate downfall would be the sweet, delectable pastry treats?


    "R-Rammel. Help please." I tilted my head to the right, keeping my eyes on the creature and speaking in a subdued tone as to not spook the beast, but to my dismay, no one answered me back.


    The creature, apparently satisfied with it''s conclusion, reared it''s head up to full height, a sight that set my heart to palpitating. It easily reached fifteen feet into the air. Revealing itself from the confines of the tree, it''s taloned feet clacked across the forest floor, each step slow and deliberate, never breaking eye contact with me. It''s body was that of an ostrich, if an ostrich was fifteen feet tall and looked like it weighed as much as a family car, with legs that could easily be mistaken for sizeable tree trunks. The plumes of feathers upon its head lay flat to its skull, and were a shadowy black, mirroring the colour of its eyes. It tilted its head left and right, questioning my motivations for intruding into its territory.


    "Rammel! Help!"


    I increased the volume this time, something I immediately regretted.


    The beast lashed out behind itself with one of its legs, spooked at my sudden scream. The tree that was unlucky enough to be in its path was obliterated, smashing into smithereens, splinters exploding into the forest. The tree toppled over, clashing against a few more nearby trees before laying motionless on the ground.


    I flinched, breaking eye contact to look for Rammel and his squad, paling when I realised they were no where to be seen. The creature took this as a signal, and I immediately regretted my action. According to fragments of information I remembered from reading titbits online, there were some animals that you were supposed to stare down, whereas others would take direct eye contact as a threat. Unfortunately, this one was clearly one of the former. The beast bounded toward me, already upon me when I looked back at it. Pulling its humongous frame to a harsh stop, it reared up and kicked one of its legs out at my body with unreal speed. I watched the talons fly towards me, and only by mistake on my own part, tripped over an upturned root protruding from the tree I had backed up into. My accidental stumble sent me barrelling across the debris laden ground. I had just managed to orient myself when I felt a cold gust of air slam past my face, the force of which nearly sending my flying once again. The beasts talons swept through the space where my body had only recently just occupied, glancing off of the tree instead of slicing me in half. There was a foot long cut on the tree where it had cut deep into the bark.


    The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    The creature hopped up, switching the foot that it was using to balance upon, and swung the other straight for me.The claw magnified in my vision, the gleaming talons reflecting perfectly the now midday sunlight that shone through the canopy. I tried to throw my head to the side, a last ditch effort to dodge the beasts attack. I wasn''t quick enough. I was scared, and the fear poisoned my mind. I hesitated. Not for long, but long enough to matter.


    The monster reacted to my movement, correcting it''s kick, dropping the height just a fraction, deciding to aim instead of centre mass.


    I couldn''t escape.


    The only action I could take was an instinctual breath, tensing my core in preparation for the blow. The black plumed bird beamed devilishly at my surrender. It''s beak and eyes hooked in anticipation of it''s incoming human meal.


    Darkness swallowed me, wrapping me within it''s shadowy desolation. It slowed the scene in front of me down to a gruelling crawl. It emanated inwards from my peripheral, a promise of death with it''s arrival.


    And then the darkness spoke. A whisper on the wind, barely audible over the din of adrenaline and blood thumping through my head. It was a low and deep voice. Fiery and croaking in its cadence.


    "Finally, we''re free."


    The beasts previously crowning eyes shot wide in abject terror, the tendrils of darkness growing, looming large over the animal, leering at it''s apparent helplessness.


    The beast paled at the unexpected interruption, its eyes darting between me and the newcomer, unsure of which action to take next. It hesitated for a second, it''s talons retreating just a half step, and then, with a new found ferocity, it screeched, resuming its assault with an invigorated aggressiveness.


    Bad idea.


    Thick lances of condensed black flashed through the oncoming creature, skewering it from every angle. Limbs were severed, meat was punctured. The spears wailed as they pierced through the air, crying tears of unparalleled misery. They were the very essence of impotent, targetless rage. The personification of the punch that was never thrown. The sword that was never unsheathed, now free to seek its retribution. The icy cold ruins of a fiery rage, now swallowed by a hulking sea of water. The culmination of the phrase ''revenge is a dish best served cold''. The beasts screeches of anger turned cold in an instant, first spluttering, and then once again resuming, but this time they were screams of agony.


    There, in my sight, was a boy. Alone in a forest with nothing but his thoughts to keep him company. Untolerable rage surged through his veins, and yet there existed no outlet for his suffering. He travelled far and wide, intent on finding an escape for his wrath, searching ceaselessly for a single moments respite from the demons in his mind. His tears dropped without end, yet no amount of them could quench his anger. He snapped and swung for a tree, the structure evaporating into mist, denying him the pain and destruction he needed.


    Red whips of rage lashed at the impaled beast, exploding the being into a paste of blood, organs, and viscera. They pulled, crushed, flayed, whipped and licked, eager to taste the pain and suffering of their hunt. Cackling maniacally, they were the physical incarnation of fresh fury. They did not ask questions, nor seek answers. They hungered for the blood of their quarry. More than happy to annihilate first and ruminate upon it later. They drank in the deathly shrieks of the animal, only being invigorated by its futile struggle.


    I saw a boy, his father and mother slumped in his arms, cold, dead corpses both. The boy''s soul shuddered, releasing it''s grip on reality as he descended, free-falling into a hellish pit of absolute wrath and rage. The boy fought the minions of hell without pause, crushing, mangling, and flaying their forms into mounds of mushy red paste, only stopping briefly to refuel so that he could continue his incessant assault. A wide and maniacal smile stretched across the now-bloody boy''s visage, relishing in the wanton slaughter. After time unknown, the boy awoke from his stupor, surrounded on all sides by towering walls of flame and crumbled walls, the corpses of countless men, women, and children littering the scenery before him, his hands freshly wet with their blood. His stomach full with their meat. The wails of the boy went unnoticed, for no longer was there anyone left to hear them.


    Within brief seconds I was drenched head to toe in bloody rags of gore. Intestines, meat... an eye. Various body parts littered the forest''s clearing. The beast no longer resembled even a corpse, what were once its innards lay strewn throughout tens of metres of forest floor, some parts even reaching up into the canopy of the nearby trees. Sensing their prey''s demise, the black spears retreated with an almost melancholic slowness,wisping away like a flock of sorrowful shadows. Finally they were unleashed, a target within their scope, and yet, even after they had tasted its flesh, the climax to their pain that they had been eternally searching for still eluded them, destined to be forever out of their reach.


    The red whips continued to lash at the already slain foe, furious that their enemy had perished so easily, they whipped at the beaten and broken blood, splashing it morbidly across the length of the clearing. With an eerie and almost contemplative slowness, they turned their soulless forms toward me. One by one, the tendrils considered amongst themselves, debating in hushed tones, pondering sating their fury by shredding me limb from limb. For what is life but another of their prey? They creeped close, slithering along the forest floor, before instantaneously snapping toward the right.


    "Aral! Are you okay?! Did the Gir hurt you?"


    Rammel scooped me up from the floor, prodding me from head to toe, checking for any sign of injuries. He wiped away the blood from around my eyes, giving me a soft slap on the cheek to bring me back to reality.


    "Y-yeah. I''ll be alright."


    Rammel smiled, and I tried to reciprocate, even though it would be a smile completely devoid of truth, but my stomach twisted in response, and I threw up it''s contents, thankfully not over Rammel.


    "What on earth were you thinking? Walking off by yourself?!" Rammel was right, and I couldn''t find an excuse good enough to give him. I hung my head in shame. Intruding on his hunt, and then breaking from the group without even realising, forcing him to save me. His opinion of me couldn''t be lower.


    "We''re done here, pack it up." Rammel barked some orders to his hunters, but they turned into whispers as sleep called me close. I fought against my heavy eyelids, intent on fighting off the drowsiness, but before I knew it I was once more face to face with my sleeping self in the pitch blackness.

 Chapter 9

    Rammel raised his fist to knock on the door, but noticed at the last second that the door was already slightly ajar. Peering through the crack, he was surprised to find the Aralmann boy already awake, sitting motionless on the edge of his bed.


    Rammel had planned to wake the tyke up at an obscene hour, hammering the point home that travelling with the hunting squad was no walk in the park. That it was not something he could join in with willy nilly, and hopefully, he would even get the boy to change his mind, and run back to Orwell, undoing whatever honeyed words he had spoken to his saviour that made Orwell convince him to allow the boy to join in on a hunt. Granted, it''s not like it would be their most dangerous hunt, it was a hunt specifically tailored to acclimatise new blood after all, and he was well aware that youngster''s, especially boys, were infatuated with hunting. It''s not something he particularly hated, he was the same at that age after all. Regardless though, hunting was not a hobby, nor a pastime. It was not something you could follow along with half-heartedly. People died hunting, of that Rammel was painfully aware.


    "Only just waking up now? Hurry up or we''ll leave you behind." Rammel growled through the door.


    He felt bad chastising the boy, especially after the boy''s reaction to his Fervour two days past. He had tried to contain it to the best of his ability, even against Jonglir, trying only to scare the boy, which he had to admit, was a resounding success. Orwell''s boy though? He was just about ready to pass out from being within it''s perimeter. It wasn''t completely out of the blue, however. Orwell had made sure that most of the villagers knew of the boy''s history, and that it would take time and effort before he was normal again.


    Orwell hadn''t given Rammel a complete breakdown of the boy''s past, only that he was found beaten and broken in the midst of a Daemon army. Rammel gulped, he didn''t need or want to know more. The scarring that stretched a quarter of the boy''s face spoke enough. To his credit, Rammel thought, the boy didn''t seem to be particularly self conscious about his injuries, not the scarring, nor the sizeable streak of white hair, but for Nuwa''s sake, could Orwell at least give the boy a haircut? He''d been in the village for over half a year now, and still neither the boy nor Orwell had spoken once about getting the kid''s mop chopped. It hung down to his chin now, and whilst it wasn''t a particularly bad look, it made the boy seem a lot more savage than he actually was.


    Rammel had expected the boy to be a basket of raw nerves, ready to run away at the slightest sign of conflict, but to his credit, other than his reaction to Fervour, he seemed to be keeping a decent cap on things. Hag Momo had forced his kids, her grandkids, to commune with the boy, hoping to ease him out of his shell, which he supposed wasn''t a complete failure. The boy and Yu got on like a house on fire, whilst he managed a more subdued relationship with Jonglir. Not that that was a particularly surprising outcome, mind you. Yuili could become best friends with a frog, which had actually happened on more than one occasion, and Jonglir rarely thought about things outside of hunting, though that was something Rammel hoped Jonglir would come to correct after he learned the error of his ways the days just past.


    "I''m ready to go, Ramm- Sir. Rammel Sir. Sir Rammel." In his daydreaming, he hadn''t even noticed the boy had left his cabin, and now stood in front of him, nothing but a small bag hoisted over his shoulder.


    "What''s in the bag?"


    "Er... Well... Just some things Orwell gave me for the hunt."


    He seemed to grip his bag tighter, hiding it from Rammel. Perhaps his treasured belongings? Not an overly smart idea to bring them on a hunt, but perhaps he was still guarded, thinking they would be lost or stolen should he leave them in the village. A disappointing and quite frankly offensive point of view, but not one Rammel was surprised at. The boy had been through much, he could be afforded a few missteps.


    Orwell had asked the boy to help with the preparation of the new years celebration festival, claiming that the boy was lacking communication within the village, and that should that continue, it would foster a sense of detachment, which Rammel agreed with. The boy accepted, proceeding to work morning through afternoon, practically setting up every chair and table himself. Other kids were play fighting and screaming, and the only break the boy took was to watch Yu''s antics, which Rammel guessed wasn''t a bad thing, she seemed to genuinely cheer up the usually brooding boy. The kid never went out of his way to speak to anyone, especially other children. Rammel had never seen him run around at all, not to mention join in with the other kids playing around. The boys work ethic was worrying, and Rammel hoped he hadn''t misinterpreted Orwell''s request as some kind of order. Had the boy been a slave prior to coming to Angelsrun? It would explain a lot.


    The boys work ethic had inspired the members of the village however, who didn''t want to be outdone by a newly indicted child. The preparation was complete long before it usually was, which lead to a more relaxing and fun festival than was usually had.


    Rammel assisted the other hunters preparing for the trip, Jonglir going above and beyond to help with every little thing, the boy was obviously unhappy with Aralmann joining the hunt, and that was understandable, but this would be another good lesson for him.


    Things don''t always go your way.


    The Aralmann boy sat dazed by the side, his lack of involvement purposeful on Rammel''s part. It took a lot to convince the other hunters to ignore the boy, but in the end they agreed, this was not something that such a young and, perhaps more importantly, currently recovering boy should participate in, and if Rammel could make him leave on his own accord, even if it ended with him hating him, it would be worth it.


    For the boys safety.


    Rammel''s squad took off, only to notice the kid sat still, not moving to join them. Was he having second thoughts? Good. Though unfortunately, when Rammel barked at him sternly, the boy hurriedly caught up with a sheepish smile.


    It wasn''t long before they had embarked on their hunt, now deep within the forest''s outer circle. Surprisingly, the boy was making decent pace, though there was an issue.


    The boy had the grace of a drunken Frenenik.


    Stolen novel; please report.No scratch that, Frenenik at least had the coordination to not squash the children when he was drunk, though he had broken two chairs during the new years celebration just on account of his sheer clumsiness. Frenenik lumbered around, swaying and smashing into every little thing he could find when he was drunk, and sometimes Rammel swore that the man actually went out of his way to purposefully stumble into things, and yet, the boy had even Frenenik beat in this regard, and the boy was stone cold sober.


    Where had this boy been raised? Rammel swore he was going out of his way to find every stick and dried leaf that he could possibly see. They had been walking for almost an hour, and they were yet to see a single creature, no doubt the sensitive beasts of the forest heard the commotion coming from a mile away, all of them bolting away from the hunting squads position.


    Rammel had begun to try and work up the courage to admonish the helpless boy, but he noticed that with every crunched leaf and snapped stick, something also snapped inside of Jonglir. The boy was a single leaf away from turning around and batting the boy upside the head, so hopefully, sooner than later, Jonglir would say something to the boy, so that Rammel could be free of the guilt.


    To the Aralmann boy''s credit, however, he had gotten better throughout their trip, and was currently just as quiet as one of them. Almost suspiciously quiet, in fact. If the boy had this kind of talent, Rammel could whip him into an even better hunter than Jonglir in less than a year''s time. And that wasn''t even consideri-Aaand the boy''s gone.


    "Jonglir."


    "Yes father?"


    "Firstly, it''s Rammel when we are hunting, and secondly, didn''t I put you in charge of supervising the boy?"


    "Sorry Rammel, and yeah I-... Oh... Shit."


    The hunters all looked around, only to find the cause of their frustration had mysteriously disappeared.


    "By Nuwa''s Grace, how am I going to explain this to Orwell... Okay, we double back, everyone keep an eye out for the boy. Jonglir, you better hope we find him. I wouldn''t want to be the one to break this news to Orwell, put it that way."


    Jonglir gulped nervously at Rammel''s statement, and doubled back on his path, searching fervently for the boy he had wished to strangle not a half hour ago.


    "Rammel! Help!"


    Rammel bolted toward the shout, blowing past his fellow hunters. They shared a nervous glance before hurriedly rushing after him.


    Rammel dashed through the forest floor, foregoing all ideas of stealth. By his right he heard an explosion, the telltale sound of a falling tree not soon after. Rammel altered his path toward the noise, flying out into the clearing.


    Rammel''s heart dropped.


    A Gir lunged toward the boy, much faster than Rammel could close the distance between the two. He redoubled his efforts, blistering through the large clearing.


    He wouldn''t make it.


    Anger surged through Rammel, beginning at his feet and worming its up into to his head. It brought with it memories of his past he would prefer forgotten. His jaw clenched in fury, the memories of holding his dying fathers hand flashing through his vision. With a breath, his anger flooded from his body, taking it''s place in the material world.


    There was a transcendent feeling that came along with unleashing your Fervour. It purged your trauma from your body, not erasing your memories, but clearing them up so that you could view them in a different light. He had Jonglir. He had Yuili and Eruel. Even Granny Momo. He had a family of his own now, and no longer needed to be chained down by terrible memories from his past. It was in these rare moments that he knew his father and mother would be watching over him from the Great Beyond, overwhelmingly proud of the progress their son had made.


    His Fervour moved much faster than Rammel could.


    It still wouldn''t make it.


    The Gir skidded across the floor, kicking toward the boy''s head, aiming to take his life in one fell swoop. The boy was frozen in place, likely too scared to even blink.


    The boy was dead.


    At least Rammel could send the perpetrator''s head as a gift to the boy in the afterlife, something he wished he could have done with his parents.


    The boy ducked, rolling past the Gir''s swipe, which bit deep into the tree where the boy had stood not a second ago. Rammel nearly fell in bewilderment. The boy had such courage? And skill? The boy righted himself swiftly, facing the Gir once more. It was a good move, but it wouldn''t make up the difference between the boy''s and the Gir''s power.


    The Gir swung once more, and Rammel commanded his Fervour to move even faster, his mind throbbed with pain, memories of finding his mothers lifeless corpse bleeding into his peripheral, spurring his Fervour to move even faster. Rammel felt his control over his Fervour begin to wane.


    The Fervour caught up. They surrounded the boy, standing tall between him and the Gir.


    ''Attack.''


    Once their onslaught was over, Rammel reigned in his waning control over his Fervour, commanding them to dissipate. He scooped the boy up, making sure he was alright. The boy replied he was okay, before almost immediately blacking out, likely from the sudden change in adrenaline in the boys system. Rammel commanded the hunters back toward the village, and now Jonglir was the one to slow them down, as the experienced hunters bounded silently thorough the undergrowth.


    "Back already? I guess th- WHAT HAPPENED!?" Orwell greeted them outside of the gate, immediately flashing toward them once he noticed the obscene amount of blood covering Aralmann.


    "Don''t fret, it''s not his blood." Rammel comforted his friend, handing over the unconscious boy to the healer.


    "Explain to me how this happened, Rammel." Orwell didn''t seem to be too happy with the situation, and Rammel couldn''t blame him. He was so concerned with admonishing the boy that he had completely forget to even keep track of him. A painfully rookie mistake that Rammel would not soon live down.


    "The kid was attacked by a wandering Gir. He walked right into the heart of their territory with no worry in the world. They''re nocturnal hunters, I don''t know what one was doing awake, I intended to show Jongy and Aralmann their markings so they would know what to look out for in the future... It was my fault, Orwell."


    "No. Don''t apologise. It was me who asked you to bring the boy along. Whether this experience is a boon or a set back for the boy rests upon his shoulders."

 Chapter 10

    It wasn''t long before I had awoke.


    The barely under an hour I was sitting within the void with my sleeping self meant that I had probably been out about three hours in the real world, if my calculations held correct.


    I looked up just in time to see Yu flying through the air, her trajectory a perfect landing on my bed. She was a big fan of running jumps, and thankfully I had recovered to the point where they no longer hurt.


    "You looked awful yesterday Aral! You were covered in blood, and you STINKED!" She held her nose, miming smelling something awful.


    Orwell was sat in his chair, reading another one of his books.


    "How was the trip?" He still sat reading, not looking up at me.


    "It was... Bloody." I''d prefer not to tell him the numerous slip ups I made during the trip, but who was I kidding, he probably knew all about it. Besides, Yu was here, and I''d rather not go into how graphic the entire thing was.


    "So? Have you thought about it?" He finally closed the book, turning to meet my gaze.


    "Thought about..?"


    "The reason you want to be strong. Your reason." Oh yeah, he had told me to go on the hunt with the condition that it would allow me to travel out of my comfort zone, and by god was that an /underestimation/. My comfort zone decidedly does not feature being attacked by a fifteen foot tall murder ostrich.


    He was right though, the trip itself was eye opening. I got to see Rammel''s Fervour up close, and the proficiency of his hunting squad. Jonglir included. I have to admit, even if my life was this close to being taken from me, it was fun. Really fun. How cool would it be if I could meet that Gir on fair ground. If I could fight it on equal standing.


    "Yeah... I have."


    "And your answer?"


    "... Because it''s fun."


    "Fun?"


    "Yeah."


    "Explain."


    "Hunting. Being hunted. Surviving against that Gir, a maggot compared to some of the existences in this world, a struggle with my life as the wager. It was fucking fun. Exhilirating even. I''ve never felt anything like it. All of my problems were secondary. I was living. You were right about surviving not being one of my priorities, but with all of my heart, I want to live. I want to be strong. I want to see how far I can go. I want to clash blades and swing swords. I want to have fun."


    "..."


    "Attaboy."


    "Eh?"


    "You told the truth. That''s all I asked. And don''t think your motivation is less important than others. Honour, glory, fear, protection, excitement. None of these are grander or lesser than the rest. It matters not why we progress, only that we do progress. I picked up my first knife because if I didn''t, the kid that was stalking towards me would have. I chose to place my life above his. Regret? Shame? Pei! You won''t catch me feeling anything of the sort. I won and he lost. Such is life. Remember, the only person in this life you have to answer to, is yourself. Never place your motivations below or above others."


    "So... You''ll teach me?"


    "You really are as thick as an oak, aren''t you? I''ll teach you, and if you die to a Gir, don''t think you''ll find me mourning. You chose this path, and I''ll assume you died following your passion. We can''t ask for much more than that in this world now can we."


    "Orwell... Thanks." I couldn''t stop myself. I closed the gap between us and hugged him tight. Partly because I was really thankful, and partly because I didn''t want him to see me crying.


    "Don''t rejoice yet. You thought hunting was hard? I''m going to make you look fondly upon the days you were injured and bedridden. You''ll hope with all your heart that you could go back to such easy times. So suit up, Aral."


    On second thought, perhaps I made a mistake.


    ******


    "Wrong."


    I''ve lost count of how many times I''ve heard that word this past week. I thought Orwell was serious when it came to my training, but I''ve come to realise it was just a diversion, his real motivations were venting his frustrations with me.


    Almost immediately after accepting, he pulled a wooden cane from who-knows-where, and began my so-called "training". At first I thought it would be running, or maybe even spars, but currently he was just whipping me at every stage of the day. For every little thing.


    I stand up? "Wrong", followed by a whip to my legs.


    I walk? "Wrong" whip.


    Reach for food? Whip.


    Whip? Whip.


    "Orwell, I really don''t understand what I''m supposed to be doing. Are you saying it''s wrong to eat or that the way I''m eating is wrong? Can you at least explain that?"


    "You not understanding is purposeful. The body works better when the brain is not involved. Tell me, when you walk, do you think about putting one foot in front of the other? No. You simply walk. There is no higher thought necessary. Your body uses each muscle to the best of its efficiency, and you walk. When you breathe, do you manually work your diaphragm in and out? No. You simply breathe, and your body makes miniscule adjustments based on the amount of air you currently need. Our brain is a wonderful thing, yes, but it is better used for thinking. Only when the body acts by itself can we reach peak efficiency."


    "..."


    "I can tell by the gormless look on your face that you don''t understand. Watch."


    Orwell made sure I was looking, and then walked from one side of the cabin to the other, repeating the process twice before turning to me, an expectant look on his face.


    "See?"


    "Uh... Yes... You are good at... Walking?"


    "You really are empty-brained aren''t you." Ouch, that one stung a little. "Forget it, I may as well be teaching a Circisqua to dance." Yes, I too understood that reference. Totally. "Just drown me out of your consciousness. Pretend I am not there, and when I correct you, simply allow your body to react how it will react."


    I did as Orwell said, trying my utmost to tune out his silent judging from my perception. It didn''t last long. Just as I was forgetting about his presence, a whip would come from out of nowhere to interrupt my concentration.


    "Did Jonglir go through this? Is that how he could catch the sword out of mid air, and walk through the forest without stepping on anything?"


    "Jonglir did not, because I did not teach Jonglir." Why do people seem to speak to me as if I am mentally deficient?


    "Jonglir has a decent amount of training, but that is not where his proficiency comes from. Not only is he a born talent for hunting, but he has been infatuated by his father since young. The boy has done something amazing, without even realising he has done it. His infatuation has lead to him subconsciously imitating his father, from attitude, to more importantly, stance, breathing, and posture. A child is much more malleable than an adult, and Jonglir has been unconsciously training his body through sheer imitation of his father. Something that took Rammel decades to learn consciously, has been learned in less than half that time by a boy, subconsciously." Orwell seemed amazed with the extent of Jonglir''s accomplishments, staring off into nothingness, smiling as if Jonglir''s accomplishments were his own.


    "Do you understand the power of the subconscious now? When we learn consciously, we are prone to distraction and are limited by our memory, but when you learn subconsciously, you could practice every minute of the day without even realising it, with the fruits of your labour being committed straight to muscle memory." Orwell whipped me quickly, targeting both biceps, my quadriceps, core, neck, calves, and finally my lower and upper back.


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    "That is what I want you to do, but do not think about doing it, simply do it."


    Orwell stared me down as if what he expected from me made perfect sense. As if I was a fool for not immediately understanding.


    Do it, but do not think about doing it. Simple.


    I''ll try walking. I''ve been doing that for the vast majority of my life, so surely I''ll be a veteran when it comes to that. I set off across the cabin, in the same manner Orwell had.


    I didn''t make it three steps before Orwell had whipped me, hitting me in my legs as well as lower back.


    "Wrong." Orwell sighed.


    "Listen, Orwell." I was getting irate now, almost certain that he was using this training as an excuse to beat me black and blue. "I don''t mean to brag, but I''ve been walking for a long time, and very, very rarely have I fallen or tripped over my own feet. How on earth can I walk wrong?"


    "I thought the same thing, kid. Even Yu walks with more grace than you, and I''ve never seen her walk in years. It''s as if you were brought up in a place that has no respect for Martial traditions. It''s like you were born in a place where they cared not for efficiency of movement!" Orwell practically shouted the last bit, seeming truly dumbfounded.


    Uh, well perhaps that is because I did in fact grow up in a place like that. Martial tradition? I''ve never even heard of that until just this second. Humans aren''t taught to ''walk properly'' they just learn to walk and that''s that!


    "Aral, Welly is right you know." Yu wiggled her finger at me, her eyebrows creased, mimicking a teacher giving a stern lesson. Wait, who''s Well-Oh. Hahaha. Welly is Orwell.


    "Do explain, teacher Yu." She glowed at the words.


    "You walk dumb. You put too much effort into it! No wonder you couldn''t walk very far with me in the village, you''re putting so much effort into each step it''s as if you''re climbing a mountain! Relax, and just walk, Aral." She looked over to Orwell, asking implicitly whether her lesson was up to his standards, which I guess he agreed with, as both of them turned to me, still with the expectant look.


    "I must be stupid, because none of what you are saying is making any sense. When I want to walk, I simply walk. I don''t control how much effort I put into it."


    "We know, Aral, and that''s the problem. For some reason you''ve learned to walk wrong, so now we must undo that. Yu, I''m afraid we must activate protocol One-Alpha." Orwell turned back to Yu, a regretful look on his face.


    "Okay..." Yu turned to look at me, tears welling up in her eyes. Oh god, what is protocol One-Alpha? "Aral... No more fuddies until you learn to walk right. I''m sorry that it has come to this." She looked high into the sky, wiping a tear from her eye.


    "NOOOOOOOOOOOOO-" I dropped to the floor on both knees. How could you, Yu. I trusted you. How cruel can one family be?!


    "Now now, Aral. Just think, the quicker you learn this, the quicker you can have fuddies again." Yu comforted me, patting my shoulder. "Go and have a walk around the village, to clear your head. I, your esteemed teacher Yu, shall ta-... Shall confer, with your other, slightly less esteemed teacher, Mr. Welly."


    I could only manage a grunt of acceptance, my lifeless body carrying itself out of the cabin door.


    I might be addicted to fuddies.


    Okay scratch everything else, priority one is learning how to walk. Christ, what has life come to? I shall re-learn how to walk so that I may consume copious amounts of a not too hard, not too soft, pastry delicacy. It sounds unhinged, but I don''t think I''ve ever been more dedicated to achieving a goal than I am right now.


    I walked laps around the inside of the surprisingly large village. It didn''t look like much from the safety of Orwell''s cabin, but to do a lap of the perimeter easily took me thirty minutes.


    Each step was took with unrivalled concentration, willing my entire focus into how, and where, I was going to step next.


    Do not think about walking. Simply walk. Do not think about walking. Simply walk. Not too hard. Not too soft. Not too hard. Not too soft. Just like a fuddie. Walk like a fuddie. Fuddie. I wonder if Orwell and Yu have spoken to granny Momo about my fuddie ban? Perhaps she could be my secret fuddie dealer. I''ll ask her after thi-


    I slapped my cheeks, waking myself out of my daydream. What on earth am I thinking about? Am I really jonesing for fuddies? What are they doing, lacing them with cocaine?


    "What are you doing?" A boy''s voice interrupted my insane mental rambling.


    I turned around, startled, and was greeted by a boy I had definitely not seen in Angelsrun before. He stuck out like a sore thumb, looking way too overdressed to be pottering around a rural village. From his words I assumed him to be rude, but his smile seemed innocent enough.


    "I''m learning to walk. What about you?" Still, I had never seen this kid before, so best to be cautious.


    "Learning to walk? You seem to be walking perfectly fine to me, haha." The boy chuckled.


    "I know right! How do you even walk properly?" Finally, someone else who understands! "Anyway, I''ve really got to get this down, regardless of my feelings towards it." I leaned in close, whispering to the boy, looking around anxiously to make sure we weren''t being overheard. "They''re denying me my essentials until I learn to do it."


    "How awful! That''s downright ghastly!" The boy paled at my statement.


    I''m glad somebody is sympathising with my plight.


    "Well anyway, it was good to chat to you, but I''ve really got to get on with it. Good day." I bid the boy a good day, setting off to once more complete laps around the village. I don''t even know how many times I''ve done it now, and for all I know, I could be no closer at all to being able to learn it correctly.


    "Do you mind if I join you?" The boy skipped forward to join my stroll. "The person I came to this village with is busy at the minute, I''ve got time to spare. That''s if you''re okay with it, of course."


    "I guess that''s okay, but don''t talk too much, I''m trying to concentrate." I fell into my rhythm once more, ignoring the boy.


    Left foot right foot left foot right foot left foot right foot left foot right foot.


    "Wrong." Orwell''s shout startled me, causing me to jump from my trance. "Listen Aralmann, I appreciate your dedication to learning, but you''re still doing it completely wrong. You''re putting too much effort into it. You could practice till you die and not get anywhere at this rate." Orwell was either disappointed or tired. Or both. Probably both.


    "Once more, look, and this time, actually watch what I do." Orwell repeated his exercise from inside the cabin, walking about ten paces across the grass, before turning around and walking back toward me.


    "See?"


    Yeah... He''s definitely having me on.