《The Return of the Nameless King》


 Prologue

    In Eclipsara, meat is a delicacy. In a city of stone, the food that sustains its people is imported much from the surrounding farms, none closer than 100 kilometers in proximity. Bread is common, beans and cabbage make hearty dinners, and on those all-so-special occasions, egg and pork reward the bodies of those who think they deserve it. Chickens and pigs are rare, and cows¡ªcows are a legend among my people. Today I confront this legend. It¡¯s called a steak, I heard it can be eaten cooked or raw. Such is the food of the rich, previously beyond my comprehension but now sizzling on my stove floating in pork fat, alongside 2 freshly cracked eggs. The air is so quiet.


    The Shaman festival means peace¡ªhours of it¡ªas everyone flocks to the festivities. Cheap meat caravans from the north, the infamous band wrestling tournament, and the Governor¡¯s grand appearance fill the city with noise. But for me, it¡¯s perfect: my single day of the year. Peace.


    The pork fat smell fills the air, an indulgence that makes my stone walls feel almost regal. My fork stabs center mass as my knife hovers over the steak, juices pooling the plate as I cut the perfect slice. Just as the muscle touches my skin, my vision shifts, and my lungs empty.


    It starts as a soft haze in the corners of my eyes but quickly transforms into a tremor, like heat rising off stone. The once regal walls bend to candle wax, its colors washing into monochrome tones of gray. The momentum of my fork continues but my hand is frozen, as a crack of something other rippled through me. A noise¡ªnot from my ears, but rather inside my mind. Faint whispers, overlapping distance, pulling at the edges of my sanity in colors of rotating hues. Like being thrown out a window the world begins to shatter and shift into a mental dimension. My fork disappears, soon the walls, and then it¡¯s all colored a darkened void that stretches out endless from my vision, broken only by faint glimmers of silver. Shattered mirrors hang in the air, in one of those mirrors, I see a vision of myself. My breathing shutters and my hand stretches as I reach for the image, and it rippled into life. I am back in my house. The table is turned, the chair lies pieces across the room, and most unforgivable, my plate of steak is resting in a pile of dirt and splinters. Footsteps echo from stone tiles¨Ctwo of them, no, three¨Cclosing in fast. The image flickered, and for a second I saw their faces. Men cloaked in shadow, their features distorted as if looking through warped glass. One holds a Hemlock, its edge gleams in the dim light. Another holds a blunt pipe shadowed in rust. The last is empty-handed yet he shines the brightest, their faces hold no malice¨Cjust cold, calculated intent. They weren¡¯t here to threaten or send a message.


    My breath returns as the mirror shifts, pulling me deeper. Time unravels in fragments, the first man breaches the door, the second vaulting my table. I see my hand, reacting¨Ctoo slow, too late. Once again my vision shatters, my view reappears and my eyes leave a soft haze in the corners of my eyes as I bite down on that perfect slice that had just entered my mouth. The sound of sizzling fat had returned, grounding me, and with a sigh, I crack my neck and grip the edge of my table. The warm glow of the stove now feeling oppressive, too exposed. The whispers had stopped, but the air hung heavy with unnatural silence. Just as it had played out previously, up to the fading nanosecond, the men come to attack me.Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    The door bursts inwards, splintering into jagged shards as two figures storm in, I see them before they move. The first lunged onto me with his Hemlock, aiming at my neck. No luck. I throw the table I held in my hands, my body moving faster than my thoughts. His knife cuts empty air as I grab his arm with monstrous force, twisted, driving my knee into his stomach. He crumples to the ground, knife slipping from his grasp.


    The Second man is faster, but I see the angle of his strike before his blade reaches the set point. A narrow slash aimed at my ribs, I sidestepped and catch his wrist mid-swing, twisting it so hard the knife clattered on the wood floor. Before he can catch his breath my elbow connects with his jaw, sending him staggering backward. I feel lightweight. Every part of my near 300-pound body moving as smooth as butter, every moment perfectly timed, every strike precise. They did not fight me¨Cthey fought their own futures, already decided before they acted. A view encaptures my eyes into something truly fearful.


    The air grew heavy, tinged with a metallic tang. I turned to a flowing silhouette reaching my door, taller, broader, and radiating power. His red-tinted eyes locked on mine, paler than the limit of men, his steps deliberate. He isn¡¯t like the others, his movements hold more forethought. A nuisance, future sight becomes less straightforward. These nuisances are called Shaman.


    He murmurs something in a low and almost amused voice, I didn¡¯t care to listen. A smug smile rules his face. His arms lift, and around him ripples crimson energy. I see before he does¨Ca jagged spear formed of his blood, flung directly towards my chest. I dodge, barely, moving in time. The spear whistled past me and embeds itself in my wall, cracking the stone. The blood from the spear seeps and spreads throughout the cracks of the stone around me.


    ¡°You¡¯re fast¡± I laugh, fidgeting on my itchy nose. ¡°But not fast enough.¡±


    I see a blade form on his arm, the wide diagonal swing aimed at my torso. I prepare, leaning back, the edge missing me by inches. His attacks come in a flurry, faster, more aggressive, but I moved with an eerie fluidity. Each strike missing the most minimal of margins as if dancing between his attacks. My fork cuts him as he converges on me, humiliating him, and throwing through his solar plexes. He doesn¡¯t give but his smirk leaves his face, replaced by anger.


    ¡°I¡¯m not even that quick¡± I instigate. ¡°Truly disrespectful the fodder they suggest can combat me. You are far too shortmind, and far too late.¡±


    This Shaman growled, his aura flaring. The blood from the cracks forms a massive sweeping arc of energy. I saw it¨Cthe wide attack, too large to evade completely. My mind screams the warning even as I move. I faze forward, taking the brunt of the damage head-on, eyes on my enemy. I close my eyes for protection, I already saw where he was. He is in arms reach, and for a man my stature, not even Shamans can resist the force to break a man''s skull.


    ¡°You¡¯ve got fight in you,¡± the Shaman cries, stumbling back, his would dripping crimson. ¡°But you¡¯re not invincible.¡±


    It suddenly hits, at once.


    The air shifted again, a sound growing from the heavens¨Ca roaring, whistling scream that make both me and this Shaman stuck in our steps. We look up, and my vision hits just seconds before reality follows.


    The roof explodes inward as a meteor slams into my stone floor. The force sends a shockwave through the room, sending me colliding with the wall. Dust and debris fill the air, choking the room in chaos. My ears ring, my vision blurs, and through the haze, I can feel it. The meteor, now a man, radiated with power¨Craw, overwhelming, and unlike anything I have ever felt. He lays on top of one of the other men, now split in two as his guts welcome this unknown. The blast wakes up the other and last of my enemies from his sleep. The Shaman, coughing and disoriented, turns toward the crater, his eyes widen, aura flickering weakly and wild.


    ¡°What the hell¡­ is that?¡± we part out words together.


    I didn¡¯t know. But as I pull myself to my feet, blood dripping from my side, only one thing was promised: the fight wasn¡¯t over. Not yet.

 Waves

    When you spend weeks in space with the most dangerous criminals in Cavea, you learn to stop expecting ordinary days. Today was supposed to be the exception, a quiet descent back to Earth, 800 years in the making. The kind of day that would cement my mission in the footnotes of history. But no¡ªturns out the universe had other plans.


    The cockpit stinks of piss, a light protest from my prisoners to make my space sickness a hundred times worse. The thrum of engines along with the eerie nothingness of space creates a chaos that can eat any man given enough time. I''ve nearly my limit. My hands grip the controls loose, the stars outside my viewport stretching like threads as the planet below crept closer.


    "Everyone strapped in?" I snicker out my coil suit. Not bothering to glance at my audience. The cargo hold was full of scum¡ªkillers, thieves, and worse¡ª all shackled tight to their seats. None of them answered, of course. Those who do emit noise do so through the mumbling of their metal muzzles entraping their voice. They keep the others on their best behavior for me.


    The ship shuddered, just a little, barely noticeable. I frown and click the holoPad console. "Stabilizers are checked. We are code 4." The words weren''t for anyone but myself. Behind me, one of the prisoners muttered something under his breath. "What''s that?" I call back, my voice sharp.


    "I hope you''re a better pilot than you look," came the reply in jest. She gives me uncomfortable eye contact for a criminal with nothing but centimeters of wiggle room.


    "Another comedian. Best pray I don''t crash this thing or none of you are walking away."


    They laughed¡ªsome of them, anyway. A low, bitter sound. It wasn''t funny. I have no desire to talk to scum, I house murderers, rapists, and thieves, and these barely scratch the list. But man gets lonely, the first days were silent, but you spend 63 days on a floating spacecraft and you might find yourself making friends with devils.


    The comedian in question is one Ivana Creed, known as ''The Black Widow.'' A master manipulator and poison expert. She had infiltrated wealthy families on several occasions, gaining their trust before killing them to inherit their resources. She is a desperate one, many of my crew protested conversation with me, but she had been gunning for me from day one. But among my crew, playing a crooked Robin Hood is the least of their sins.


    Lyra ''Shiv'' Salthorne, one of the most violent gang leaders in Cavea history, previously controlled much of the black market and is known for her brutal enforcement tactics. She''s the type of woman whom I wouldn''t be surprised to learn she''s pulling the strings still, hundreds of thousands of miles away from home rotting in a space shuttle.


    Not all are like her, take Tobias ''Plague'' Anders, the second-highest death count on my crew but perhaps the biggest coward. A previous chemist for the institution, and current bio-terrorist who weaponized Cavea''s agricultural sectors, releasing a deadly pathogen to extort the council for resources. Thousands died for weeks, ''The Black Widow'' killed for money, and she did so quickly. ''Shiv'' killed those who opposed her, and she did so slowly. ''Plague" killed indiscriminately, without notice and without mercy, simply to pursue his own selfish desires. He is not a strong man, with normal height, skin and bones. It took not but a week for him to become the punching bag of a group where their only weapon was their voice, not he sits in shame strapped from head to toe. He had previously attempted suicide 40 days ago, I will not provide him that luxury.If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.


    Dante ''The Phantom'' Kross, is a master thief with an uncanny ability to evade capture at all cost. His crimes include some of the biggest heists in Cavea history, robbing the council spire''s treasury, smuggling rare technologies, and the Assassination of my previous leader. I heard he turned himself in on purpose, he knew he would join me on Earth. Most thought him clever but it matters not the reason, now that I oversee him he lacks any plausible escape.


    There sits one more man, the other criminals are calling him a ''Monk.'' He hasn''t made a single noise since we strapped them onto this ship, not even the sound of his breath reaches our ears. His name is Reinheart Amon, previous senior adviser of the Special Space Force of Cavea. He is also my brother.


    ''The Black Rampage,'' also known as the single most destructive act in Cavea history. A bloody act that shifted him from a man of honor to one of rebellion. Abusing his military power, he staged an explosive assault on central sectors of Cavea, meticulously planned, targeting military outposts, communication relays, logistical hubs, and the home of our neighbors. With over 3000 confirmed deaths including many more unaccounted for, my brother had committed the ultimate sin. I don''t know why or what prompted it but since he came home from that day¡ªthe day I put my brother in handcuffs¡ªwe haven''t said a word to each other.


    So I distract myself with the friendship of criminals. Then it happened.


    The ship jolted hard, a roughness that spikes the adrenaline through your veins. Red lights illuminate the holoPad with warnings, red and angry.


    "Malfunction in the stabilizer array" the holoPad lets out in its depressing monotone voice. "Code 3. Code 3." The holoPad repeats itself.


    "Malfunction?" I hiss, hands searching my controls for the answer.


    Another jolt, this one harder. The previous laughter in the cargo hold stopped. I feel the tension rising, and the jolt was quick enough to give those with muzzles bloody noses and lips.


    "This is your captain speaking," I say in calm, at least I think. "We''re hitting some turbulence. Nothing to worry about¡ªunless, of course, it gets worse."


    It got worse.


    The Alarms scream. Violence rips through my spacecraft as red blinks erratically in my halls.


    "Pod integrity compromised," the holoPad said. "Emergency separation procedure, commencing in 60 seconds."


    I am too late. This ship is going down, like it or not. With a deafening clang, my front pod detaches, sending me hurling toward the surface of the planet below. My outside world slowly blurs to chaos as I spiral uncontrollably, stars are replaced by flashes of green and blue. "Shit, shit, shit!" I shout to myself, now separate from the crew, I can only assume they will die, and for a reason, I cannot explain, that deeply hurts me as I speed to my death. Gripping the seat as the pod shook violently, metal screams as the atmosphere tore at the hull, and debris whirled around me like angry wasps. My coil suit does well to reflect the heat, but the infinite heat attacking me makes me a ball of fire. Defying physics my protective system engages, and an inner airbag exploded outward, cocooning me in a tight, suffocating shell, still on fire. My body jerks me before everything abruptly stops. I feel no pain on the verge of death, this is a drug I didn''t know existed. For a long moment, there is silence, I stay unmoving searching with my eyes for my body. I start at my hands, looking next to my torso and feet, revealing I am mostly intact. But I am suffocating. As the airbag deflated, I struggled to breathe, pulling myself free of the harness. I am merely all that is left, me and my coil suit. My ears ring and my vision is blurry as I rise from smoke and shattered panels. Trying to focus, everything feels¡­ distant. Fractured. I press my fingers on my temple as flashes of moments¡ªfaces, names, voices¡ªdart through my mind and vanish just as soon as they flash. The broken console in front of me blinds a bright red, its symbols unreadable. Had it always looked this way? A question hung in the air, but I couldn''t grasp the answer.


    "What the hell¡­ is that?" 2 men say in unison, it''s hard to see but their words are obviously directed at me.


    I fall back, dazed and disoriented, muttering the first thing that comes to mind.


    "Where the fuck am I?"

 Harvest Hearts Like Oil

    My bones are cold. My skin still embers lava. My arms turn obsidian with their collision, I''m stuck in place. It travels from my arms, wrapping around my chest like a vice. I couldn''t remember where I was, how I got here, or why my head felt like it had been split open and Frankenstein back together. Breathe, I told myself. It was harder here, the air felt foreign, it didn''t belong to me. I open my eyes in quick, the world coming into focus in bursts. Stone walls, dirt-streaked floors, the ugly scent of blood and smoke. My body is heavy and unresponsive, like a fish swimming in mud.


    Why can''t I remember?


    The question stabbed through the haze in my mind, living dormant in the sickening void where my memories should''ve been. I reach for something¡ªanything¡ªfamiliar. A face. A name. A reason why my chest felt tight with dread.


    Kach.


    It was all I had. My name. The one thing that remained in the wreckage of my brain. My first name is the only thing that remains mine.


    My thoughts fractured as a sound broke the stillness¡ªa low moan, slowly growing. My eyes¡ªfree from paraplegia¡ªshift as I see him. A man, not far in age from myself, lies feet away, his body twisted awkwardly against the debris. Blood trickled down his temple, his fingers twitching, collecting the blood like a storm drain. I don''t know him. I didn''t know anything. But as his eyes fluttered open and locked onto me, a primal sensation surged in my heart, like oil to machine, and my blood started pumping to prime me.


    He moves first.


    His hand shoots out, grasping a blade lying by his feet. The motion was sharp, deliberate, and without hesitation. The knife gleamed in the dim light, shimmering out symbols engraved on the side, just as alien as anything else I now know. He rises to his knees, transitioning to his feet. His stare is cold and calculated. But I cannot move.


    Get up, my mind tortures me. Move. My heart listens, but my muscles fail me, made of obsidian, unyielding. My brain races through the fog of my mind, torn between the instinct to survive and the terrible confusion. The man takes a step closer, his legs limp, he rolls his right wrist, he is hurt. In his left hand, he awkwardly grips the knife. I can read his mind, his eyes held no secret. He didn''t care who I was, I was alive, and that made me a threat.


    Move.


    I repeat this useless command until my fingers twitch. Too slow. He lunges at me.


    Time fractures above me, his body closing the distance with terrifying speed, and my own finally responded. My arm shoots up, cracking the obsidian as it goes. I catch his knife in my hand, the pain remains void in my state. His strength drove me to the floor, the blade hovering inches from my throat. It looks as if I am trying to choke myself. The pressure cooker in my chest reaches its limit. His face twisted in fury, veins bulging as he pressed harder. I slowly lose consciousness as my body takes control of me.


    My body moved like it remembered something I didn''t. My hand balls to a fist stealing the knife, rotating it until he is pulling away from me. I don''t let go. I slam my head with the force of a bull right into his nose, he feels it. He stumbles backward tripping over my legs, I follow through, driving my knee into his ribs until I reverse our situation.


    He gasped, the air knocked out of him, but I didn''t stop. The coldness of his gaze is gone, replaced by the primal eyes of a boy. Scared. Pain has started to resurface in my empty mind, it hurts. I need to finish quick. I now hold the blade in my left hand, non-dominate but still deadly. The blade is foreign in my grasp, but I hold it tight, my breath ragged as I level it at his throat. For a moment, neither of us moved.


    If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    What am I doing?


    The question rings in my head, bouncing off the other unanswered that bring my sanity a new challenge. The eyes of a man I don''t know flicked from the knife to my face, an expression wavering between anger, fear, and relief.


    At that moment, I realized I was not sure which of us was more afraid.


    The knife doesn''t fit my hand. Its weight pulling at my resolve as much as my trembling fingers. The man''s blood-smeared face stared at me, and for a fleeting second, I thought he looked human¡ªmore human than I expected. Fear conterted his features, his chest palpitations rivet his body, teaching me his fear and I ride his body.


    "Don''t move," I said, my voice hoarse and unsteady. My blade shakes inches from his throat. His lips twisted into something between a grin and a grimace. He tilts up his head, coming closer to my knife. Gravity pulls the blood from his forehead trickling down, filling his pores. The blood on his teeth darkening his smile. "You don''t even understand why you''re doing this?" he replies, genuinely baffled.


    I froze. My grip tightened on the knife, showing him my resolve. He sees right through me, his eyes cut sharper than any knife as he exposes me.


    "I don''t¡ª" I start at words, faltering at every syllable. The truth is raw, festing beneath my surface. I didn''t know why I was here, why I was holding this blade, or why I hadn''t already walked away. His pity leaves a strong impression on me.


    He laughed¡ªa low and wet sound. He doesn''t speak but my brain fills in the gaps. Your''re just fumbling in the dark, doing what your body tells you to do. Some instinct buried so deep you don''t even know if it''s yours.


    "Shut up," I hissed, pressing the knife closer. His grin didn''t waver, if anything it improved.


    "You gonna do it, Captain?" he sneered, his tone mocking me. "Gonna kill me and prove you''re just like me?"


    My teeth clenched, my breaths coming fast. "I said shut up." His grin is now gone, replaced by a cold stare, sharp as knife. His eyes show pity. The word Captain send a jolt right through me. For just long enough for the tides to turn.


    "You are not like me." He grits down on his teeth bringing the last of his strength out of him, in an instant his hands encounter mine. He has my wrist, the knife clatters to the ground as he twisted my arm and shoved me backward, as I had previously done to him. But I hit the floor harder, impact knicking the air out my system. My gears shift tightly. He is on me before I recover, his weight pressing down on my chest, he is heavier than before. His hands wrapping around my throat.


    "See?" he growled, his face inches from mine, his breath hot and foul as his warm blood mixes homogenize with mine. He can''t aford to talk, his tank is running low but¡­ He finds it integral he prove himself to me. My vision is blurred as he squeezed the life from me, my view warping inward. I clawed at his arms, pealing his flesh off with my now jagged fingernails. It is not enough. My other hand reaches for a tool, the knife is out of reach, I grab a piece of broken chair. I hit him on his side as hard as I can. My mind racing as I gasped for air.


    Move. Fight. The words thundered in my head, my body isn''t as strong as my brain.


    You''re going to die if you don''t kill him.


    The thought hits harder than brick, cutting through the haze, my oxygen is focused on supporting this narrative in my last moments. My hands find his wrists, trying to pry them off me, but he only pressed harder, and my grip weaker. He is taunting me with words as his strength returns, I can''t hear him. Maybe it''s my body''s last act of protecting me from the coward I am.


    No.


    A wave of desperation and fury surge inside me. My grip returns, and I managed to shift my weight, just enough to give me a sliver of leverage. My knee pushes him closer as I try to slide under him. His face shows panic, but it isn''t enough. My mind screamed: Do it. Do it now.


    And then, the weight vanished.


    I think myself, dead. My mind gave up, following my body. But my vision cleared, I saw him¡ªsuspended in the air, his legs kicking weakly.


    A man stands behind him. He is old and large, he stands well over 6 feet tall, full to the brim with muscles and fat that give him emence weight. His massive hand wrapped around the around my attackers skull. His expression was calm, almost bored, annoyed mostly, and if this required no effort at all.


    "I see you need some help my friend." He laughs. Who the hell is this guy. My questioning stops there, the devil himself could have saved me and I would kill his ring. I am glad to be alive. I am reminded of that fact.


    The old man''s hand tensed. There was a sickening crack, and the mans body whet limp. Blood spared across the room in a thick gradient before his body is released to the ground. I can''t care. I coughed, rolling onto my side, my throat raw. My chest heaving, hard in relief than distress. My gaze focuses on the corpse, the blood pooling beneath it, and then to the old man. He looms over me, his shadow captures my whole body in its wake.


    "You looked like you needed a hand," he said, his voice as casual as if we were discussing the weather. My face looks at him in awe, confusion, and fear. His face twists in response to mind. "I''m sorry if you were all good, I don''t mean to steal your kill."


    This guy must be fucking crazy.


    I tried to speak, my voice failing me. All I do could do was nod, mind still in a blur of adrenaline and disbelief.


    The old man knelt, his massive hand, soaked in blood, gripping my should as soft as a one holds up the back head of a baby.


    "Next time," he said, voice dropping low, "don''t hesitate." This mans eyes move different. I turn off my mind and body.


    "The name''s Prime, and you are?" He smiles to me, as I sit dead-pan.


    He walks away from me before I respond. He comes back holding a man by the neck, as a cat would so holding their kitty, covered in liters of blood, much more than any one human has, much less live without. The man breathes, barely.


    "Wanna help me interrogate this guy?" Prime laughs. My mind clears and the fog disperse. And as if routine, I come back to the same question I held moments earlier.


    Where the fuck am I?

 Prime

    The room was still heavy with the smell of blood and charred wood. I sit stiffly on a damaged chair, my throat still raw. Across from me lies a monster of a man. He nearly has to shorten himself to walk in his home, and his great weight makes cracks in the floor, warning those below him of the risky foundation. He is a rough pale man with grey spots infecting his skin, and his long locks of hair are no whiter than snow. His beard protects his neck, also colored snow. If he had not just saved me, I''d think he was the enemy, an intimidating fellow. His eyes look at me from another room, the shine of his glass eyes blinding me. He takes off a steak from the stove, adding it to a muddied plate of bacon grease and egg white. He sits down. Across from me, lies Prime, one hand wrapped around a steaming mug of tea which the other pieces up a piece of bacon


    The man seemed at ease, the earlier carnage no more than spilled drink. More interestingly so, despite how baffled I am at my situation, he heeds no concern, confusion, or care for who I am, or why I am here. I think that makes me trust him.


    "You hungry?" Prime asked in earnest, though his sharp gaze cut through me like a blade. "You look like you could use some protein."


    I shake my head. Silently. Eyes darting between the destroyed table, bloodstained floor, and the hulking man casually sipping tea. My coil suit skinks of piss, the scent is comforting. Prime chuckles.


    "Suit yourself." He flipped a mug from the counter toward me, spilling a bit of hot liquid as it landed on the table. ''Drink that. Tea won''t kill you. Can''t say the same for everything else around here." He says in a boisterous matter. He thinks himself funny.


    I hesitate to pick up the mug, gripping it tightly to steady my shaking hands. The warmth fails to reach the cold knot vibrating in my chest.


    "So," Prime said, his tone shifting slightly as he tossed another piece of bacon in his mouth. He chews as he talks. "What''s the deal with you kid."


    I am taken aback by an obvious question, the shock has been reacting to normalcy strange. I take a second to clear my throat, wincing at the soreness. "I¡ª I don''t know," I admit. "I woke up in this suit and that man tried to kill me." I stare at the corpse of the man Prime has reduced to brain soup. I see him closer now, he is but a boy. The guilt falls hard on me, even though I know it is not my fault. "All I remember is my name, Kach."


    Prime''s eyebrows raise slightly, but his smirk doesn''t waver. "No memory, huh?" He sets down his mug and looks to the sky, muttering something under his breath, I think he compares me to a character in a book, I have no idea what he means. "Ok, well." he makes a slight pause. "Let me catch you up real quick, kid, since you''ve been born again or something." He doesn''t care for my origin, I appreciate that.


    I lean forward instinctively, dragged in by a promise for clarity.


    "This place? It''s a death trap," Prime began. His eyes roll around his head as his wrist turns in a circular motion, gesturing vaguely around. He quickly stops what he is saying, looking stuck for a moment, before locking eyes with me again. "I guess this is a good place to start, do you have superpowers where you''re from?" He tells me, the most serious I have seen him. My face shows that, no, obviously not. "See our cultist friend over here¡­" He pointed toward the near-lifeless body slumped against the wall. "They''re all out for power. Mana, gods, whatever they can sink their claws into. And you?" His giggle returns. "You just stumbled right into the middle of it."


    "What does that mean?" I ask. "What do you mean¡­ Power?"


    Prime chucked low, his fingers drumming against the table. "You saw what I did to him." He tilted his head toward the shattered remains of the knife user''s head on the floor. "That''s power. Raw, unfiltered strength. A gift you could say, from the world¡ªor something darker." His face scrunches up like a girl, teasing me.


    I stare at him, mind racing. I don''t know whether to panic, run, or still perfectly still. I don''t understand, and my trust is wavering. Prime leans in closer, his smirk growing.


    Prime raised his mug, taking a slow sip of tea before setting it back down. His gaze never left me, sharp and unyielding, but there was something strange about how he moved¡ªtoo precise, too deliberate. Robotic. Prime leaned back in his chair, his smirk turning into a full grin. "Tell me kid. What do you see when you look at me?"


    I blink, unsure of the answer he wants to hear. "Uh¡­ a lunatic?" I say, hesitating. I am not joking.


    Prime chuckled, tapping his finger on the side of his head. "Close, but not quite. Look at me." Something about his expression changed¡ªan intensity that made Kach''s stomach twist. The man reached up, pulling his glasses from his face and tossing them onto the table.


    I freeze, this time not in fear.


    Prime''s eyes were cloudy, a pale green, almost ghostly. The scars around his sockets told a clear story: this was a man who couldn''t see.


    "You''re blind?" I blurted out before I could sensor myself.


    "Took you long enough." Prime grinned wider, his teeth flashing. My mind reeled. I think back to the fight earlier, the way Prime had moved with deadly precision as if every action had been perfectly planned. He hadn''t stumbled, hadn''t hesitated, hadn''t missed a single step. But¡­ How? I ask, thinking I said it out loud. Prime stood slowly, his massive frame towering over Kach. His eyes closed. Without warning, he grabbed the still-hot skillet from the stove and hurled it directly at my head. I barely have time to yelp as I duck, the pan flying past me and banging against the wall in an ugly clank.


    "What the hell?!" I shout, my heart pounding. Prime was already moving. He stepped toward me, lifting his hand, and pointed directly at my face¡ªdespite his cloudy, unfocused eyes. "You moved before you even thought about it, Prime said, as he gestured his fingers around my eyes. "And you weren''t the only one." He tapped his temple, a faint glimmer of light tracing along the curves of his face."I don''t have eyes to see, kid. I see everything before it happens. Every step, every breath, every thought you''re about to have. It''s like watching a play I''ve already read a thousand times." Prime brags. I don''t know what to and what to not believe, although it stands as a second step to understanding. Prime is happy with himself, to be able to brag to someone ignorant of his world gives him much enjoyment. And even in the most abstract of senses, I understand this ''power'' he talks about just a little bit more clearly.


    Prime nodded, crossing his arms. "That''s right. A little gift from the earth that has given me the ability to see what others can''t. Makes me damn near invincible." Shrugging, smug.


    I shake my head in disapproval. "That''s impossible¡­"


    Prime smirked. "Impossible or not, it''s how I crushed those rats earlier, and it''s how I survive in this world. If you plan to keep on making enemies you best learn to defend yourself." He gestured toward the unconscious blood covered boy slumped on the floor. "You? You''ve got instincts, but instincts won''t save you, kid. Not unless you learn to trust them."Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.


    I look at him, he is clear but I am an even mix of shock and ignorant. Nothing he says is setting in my mind. This was the inappropriate response to show to this crazy man.


    Prime''s smirk widened. Every time I think his smile full, it continues to stretch. Honestly it''s quite disturbing. He gestures toward the unconscious man covered in blood. "This man here also has a power gifted from the earth." Prime says, attempting to shake away the man, splashing his blood around. "People who attain his power go by a name, we call them factions, this asshole belongs to the Sanguine Coven." He shakes harder. He stands up from his chair over the unconscious man. Prime is so tall he unintentionally brings him feet above the ground, grabbing him by the collar, as if weightless. The man groaned, his head lolling to the side, draining his blood from all angles.


    "What''s going on? What are you gonna do to him?" I ask, cracking with alarm.


    Prime didn''t answer. He smashed the man''s head into the table¡ªonce, twice, six times¡ªeach impact sending shockwaves through the wood. Splinters fly as blood smeared across the surface, and the man''s groans turn into strangled gasps. Prime let go, letting the man crumple back onto the floor. I had assumed the man dead this whole time, I see in the mans eye, he wishes it were true. He attempts to recover, clearing the blood from his vision. Prime turned to me, wiping his bloodied hand on his cloak, wincing at the stain it will leave. "He''s still breathing." Prime starts to crack, "well, barely." He turned to the Coven member as he trys so hard to gain her footing. "He''s the deal¡­ What''s your name?" Prime stands staring at the Coven member, tapping his feet. He gets no response. "You know what, we will call you asshole. So listen up, kill him, and I''ll let you take me back to wherever you think you''re going."


    My heart sinks as he stares right at me. The knots in my stomach retwist. What?


    Prime stepped closer, his towering frame casting a long shadow over me. "You heard me. Kill im, or he''ll kill you. Honstely I thought I was pretty clear. ''Asshole'' is weak, but still dangerous. I''m giving you a chance to finish what you started earlier.


    I am at a loss of words. "I¡­ I can''t," I mutter the words under my frozen breathe. My head shakes, which in turn infects my hands as I glance at the broken man on the floor, blood pooling around him.


    Prime''s smir is gone now. "If you don''t kill him, you''ll die the second he gets to his feet. This is how my world works. You think he''s going to show you mercy? You think he won''t rip your throat out the first chance he gets.?"


    Asshole''s hand starts to twist as he reaches for the edge of the table to pull himself up. His bloodied face twisted into a grin, teeth bared like a feral animal. The man is young, even younger than the knife user I fought earlier, he can''t be older than a teenager, sporting a buzzcut with juvenile facial hair. The dark red of the blood blends in with his maroon skin, and as I stare him down the bright glow of his blue eyes keep him visible in my tremor. The boy who just a second ago was wishing to die, like a snake, has evolved learning he has a real chance of survival.


    "You''re dead." Asshole rasped, his voice weak but filled with venom.


    Move. Fight. The fog had returned and those echoing words came back to haunt me.


    The blood pooling around him slowly starts to rise. Defying gravity as it twisted and spiraled through the air. Asshole''s movements were sluggish, his body swaying, but the blood seemed to act of it''s own accord, swirling into a protective shield that shimmered faintly with crimson light. I should be in awe, my brain saves me by reminding me of impending death. I can question the supernatural later. His eyes burned with determination, even when his body threatened to give out. Each step dragged, the blood surrounding him with a light precision¡ªa sentient force keeping him upright.


    I grit my teeth, my own blood still dripping from my useless right hand. The wound burned with an unnatural heat, and I could feel the pull, faint but present. I look down to my wound. My hand is bubbling as if boiling, and past my hand I see my blood drip. Gravity steals it control, bringing quickly to the ground before it slows, and slows, until right before it hits the ground it stops. Pooling together as I continue to drip. The floating pool of blood starts to flow in a stream back toward Asshole. It joins his protective sheild of rain, I near piss myself.


    It is now or never.


    Asshole lunged, his body slow but his blood moving fast. The crimson shield lashed out like a whip, a jagged tendril of liquid slashing toward my chest. I barely dodge. Asshole''s blood clashes through the air, leaving a sharp metallic tang in its wake. I stumble back, my breathing inconsistent, feet sliding on the blood-slick floor. My left hand grabs the knife I still held from my previous battle, it feels more natural now, and I hold it tightly. Another ray of blood struct out, faster. I quickly drop lower, feeling it graze the air above my head.


    He''s controlling it, I realize. I look for clues, eyes searching between Asshole and the swirling blood. An answer I don''t find, but I understand one thing clearly. His body''s barely holding on. If I can outlast him¡­


    Prime looks us over from his chair, he is seated once again. He is not bluffing, I shouldn''t waste my time giving him any heed because he will not save me twice.


    My thoughts are cut short again. The whirling blood starts to return to his injured aim where a striking cut belongs. The blood returns to his person, stopping the bleeding as it returns and seems to health everything but the flesh. As the blood continues to flow in, the extra blood starts to form a blade around his arm. The is bright red, the flow beautiful. It seems a simple fountain, I have learned well enough to assume it can cut through steel.


    Asshole staggers, his movements slow and unsteady. The blade trains him on a path of deadly precision.


    "Come on, then," I hype myself up, trying to calm the pounding in my chest and fire on my right hand. My muscles coil as Asshole lungest again.


    The liquid blade whistles through the air, a wide horizontal slash aimed at my center mass. I duck, pivoting on my back foot, feeling the heat of the blade pass were inches from my vitals, scratching just into my muscle. Before I can rise, the swings continue, this time in a tight upward arc. I twist my body to the side, he slices my after-image. I counter, thrusting my knife toward Asshole''s exposed ribs. The blade glances off the hardened blood armor still clinging to Asshole''s body, the impact jarring my arm. It hurts me more than him, still I cut through him.


    Asshole presses the attack, his blood blade morphing mid-swing into a serrated edge. The weapon strikes down in a diagonal arc. My footwork guilds me unconsciously, it didn''t account for the slick blood painting the floor. The blade grazes my shoulder, tearing through fabric and leaving a shallow gash. Pain blossoms. Asshole shifts his attention to my right arm, raising his free hand. My wound starts to burn, before a pain, simply a sensation. Now it was real. White-hot blood trickles from my palm unnaturally, almost as if being pulled by an invisible force. My hand jerks without warning, as if on a pivot, it continues the same shape. My knife waves in a semi-circle, inaccurately. My hand rises against my will, fingers curling into a mix, and in a quick blas,t my fingers twist into each other as the pain overwhelms me.


    I scream.


    "You think you can resist?" Asshole hisses, his voice ragged but filled with venom.


    My body fights itself as Asshole takes control over my arm. Blood manipulation. My hand moves to my throat, shaking uncontrollably. I hopelessly fight it back with my left arm, stopping the advance.


    Asshole smirks, his hand transforming again into a spear. He thrusts it at me, aiming for my solar plexus with a burst of speed. I roll with the strike, it hurts more than I can describe, luckily he only knicks my shoulder. I expect to be lifted by my shoulder, a bloody scarecrow. I am not lifted. The pain is deep, radiating outward like fire licking my veins. My body is taken over by instinct again, still unable to save myself, but a bloodlust activates in me that I cannot explain. Even in this situation, it is unsettling to me. My free hand moves to cover my new wound, blood flooding the dam of my fingers. My body prepares itself for that phantom grip to take it, the feeling of my body betraying itself once again. But nothing happens. I stagger back, the strike took enough focus to loosen his grip. Asshole''s spear of violet violence dissipates into puddles of blood that coil back into his body.


    Why didn''t it work this time?


    Asshole takes a limp at me. The blood coiled around him now returns to his legs, returning his strength. He slits his left wrist, and the blood spurs out in a wave or knives building up around his person. He is ready to end me.


    My right-hand paules, the same heat as before burning my arm. My shoulder has begun to succumb to the adrenaline, I look in search of a reason. I find it. My eyes fall to the faint glow of the cut, the symbols shimmering faintly in the lighting. My mind races and I piece fragments together. The symbols. The knife. My hand.


    It''s the knife.


    I''m slammed. The blade cursed with its glowing symbols didn''t cut me¡ªit marked me, bound me. And however it works, he can now control my arm.


    The idea is insane. Reckless. But I am a desperate man, and I am out of options.


    Asshole steps closer, his body struggling through the energy drain as he builds up an army of killing tools to fly at me.


    It all happens in the infinite painful stretch of a second. But in that short time, I had broken down and regained hope through a new dark and warped perspective that might just save me.


    I glance at my torso, and then my thigh¡ªboth of them. No time for doubts. With a sharp inhale, I raise the knife and drive it into my left thigh. The pain explodes, immediately, sending my body into shock. These unknown instincts take over. I reverse my grip on the knife and quickly strike the other thigh. My leg buckles slightly, but I keep myself tall. Blood wells up around the wound, hot and fast, staining the fabric of my pants. Asshole freezes. His eyes widen, confusion breaking his expression and more importantly, his concentration. His knives slowly disperse as I lock eyes on him. For a millisecond we stare, still. I take the blade for the last time and give myself a scar diagonal to my abdominals, and the immense blood rush completes my gamble. Just as the blood had done a moment ago, the blood rush moves me like a magnet toward Asshole. My blade in hand. I fly at him faster than I expected, and he is defenseless because my speed is not possible. I slice his face before I stab his shoulder. He gasps, the air rushing from his lungs in a wheeze. All blood used for attacks returns to his body, draining my life as I attempt to take his. We are now in a battle of wills. Will I steal his life before he steals mine? His blood pools around him, much as he was born to this battle. I sit on his hips, my expression unsure, my vision narrowing, my grip unrelenting. I refuse death. Asshole looks into my eyes as they fade, his dark skin tones shifting from maroon to red. Blood red. My attacks are random, fueled not by survival, but anger. I only remember my last strike, the one that ended him. I drive the knife into his chest, and he finally collapses. The blood surrounding him stills, its unnatural glow fading to nothing.


    The room is silent, save for the sound of a flood. I lay backward on my back, and my viewport is obstructed by a giant Prime. He is the last thing I see.