Chương 89: Those Who Remained

The first village was not yet called a mistake. It was called Mossbank. A small beastman village clinging to the edge of a gray stream, built between thick roots and lichen-covered stones. Low houses, hanging nets, hides drying beneath awnings, a circle of fire still warm at the center. A village without grandeur. A village that could have vanished from history without anyone beyond the low woods noticing its absence. Zayn arrived in the morning. The scythe was not visible. Not yet.

It slept in his left forearm, beneath the black chains of the tattoo, where Wrath waited for him to give it a reason to return. The reason was never far away. It breathed in every memory. Narek falling into the ravine. Brakka on her knees, throat pierced. Korr dead in front of children he had not been able to protect. Saeva's spear broken in the mud. The white voices speaking his name. Zayn entered the village without hiding. His split half-mask covered the upper half of his face. His mouth remained visible.

Too calm. An otter-man saw him first near the bridge. Value 24. He was holding a basket of fish. Not a weapon. He froze when he caught the scent. Human. Blood. Demon. Smoke. A burned clan. Then he dropped his basket. — The demonic human… The words spread through the village faster than an alarm cry. Doors opened. Beastmen came out: otters, foxes, two young wolves, a badger-faced woman carrying a short axe. Not major warriors. Not a war clan.

Border dwellers with enough teeth to defend their fire, not enough to stop a calamity. Zayn walked to the central circle. — The white woods. His voice was rough. Not loud. But everyone heard it. No one answered. He looked at the otter-man. — Where? The man was shaking. — What? Zayn tilted his head. The scythe murmured in his arm. — He knows something. They always know something when they're afraid. — The elves, Zayn said. The white corpses. The archers. The stitched bodies. Where did they go?

A fox-woman backed away toward a house. Bad idea. Zayn turned his eyes toward her. She stopped instantly. The badger-woman raised her axe. Value 33. — Leave. Zayn looked at her. — No. — You are not one of us. A weak laugh came from his throat. Not funny. Not human. — The Mist-Fangs said otherwise. The village froze. The badger-woman tightened her grip on her axe. — The Mist-Fangs are dead. The tattoo on Zayn's forearm burned. — Yes. — Because they kept you. The scythe woke. Not in his hand. In his blood.

— There, it whispered. Do you feel that? That word deserves an edge. Zayn closed his eyes for one second. When he opened them again, he was smiling. The badger-woman went pale. — Say it again, he said. No one moved. — Say it again. She did not. So Zayn walked toward the otter-man with the basket. The man recoiled. A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. — I don't know anything! — Bad answer.

He grabbed the man by the throat and lifted him against a post. Cries broke out. The badger-woman charged. At last. Hatred became solid. The scythe appeared in Zayn's left hand. Black. Long. Curved. The whole village recoiled in a single breath. The scythe laughed. — Hello. Zayn barely turned his wrist. The badger-woman's axe was cut clean in two. The second movement opened her thigh. She fell, screaming. Not dead. Zayn could have finished her. He did not. Not out of mercy. Because her screams were useful.

He lowered the otter-man to the ground, half-strangled. — The elves. The man was crying now. — We saw white figures to the north! Near the split stones! I swear it! We did nothing! Zayn crouched in front of him. — Nothing? — Nothing! — You heard about the Mist-Fangs? Silence. The man's eyes slid toward the others. Zayn smiled wider. — There. The scythe murmured: — They were speaking about you around the fire. Zayn pressed the blade against the man's cheek. — What did you say?

The man trembled so hard the skin of his neck vibrated against the edge. — That they should have handed you over. The blade sank a millimeter deeper. — Go on. — That the elves would not have struck if… if the Mist-Fangs had not kept a taint. The word fell. Taint. Zayn closed his eyes. This time, when he laughed, even the scythe went quiet for a second to listen. It was not a laugh of pain. It was worse. A laugh of discovery. As if a part of him had finally understood that he no longer had any reason to pretend.

— You buried my dead with that word, he said softly. The otter-man was sobbing. — I didn't— The scythe cut. [Soul strength absorbed: +0] The head rolled into the dust. The village screamed. And Zayn stepped into the screams the way one steps into a river. Two young wolves attacked together. They had the beginning of an aura. Weak. Poorly formed. A village aura, a hunting aura, courage too young to understand what it was facing. Zayn felt Gluttony tense.

He parried the first with the shaft of the scythe, took the second blow on the shoulder, then bit. Not out of necessity. Not to survive. To take. His teeth sank into the young wolf's arm. He tore away a piece of flesh beneath the howls. The taste of breath entered his mouth. The mark on his tongue burned. The scythe shuddered. Dark smoke coiled around the blade. The imitation of dark aura. Filthy. Stolen. The young wolf's aura broke on contact. Zayn cut. [Soul strength absorbed: +1] [Envy efficiency reduced.] Current soul strength: 64 The second young wolf dropped to his knees. — Mercy… Zayn stopped in front of him. The scythe whispered: — He is young. Zayn looked at the wolf-boy. The fear in his eyes. His ears laid back. His trembling body. For a fraction of a second, he saw Narek. Not dead. Alive. Sitting by the fire, thick soup in his hands, saying he could walk. The fraction of a second passed. — Do not use his face, said Zayn. The wolf-boy did not understand. The scythe, however, laughed. Zayn killed him.

[Soul strength absorbed: +1] Current soul strength: 65 After that, the village stopped being a fight. It became a flight. The inhabitants ran toward the houses, toward the river, toward the trees. Some grabbed weapons. Others grabbed children. Others grabbed nothing. Zayn did not follow all of them. He did not need to. A torch fell into a vat of oil near the smokehouse. The fire caught. Then a second house. Then a third. Zayn watched the flames climb the damp wood. The scythe spoke: — You could save them.

He did not move. — You could cut the beams. Open a path. Carry the little ones. Zayn watched a door shut on panicked silhouettes. He heard the pounding from inside. The screams. The smoke. His face did not change. — Yes. The scythe vibrated with pleasure. — And you will not. Zayn turned his eyes north. Toward the split stones. Toward the white figures the otter-man had mentioned. — No. He left Mossbank while the village burned. Behind him, not everyone died by his blade. Some died in the fire. Some in the smoke.

Some under the feet of their own during the flight. Some escaped, alive enough to tell the story. That was better. A massacre without witnesses was only a hole. Zayn wanted a road. The split stones lay three hours to the north. There he found traces. Real ones. Maybe. Pale blood on a root. A fragment of a white arrow. A fine footprint, too light for a beastman. A strip of pale cloth caught in a rock. And a corpse. A fox-man hanging from a low branch, his hands bound behind his back with silver thread.

Words had been carved into his chest. Not in the human tongue. Not in the tongue of the clans. But Zayn recognized one symbol. The white leaf. Beneath the words, a translation had been written in the language of the beastmen with cruel care. THOSE WHO KEEP THE TAINT WILL BE CUT. The scythe laughed. — They write better than you. Zayn stood before the body. A part of him still knew. Too visible. Too clean. Too perfectly aligned with his rage. But now that knowledge was no longer a brake. It was fuel.

If it was a lie, then someone had dared use the dead of the elves, the dead of the beastmen, and Narek to build it. If it was true, then the elves had signed their own pyre. In either case, the direction remained the same. North. But before the north, there was still an entire continent that kept speaking. And Zayn no longer liked mouths that spoke of taint. Footsteps approached behind him. Six beastmen. Armed. Survivors of Mossbank, perhaps, accompanied by hunters from a neighboring village.

Values between 22 and 38. The oldest, a one-eyed fox-man, raised a spear. — Step away from the body. Zayn slowly turned his head. — Is it yours? — He was one of ours. — Then you came late. The fox tightened his grip on the spear. — We saw the smoke. — Does it rise well? One of the younger men behind him let out a cry of rage and leapt. The old one tried to stop him. Too late. Zayn did not summon the scythe. Not immediately. He let the young man come.

Then he caught him by the throat, slammed him against a stone, and activated Flesh Assimilation in his fingers. Short claws. Just enough. The youth choked. The old fox shouted: — Stop! Zayn looked at the others. — Tell me where the elves are. The old one was trembling with rage. — You burned Mossbank. — Yes. The simplicity of the answer struck them harder than a justification. The old one murmured: — My son was there. Zayn tilted his head. — Maybe he ran fast enough. The old fox attacked. The scythe appeared.

This time, Zayn killed four of the six. Not fast. Not cleanly. The old fox was the last one left, one leg cut off, breathing in broken bursts. Zayn crouched in front of him. — The elves. The old one spat blood. — Monster. Zayn smiled. — At last, an honest word. The scythe murmured: — Kill him. Zayn gave a slight shake of his head. — No. The weapon sounded almost surprised. — No? Zayn leaned closer to the fox. — You will live.

The terror in the old man's eyes was delicious in a way Zayn would not have recognized two months earlier. — You will crawl to the next village, he said. You will tell them the demonic human is looking for the white woods. You will tell them that those who speak the word taint burn faster than the others. The old one was breathing in tiny jerks. — And if they hunt you? Zayn rested the scythe on his shoulder. — Then they will learn how to die by giving me a direction. He stood up.

The scythe slid along the stone, leaving behind a black mark. [Soul strength absorbed: +2] [Envy efficiency reduced.] Current soul strength: 67 The old survivor looked at the bodies around him. Then at Zayn. Then he crawled. Slowly. Zayn let him go. The scythe sighed with contentment. — Ah. You are finally learning. — Learning what? — Not to kill immediately when fear can walk farther than blood. Zayn watched the old fox disappear among the trees. He felt nothing. No remorse. No simple satisfaction.

Only the absence of a limit. As if the destruction of the Mist-Fangs had torn something out of him, and the air now passing through that hole made the same sound as a blade. By evening, Mossbank was nothing more than a column of smoke. By the next morning, three villages knew the story. By the third day, seven. By the fifth, Zayn's name was already mixing with white arrows, white woods, the Mist-Fangs, demons, rising dead, and villages that burned after they spoke. No one held the whole truth. It did not matter.

Catastrophes did not need to be understood to spread. They only needed to be told. And somewhere, very far behind the rumors, in a windowless room of the demon kingdom, a mouthless agent received the first report. Mossbank destroyed. Subject active. Wrath confirmed. Probable northward direction. Reaction to elven evidence: exploitable. The reply came back with only one line. Let him find more villages before he finds the sea. So more evidence was prepared. More elven bodies were opened. More bracelets were broken.

And on the beastman continent, fear began to run faster than Zayn. Not to escape him. To open the road ahead of him.