Chương 90: The Stolen Breath

The second village had closed its gates before he arrived. That was smart. Useless, but smart. Zayn stood before the palisade of Splitwood, the scythe resting on his shoulder, the split half-mask covering the upper half of his face. His coat was still stained with the smoke of Mossbank. His left forearm burned beneath the black chains of Wrath. His collarbone, meanwhile, pulsed softly, like a mouth waiting to be fed. Behind the wooden stakes, the beastmen watched him. Wolves. Foxes. Two bears.

A few children hidden behind larger silhouettes. A wolf-man climbed onto an inner platform. Value: 43. Not a major chief. But a real warrior. His aura already weighed in the air, denser than that of the youths of Mossbank. A pressure of fangs, earth, and restrained breath. Not an imitation. Not magic. A force born from a body that knew what it was. Zayn slowly raised his eyes. The scythe murmured: — That one breathes well. The wolf-man spoke from the platform. — The demonic human does not enter here. Zayn smiled.

— Bad opening. I was almost tempted to be polite. Murmurs passed through the palisade. The warrior did not move. — Mossbank burns behind you. — Yes. — You burned it. — Not alone. The scythe chuckled. — Modest. The warrior tightened his grip on his spear. — The Mist-Fangs died because of you. Zayn tilted his head. The world narrowed. The palisade. The spear. The voice. That word. Because of you. Before, that kind of sentence would have found a crack inside him. A place to enter. A shame to awaken.

A justification to prepare. Now there was no space left. Only a black surface. — Open, said Zayn. — No. — Then I cut. The warrior raised his spear. His aura spread all at once across the palisade. The stakes vibrated. The other defenders straightened, as if his breath gave them a center. A little animal Dawnline, thought a distant part of Zayn. Then that part died beneath hatred. The scythe became heavier in his hand. — He protects, it murmured. Do you remember those who protected? Zayn stepped forward.

A volley of arrows flew. He did not avoid them all. He did not even try. Two opened his shoulder. A third lodged in his thigh. A fourth struck his left forearm and shattered against the black chains of Wrath. The pain entered. Hatred ate it. Zayn raised the scythe. The blade wrapped itself in black smoke, but weak, unstable. The imitation aura taken from the previous beastman flesh was not yet dense enough. The scythe sighed. — It lacks breath. Zayn looked at the wolf warrior on the platform. — Then I'll take some.

He ran. The gates remained shut. That was the point. Zayn did not aim for the gate. He aimed for the right side of the palisade, where the stakes were old, reinforced with damp rope and bark plates. The scythe struck. The wood resisted. The wolf warrior's aura vibrated through the structure. Zayn felt the recoil all the way into his ribs. He laughed. A real laugh. Not human. — Again. The scythe struck a second time. Then a third. The defenders fired. An arrow pierced his side. He kept going.

The wolf warrior finally leapt from the platform, landing in front of the palisade with a deep growl. His aura concentrated around his spear, visible enough to make the air tremble. A real weapon covered in breath. Zayn stopped. The scythe fell silent. For one second, he felt the difference. What the Mist-Fangs had tried to teach him. The body. The instinct. The will. The breath. All aligned. All alive. All inaccessible. The wolf warrior charged. His spear struck the scythe. True aura met stolen aura.

The black smoke around Zayn's blade burst instantly. The impact threw him to the ground. The warrior gave him no time to breathe. He drove his spear toward his throat. Zayn rolled aside. Too slowly. The tip pierced his already wounded shoulder and nearly pinned him to the earth. The wolf warrior growled: — You are not one of us. Zayn lifted his eyes to him. — I know. — You do not have our breath. — I know. — Then stop defiling it. The sentence passed through the rage. Not enough to stop it. Enough to make it purer.

Zayn grabbed the shaft of the spear with both hands. Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings. The warrior tried to pull it free. Zayn opened his mouth. The mark of Gluttony burned. He bit into the wolf warrior's wrist. Not to survive. Not because he had no choice. Not because hunger forced him. Because he wanted to see him understand. His teeth pierced the skin. Blood entered. Breath with it. The warrior screamed.

Zayn tore away a piece of flesh and swallowed it before his body even had time to reject it. The Fall of Gluttony opened like a maw in his tongue. His collarbone pulsed. His left forearm burned. The scythe laughed. — There. Now defile it properly. The wolf warrior's aura faltered. Zayn felt its structure. Not entirely. Never entirely. He did not understand the honor of breath. He did not understand the alignment of the body.

He did not understand the discipline that allowed a will to leave the body without tearing it apart. But he understood one thing. Pressure. The way breath clung to the weapon. The sensation of an instinct transformed into an edge. So he took that sensation. Crushed it. Mixed it with hatred. And forced it into the scythe. The black blade wrapped itself in a dark aura. Not a true aura. Something uglier. A thick, living smoke full of throat murmurs, swallowed blood, and stolen breath. It did not strengthen Zayn.

It did not cover his body. It gave no dignity to his movement. It existed only on the scythe. As if the weapon had eaten the very idea of aura and spat it back out as a threat. The wolf warrior stepped back. His true aura trembled. Zayn tore the spear from his shoulder. Then struck. The spear covered in aura tried to block. The scythe cut it in two. The warrior's eyes widened. — Impossible… Zayn smiled, his mouth full of blood. — No. He brought the scythe down. — Just filthy. The warrior fell.

[Soul strength absorbed: +2] [Envy yield reduced due to density gap.] Current soul strength: 69 Two points. Zayn looked at the body. Then at his collarbone. Then at the village behind the palisade. — Even now, he murmured, you still don't give enough. The scythe answered: — Then take more. Zayn picked up the broken half of the spear and hurled it at the gate. — Open. No one moved. He raised the scythe. This time, the dark aura around the blade was thicker. Stolen. Impure. Effective. He struck the gate.

The wood split. A second blow broke the inner bars. On the third, the gate collapsed. Splitwood discovered what Mossbank had not had time to understand: Zayn was no longer only searching for the elves. He was searching for things to accuse while waiting to find them. The massacre lasted less time than the one at Mossbank. Because Splitwood fought better. And because Zayn had become worse. He did not kill everyone. Not because he spared them. Because he chose. Those who took up arms died quickly.

Those who said taint died slowly. Those who tried to flee were sometimes left alive, especially when they had enough voice to carry fear. An old fox-woman spat in his face. — You destroyed your own clan. The scythe rose. Zayn stopped. He slowly wiped the spit away with two fingers. Then he looked at the old woman. — No. He pointed north. — Them. — You're lying to yourself. For one second, the old woman almost won. The word entered. Yourself. Zayn felt the crack. The real one.

The one neither the elves, nor the demons, nor the beastmen had created alone. The possibility that even manipulated, even hunted, even broken, he had become the hand that always finished the work of disaster. The scythe murmured: — She wants to make you small. Zayn inhaled. Then smiled. — You're right. The old woman froze. — What? — I may be lying. He crouched in front of her. — But the dead do not rise to correct it. Then he cut her throat. [Soul strength absorbed: +0] The scythe sighed. — Poor yield.

— I didn't do it for that. — Ah. The weapon sounded almost proud. — Finally. A child cried behind a house. Zayn turned his head. A bear-man stepped out of a half-burned doorway, holding a small child against him. He had an axe in his right hand, his face covered in soot. — Leave him. Zayn looked at him. — Where are the elves? — I don't know. — Bad answer. The bear-man slowly set the child behind him. — Then kill me. Zayn stepped forward. The scythe vibrated, delighted.

Then the bear-man added: — But if you kill the child, the Mist-Fangs would have spat on you. Zayn stopped. The world became very quiet. The clan's name had not even been spoken. Not directly. But it was there. Brakka. Korr. Odran. Saeva. Narek. The fire. The cage. The rope. The stupid smile of a wounded boy. The bear-man had found a weapon. A good one. Zayn slowly lowered the scythe. The bear-man may have thought he had won. Then Zayn said: — You do not have the right to use their dead against me.

He killed the man. Not the child. The child remained behind the body, trembling, covered in blood that was not his own. Zayn approached. The little one backed up against the wall. His eyes were huge. Zayn leaned down. For one second, he almost seemed to become someone capable of speaking to a child again. Then he whispered: — Tell it well. He stood again. And left. The fire spread behind him. By evening, Splitwood was burning. Not completely. Enough.

Zayn sat on a stone north of the village, the scythe resting against his shoulder, his mouth stained with blood. His back throbbed where the unstable wings had left two lines of flesh still badly closed. He tried to call them once. Just once. Gluttony answered. Two black bulges pushed beneath his shoulder blades, tearing the skin. He gritted his teeth. Fragments of membrane emerged, trembling, ridiculous, incapable of bearing his weight. A single black feather fell into the mud. The pain was immense.

The wings withdrew. Zayn remained motionless, breathing slowly. The scythe chuckled. — Even the sky does not want you yet. He looked at the feather. — It will learn. — The sky? — No. He crushed the feather between his fingers. — My body. The scythe seemed to approve. In the distance, a survivor crawled out of Splitwood. The child. The one he had left alive. Zayn watched him move away. Not with compassion. With utility. Fear walked better on small legs.

It arrived trembling, believable, full of details adults would turn into rumor. The scythe murmured: — You could have killed him. — Yes. — You did not. — He serves. — And if he comes back later with a weapon? Zayn turned his eyes toward the northern horizon. — Then he will have grown because of me. The scythe laughed. — You are becoming truly detestable. Zayn did not answer. It was no longer an insult. It was a direction. Three days later, the rumor of Splitwood had reached four clans.

Five days later, it had reached nine. By the seventh day, the villages no longer said only that the demonic human had burned Mossbank. They said he carried a scythe that spoke with the dead. They said he ate the breath of warriors. They said the elves had marked his name in the white trees. They said the Mist-Fangs had adopted him and their love had called ruin. They said everything. Except the full truth. That was enough. Some clans began evacuating westward. Others closed their roads.

Others accused their neighbors of hiding white signs. Patrols saw elven silhouettes where there was only mist. Demonic agents placed silver bracelets in the ashes of already-destroyed villages. Elven corpses, bought far to the north, were hanged on borders with messages carved into their skin. And Zayn kept moving. Not straight. Not fast. Like a sickness hesitating only over the next organ. Population of the Low Woods sector: 1, 247 → 896 Zayn did not see that number. The system did not show it to him.

The world did not give him a window to count the children dead in the smoke, the elders abandoned during the flight, the wounded finished off by beasts drawn by blood, the deserted villages that would not survive the next rain. The reader, however, could see it. And perhaps that was better that way. Because Zayn would not have been horrified. He would have asked how many had spoken the word taint. On the ninth day, at the edge of an old hunting sanctuary, three beastman warriors waited for him. Not villagers.

Real ones. A cat-woman with red tattoos. A bear-man whose skin was covered in scars. A bird-man with dark gray wings, perched atop a high stone. Values: 56 58 54 Zayn stopped. The scythe appeared at once. He was already angry. He always was. The cat-woman spoke: — You go no farther. Zayn lifted his eyes toward the bird-man. His back pulsed. The memory of wings answered the silhouette. — You know where the white woods are? The bear-man spat. — You do not touch the elven continent. You do not cross the highlands.

You do not stain other peoples with your madness. Zayn smiled. — So you know the way. The cat-woman drew two curved blades. Her aura rose. Red. Not elemental. But almost visible from its density. — We know how to stop a beast. The scythe vibrated in his hand. — They are better. Zayn stepped forward. — Yes. — You will have to eat. — Yes. — You will have to fall. Zayn looked at the three warriors. Then at the ruined sanctuary around them. — Then I will fall on them. The fight began. This time, Zayn did not dominate.

He was struck. Opened. Thrown against a stone. The bear-man's aura broke his guard. The cat-woman's blades tore through his coat and flesh. The bird-man dove from above, nearly taking his eye with his talons. Zayn laughed as he spat blood. The cat-woman took a step back. Not out of fear. Out of incomprehension. He laughed because they were strong. Because they had breath. Because killing them would finally be useful. The scythe laughed with him. — There. Those ones are worth it.

Zayn waited for the bird-man to dive again. Then he let the talons sink into his shoulder. The pain went white. He grabbed the wing. Bit. The bird-man screamed. Zayn tore away a mouthful of flesh and feathers. Gluttony. Wrath. Envy. Everything opened. His back exploded. The black wings burst out again. Larger than the first time. Still horrible. Still incomplete. But long enough to beat once and lift him from the ground. Zayn and the bird-man crashed down together in a chaos of feathers and blood.

The scythe, wrapped in stolen dark aura, cut through the warrior's right wing. [Soul strength absorbed: +2] Current soul strength: 71 The bear-man roared. He charged. Zayn beat his broken wings. He did not fly. He lurched sideways, barely avoiding the blow, then hit the ground on his back with a horrible crack. The scythe spoke: — Bad bird. Zayn rose again, smiling. — Still enough. The cat-woman appeared behind him. Her blade entered his side. She whispered: — For the villages. Zayn turned his head toward her.

— Which ones? Her face froze. He struck her with the shaft of the scythe, broke her jaw, then cut her across the torso. [Soul strength absorbed: +2] [Envy yield reduced.] Current soul strength: 73 The bear-man was left alone. He looked at the two bodies. Then at Zayn. His aura rose even further. Not to win. To die standing. Zayn recognized it. Korr had worn the same shape in his gaze. Something ancient. Dignified. Stupid. The scythe murmured: — You hesitate? Zayn stepped forward. — No. The bear-man struck.

Zayn took the blow on the shoulder. The bone nearly broke. He entered the guard anyway, sank his teeth into the warrior's throat, then channeled all the scythe's black smoke into the blade. The dark aura cut the true aura. The bear-man fell. [Soul strength absorbed: +2] Current soul strength: 75 Zayn remained standing in the middle of the sanctuary. His broken wings spread behind him for one second, black, trembling, grotesque. Then they collapsed into shreds of flesh and feathers. He dropped to one knee.

The scythe almost set its blade against his shoulder, like a bad friend. — You are progressing. Zayn looked north. — I am not finished. — No. The scythe laughed. — You are only beginning to become something they will regret not killing sooner. Zayn stood. Behind him, three true warriors lay dead. Ahead of him, the highlands waited. And beyond them, somewhere past the mountains, the rivers, the cliffs, and the sea, there was the elven continent. A giant island. A world encircled by water.

A target that did not yet know that a man incapable of flying properly had just learned to hate hard enough to cross borders. He would need time. A month, perhaps. More if he had to crawl. Less if he found someone to make speak. Zayn picked up a gray feather fallen from the bird-man. He slipped it into his satchel. The scythe asked: — A keepsake? Zayn looked at the sky. — A tool. Then he resumed the road. Behind him, the hunting sanctuary remained silent, covered in blood, stolen breath, and black feathers.

Ahead of him, fear was already running. And this time, Zayn followed it with pleasure.