Black. Black everywhere. Eyes sting. Tears fall. My head is pounding.
What just happened?
"Don't ya dare move." A voice commands.
The world's spins in contortion.
Motion blurs, fountains gush organs of gutted rat meat.
So pretty.
"Stop wriggling. It'll only make it worse."
More green now. Darker. Pulsing with sickly luminance.
I blink.
"Get up."
Two Hairy arms seize my collar.
I'm dragged upright.
Black fluid drips from my nose.
"Morning, princess."
I smile stupidly. "Morning. How was work?"
"You hit your head pretty hard, huh?"
My neck drifts like debris in the wind, nodding to the broken rhythm of his voice
"I had a bad, scary dream… but it's all over now."
I smile — a real tooth grin.
"That's good. Real good. We could use your hand right now."
My hands pull against an eye-patch.
"Say... Where's your eye?"
"Tch, seems like yer not quite with us. This one's on you… and it'll hurt."
EEEEEK!
Voltage-shock sears through every nerve connection — origin unknown, but it all screams the same.
"Mother-fucker!"
"Sure am, what of it?" Jimson remarks proudly.
"No! Not you. The pain!"
"Stings, dunnit?"
"That's an understatement, and you know it." I spit, pointing at his missing eye.
"No need to tell me. Make your ass whimper like a beaten orphan." He chuckles lightly.
"Can't you do something for the pain? Pills, even… Nurofen?"
"Ah, pills are for the weak... And the wealthy." He say softly.
"What is pain but the fruit of life? The core that blooms, withers, and decomposes… until there's only one true remedy: death."
He nods to himself, eyes splitting blanks, hiding behind a pilfered smile.
"It's only sweet when ripe. The rest — bland, tasteless. Not very nice."
"Yonking hell, how am I supposed to feel good after hearing that?" I exclaim.
"Feel good, heh... how cute. But yer made this man proud saying that. It was under my teachings you found meaning in that word, and now look; you're using it like a House's Grand-Expert."
Both thumb and index finger rake through his gravelly stubble.
He hums a deep sonorous purr that makes my ear-hairs quiver.
"Just shut up and give me the sit rep, NOW."
Keratin teeth scrape against heavy air, snarling up as I shout towards his throat.
Lively are my fingers, barking, unrestrained and rabid, like a stray hound.
They claim entry into his space.
"Sit rep…?"
His head tilts slightly, eyes beady, as if accepting my taunt.
"YOU!" My hands flare, shaking with seething animation.
"When I ask for a situation report, you tell me the danger we face, understand, private" I project, cadence clear.
"Why didn't you just say that in the first place—"
"Cease the back-talk. Our lives depend on it!"
"First time feeling threatened, Cultivator?" He tilts his chin up, eyes staring over me.
"The name is Desmond and you know it. Now just please tell me—what is going on here?"
Leaning back, my two palms find comfort behind my tangled strands of oily hair.
My nails scrape lightly, biting at the flesh of my underhand, chewing up dead skin and the loose dandruff.
My eyes stare intently.
He raises his crooked finger, pointing far into the distance beyond.
My gaze follows.
My mouth tightens.
This!
Swamp rats and the unfathomable prowlers clash — earth and bodies hurl skyward in frenzied melee. Bestial green liquor rains down, melding with animalistic grunts, disturbingly uncanny in their posthumous croaking.
One prowler pierces the line, hunting vulnerable pregnant mothers and juveniles alike.
From the wombs of the deceased, children emerge — alive or stillborn, both devoured with equal savagery. Those that are alive flee, biting and struggling. The rest remaining can only watch, scream and slither forward, but they too fall to the overwhelming, oppressive maw of natural selection.
Is this what they call love? Repugnant.
I lift my fist between my teeth biting down. My lips to my throat all gag, draining colour from my face.
No matter how often I see it, it never grows old. Why sacrifice oneself for children not your own? And for what — to be discarded like yesterday's meal?
Foolishness.
Where is your self-preservation?Many more could survive, replenish if they just simply retreated.
"Sad, isn't it?" he interrupts.
"Nature always tramples the weak. I sometimes like to think we're better—evolved as a species, gifted with god's intellect. Yet…"
He points forward.
"How can our compassion compare? The Great Reverend Khan once said: 'The Word knows no greater fury than when one sacrifices love and life for kin.' His words remain prophetic, even here, so far from the living world."
He pauses for a moment, deep in contemplation.
"And to think that our intervention caused this disaster," he breathes in resignation before letting out a lung-full cough.
What do you mean by our intervention?
I'm not responsible for their deaths; how can I be responsible?
The predators came, nature happened, as it always does. Right?
…
But no. They were after us — the pendant. We cut through their territory, their homes.
Yes, it was for survival; they would've eaten us if not for the prowlers; but still… it's our actions, our intervention that directly caused this outcome.
Faaahr
So is this all my fault then?
Am I actually just a disgusting piece of shit who deserves to die?
My head, fuck, where is the panadol when you need it.
His hands crack together shifting my attention.
"Ain't time to relax yet boy — the price hasn't come due."
"What?"
Reading my expression, his neck cranes. Fingers pick idly at his nose as a low moan escapes in quiet satisfaction. Flicking away the residue, his pinked fingertips emerge through the gloves, rubbing together and blowing hot, impatient air into the frigid silence.
"The aftereffects, of course. Everyone knows this. Everything has a price. You should be feeling it… now." Jim says with a crooked smile.
I feel 'it' before he finishes speaking.
Too late.
My body contorts, liquefying. I am a dark spillage pouring into the recessed basin of my unconscious self.
A fire alights, ideas stick and stew together. The mix thickens as new flavours pour themselves in.
Ideas bubble up and pop from out the pot, staining the walls of coherent thought.
The simmering stew soaks away the toasted bread of my self — contradicting, blaming, defending, profaning.
With every interaction digested, my substance diminishes.
Every taste is sampled, served and plated onto a silver platter; yet my own diluted identity remains untouched, growing increasingly cold.
Even I barely recognise myself at this table.
Then, the heat intensifies.
Booming voices erupt.
My brain swelters, every watered-down remark feeding fuel to the manic delirium.
My skull throbs as the corrugated walls of sanity deform, tipping my lid over its edge. The roof ruptures, forcing me inward.
I fall, suffocating, a smoldering chunk at the bottom of the pot, drifting beneath the infernal frenzy.
My heart sputters. My self melts away slowly, already discarded.
I seep silently between sunken rubble—quiet, unnoticed, dissolving like a boiled frog in charred soup.
"Hey, hey—don't cry." A poke at my cheek digs into fatty blubber; absorbing my greasy tears, savoring the gentle melancholy of my leakage.
"Unfortunate… is he too broken for that?" A low whisper lingers beneath the empty silence.
I lurch up, inhaling deeply as my throat crushes air inside like compressed trash.
"What happened?"
"Dad, I heard him speak again. He's better now." A soft tentative voice chimes out.
"Ah, back with us here and alive, I see. I still have an important job for you, so you must keep it together until then."
Important task.
No, not again.
I did not hear anything.
I did not do anything.Their screams—voiceless.
No.
I am safe.
I am calm.
I am free.
Must survive.
Move forward.
"Respond, boy!"
Reaching over from Cindy, a glove strikes my face.
I flinch.
"Please… don't. Hurts." I barely choke out.
Then nothing.
Uncurling from myself I watch as Jim's face eases its tension.
Letting out a deep sigh his voice shifts—no longer gruff, but educated in tone; he speaks like someone with an abundance of wealth, stored inside memories of well-lived experience.
"In all my various travels I've seen all kinds of people, all kinds of situations and all kinds of faces. But there is only one man I once knew, to which you remind me greatly of. He was just a boy back then and his name was Artie."
I look away from him, feigning disinterest. However my twitching ears betray my desire, very clearly.
"You see, we grew up orphans, refugees in a small long-forgotten town. Knowing nothing about our parents or the world we were taken in by the local parish.
It was strict, disciplined, orthodox. But they gave us food, warmth, some sense of familial connection.
To us, they were saints. And like fools, we lived in that lucid dream of varnished hope expecting to become ascended too... like it was a given truth.
We longed to grab hold of our fate and protect others the same way we were cared for. From childhood we were instilled with the knowledge of miracles and transcendence following the path of Esmerald.
Our role-models showed us that real power doesn't move people the way an honest heart can.
The church where we were raised remained the community's spiritual heart.
However, when the day came to test our potential, we came out like most... lacking.
This destroyed us.
Barely fourteen and we found out our dreams were unreachable
You would think that kind of reality would be enough of a slap.
With almost everyone's high expectations shattered and limited options available, I took the second-best path a non-cultivator could: Service..
Security, maintenance, sweeping these were all miscellaneous jobs the church needed.
But Artie, he was different.
Being the sole inheritor of the 'word', he chose the path of calligraphy as his profession.
His words constantly professed aloud how he wanted to 'communicate and share the love and benevolence of the creator to all those who live under the sky. To repay his dues and respect to those beloved pastors who took him in and cared for him.'
He was naive and foolish and that soon became his immense burden.
I still remember to this day how they teased and mocked him.
People called him 'The False Prophet of Nothing.' At first it was all in good fun. Their reasoning was because he was good at literature but too awkward with his words no matter what he thought he couldn't share it.
Looking back, it was all just so... unfortunate.
This title stung deep in ways no one could have expected at the time. A lingering poison that slowly chipped away at his confidence."
He would write with his strange power articles that were then orated about at local community events, sharing the news of what he heard and obtained through word of mouth from passing travelers and merchants alike; adding his own creative flourish to portray the orthodox houses as righteous of course.
But soon it wasn't enough. People didn't listen, and they surely didn't pay if they did. Run-down accommodations, scraps for dinner—his belief slowly faltered.
He couldn't understand why the most devout had the most hardships to experience."
My head slowly rises to meet his gaze again comfortably. His words comforting and relatable as they persist. Tim also listens in but his face is scrunched up in confusion.
"Eventually, after many years of rejection and isolation, he gave in. He couldn't deal with the struggle anymore. He became detached from the rest of us.
'The town's new wandering yew' he was called.
Drunkards picked up the name and followed him around, poking at him for their momentary thrill.
That crowd was too rowdy. Property got smashed wherever they wandered, and the landlords blamed him.
Too many damaged rooms, no one to pay the fees.
This is what eventually turned him homeless, soulless, and so very far away from his original intended purpose.
We all knew, but none of us really understood his struggle.
He was the uncomfortable town truth that no one wanted to speak about.
Such a close community with everyone friendly—who would want to associate with the trash and damage their reputation?
His mind became sick, suffering in many unseen ways.
He almost ended it all then too, but of course he even failed at that.
Thankfully, that was the last straw. A junior nun in training found him.
They treated him with pills, herbs, blessed water yet nothing helped.
They called it a heavenly mystery.
It took both his consistent bravery and discipline to face his demons and our tight community's delayed indifference to help him through those troubles.
Even our surrogate parent Father Ming came out of his closed prayer to encourage him even in his weary state.
It all was helpful, but not enough.
In reality, it was her that did all the work. Aisha. The one that found him. She was a servant to a regional young master of a saintly house, who was going through his early education at the missionary grounds.
She was new, temporarily to the position as an assistant sister in cloth at the church during the master's training, and it was ultimately her tasked with taking care of Artie's daily needs.
She pulled him from that sea of sadness.
We all saw it too—how they smiled, laughed, and even danced together during the prim-stone festival.
Those were the simple days."
"Did they live happily ever after that?" I lean forward, fully immersed in the story.
"No, no of course they did not." His hand shakes as a solitary tear runs down his face as he continues.
"Years later they married and were with child, under the young master's blessing of course. She was one of God's chosen ones. Sophia, whose true angelic beauty was apparent to all just by a whiff of her vanilla scent.
When aged fourteen her potential was evaluated as heavenly by the sacred stone, and all the righteous sects competed for her discipleship.
But as parents whose cultivation was lacking, they had no power to dictate demands, or interfere with her decision-making.
Then they took her.
As parents they could do nothing but only wish for their child to grow up proper and devout; to support her growth with all their limited ability.
It was a hard but willing sacrifice.
She went to train at the Heavenly Sky Palace, the most esteemed faction that still stands as the leader of the righteous face of the transcendent world.
With the young master's backing as support they were at least given some permission to come and travel to visit her once every two years; under the condition only her direct family were allowed to enter the sect gates.
It was on their third visit when everything fell apart.
Aisha was pregnant again, and I was finally free from duty, so I went with them. We crossed those same mountains and valleys like always, hoping to show Sophia the sibling who would one day adore her. The road was long and rough, and Aisha was tired, but she pushed through.
When we reached the pearly white gates, the guards seized them on sight. No warning. No explanation. I spent days begging for answers, chasing scraps of rumor. Eventually someone whispered the reason: Sophia had "defected to the demonic side." They called her a future calamity. My goddaughter. Little Sophia. Impossible.
"..."
"I rushed back to inform the young master of this, to plead for help. The journey back took weeks and when I finally returned, it was already too late. The village was cinders, the church destroyed, our home was gone.
The young master survived by a hair but lost his righteous path. When he woke, he said demons had razed the town for nothing more than petty spite. I didn't understand. I told him what had happened at the gates, and when he recovered enough to travel, we went to free Artie and Aisha.
But we were too late.
Aisha had died in captivity giving birth. Malnourished, she offered what little life she had left to save the child. Artie was kept alone in another cell for so long he learned the truth only when they threw the newborn at him without a word. He pieced the rest together himself. He was always sharp like that, even when broken.
We never learned what they did to him in that place. He came out hollowed, the worst I'd ever seen him.
"Wow, that's… I'm so sorry. What happened to him? Is he alright? What about the child?"
"Both dead. He killed himself and the child a few years later.
Their wounds were too deep. Their conditions too broken. They were never going to make it.
I always wish it happened differently; that I did something more than just watch.
If only I knew at the time.
Their deaths were the first ones to truly hit me. That's why when I see you with my eye retreat your shell like that? I have to act, understand me. We need you, Desmond. I need you alive and here. Not in there."
He taps at my skull hard. Lip vaguely quivering.
"You hear me. That head of yours, that condition you also have. Nothing darker and more self-destructive than those unchallenged thoughts in your head. That's why your mouth exists. To speak to and call out to us.
Communication is hard, incredibly uncomfortable and awkward too, but it is everything to us who regret and got left behind."
"Thanks for that, Jim. I really mean it."
"You owe me now, eastern boy. Don't forget what I said earlier."
Jim says, wiping away at his eyes.
"All right, let every rat and yonk hear my proclamation! I am thankful for Jimboy, and I'll do anything he asks of me—once!" I bellow into the empty lands, turning several prowler heads our way momentarily.
"One time, you better not forget it. Des… mud."
"Why do you antagonise, you were just so nice before." I reply
"Too nice, boy's gone quite arrogant, right, Tim?" He rests a quivering hand on Tim's shoulder.
"Yes, Father. You can punish him when we get back," Tim responds in a monotonous voice.
We all sit in that moment of pleasant company, catching our breath in silence, before spit flies and laughter bursts out; loud, brash, and all unrestrained. Even the dog barks up from my lap.
Minutes pass, and we slowly recover.
This,
The silence after laughter—that's where the real heart hides. Only now do I understand what you meant, old friend.
I sit on this for a moment before breaking the silence.
"Say they aren't going to chase us, right?"
"Oh yes, they will. Eventually though. Look at them—they are starving out here, takes some time to finish their meal all the way to the bone, by then we'll be long gone."
"I see, so the rumors were true then?"
"Indeed. More always do come. It seems he was right. Marcus, you should buy him a drink when we get back." He adds.
"Why me? I have no coin in my possession."
"But he indirectly saved yer life."
"He saved yours too." I blurt.
"Bah, I do not want to hear it any longer, heathen. You're prohibited from speaking any further on this matter." He shoots me a strange hollow gaze.
"What do you mean?"
"Pro-Hib-It-Ed. You're intelligent enough to figure out what that means, Des. Don't force my hand to slap your boy-face again."
Old man, why are you so stingy? I don't even have any pockets to hold the money in.
"Fine," I murmur softly.
"So what was all that 'everything has a price' stuff anyway?"
"That," he points toward me. I look down and see the pendant around my neck pulsing again, its light diminished compared to before.
"Saved yer life twice now."
"Twice?"
"Yer mouth was real ugly, fixed it right up for you while you were asleep earlier. It was our apology to how we found you."
Now that he mentions it, my jaw does feel better—he really is my fallen angel.
"But… what is it?"
"Its a forbidden technique. Can't say much, causes you to face your regrets. Get used to it, son."
"So you're not gonna explain further?"
"Nah, I am actually too busy right now."
He lies down, letting out a wheezing cough.
"Tim," I look over hopefully.
"Ah well, it is like this."
The old man clears his throat, and Tim looks back at him sympathetically. His mouth shutting.
"…"
"Well great, can you at least explain to me how I hit my head?" I demand.
"Ah well, that we can do… boy," the old man nods, staring at his son, and Tim slowly nods in response.
"Well mister, this is what exactly happened… You hit your head."
He pauses.
"…"
"And?"
"Here we are now."
I slam my fist backward, colliding with Samuel's rump. He releases a loud noor in response.
Sorry, I lean and whisper sugar-coated apologies into his ear, stroking fur in recompense.
"Dad, I'm scared of him. I don't want to play this game anymore." His tone mocking.
"Bwaha, you did good, son made yer pa proud."
Their fists collide. Knuckles cracking in bullied kinship.
"Stop it all, just… fine. Answer me this one question. Is my life in any real danger?"
"Yer a slow one, ain't ya? Think I would be playing with you if my life were in any serious danger too."
"?... Yes. Yes, I do. That is what ultimately concerns me," I retort.
"You think you know me like that. I've never heard someone cluck as much as you, Des-Mond."
He opens and closes his hand facing me as if mimicking me, speaking through it in an imitative tone.
"Thanks, I guess."
"Well, the truth is, you almost died. That's why we were so, how do we say the word, Tim"
"'Gleeful.' Is the word you're looking for father."
He stops, stating flatly, as he scratches his chin, slowly shaking his head, starting to purr again.
"What?!"
"Yes, you screamed just like that, an infant. That's the sound that startled me awake. That's when the prowlers came, saved our hides too, although you startled one swamp-rat. It couldn't help itself, and it flew straight into your head. Knocked you out cold too, poor fella."
He lowers his voice.
I'm not already dead, am I? My blood rushes.
"Aren't they poisonous?" My voice rises.
"Yer a lucky one. Was only a hatchling. Weaker dose, not enough happy juice in its holes."
"And the others?"
"As you could see, they prioritised the real threat to the territory, as they do, and attacked them first. Those guys are always fighting, especially in these lands, or so I've heard."
"So… we're just extremely lucky, then?" My eyes blink in confused disharmony. Bewildered.
"That's right," he grumbles back, hand waving away the tension.
"Why are you both just so comfortable with all this?" I blurt.
"Why aren't you? How big of a spoon did they feed you, young master Des? Out here, we all fight for our scraps."
I sit up. "You shouldn't have to. This isn't right, children. Tim shouldn't have to live like this."
"Yeah… what he said, Father." Tim interjects hesitantly. Eyes shifting between us, looking nervous.
"Tell that to the greedy wretches on the Heavenly Protection Board." Jim rasps, coughing violently.
"What?" my nostrils flare.
"You must've really done permanent damage to your brain to forget about those damned traitors."
He violently coughs. His shirt darkens with blackened stains.
"Wait… are you alright?"
"No… I'm dying." he croaks, voice slowly fading out.
"This isn't the time for jokes, Jim. Like you said earlier, tell me what's wrong."
"Not much left of me to fix."
Thud.
His body collapses, head hitting the yonk. The dog barks, frantic and piercing, echoing through the clearing.