The rain was cold, like countless fine needles of ice stinging his face. He wiped it with his hand, his palm coming away not with rainwater, but with mud mixed with blood—a tile had cut his temple at some point, and the blood was trickling down his brow, obscuring one eye. But this chill couldn't even lower the feverish heat of his skin, let alone extinguish the maddening, scorching pain inside him.
The pain drilled out from between his bones, the work of the demonic scripture. Back at the manor, lost in the bloodlust, he had forced the technique. Now his blood and energy churned as if about to explode. Every breath tasted of iron, his very fingertips trembling uncontrollably. But he dared not stop. He could only stagger across the city's rooftops. The rain-slicked tiles were treacherous underfoot; several times his soles slipped, and he only stabilized himself by instinct, twisting his waist—his movements still light as a night-prowling cat, but the unsteady sway of his shoulders upon landing betrayed the weakness from his severe injuries.
The fire still burned behind him. From the direction of the manor, red flames wreathed in black smoke shot into the sky, darkening half the night. Even through miles of rain, he fancied he could hear the crack of splitting wood, the servants' shrieks, and the gurgling death rattle his victim had made when pinned to the floor. The memory tightened his throat—not from fear, but because the bloodthirst stirred by the scripture hadn't yet faded. His fingers itched to grip a blade again.
But then alarm whistles pierced the rain. Their sound was sharp as needles, painful to the eardrums. Squinting down into the streets, he saw squads of city guards streaming out, holding torches. Their silver armor gleamed coldly in the firelight, their footsteps splashing through puddles on the stone pavement, the spray itself seeming to carry a killing intent. They were heading for the city gates. No need to guess; they were sealing the city.
His mind buzzed, torn between the nerve-shredding pain and the bloodthirst scratching at his heart. He had to clench his teeth to hold onto any shred of clarity. His years in this city hadn't been wasted—he had learned every back alley, knew which section of the wall was lowest, which post was least guarded. He had to get out now. Trapped inside, even if the demonic art let him kill a few more, he couldn't withstand the guards' crossbows. It would be a dead end.
He dropped from the roof into a narrow alley. It stank of garbage and rotting vegetables stewing in rainwater. Ignoring it, he crept along the wall, ears pricked. The sinister power seemed to have heightened his senses. He could hear the footsteps of the patrol at the alley's mouth, smell their sweat and the scent of metal on them, even sense the 'danger-approaching' chill in the air.
Once, just as he rounded a corner, he heard footsteps coming his way. He reacted instinctively, retreating and slipping into a dilapidated woodshed. It was stacked with dry firewood and reeked of mold. Crouching behind the pile, he even softened his breath. Soon, two guardsmen passed by, torches in hand. The light swept across the shed's entrance; he could even see the patterns on their armor. But they didn't enter, cursing about having to patrol in this wretched weather before moving on. Only when their footsteps faded did he emerge, his back soaked in a cold sweat that mixed with the rain, chilling him to the bone.
Finally, he saw the old section of the wall. On the edge of the slums, moss grew on the battlements, some bricks loose, exposing the yellow earth beneath. Only two old sentries guarded it, huddled in a straw shack at the base, chatting by a dying fire, their torch nearly out. He took a deep breath, suppressing the taste of blood in his throat—blood from the guards, still burning there.
He took two steps back, then charged forward, pushing off the ground with his toes. His body shot forward like an arrow. His hand scrabbled against the wall, fingers slipping on the moss, but he used the scant purchase to flip himself up and over the crenellations, landing soundlessly in the waist-high wild grass outside the city.
The rain-heavy grass dragged against the wounds on his legs, the pain making him grimace. But he didn't stop. He looked back at the city. It lay in the rain like a crouching beast, now thrown into chaos by his revenge. But his eyes held no nostalgia, none at all—this city held his mother's grave, everything he had lost. The debt was paid. There was nothing left here to turn back for.
He turned and ran towards the mountain range. The place was notoriously treacherous, home to wild beasts and foul air, where people got lost every year, never to return. But now, it was his only path to survival.
Once under the forest canopy, it grew darker still. Towering ancient trees blocked out the sky, only occasional lightning flashes revealing branches stretching out like ghostly claws. Underfoot, a thick layer of fallen leaves felt soft, but hid slippery roots beneath. He nearly tripped multiple times. The air was thick with the moldy smell of decay and a raw, wild scent—the scent of beasts, lurking somewhere in the shadows, watching him.
The backlash from the forbidden art grew worse. It felt like countless tiny hammers were pounding his bones, each impact sending a shudder through him. His sword wounds, soaked by the rain, burned fiercely. He touched one; the edges were swollen and sticky, as if festering. Blood loss made him dizzy, each step feeling like his legs were filled with lead. But he couldn't stop—stopping meant either the city guards catching up or becoming a meal for the mountain's beasts.
He walked on, not knowing for how long. The rain lightened, but a fog rose in the mountains, a white haze that obscured even the trees directly ahead. His consciousness began to blur. Voices echoed in his ears—sometimes his mother's soft voice, gentle like when she used to lull him to sleep as a child; other times his victim's screams, sharp as nails on wood, making him want to laugh, but the laughter turned into coughs, bringing up blood.
Suddenly, his foot slipped—on moss, perhaps. He lost his balance completely and tumbled down a slope. He tried to grab something, but found only air. His body crashed against branches, pain screaming through his bones. Twigs scratched his face, his arms, leaving bloody trails. Finally, with a thud, his back slammed into a rock, stunning him completely.
His mouth opened, and a mouthful of clotted blood sprayed out, splattering on the ground, diluted to a pale pink by the rain. Stars swam before his eyes, his ears rang, and he nearly blacked out. He tried to get up, but the moment he moved his left leg, a piercing pain shot through it—something felt broken. He felt his ankle; it was swollen like a steamed bun. Dislocated, probably.
Misfortune never comes alone. Leaning against the rock, gasping for breath, a thread of despair had just begun to weave through him when he heard a rustling sound.
It was faint, but it made the hairs on his neck stand on end. The sound of grass being trodden, coming through the fog, accompanied by low, guttural growls, like beasts grinding their teeth. He looked up. Pairs of green, phosphorescent dots glowed in the mist, moving slowly towards him.
Hyenas! His heart sank. These creatures were common in the foothills—ugly, vicious, hunting in packs, specializing in picking off injured prey. Their teeth could crush bone. Once surrounded, there was no escape.
His hand went to his waist, gripping the cleaver. He'd had the blade for years; the wrappings on the hilt were worn through. The blood from the killings had been washed clean by the rain, and now it gleamed coldly in the fog, as if it too knew this was a moment of life or death.
Leaning against the rock, he watched the green dots draw nearer. Hyenas ahead, pursuers behind, a broken leg, wounds all over, the art's backlash raging—this was a true dead end.
Was he to die here in these mountains, eaten by these beasts, right after getting his revenge?
No! He refused! His mother's vengeance wasn't complete—the family had remnants, those who aided their evils hadn't yet paid! He couldn't die here!
A fire erupted from the depths of his heart, scorching. The demonic scripture, as if sensing his defiance, suddenly accelerated its circulation. He felt his blood and energy boiling within, a savage power surging forth, temporarily overwhelming the pain. A bloody glow tinged the skin beneath his surface, blood vessels webbing the whites of his eyes, making him look like a madman. But the ferocity in his gaze made the hyenas in the mist pause for a moment.
"ROAR—!" He let out a roar, not a human sound, but the cry of a beast pushed to the absolute brink. It held his defiance, his rage, and a sheer, brutal willingness to kill anything that came for him.
The hyenas, startled by the roar, retreated a step. But soon, they began to advance again. They smelled the blood, they sensed the weakness on him. They knew this human, though fierce, was meat for the taking.
The largest hyena stepped forward, bulkier than the rest, blood still smeared around its mouth from a recent meal. It bared its teeth, revealing pale fangs, a low threat rumbling in its throat. Then it lunged, aiming straight for his throat.
His eyes narrowed. The cleaver in his hand swept out. The blade's light flashed once in the fog, like a cold bolt of lightning.
The killing began again.