⚠️ Content warning: this chapter contains violent/gore descriptions.
Year 562, 4th Selara of Julius in the local calendar, in Marivannia, within the domain of Lord Jack de Brothkovic.
A barbarian nobleman was moving through the woods, following a trail of carnage. Creatures lay on the ground, half-torn and half-chewed. Their nature remained a mystery to all; the abomination had ravaged them. Witness to his quarry's grim handiwork, the man ground his teeth—not in terror, but in rage. The blade fretted in its scabbard: it could no longer wait for the clash.
10:26 a.m.
Two snide adventurers were annoyed by the blacksmith's surly behavior. They mocked his haughty tone, his ridiculous name—Solis; "Who names a son after the sun?" Their arrogance seemed boundless. How could anyone be so sullen on such a radiant day? The village roofs were thatch, yet no one begged. The tavern never lacked mead, and the wheat fields were flourishing. The bailiff, Jonathan Corivaux, bore himself with elegance, though his hands were still those of a peasant. Everyone seemed to know one another and live in harmony in this pretty hamlet of five hundred souls.
11:56 a.m.
The alchemist was preparing a decoction, mixing insects and herbs in some unknown solution. His experiments seemed as repulsive as they were intriguing. The innkeeper, tired of the two travelers yammering about the so-called ultimate weapon hidden by the seigneurial family, had nevertheless relieved them of a small fortune for speaking ill of the Sun-Mage (the infamous surly blacksmith). The tax receiver, Kratos, was in a full quarrel with the village merchant; the sum of levies imposed by the lord was the heart of the dispute. Of course, in the end, Kratos got what was due.
1:26 p.m.
The butcher, smirking, awaited Victor's arrival and the promised meat. His stores formed a veritable gallery: all sorts of game, stranger and stranger; a tentacled plant hung from a hook, beneath which lay a carcass whose meat was as gray as sand; a garishly colored stag was stuffed at the center; a hairy crab was being meticulously beheaded by the professional, despite the lack of any ocean nearby. Honey, too, was plentiful: the domestic bees seemed to obey the beekeeper Emilia, who was giving the village children a demonstration of her skill. The guards laughed and got drunk at the tavern. The jail was empty and the food delicious. The fields were fertile, and no one lacked for anything. For a Dark Age, everything seemed perfectly fine. And yet, a relic of the past lived among them. He had settled in the middle of the village. Atop a small hill, side by side with his humble home, stood an open pavilion: a steel cauldron reigned at the center; numerous barrels were filled with blades. In one corner, several clay molds; in another, broken molds. A little farther off, a pile of clay lay exposed to the elements: the earth was being recycled. His methods seemed…primitive.
2:44 p.m.
A singular sound followed a melodious tempo, almost in tune with the birdsong. It came from a forge—or something like a forge—because the absence of a furnace defied the norm. Weapons and armor abounded. The blows rang louder and louder. The dwelling seemed set in the village center. The blacksmith wore no apron: he fancied himself the fire. Was it arrogance? His chest and abdominals were bare to the sparks. Blow after blow, they struck his skin without burning it. I am the Sun, and you are but cockroaches, he told himself with a sly smile. Any craftsman would conclude the man was mad or masochistic. But at the sight of his trousers, any sensible person would hold their tongue: the patterns, exquisitely detailed, looked as if they had been painted by Lember, the king of artists, himself! Whoever wore such attire ordinarily belonged to the high class. His body, riddled with scars, evoked a veteran. He had neither the odor of a peasant nor that of a soldier: he had perfumed himself. Veteran in bearing, noble in dress, he worked without gloves or apron. The supreme oddity: he had an anvil, but no fire—
and yet the reddened blade gleamed perfectly. How had he heated the steel?
3:32 p.m.
A young man approached the enigma with hesitant, guilty steps; something gnawed at him, and the remedy lay plainly before him.
"Sol! Sol!" cried the youth to the blacksmith, with all the elegance of a wounded cur. Solis cut his strikes dead; the interruption exasperated him.
"What is it? I don't have time to tutor you, Josèphe. It had better be relevant," he said, strict and clear.
"Victor hasn't come back from the hunt… He left since…"
"I see. We're going to track down your good-for-nothing brother…," he muttered into his beard. "Track a Class VI Venator…" Solis sighed: he probably wouldn't find a thing. A master hunter remained a master, despite age and name. He plunged the blade into a bucket of water, dressed in clothing befitting nobility; beneath the silk shirt, plates of steel guarded his vital organs. They were heading out after a Venator VI: best be prepared for the worst.
3:38 p.m.
He buckled on his belt, a piece of gear as eccentric as its wearer. On the right side hung five iron balls, each about 200 cm³ and weighing 1.6 kg. Their shape seemed ideal for throwing thanks to their aerodynamic lines. To the left, he carried a longsword and a mace, both set with diamonds and engraved with motifs of growing complexity. The engravings told a story along the length of the blade. The alloy, dark as night, shimmered with bluish reflections. Needless to say, the equipment flirted with perfection: even the king owned nothing so prestigious; only demon-hunters wield such arms. The whole of it lay hidden under a cape that exhaled wealth and luxury. A sigh escaped; Josèphe still didn't understand the Mage's taste in clothes. Anyone could spot him from miles away. Stranger still, he seemed to hunt better than any Venator in the region.
4:02 p.m.
The peasant and the "blacksmith" walked side by side toward the forest; the other villagers greeted them like good neighbors, innocent of their quest. Everyone seemed blind to the contrast on display. Yet above all, in this world, Solis de Lumen was an anomaly. Even so, the villagers had lived with this strangeness for centuries. He did not decay with time: all had known him since childhood, but none remembered his arrival.
4:37 p.m.
After crossing the bridge and the wheat fields, they reached the forest. It exuded a macabre silence: someone was missing and could be anywhere. Josèphe was visibly tense, but he was the first to set foot among the trees. Solis was calm; he knew the place well. He often hunted when hungry and could read tracks even of the smallest creatures. Clues were as easy for him to read as swimming is for a fish. The two trackers walked toward the hunting camp. It was built around a living tree, commonly called a "dryad tree."
5:22 p.m.
"We'll be able to ask Yapo to track my brother—he can't have gone far from the camp," said Josèphe with a note of optimism that underlined his faith in this Yapo.
"Maybe, but stay sharp, he's still a dryad…," Solis answered with a sigh tinged with disappointment. […] Still, knowing that dog-dryad, he knew he could handle himself.
5:38 p.m.
All at once, Solis's expression changed. He saw ridiculously deep claw marks in the trees, spines embedded in the wood, and a strong acrid smell of urea. These were the typical traces of a devourer, a rare and extremely dangerous creature; the only reason for their rarity was their grim habit of slaughtering their own young. […] He was so ashamed of himself that he could no longer hold his head.
5:42 p.m.
Solis went on to the camp alone, still confident, unchanged, stagnant. When he reached the camp, he saw the massacre. It was a butcher's shop that made him grind his teeth. Stoic in appearance, far from it within. He judged the painting of a maniac. The dryad tree had a hole a meter wide. Blood seemed to fall from the sky. Liters of hemoglobin and sap painted the landscape. Yapo and the tree were in severe convulsions: the killer had dug beneath the tree to devour its brain. Clearly, it hadn't finished the job. This degree of cruelty was not unknown to the species. This force of nature had taken vile pleasure in destroying the branches and leaving the trunk intact. The executioner knew how to avoid a killing blow. Spines were lodged everywhere. This canine was the village mascot. The Venators adored him; he was incredibly adorable and useful. He had helped our protagonist countless times. Nothing could stop them… Solis had spent more than half his time with his companion.
In truth, he had no real need to fetch game himself, given the wealth he had amassed. He hunted for Yapo's company. This dog alone remembered the first days of his settling; he alone in this village had not withered before time; the only thing that would have mourned him. Here he was alone again, and it was time to end his best friend's suffering.
He took one of his iron balls. He stared at it for several minutes. Then he looked at his faithful companion, wracked by violent spasms. The animal's joints twisted at impossible angles. Liters of drool poured from the poor creature's jaws. The broken branches bled blood and sap; their movement was frantic. The tree's mouth made impossible motions, and the scales of bark seemed ready to slough off…
The protagonist's stomach twisted; he had never felt such pity.
6:04 p.m.
He stepped back eight meters and threw the ball. It struck the tree. Tock! It fell miserably to the ground. He seemed empty. He made his decision and literally vaporized the ball under his authority. The vapor expanded to seven cubic meters and shone like the sun. That vapor had an unimaginable temperature. Everything ignited spontaneously, and almost at once, the iron oxidized. The result was an explosion, sublime and ferocious. All was fire and ash. Yapo was released from his suffering. Solis admired the flames.
"I enjoyed our adventures, my friend…," said Solis.
A dog—the death of a dog—had shaken the Sun-Mage. A powerful Magus who would have survived and seen the Age of the Quill. A man who had fought and vanquished demons two steps from divinity. He laughed: the absurdity of the situation was not lost on him.
6:10 p.m.
The protagonist followed the tracks of this lord of carnage. Each mark was a sign of arrogance and pride. He could not hide his contempt at the sight of its outbursts of violence. The victims were creatures that never expected to face a titan. Each needlessly brutalized being stoked his resolve.
7:10 p.m.
The walk ended. A corpse lay across his path. Victor… The monster was an omnivore. It had no habit of finishing its prey. The young man had been eaten alive. The abdominopelvic region had been absolutely brutalized. The sacrum was visible. The guts were not only outside: they hung from the branches. His face was disfigured—tears, spit, snot. He stared at the sky with an expression of pure torment. The aorta was undamaged! Death had gazed at him for thirty minutes at least. She herself must have pitied the youth. A mere Venator VI didn't stand a chance against a Class MV mammal. Solis seemed stunned by the brutality. He took three steps back. This scene might leave him with nightmares for decades. He'd seen everything, yet he was surprised. Even the demons he'd hunted in his youth weren't the equal of this quadruped. The poor man seemed to have seized a living plant, a delicacy for the sick heart at the center of this hunt. Yet the brute hadn't taken even a bite. The motive wasn't sustenance. This mockery of nature wanted to send a message: "Step onto my territory and you will suffer." Solis's fears were confirmed. The devourer had attacked because of Yapo. That plant was seeking a majestic creature, worthy to succeed it. However, the scaled tree would not content itself with simple prey nearby. It dreamed of a wolf or an animal of its stature. That ambition had led to its ruin. And yet, something didn't add up: he hadn't seen Yapo's seed. Devourers were indeed highly territorial, but was such a massacre because a dog that gambolled a bit too far?
7:24 p.m.
He set off again; some thirty meters farther, Solis heard the river. Logically, he thought the vermin might not be far. The tension was macabre. Someone was going to die. A colossus against a runt—but who was the giant in this story? The small against the great? 670 kilograms… such was the weight of this titan… This plague bore 16-centimeter claws.
7:54 p.m.
Solis took his blade with a macabre smile. He laid it across his left shoulder. He walked with all the confidence a megalomaniac like him could embody. In any case, his getup was far too breathtaking to hide. Suddenly, he had the arrogance of a young man. The river lay to his right, and birdsong concealed the execution soon to come. He had all he needed to destroy an army; a big ball of fat would not be a challenge. He saw, more than twelve meters away, a big ball of fur and spines. That stain, so viciously hunched, was the murderer. It drank water, readying itself to resume its stroll. The hero supposed the savage hadn't spotted him.
7:56 p.m.
He froze water into little shards of ice. The small pieces had a volume of roughly 7 to 15 cm³.
8:01 p.m.
Those little bombs appeared at the brute's snout. The mammal stopped drinking and looked visibly surprised. After a few seconds of curiosity, they exploded. A shard burst one of its eyes and partially disfigured it. The steam burned its fur, and only the spines seemed to remain on its skull. Almost immediately, it felt its body burning increasingly, as if it stood within a wildfire. But nothing burned. It could no longer stand on its paws. Its muscles had no energy; it began to sweat like a man condemned.
8:08 p.m.
It collapsed… it was afraid. It turned its head; in its field of vision, a man approached. He wore a purple pelt trimmed in gold. He held a very sharp, blue stick. The prey panted hard; he felt as if he were on fire. He was burning from the inside. Pain, pain, so much pain. He tried to breathe out, but nothing came. Death drew near. He tried to get to his feet… nothing. The thing was a hair's breadth away. His eye bore witness, and his body was the victim. The creature was pathetic, terrified, and desperate; it wouldn't be spared the mage's wrath.
8:12 p.m.
The vermin closed its eye; it expected a quick death. Solis snickered; the plague would croak. Each step was a victory. He crouched beside the victim's head and, with a broad smile, whispered into its furry ear:
"For Yapo and Victor…"
The creature seemed to grasp the message or the intent; he was marking his territory. Before it could even scream, the tip of the blade slid into the devourer's skull. The beast began to shed tears on the side where it still could. The blade glided, millimeter by millimeter. The prey began to tremble. It made sounds of agony, as strange as they were terrifying. It burned from within; its core temperature exceeded 45 degrees Celsius. The hunter's cruel smile seemed inhuman. A kind of Machiavellian euphoria overtook him, like hundreds of years of restraint bursting forth in a day.
9:18 p.m.
At last, the central nervous system must have been struck, for the killer stopped moving.
"The meat won't even be fit for a dog!" he said in disgust, as if this sack of flesh still owed him something. He yanked the blade free with a violent, horizontal, surgical motion. He had avenged his best friend and exorcised Victor's killer.
10:12 p.m.
The sun was setting, and it was time for him to sleep.
10:45 p.m.
The wind moved through the forest. The whistling of branches was melodious. Fireflies drifted among the boughs. The landscape was beautiful, but the nostalgia was putrid.
11:32 p.m.
Thoughts swirled. That devourer… powerful, but pathetic against him. He hadn't even been scratched. He had expected to make sacrifices to avenge his friend. He had expected to be surprised. He loathed himself. Why was he so powerful? Why was everyone else so weak? He understood why he had his status: he was born with pure power in his blood. But a man as selfish as he, vile and cruel…
11:51 p.m.
He knew his shortcomings, but why wasn't he a demon? Why was he loved? Why should he love himself? One thing was certain: he would never let himself die… but why?
1:53 a.m.
Before he even realized it, he had reached home. Josèphe lay on the doorstep. He explained the situation in a blasé tone. The poor brother collapsed at the news. Solis walked past the young man in silence. He opened the door, then lay down. The night was long.