CHAPTER 63 —
The demi-god did not pause to admire the chaos he had already caused.
He did not roar in triumph or speak another word of judgment.
He simply continued.
Systematic.
Methodical.
Unfeeling.
The pressure net that had settled over Rensfall tightened further, contracting in perfect concentric rings centered on the village square. Heat continued to drain - not in dramatic gusts of cold, but in a steady, relentless leak that left every hearth flickering low and every breath visible in short, white puffs despite the mild evening. Color faded to a uniform ash-gray. Skin lost its warmth and flush. Eyes dulled to flat slate. Clothing hung on bodies like shrouds already prepared for the grave.
The draining began without ceremony.
No theatrics.
No joy.
Only reclamation.
The first victim after the baker's apprentice was a middle-aged woman who had been trying to drag her elderly father toward their cottage. She had almost reached the door when the demi-god's attention brushed her. Her life force was pulled in a single, quiet motion. No scream. No dramatic collapse. Her body folded forward at the knees, shoulders slumping as though she had simply decided to rest. Color vanished from her skin in a visible wave. Heat shimmered away in a brief, ghostly plume. Her eyes dimmed to matte gray. Then her form compressed - muscles, organs, bones folding inward until only a small pile of ash-like remains settled on the doorstep, clothing sagging empty around it.
Her father, too frail to run, stood frozen beside her. He lasted three seconds longer. His death was even quieter. He simply sat down hard on the threshold, body curling in on itself until he too became ash.
The demi-god moved on.
A young man trying to shield his younger sister - drained next. He lasted four seconds, long enough to push her behind him, long enough for her to scream once before the pull took her too. Both collapsed together, ash mingling on the stones.
A group of three elders who had linked hands near the well, drained simultaneously. Their prayers cut off mid-sentence. They knelt as one. Bodies folded inward in perfect unison. Ash settled in a neat circle around their empty robes.
No flourish.
No hesitation.
Just reclamation.
One life at a time.
One breath at a time.
One heartbeat at a time.
The square emptied fast. People fled into houses, into alleys, into the fields. Screams echoed from every direction, raw, human, hopeless. Some tried to hide in cellars. Some climbed into lofts. Some simply collapsed where they stood, too exhausted or too terrified to run any farther.
The demi-god did not chase.
He walked.
Presence rolling forward - slow, inexorable, absolute.
Every step, though he had no legs yet, flattened grass in a perfect radial pattern. Every breath the valley took grew shallower.
Then he reached Lena's house.
The pressure net tightened around the blue-shuttered cottage like a closing fist.
Inside, Lena's mother had dragged her daughter to the hearth. She had wrapped Lena in every blanket in the house, pressed a cool cloth to her forehead, whispered frantic prayers between sobs. Lena lay limp on the rug, eyes open but unfocused, staring at the ceiling beams as though they were the only real thing left in the world.
Villagers fleeing the square began pounding on the door.
"Let us in!"
"Help us!"
"Something's coming, please!"
Lena's mother hesitated, then opened the door.
Seven people pushed inside, three men, three women, one child.
They crowded the small room, pressing close to the hearth, seeking safety, seeking warmth, seeking anything that felt solid in a world that was dissolving.
They did not know.
They did not understand.
Lena's presence weakened the drain.
Near her, the demi-god's pull slowed.
Not stopped.
Slowed.
The seven villagers lasted longer than the others.
They did not fold immediately.
They staggered.
Clutched at chests.
Gasped.
Eyes dimmed gradually.
Color leached slowly.
Heat faded by degrees.
They had time to realize.
Time to scream.
Time to beg.
Time to die slowly.
The child, a boy no older than seven, reached for Lena's hand.
Lena could not move.
The boy's fingers brushed hers.
The drain slowed further.
The boy lasted fourteen seconds longer than the adults.
His small body folded last.
Ash settled on Lena's blanket.
Lena watched.
She had regained enough awareness to see.
Her mother's face, terror, confusion, love.
The strangers crowding her hearth, people she knew, people she had smiled at in the market, people who had called her "sweet girl" and given her apples.
They died.
One by one.
Slowly.
Because they stood near her.
Because her presence shielded them just enough to prolong the agony.
The first man - a blacksmith - lasted eight seconds. He tried to speak, mouth working soundlessly. Then his knees buckled. Ash.
The second - a woman with flour still on her hands - lasted nine seconds. She reached for her husband. Too late. Ash.
The third - the husband - lasted seven seconds. He tried to shield his wife even as he fell. Ash.
The fourth - an older woman - lasted ten seconds. She prayed aloud until the last moment. Ash.
The fifth - a young man - lasted six seconds. He tried to run for the door. Collapsed halfway. Ash.
The sixth - the young man's sister - lasted eleven seconds. She screamed his name. Ash.
The child lasted fourteen seconds.
He looked at Lena.
Eyes wide.
Confused.
Trusting.
Then ash.
Lena stared.
No tears.
No scream.
Just the void inside her growing larger.
Guilt began to form.
Sharp.
Irrevocable.
They died because they were near her.
Because she was the anchor.
Because she was the siphon.
Because she was the reason the demi-god had come.
Outside, the screaming spread through Rensfall.
Houses emptied.
Streets filled with running figures.
Some fled toward the fields.
Some toward the river.
Some simply collapsed where they stood.
The demi-god moved again.
Presence rolling forward, slow, inexorable, absolute.
No grand gestures.
No speeches.
Just reclamation.
One house at a time.
One life at a time.
The observer watched from the rise.
He saw the villagers crowd into Lena's house.
He saw them die slower.
He saw the ash settle.
He saw Lena stare.
He understood too late.
Lena's presence weakened the drain.
Villagers near her died slower.
She was shielding them.
Unknowingly.
Unwillingly.
And prolonging their suffering.
He dropped to his knees.
Slate forgotten.
He stared at the village.
At the spreading ash.
At the fleeing figures.
At Lena's house, candlelight still burning, silhouettes no longer moving.
He understood.
This was no wounded god seeking restitution.
This was a predator reclaiming stolen territory.
And he had woken it.
He had given it Lena.
He had given it permission.
He had given it everything.
He reached into his coat.
Pulled the minor artifact, a small brass disc etched with containment runes.
Level-1 suppression tool.
Meant for minor bleed events.
Meant for stabilization.
Not for this.
He stood.
Legs shaking.
Chest burning.
He ran toward the village.
Toward Lena's house.
Toward the center of the storm.
The demi-god noticed him.
Not with eyes.
With attention.
Presence shifted, slow, deliberate, absolute.
A single tendril of absence reached.
Not violent.
Not angry.
Casual.
The observer's minor artifact flared, runes glowing briefly.
Then failed.
Instantly.
The brass disc crumbled to ash in his palm.
The tendril swatted him aside.
Not fatal.
Not yet.
He flew backward, twelve meters, hit the ground hard, rolled, skidded across grass and stone.
Breath knocked from his lungs.
Ribs cracked.
Vision swam.
Blood in his mouth.
He lay there, gasping, bleeding, staring up at the gray sky.
The demi-god did not care.
Did not pursue.
Did not acknowledge.
He continued.
Reclamation.
Systematic.
Merciless.
The screaming spread.
The ash drifted.
Lena watched villagers die because they stood near her.
Guilt formed.
Sharp.
Irrevocable.
And the demi-god kept taking.
Because gods do not ask.
They take.