Toru was running.
Branches lashed against his face, roots sent him stumbling, but he did not stop.
His breath came in ragged gasps, and inside his mind a single thought repeated itself, obsessively, like a broken prayer:
It can't be. It can't be. It can't be.
The forest felt denser than ever, as if Trosa itself were trying to hold him back. The air grew heavy, the silence crushing. Even the birds had fallen silent.
When he reached the clearing, his legs gave way.
The altar was there.
A small fire trembled nearby, and beside it…
Mikoto.
She was bound to the trunk of an ancient tree, her head hanging to one side, her motionless body already seeming detached from the world of the living. Before her stood a massive stag, its antlers branching like ancient crowns, its eyes shining with a cold, unnatural intelligence.
The God of Trosa.
Toru made no sound. Tears streamed down his face without him feeling them. The world shrank, pulled away, as if he were watching everything through thick fog.
For a moment, he wanted to stay there.
To close his eyes.
To wake up.
But his body did not obey.
He forced himself up and ran forward, his voice breaking:
"Stop… please… this can't be happening…"
The stag turned.
The movement was swift, violent, without hesitation. Toru felt a devastating impact—and then heat. A heat unlike anything he had ever known. He was thrown to the ground as the world spun.
Breathing became agony.
Pain engulfed him from every side, but worse than the pain was the helplessness. From where he lay, he could only watch.
And then the memories came.
Mikoto bending over him when he was small.
Her warm hands. Her calm voice.
The days she taught him how to chop wood.
The evenings when she told him stories, even after illness had weakened her.
Don't go…
His vision blurred. The god resumed its ritual, eager, like a glutton savoring a feast. Toru could no longer scream. Could not even cry.
Then the stag regarded the child as an additional trophy—another offering given by humans for the land's prosperity. It was delighted. Another body to dissolve to the bone, savoring the slow flow of blood.
It approached him.
Its steps were slow. Certain.
There was no hurry.
At that moment, when everything seemed lost, an image flashed through Toru's mind:
The hatchet.
Small. Heavy. Tucked at his belt beneath his coat.
Forged by the village blacksmith—the only man who had ever treated him as an equal. The only one who had smiled at him without expecting anything in return. Dead for years now, claimed by illness.
With the last of his strength, Toru moved his hand. His fingers closed around the cold handle.
The stag was very close now.
He clenched his teeth.
And he struck.
Toru felt warm blood splash across his face—but it was not his own. The axe was buried deep in the stag's throat, its former ecstasy extinguished in a single instant.
Everything stopped.
The god's body collapsed beside him, and the forest froze, as if holding its breath. Two bodies lay upon the damp earth, the silence broken only by the fire still burning.
Toru felt his life slipping away. Slowly. Irreversibly.
Then… something changed.
His heart began to pound wildly.
His blood burned through his veins.
Pain transformed into something else—something foreign, impossible.
He rose to his knees, trembling, confused, and stared at his hands.
His ring finger pulsed violently. The skin seemed to fade, and a sharp pain forced a scream from his throat. The sound tore through the forest, making the leaves tremble.
Around his finger, reality itself began to bend.
A ring was forming.
Toru's scream shattered the silence of Trosa.
And somewhere nearby, three men turned abruptly toward the forest.
The mercenaries.
When they arrived, the air thickened, as if the forest itself were holding its breath. Before them stood a boy barely able to remain upright. His head hung low, chin nearly touching his chest, his body swaying in a slow, unnatural rhythm. In his hand dangled an axe, its blade smeared with fresh blood, heavy drops falling into the dark soil.
The three men stopped. Their eyes met briefly—sharp, filled with fear and disbelief.
"This is impossible…"
"That damned brat…"
"The son of that witch whore. Hurry. Kill him. Now."
Swords were drawn with a harsh metallic scrape that tore through the silence.
Then the boy lifted his head.
Toru looked at them.
One eye was human—clouded, exhausted, burned hollow by pain. The other was a stag's eye—deep, black, utterly devoid of mercy. He did not see them as men, but as obstacles.
He said nothing.
He moved.
A single second.
A single strike.
The axe cut through the air in a clean, precise arc. For a heartbeat, time fractured. Then blood burst forth—hot and thick—and the bodies collapsed almost simultaneously. No screams. No pleas. No time to understand.
Three corpses lay sprawled across the ground, drenched in blood.
Toru stood still, staring at what remained of them. Blood ran down the blade and over his hands. His lips moved slowly, his voice low and repetitive, like a broken prayer:
"You will all pay…
You will pay…"
And the forest fell silent.
The next day, a storm unlike any seen in years descended upon Rushum. Not a natural storm, but one that felt wrong—alive. The sky hung unnaturally low, clouds rolling like rotting masses, thunder striking without rhythm, like the heartbeat of a dying thing. Rain battered rooftops with fury, and the wind shrieked against the city walls as if trying to tear them down.
The village council panicked.
No word had come from the mercenaries. No sign. No messenger. Only the storm, growing ever more violent, and the crushing sense that something had slipped beyond control. The elderly councilors—the same men who had ordered Mikoto's sacrifice—barricaded themselves inside the central building, where decisions were made "for the good of all," where blood had always been justified by fear.
They gathered around the long table, faces pale, hands trembling, speaking over one another in desperate attempts to impose meaning on the chaos.
But it was already too late.
Two dull sounds pierced the storm.
Short. Wet. Final.
The guards at the entrance fell without a scream.
The doors burst open under wind and force, and the guards' severed heads were thrown across the stone floor. Their eyes, still open, stared toward the council like a final accusation.
Toru stood in the doorway.
Rain streamed down his face. Blood coated his axe. One eye human, emptied of all childhood. The other—the stag's eye—cold, ancient, judging.
Chaos erupted.
One swift strike.
Brutal.
Three bodies fell before their minds could grasp what was happening.
Another strike.
Three more corpses collapsed, blood splashing the walls where symbols of "justice" still hung.
Another blow.
One body.
Then another. Repetitive. Precise. Without hesitation.
A final corpse.
The floor became a red lake. The screams died away. The storm howled outside, but inside there was only the sound of blood dripping.
Amid the carnage, the mayor managed to flee upstairs. Trembling, gasping for breath, he collapsed at his desk. He seized a pen and a sheet of paper, and with a blood-smeared hand, he began to write desperately to the king:
"The Stag God, protector of the land, is dead, Your Majesty."
Dated: April 3rd, Year 55.
He never wrote another word.
The letter was suddenly soaked in blood.
The axe struck his head with terrifying precision. The mayor's body collapsed over the desk, and the pen rolled across the floor.
Toru climbed the stairs slowly. He looked at the letter. Picked it up—stained, heavy with truth and blood.
Then he turned and vanished into the darkness of the night, leaving Rushum without leaders, without gods—
and without hope.
That night would haunt Trosa for many years to come.