Mt. Colubo, Dawn Island
"Cursed… be the ground for our sake. Both thorns and thistles it shall bring forth for us. For out of the ground we were taken; for the dust we are… and to the dust we shall return," he recited as he stood amidst bodies strewn across the ground, some with crude gashes across their flesh, some burnt to charred crisps, and others reduced to mere bones where the flesh had been burnt away.
"Conflicts and wars, inequality, social unrest, degradation, corruption, world hunger, and untold suffering… How long will this world bleed and poison those in it? How long will your ilk and those like it continue to ruin the remainder of what is good?" the young man professed as he slowly followed the mountain bandit who pathetically dragged his ruined body away in an attempt to gain distance away.
The lone surviving bandit groaned in pain and fear. His face was bloodied and swollen, and his remaining arm leaked blood freely. His fingernails were blackened and torn from digging into the soil as he tried, desperately , yet futilely to crawl away and escape his fate.
"So you understand now? Do you see that mercy is not mine to give, there is none." His tone was that of a grim executioner. Without hesitation, he plunged a sword taken earlier from another criminal between the bandit's shoulders; the blade exited through the chest and into the earth below.
Metal met skin and bone once more, and within seconds the last flicker of life left the criminal, his twitching ceasing and his pained cries falling silent. He was now dead.
Pulling the weapon free, the executioner tossed it aside, and staggered to one knee. Exhaustion weighing on him heavily.
His wounds burned. Bullets had grazed him more than once; several shallow cuts ran across his back and legs, stinging each time he exhaled. Yet he grinned like a madman, adrenaline still refusing to fade. His heart thrummed violently in his chest even as his breathing finally slowed.
Sixty men…bandits, rapers, and vermin alike had fallen to him in a single night. Others, those with enough instinct for survival, had fled long before they could be consumed by the flames. Consumed by death itself.
His magic had driven the fear of God into them , or perhaps the fear of burning had done the work just as well? The latter sounded more logical. But it didn't matter now whichever it was , as their little band was all gone now.
"Haha… hahahaha," he cackled darkly.
"Subarashii…"
The leader of the bandits had a bounty of ten million on his head. The young man would drag the corpse into town for the reward once he'd rested for an hour. He was no bounty hunter, yet he took a small delight in the ease with which he had dismantled a den of scoundrels whose reputations had intimidated far lesser men, and he was gonna get paid for it.
He had nearly been shot several times, but his magic made him a swift and elusive target.
And still, the remnants of his magic burned faintly around him, illuminating the clearing and the devastation wrought in fire and heat. There was horror in the carnage left behind but it was a necessity, these men were not innocent and so he had been their judge, juror and executioner. His mentality already hardened by what he'd done over these months.
'At least the fight hadn't spilled into the deeper woods.' He thought to himself.
Fire and forest did not mix well without tragedy, and he had no desire to scorch the nearby forest. Nonetheless the corpses would rot and return to the soil; the stench would drift far and disappear. Perhaps, he mused, an acquaintance in town could be paid to bury what was left of the bodies or even the predators of these woods would take care of them.
"Tch." He hissed as another cut began to sting afresh.
The extermination of these vermin would grant safety to untold travelers and the island's folks. A job well done, he decided. They should have known better than to make trouble near Foosha Village where he lived but now they learned.
So he had no regrets.
-——————-
The hour of rest came quickly. He washed the blood from his face at a nearby stream, the water turning crimson before clearing again. The bandit leader's corpse lay motionless at the edge of the bank.
With practiced ease, he hoisted the body onto a crude sled fashioned from loose logs. It wasn't elegant, but it would drag well enough. His boots pressed into the dirt, marking a trail as he began his descent from Mt. Colubo.
The night air was cold yet indifferent to his pain. Stars glittered above, uncaring of the mortal struggles below. Dawn Island slept peacefully around these late times.
And as he walked, his mind wandered again.
Men, whether in the real world or here, always fashioned themselves as civilized. They built towns, traded coins, claimed to uphold laws. Yet the world beyond those fragile borders was little more than organized savagery. For every peaceful city, there were ten dens like the one he'd just purged, some in the pockets of the cities nearby or the city's officials merely cared little about doing something about there existence.
"Mercy…" he muttered under his breath. "A luxury for a better age but not this one , not in this world."
And after an hour of walking grey terminal and the city of Goa came into sight at the distant foot of the hill, lanterns flickering softly, smoke drifting from chimneys, the ocean waves resonating beyond. A soothing sound he always liked.
As he continued his descent, the weight of the corpse did not burden him nearly as much as the thought lingering in his chest:
The world was broken, yet it was still worth protecting, but time would tell as he wanted to find his way to the real world.