Chapter 5

The wind whispered across the scorched plains like a lamenting ghost, carrying the scent of burnt soil and dying hope. Ercolash moved without a word, the tattered edge of his cloak fluttering behind him, each step like a silent defiance echoing against the twilight that bathed the world in rusted hues. Behind him, Alisa still knelt in stunned reverence and disbelief—her lips parted, but no voice escaped. There had been no death sentence, no crimson finale to her tale. Only mercy.

Or perhaps... weakness?

But she knew it wasn't that. No, the boy—the man—who had looked into her soul had chosen something far more terrifying than murder.

Forgiveness.

And it had left her broken in a way no blade ever could.

Far away now, Ercolash’s path led him into the heart of a dying forest, where the trees stood like skeletons of a world that once dreamed. It was there that the air changed. The silence thickened. And then came the voice.

"You presume you hold dominion over the gift I bestowed?"

The world trembled—not outwardly, but within him. Ercolash halted mid-step, a tightness blooming behind his ribs. He clutched his chest as if to hold his own heart from bursting.

"She was a threat. You let her live. You question me?" The voice of the Accursed One slithered through his mind like smoke through cracks in stone.

"You said nothing of her," Ercolash growled aloud. "You disobeyed me. Just like with Miren."

Pain erupted through his chest like a thousand thorns twisting into flesh. His knees buckled, and he fell to the ground, clawing the earth, his breath ragged.

"You forget your place, child of wrath," the voice thundered, layered in echoes both ancient and newly forged. "Every ounce of strength you command—every life you snatch from death’s maw—flows from me. Your very soul writhes in my grasp. Did you believe for even a breath that your will was yours?"

Lightning flashed in his skull—visions of Miren, bloodied, tricked, betrayed. The scream. The final flicker of resistance before his blade cleaved it from reality. It hadn't been his choice. Not truly. That act, that sin, belonged not to him, but to the one who lurked in the hollows of his spirit.

"You... lied to me," Ercolash hissed. His voice was hoarse. Eyes burning. "He was mine to judge."

"And you hesitated." The voice darkened. "Hesitation is weakness. Weakness is rot. Rot begets ruin. I preserved you from it. I cleansed your path."

Ercolash slammed a fist into the dirt, snarling like a beast cornered by unseen chains. "Then you will obey my terms, if I must bear your curse!"

A silence. Cold. Absolute.

Then, like embers flaring in dead coals, the voice returned—quieter, but venomous.

"Speak them."

"Those who deserve death—those who built their thrones atop ash and screams—only them. No more blood for your amusement. No more murder without my word. If I fall, you fall with me."

Another pause. And then laughter. Not mirthful, but knowing.

"So be it, mortal scion. You may leash the beast, but remember this—"

The wind grew heavy. The trees seemed to bend. The sky pulsed red behind the clouds.

"Every leash begins in the hand… and ends in the neck. You are mine."

And with that, the presence receded, like a tide pulling away from the shore—leaving behind only the stench of something ancient and unclean.

Ercolash rose slowly, trembling not from fear, but from rage held too long in a brittle vessel. He wrapped the cloak around himself, letting the hood shadow most of his face. His blade—stained, tempered in sorrow—he concealed beneath folds of dark cloth, its weight a reminder of choices made and lives undone.

His journey led him eastward, beyond the forest's hollow bones, until the flickering lights of a small, battered town emerged on the horizon. Cobblestone streets twisted like veins across its heart, and broken signs swayed in the breeze—names forgotten, their meanings lost to time. The scent of fish, ale, and desperation filled the air.

It was a place where no one asked questions. Perfect.

As he passed beneath the crumbling arch at the town's entrance, eyes followed him. Drunks leaning against tavern posts. Old merchants tightening their grip on coin purses. Children whispering behind cracked windows.

He was no longer a ghost.

He was a shadow that moved.

Inside a worn apothecary shop, the bell chimed a single note of warning. A frail old man looked up, blinking through grime-smeared lenses. Ercolash approached the counter, speaking softly, "I need something to dull pain... and something to wake the dead, if such a thing exists."

The old man froze. "You mean—"

"Not literally." A pause. Then Ercolash offered a coin, gold but ancient, its symbols long erased. "Just enough to make someone wish they hadn’t crossed me."

The shopkeeper said nothing, but the fear in his eyes said enough. Moments later, a small pouch was placed on the counter. No words exchanged. No questions asked.

Outside, dusk deepened into night. Ercolash stood still for a moment, gazing into the distance. Somewhere, the Accursed One still watched—eyes unseen, breathing through his very breath.

But tonight, Ercolash walked by his own will. With blade sheathed and wrath tempered, he moved not as a pawn…

…but as something far more dangerous.

A king without a crown. A shadow with a soul.

And the world would learn that even gods should fear what they create.

After buying the medicine, he went out,the road was silent, broken only by the crunch of boots over frost-bitten soil. Ercolash walked beneath a twilight sky, his cloak drawn close, concealing the marks of power, the silence of guilt. Smoke still clung to his scent like a lingering omen from the last town, where mercy had nearly cost him his soul.

Ahead, a small figure darted into view.

"Mister!" a girl’s voice called. Her hair was in tangled curls, clothes torn but eyes shining with youthful innocence. She clutched a basket of roots. "You look tired... want to come to my house for food? My mama used to say no one should walk hungry."

Something in her tone was unpracticed—forced, perhaps—but Ercolash said nothing. He was tired. Not from the journey, but from a world that devoured sincerity with painted fangs.

He followed her down a crooked path until they reached a worn-down cottage, the roof patched with straw and cloth. She ushered him in. The fire flickered warmly, casting dancing shadows over wooden beams. She placed a bowl of soup in front of him and smiled.

"You live here alone?" he asked, voice hoarse.

She hesitated.

"My parents went away... people took them. I’ve been fine on my own, though. I sell herbs and cook for myself."

Ercolash looked at her. Too smooth. Too rehearsed.

He took a bite, savoring the warmth. But as he drank, the taste—slightly off. Not poison, no. Something else. A stillness inside him. A quiet pull. Then, a thought.

He slumped slowly to the ground, feigning unconsciousness.

Moments passed.

Then—

"Good night, big brother," the girl whispered.

Her voice had shifted.

From the shadows emerged figures—young men, cloaked in grime and grins. The same who had bullied her earlier. They laughed and tossed coin pouches between themselves.

"Worked again," one muttered. "She plays pitiful, he plays hero. We play butcher."

"Nobles pay well," said another. "Fresh organs, clean skin, fear in the eyes. Good stock."

Ercolash’s hand twitched.

Inside his mind, a voice slithered from the deep:

"You see now, little beast? Even the smallest flowers root in rot. They smile to lure you. They bow to sell you. Humanity is hunger. Dressed in lace and lullabies."

His chest ached again. The pain—not physical, but forged of rage and recognition.

"Why do you hesitate? Slay them. Cleanse the theater. They wrote the play. They chose the stage."

Something within him snapped.

He rose in silence.

The first man saw only a flicker before his head hit the wall, spine folding like parchment. The others screamed. One tried to run. A blade sliced from Ercolash’s side—not drawn but appeared, summoned by wrath alone.

Within seconds, limbs painted the floor, entrails trailing like ribbons across the cracked stone. The girl shrieked, not in performance but real terror.

"Please! I— I didn’t mean it! They made me—! I was hungry, cold, they promised I’d be safe!"

Ercolash stared at her.

There was no hatred in his eyes—only disappointment, worn thin.

"The first time I felt safe," he murmured, voice low, "was a lie. And now you wear that same lie on your tongue."

He turned away. But fate was crueler than his mercy.

The corpses behind him twitched.

Risen by the hatred they died in, animated by the remnants of the cursed pact within his blood.

They tore into her. The girl’s screams curdled the air—raw, desperate, betrayed. Flesh ripped. Bone shattered. Her hand reached out, clawing for salvation.

But none came.

Outside, the cottage lit the horizon aflame.

The townspeople arrived too late, drawn by the screams that pierced through wood, stone, and sin. But the man responsible was already gone, shadows swallowed his retreat.

Ercolash’s cloak billowed in the smoke, face hidden. Steps slow. Distant.

And in his mind:

"You were always alone. They only proved it. Let me guide you. Together, we will erase the farce of mankind."

A town guard stumbled forward, then halted. Royal insignia shone in the lantern-light—Captain of the Royal Knights: Leon Manus.

He entered the ruins. Embers clung to the air like ghosts. Among ash, he found a bowl and chopsticks—charred but intact enough.

He knelt, solemn.

"Someone ate here. Not long ago."

Another guard approached. "We found ledgers—names, prices, parts... nobles involved."

Leon’s jaw tightened.

"They deserved justice. But this... this was fire without judgment."

He stood.

"I don’t know who did this... but I will find him."

Behind him, the house collapsed.

And the ashes whispered no names—only truths too bitter for saints.

Far away, in silence, Ercolash walked.

And the whisper of the god echoed again:

"You are mine, little wrath. And the world will kneel, whether in fear or fire."