THE FORSAKEN LAND OF GENèSE | LOST KINGDOM

  600

  Solvanel used to love running.

  In his early days, he loved physical exertion as a whole: Pushing himself to the limit, the breathlessness that came after, chanting, faster, faster, faster, as he tore through the village streets and turned the obsessive villagers on the way to his destination into a silent blur.

  Watching the hunting dogs train like that made his eyes sparkle long before he received his bestowment. And on that day, it almost changed.

  Those who looked up to him upon that stage turned into giants, silently pitying the runner-boy who was cursed to take meek, probing steps for the rest of his life.

  Hearing those whispers in the crowd, it was the first time he wanted to be some kind of divinity to those fools. Because he wanted nothing more than to smite them all!

  The next day, the hunting dogs were battered, bruised, and on their way back from an especially trying hunt.

  Old Man Fang led the group, that damn stiff neck of his like concrete as he dragged his greatsword with one hand, drowning the noise of his foolish companions.

  “Would you quit dragging that thing already?” A middle-aged-looking man with a single strand of grey in his beard complained. “We get it, Fang. Yer disappointed. But what happened to not grabbin’ the attention of all the creatures we can’t outrun?”

  The oldest man scoffed. “I dun’ mean ta grab nothin’s attention, but I got a wife and two grandsons waitin’ fer me back home, so if y’all are lookin’ to kill me and warm her up on my behalf, I ain’t mind lettin’ ‘em knock one or two of yer empty heads off.”

  “Besides,” he mumbled. “Who said about outrunnin’ the shades?”

  The hunters shivered and exchanged scornful glances.

  None of the others knew how much the old man could run his mouth. They wouldn’t believe the kinds of outlandish things he spouted when he was away from the village. Especially when he was angry.

  A hunter with red hair picked his teeth with a broken arrow tip. “Bah, just let him chew out the newbies. It’s damn near tradition at this point.”

  As the first hunter stepped back, a younger one strode forward. He stood a head taller than the rest, but the weight of his pack bent him short. “Sir, it’s my fault Luck missed the neck—”

  “Is that so?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Vardo, you rat!” squeaked the smallest of the group, a prodigious brown-haired archer whose neck was in danger of overuse, green eyes scanning the forest for any beasts lurking behind the trees. “You said you were gonna take the blame!”

  “I’m not taking the blame for that! So, your girl got caught shacking up with the black sheep. What does that have to do with shooting our chief in the head with a tranq?”

  “For the last time, she’s not my girl, and she’d never do that to me!”

  Fang stomped once, shaking the earth.

  Luck hurriedly backtracked, foreseeing hell in tonight’s sparring. “I mean—I’m sorry about the tranquilliser, sir!”

  Sunset rained generously upon the white-haired giant’s all-encompassing shoulders on the edge of the forest, accentuating the muscles long promised to rip off his chatterbox mouth.

  “And—And—“ floundered the young man. “And about what you said earlier, about your wife, sir. If something ever happens to you, she’ll have every man and woman in the village making sure she’s not cold.” Luck offered a wide, reassuring smile, blushing slightly as he scratched the back of his head. “For you.”

  Fang grunted, setting down a limp deer “Someone remind me to kill that one later.”

  Luck gulped as the old man lifted his sword.

  “Draw yer weapons. I smell excitement inside the fence.”

  The first timers of this month’s hunting schedule fell in line as they remembered it.

  As the old man explained during training, beasts have every natural advantage over humanity there was to think of. That is, apart from two things: cunning and community.

  Shadespawn powerful enough to think and speak were a bit different, but that kind of power made them cocky, refusing to travel in a group or learn to navigate their limitations.

  Therefore, a hunter conceals his approach by moving with the environment.

  Far sloppier than the others, Luck and Vardo did just that, moving low through the tall grass to conceal their figure while synchronising their strides to the crackling of the yellow marigold beam-flowers that the Lightbringer cultivated around the village border.

  Like that, the hunting dogs moved across the golden plains until they broke through the vegetation. Their leader raised a hand, indicating a halt.

  “Why are we stopping?” whispered Luck.

  The landscape before them was an extension of the lush plains, no different from the tall grass surrounding them now.

  Fang rapped the air with his knuckles.

  Gentle vibrations travelled out in mid-air from the point of impact—each ripple exposing the unseen curve of a translucent dome which swallowed a wide swath of the plains beneath its reach.

  Luck flushed red, knowing he’d made another bad impression on the chief.

  His parents had told him about the fence-barrier that kept the monsters out, but it was such a basic part of life he’d nearly forgotten it existed. It didn’t help that it was invisible—both from the inside and out. What they hadn’t told him was that it made the entire village invisible from the outside, too. Who knew?

  Vardo yelped as his broadsword slipped out of his hold.

  “Ahahahah—” His best friend’s point-and-laugh-ridicule was cut short when a fist bopped him on top of the head.

  “Barrier’s kept,” commented the village chief. “Sleepy!”

  A call, but no response.

  “Sleepy!”

  A shadow appeared on the other side of nothing, growing larger as it approached, outlining the figure of a skinny, long-limbed stick-bug demon that took over the village when the six strongest combatants—and Vardo—were away.

  At least, that’s what Luck thought it was.

  In reality, the figure stopped at the threshold, human-shaped fingers pressed against the barrier. A narrow slit formed in the translucence as it pulled a section of the fence-barrier aside, welcoming them through a curtain of cloudy, greyish light.

  “Ah. You must record-”

  The other hunters brushed past the man in the booth without a greeting.

  Bent over a sheet of papyrus, his pale fingers held a quill over a lonely blank page.

  He was gaunt—cheeks sunken, eyes baggy and rimmed with sleepless red. And his frame, pitifully narrow. Owed to genetics and countless nights without rest. The man was something built to be overlooked, and they did exactly that.

  However, even Luck could tell there was more to their attitude than simple indifference. Quiet resentment paired with utter contempt—an unneighborly reaction, unfitting of the boisterous bar-dogs, which absolutely went against the Lightbringer’s teachings.

  The first timers trailed behind the hunting dogs, nerves steadied by the scent of domestic smoke and stored grain.

  “Thank you, Mister Smallcock!”

  “Thank you, Mister Smallcock.”

  “It’s Smallock!”

  He corrected, waving his fists as they passed by. It was hard to take him seriously, since his shrill, shaky voice reminded Luck of Vardo’s grandmother.

  “How many casualties, Smallcock?”

  The oldest man wrote their names on the sheet of papyrus.

  “Yes, sir?”

  Another round of screaming deeper inside the village.

  “I caught a nasty scent in the air,” the oldest man said, writing seven names on the sheet of papyrus below the previous list from this morning. “What the hell did you let in?”

  Another round of screaming deeper inside the village.

  “I-…” The fence sitter began, trailing off. “You know what, sir?”

  He stepped out of the wooden hut, back straight as it could be, given his hunch. This time, he didn’t flinch beneath the old man’s tone. If anything, there was a quiet satisfaction in the way he raised his hand and gestured toward the noise. “This time, I suggest you go and see for yourself.”

  “Advance.”

  Pressed for time, the oldest man left the fence-sitter to his own satisfaction.

  The hunters exchanged glances before moving, boots crunching gravel as they returned, keeping a grip on their weapons.

  The further they went, the louder the chants became. And it became increasingly clear that these were not screams of fear, but cheers. Dozens of voices overlapping, rising, reshaping their tension into bewilderment.

  This wasn’t the sound of chaos.

  “Go, Messolah!”

  “Be careful, Messolah!”

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  “Mess-o-lah! Mess-o-lah! Mess-o-lah!”

  The hunters had returned to a village-wide event—one that drew a crowd even greater than the festival they held once a year.

  And to the sight of their no-nonsense chief’s divinely profaned grandson taking a bite out of the brick that made up the tailor’s shop.

  The men groaned sympathetically. “Ooof!”

  The children sucked air through their loose milk teeth. “Messolah!”

  The women cried out in shock. “Are you okay, Messolah?”

  The Messolah groaned from the ground, spitting dust, cursing whatever force orchestrated his misstep.

  Somewhere behind the old man, someone snorted.

  Wrong move.

  Old Man Fang’s sword arm twitched, promising that anyone dumb enough to flash a grin would be smiling from the afterlife.

  Solvanel wheezed and rolled onto his back, one eye swollen, lip bloodied, pride obliterated.

  Then, he limped all the way back to his grandfather’s doorstep on top of the hill, determined to sprint to the other side of the village, guided by memory alone.

  That’s how the saviour earned the nickname, Windbreaker.

  For being as fast as the wind, and as broken as a tree in a hurricane. Secretly awarded by his grandfather’s hunting dogs after an evening of thorough entertainment.

  Yes, Solvanel always loved running.

  But ever since his battle with Jonah, the wind’s playful ruffling of his hair was a reminder of the ultimate choice his brother had to make—freedom in exchange for abandonment.

  'All the steps that take you forward. And all the people you leave behind.

  'That choice was a shackle made for smaller wrists.

  For the weaker shepherd. The na?ve shepherd. The childish little dreamer-boy who couldn’t find his brother in the dark.

  'The one who washed a stranger’s feet after leaving a little girl to die.

  The one who followed his grandmother’s fraudulent teachings—hands clasped, eyes closed—praying to a “Heavens” that wasn’t really listening.'

  He spotted two flames in the distance.

  Side by side, they were leisurely approaching the city centre.

  'I prayed to the heavens, but even now, I can still hear the ringing of their silence.'

  Inflicted with the curse of true blindness, he wouldn’t be able to navigate the architecture in time.

  'But I, the light that came from the heavens, am no longer that na?ve little dreamer. With this power, I am no longer the boy who prayed, but the prayer that has been answered.'

  His ‘Discarded View’ ignited, peering into the composition.

  Several structures were illuminated in his cursed sight—those with the word ? Aegis ? engraved in their foundation.

  'And I am more than capable of answering my own.'

  Solvanel launched himself off the rooftop without hesitation.

  Pitter-patter footsteps struck the corner of a barriered warehouse. He pushed off before it could register fully in his vision, leaping to the curved spine of a shielded chapel roof. Each landing jarred his knees, but he didn’t slow.

  The only path forward was through anger and momentum.

  He darted across a sloped roof, vaulted a ledge, and dove into the next building’s balcony.

  An azure streak tore past his shoulder, narrowly missing his cheek.

  It spiralled out of control before regaining stability in the air, arcing back toward the skirmish behind him.

  The instrument and the two Essaifamés were still locked in battle. Their fight was a storm of claws too vicious for the streets. One of them shrieked, sweeping low, its stained-glass wings slicing through a rooftop as it missed its mark.

  Solvanel ducked beneath the collapsing debris.

  He didn’t stop.

  Through the dust and disarray, he caught sight of the mercenaries again. Close enough to feel the heat of their divine breath.

  The shepherd dropped from above, toes digging into the sand, and drove his fist straight into Wilhelm’s stomach. The older man’s eyes bulged, and all the breath in his body ripped away in an instant as he tumbled away.

  “I’ll spill your blood!”

  Sula reacted pre-emptively, swinging his instrument. But this time, his experience worked against him. Because after all these years as a killer, he never expected to meet his match in a scrawny little whelp.

  The forbidden fruit’s power augmenting his flame, the enemy’s reaction was too late.

  Solvanel dipped under, pivoted, and slammed his shoulder into Sula’s ribs, sending him through a wooden door.

  Wilhelm barely had time to cough before the second blow hit.

  Solvanel drove his knee up into the mercenary’s jaw, snapping the mercenary’s head back. Wilhelm stumbled, staggered, and nearly fell—but was not given the privilege.

  The shepherd grabbed the wolf by the scruff and slammed its snout into a wall.

  Cartilage cracked. Blood burst. Wilhelm barked, eyes watering, but it wasn’t enough.

  “Yes…”

  Solvanel pulled him in and delivered an elbow to the ribs.

  Wilhelm doubled over, hand on his broken bones. “Yes…”

  Solvanel brought his fist down like a hammer on the back of his neck, and the older man collapsed into the sand, coughing blood and trying to roll away.

  But there was nowhere to roll.

  Wilhelm twisted onto his back, legs bracing to kick off, hand already reaching for the handle of the broken blade strapped to his thigh—

  Solvanel stomped on his wrist. Hard.

  A crunch followed. Wilhelm grunted, but he didn’t cry in pain.

  “Yes!”

  That same crooked grin stayed fixed on his face as Solvanel wrapped his hair around his fingers, crouching down and hitting him again.

  And again...

  And again...

  Fists cracked into cheekbones, jaw, temple.

  The enemy's limp arms jerking, sand kicking up with every impact.

  And again...

  “Yes!” Wilhelm rattled off, his good eye swelling shut. “This is what a man is supposed to be! You don’t wait for the next man to hit you! Take matters into your own hands and strike fir—”

  And again.

  Still, the wolf bared its fangs in a show of pure euphoria.

  And again.

  Wilhelm’s voice slurred through broken teeth. "More! More! More!"

  Solvanel struck—Harbinger of those countless judgments that the heavens should have wrought upon this man decades ago.

  Until—

  Something stirred in his skull.

  The crown awakened around his temple.

  His hands slowed. The air thickened. The blood on his fingers suddenly looked darker—slicker.

  “That’s right. You’re starting to look like him.”

  The shape of Wilhelm’s flame flickered in his cursed sight, warped and unstable.

  But there was a thread—an opening. A perfect kill.

  “You two are brothers after all.”

  Solvanel raised his arm, his body coiling to bring it down. His fingers twitched. An insidious voice whispered inside the crown—

  Sula stood off to the side, unmoving. Watching.

  His eyes tracked every strike. Every impact. Every time Solvanel’s fist came down. But he didn’t step in.

  And maybe he would have.

  But the mercenary lifted a trembling, bloody hand, fingers bent at unnatural angles, and waved him off with a chuckle.

  “Let him,” he croaked. “You step in now, you ruin the good part.”

  Sula didn’t move.

  Solvanel hit him again—weaker now.

  And again.

  “Yeah… that’s it,” he rasped. “Not bad for a whelp. Your brother would be proud.”

  Each strike cracked bone or split skin, crushing him further into the sand. Yet it never seemed to cross the line and erase that smug, blood-soaked grin from his face permanently.

  Wilhelm laughed through the pain and the swelling. Through the teeth rattling in the back of his throat. "But you ain't him. Forget killing his bitch, Jonah would'a killed me just for the fun of it."

  Solvanel’s knuckles were slick. His breathing was wild.

  Wilhelm raised his head slightly, one eye sealed shut, the other barely open. “Go on,” he whispered. “You wanted revenge, didn't you? One more, and we’ll see if you've really got what it takes.”

  Solvanel raised his fist.

  The crown pulsed, inviting him to break the demoness' commandment. As desperate as he was to enact the power stored within.

  Break the law.

  Break the rule.

  Let go.

  But the rule had been clear. A shepherd does not kill for wrath. A shepherd does not kill for himself. According to the demoness, a shepherd does not kill at all.

  'Hey,' asked the crown, like a friend with an epiphany. 'What right does she have to make that decision anyway?'

  Solvanel’s hand trembled in the air, inches from Wilhelm’s ruined face.

  No. One more blow would be crossing that line. And he may lose this power yet.

  The mercenary kept smiling, even as he was drooling blood.

  “Go on,” he whispered. “Just a little further. You know I deserve it.”

  But Solvanel didn’t move.

  He stared down at the nasty flame burning brighter than ever.

  And then, slowly, he lowered his hand.

  The crown pulsated once before loosening its grip.

  Wilhelm gave a weak, rasping laugh. “Almost had you…” He muttered, before spitting in the sand and losing consciousness.

  Solvanel left without a word.