Death used to mean the end. Quiet. Final. That was before he showed up—the so-called god of rebirth. Now when someone dies, they don't stay dead. They come back twisted. Hungry. Wrong. We call them the Dead, like it's some kind of title, but really it's just a curse. So yeah—death was already terrifying. But now? Now it's a fucking nightmare.
I've run this road a hundred times.
It's the one that curls past the river bend, cuts through the old grain fields, and spits you out near the south edge of the market. My legs know it better than my head does—hell, I've probably sleepwalked down it once or twice. But today? It feels different.
The air tastes cleaner. The wind's got teeth, yeah, but it's not biting me. It's pushing me forward. There's something humming under my skin like maybe—for once—I'm running toward something good instead of away from something worse.
And then I see it. The wagon. Just barely. A sliver between trees. Rolling away.
"Shit! WAIT!"
I shout like the word might grow wings and fly ahead of me. It doesn't. Of course it doesn't.
I pump my legs harder. My ribs are starting to burn, my throat's dry, but I'm still moving. The note's crumpled in my fist, sweating through the paper. One chance. Just one. If I miss it, it's over. I can't miss it. I won't.
"HEY! HOLD—!"
And then it's gone.
The note.
Just—gone.
Out of my hand. My palm snaps shut on air, and for a second my whole body forgets how to run. My foot hits the ground sideways. My knee wobbles. My chest hiccups and all I can think is—
No. No no no. Did I drop it?
Where the hell is it?
I don't have time to turn around, don't have time to scan the dirt or double back or dammit, Elric, did you seriously lose it now? You had one job.
But then—whoosh.
Flames hiss against the dirt. Heat lashes my cheek. I look up.
He's already in the air.
Boots wreathed in flame, the grass below rippling from the backdraft. He shoots forward like a comet—past me, above me—laughing.
"Special delivery!" he calls out, all teeth and thrill, his voice cracking through the sky.
Malcolm.
He wears a moss-green tunic, frayed at the hem and cinched at the waist with a knotted brown sash, the fabric hinting at both travel and toil. His sleeves are rolled just below the elbow, exposing pale forearms wrapped in dark leather bracers that match the crisscrossed bindings spiraling up his legs. Slim black trousers tuck neatly into soft, weathered boots, and a single strap slants across his chest like a diagonal scar. Tousled blond hair flutters in the wind beneath a faded headband, and his body—midair, twisted slightly with one arm outstretched—moves like he's part rogue, part firework.
He lands dead center on the back of the wagon, arm swinging like he's pitching heat. The postman doesn't even blink. He catches the letter like it was always meant to be there.
Then Malcolm's off again. A plume of fire bursts from his boots. He flips, twists—definitely showing off—and lands beside me just as I skid to a stop.
I'm breathless. Knees shaking. My pulse hammering loud enough to drown out the wind. And he's just—smirking.
We both stand there, watching the wagon disappear into the trees.
I exhale like I just won something. I think I did.
But for a second—just a second—when that letter vanished from my hand?
My heart dropped. Like it got torn clean out of my chest.
I thought I blew it. Thought I fumbled the only thing that mattered.
Turns out, someone else was faster.
Why didn't I just do that?
Oh yeah, right.
I'm an Ember. If I make fire, I die. The brighter I burn, the faster I die out.
I'm a mortal. In a world filled with gods
The wagon was just a dot now. A smudge on the horizon where all my hope just hitched a ride.
Malcolm didn't move. Didn't blink. Just stood there, arms crossed, fire still fading from his boots, watching it go like he hadn't just pulled a stunt that made my heart nearly jump out my damn throat.
I caught up, legs screaming, lungs shredding, hand bracing against his shoulder for balance. I meant to say something cool. Calm. Grateful, maybe.
What came out was breathless and shaky.
"What would I do without you?"
It wasn't even a question. More like a half-dead confession. My breath felt like it had teeth, and every word scraped coming out.
Malcolm didn't answer. Didn't even look at me. He just kept watching the road like the wagon was gonna loop back and run him over for fun.
"So it's gone," he said, finally. "That's that. No turning back now."
His voice was flat. Final. Like he'd been waiting his whole life to say something that stupid and dramatic. Then he turned—just barely—and gave me this sideways look, like he already knew what I was about to say.
"I think it's too late to say it was an accident."
I scoffed under my breath. Typical.
I stepped past him. Hands on my hips. Face toward the sun, like pretending to be calm might make my lungs believe it. But I knew where this was going. I'd seen this script before.
"Too late for second thoughts," I muttered, starting to walk. "But I'll pencil you in for that 'I told you so' speech."
His footsteps fell in behind mine, crunching over gravel. Not too fast. Not too slow. Like he was matching pace on purpose.
"Oh, that's not until they laugh you out of the courtyard," he said, deadpan. "I'm very strict with my schedule."
I rolled my eyes, didn't look back.
Then his voice tilted, that sideways grin you could hear without seeing.
"Did you... at least forge a Flame Certificate?"
I blinked. "What?"
"You know," he said, gesturing vaguely with one hand. "A Flame Certificate. A thing that tells them you're very good with fire. That you make a lot of it."
"But I can't make any of it."
"So then what did you do? Put in a blank page and hope they're feeling charitable?"
I stopped walking for half a second.
Then kept going.
Because if I turned around now, I'd punch him.
And he'd laugh.
And I wouldn't recover.
I sighed. The kind that drags your whole ribcage down with it.
"Charity's dead," I muttered. "I'm gambling on delusion."
Malcolm tilted his head slightly, just enough for me to catch the shift in his voice.
"But why?" he asked. "Why... why would you apply, knowing damn well you couldn't pass?"
He wasn't mocking me. Not this time. There was a crease in his brow—real concern leaking through that usual ironclad calm of his. And weirdly... it felt good. Not the question—him asking it. Him caring enough to.
I looked away.
"Because if I don't... nothing changes… we are the mistakes the world says we are
Another sigh. This one slower. Older. The kind I'd said to myself a thousand times in the dark, hoping maybe the hundred-and-first time I'd believe it.
"People like me live in a box. No flame, no future. But if I make it... even if it's by crawling through the goddamn window..." I shook my head. "Everyone else makes it too."
My throat tightened. My fists did, too. I didn't like how quiet he got. Didn't like the weight of sincerity just hanging there between us like wet clothes we were both pretending not to notice.
So I pivoted. Fast.
"God, you should've applied with me," I said, forcing a crooked smile. "We could've failed together. You know, hold hands, cry in the pit of rejection. That inspirational bullshit."
I elbowed him. Lightly.
"You're the strongest pyrokinetic the village has—"
"Now," Malcolm cut in.
Just that one word. Firm. No smile.
Then, softer: "And even I don't think I'm half as strong as the people who'll be showing up that day."
For a beat, he looked like he meant to say more. But the grin came creeping back instead—slow and lopsided like he'd just remembered who he was pretending to be.
"But don't worry," he said. "I'll be around to watch you fail. I promise."
He winked.
The bastard actually winked.
And I hated how much it made me want to laugh.
I almost missed it.
I was too hung up on the damn wink—on how smug it was—that I didn't even catch the last word until it looped back in my head.
"I'll be around to watch you fail."
Wait.
I blinked. "Wait—what do you mean you'll be around?"
Malcolm didn't answer.
Didn't flinch. Didn't even fake a shrug.
Just that look. The one where his face goes blank like he's trying really hard not to look like he just said too much.
I stared at him.
"You—" I started, and I knew it before I finished. I said it with confidence now. With certainty. "You—oh my god."
Malcolm whistled.
Started walking like he could whistle-walk his way out of the entire moment.
But I couldn't stop grinning. Couldn't stop this wild, stupid burst of joy from hitting me so hard it made my chest ache.
"You applied," I said, running after him. "You lying, hypocritical bastard, you applied!"
I grabbed him around the middle and hoisted him up before he could stop me. He yelped—actually yelped—and then started laughing, full and unfiltered.
"Yeah, I did. About a week ago," he said, voice shaking with the laugh. "Now put me down, you idiot!"
I dropped him, not gently.
He stumbled, caught his footing, grin still stamped across his face.
"Don't get too excited," he said, brushing himself off. "It's Wing Squad. I'm not crazy enough to apply for Talons."
"Doesn't matter," I said, already louder than I meant to be. "You'll be there."
"You're such a hypocrite," I said, jabbing a finger at him.
"Hey," Malcolm replied, holding up a hand like a priest giving a blessing. "I prefer secretly supportive."
I cracked up. Couldn't help it. Just full-on lost it.
"You unbelievable traitor."
"You unbelievable lunatic."
We laughed.
I slung an arm over his shoulder, still catching my breath, still reeling from the fact that he—he—was coming too.
And for a little while, just a little while... I forgot that I still had to tell my mom I applied at all.
We crested the last ridge just as the sun started bleeding out across the sky.
The house sat where it always did—stoic and stubborn and a little crooked. White paint peeling at the edges, the porch slanted just enough to squeak, two rusted chairs no one really used anymore. Fields stretched out behind it like a half-forgotten quilt—patches of old crops, scorched earth, grass that never seemed to grow straight. There were wind chimes hanging under the gutter, and every time they rang, it sounded like they were arguing with the breeze.
This was the edge of town, but just barely. Far enough that you didn't hear the market bell, close enough that people could still come bother you if they really wanted. No one ever did, though. Not with us.
We weren't close to anyone. Not really.
Malcolm came to a stop beside me, hands on his hips, grinning like I was about to face a firing squad.
"Well," he said. "Here we are. I'll be sure to send your favorite flowers to your funeral."
I scoffed. Tried to shake the nerves off. Failed.
"Any chance your mom would be willing to have another visitor tonight?" I muttered.
"Oh, no buddy ," he said, shaking his head. "You can't run from this one. You need to tell her."
I stepped up onto the porch. The wood creaked under my weight, same as it always did. My hand hovered near the doorknob. Just hovered. Like maybe the door would open itself if I looked pathetic enough.
Silence.
Too much of it.
I didn't hear Malcolm behind me anymore.
I turned.
He was halfway down the hill already, feet kicking up dust, arms waving like he just won a race.
"HEY!" I shouted. "Aren't you coming with!?"
"HELL NO!" he called back. "Leave me out of this!"
He didn't stop running. Just tossed the next part over his shoulder like a spare thought.
"But be sure to let me know how it goes afterward! Come find me!"
I stared after him, dumbfounded. Annoyed. A little bit betrayed.
But mostly?
I laughed. Just once. Just enough.
"Great," I muttered under my breath. "I have a very reliable best friend."
And then I turned back to the door.
And knocked like I was walking into my own execution.
opened the door slow, like the creak might warn her I was coming. Like maybe she'd hear it and... I don't know, soften? Leave? Be asleep?
The house smelled like it always did. Dry wood and metal polish. Home, but also not. Just... tidy. The kind of tidy that says someone's keeping busy, not comfortable.
The entryway was small—boots by the wall, some still caked with dried mud, others lined perfectly. I stepped around them like the wrong knock would wake something.
The kitchen was straight ahead—narrow, tucked into the crook of the house like it was hiding. One small window sat above the basin, barely letting in light. The counters—really just smoothed wooden planks—were cramped with half-clean iron tools, clay jars stuffed with dried herbs, and a hunk of meat waiting to be salted and stored. No hearth in sight, just a firepit dug into the far corner, blackened with use. Nothing warm. Nothing inviting. Just practical. Efficient. Like everything here had been built for use, not comfort.
I slipped past the old photos, the cracked mirror that had been cracked since I was ten, and made my way toward the back.
My boots felt too loud. The hallway too quiet.
She was already there.
Back straight. Her hair tied up in that wild, jagged wolf cut that looked like it got into a fight with a knife and won. She stood in front of the basin like someone still waiting for a drill sergeant to bark a command—elbows dusted with flour, sleeves rolled high. One leg was propped on the flat stone beside the firepit, as if she'd paused mid-task and just stayed there, watching the edge of the window like something might crawl past it. A knife sat idle on the cutting board, herbs half-chopped. She hadn't moved in minutes.
And the tattoo.
The phoenix's tail feathers coiled around her left forearm in black ink and flame. It disappeared under the rolled sleeve of her shirt, but I knew where it went. Knew how it climbed up her shoulder, curled over her collarbone, and stopped right at the side of her neck like it was breathing down her ear.
She turned when she heard me. Didn't flinch. Didn't raise a brow.
Just smiled.
And I nearly flinched anyway.
I don't know why. She wasn't angry. She wasn't even tense.
But I felt it anyway—that deep, stupid fear in my gut. Like I'd just wandered into a dragon's den and smiled back. Like I'd forgotten how to speak and my heartbeat decided to try screaming instead.
There you are, kiddo!" she yelled.
Her voice was always that loud—like she was born in a war zone and never left it—but for some reason, I loved hearing it. It filled the space. Made the air feel like it had bones.
She turned fully now, hands on her hips, squinting at me like she already knew I'd done something.
"What you been up too?"
I swallowed. The words got caught in my chest like splinters. I looked around. Anywhere but her eyes.
"Mom?" I started.
Her smile didn't fade. Not yet.
"Remember that thing we talked about?"
"I remember the thing I said we should talk about," she said, cocking an eyebrow. "And you said 'later.'"
I couldn't help it. I smiled. Just a little.
"Yeah. That."
My voice dipped. Quiet. Too quiet. I let out a nervous laugh. It came out hollow.
"I applied."
That was the moment the light left her face.
No flicker. No hesitation. Just—gone.
Gone in one blink.
"Tell me you're joking," she said.
"Nope," I said, popping the 'p.' "Sealed it. Stamped and everything. It's official."
"Elric."
She said my name like it hurt her.
"Come on, Mom," I said, still trying to hold the shape of a smile. "You said you wanted me to take more risks."
"Suicide isn't the same thing as a risk," she snapped. "I just meant... try looking at more options."
I took a deep breath. Started pacing. Picked up a rusted ladle off the counter. Twirled it. Put it back down. Picked up a chipped mug, flipped it in my hand, set it down again like I didn't know what fingers were for anymore.
"This is the only option I want to consider, Mom," I said. "Alright?"
She didn't say anything. So I kept talking, kept moving, kept touching things that didn't matter because if I stood still, I might break in half.
"Besides, it's not that bad," I said. "My flame certificate isn't even that good. Probably get a fancy rejection letter. That's all."
She drew in a slow, deep breath through her nose. Her eyes didn't leave mine.
"The aptitude tests don't work anymore," she said. "You'll have to go to the capital. You'll have to fight them."
I knew exactly what she meant. The kind of "test" you only get out of if you impress them or die trying.
I shrugged, messing with the spice rack now. Sliding one jar forward, then back. Over and over.
"Well, worst case scenario... you get to tell me 'I told you so.'"
I smiled. It wasn't real. But it was the only shield I had.
"Don't make jokes about this, Elric."
"Why not?" I said. "It's funny. Me—actually an Ember—marching into the academy, knowing damn well I'm a walking funeral spark."
"Stop!"
Her voice cracked the air.
I froze. Hand still hovering over a jar of turmeric. My heart skipped like it was afraid to take the next beat.
She was staring at me. No fire in her hands. No glowing eyes. Just raw fear in her voice.
And suddenly, I didn't feel like I was joking anymore.
"What do you think this is?" she barked. "A game?"
Her voice was thunder now.
"You go out there, you make a single flame, you'll die. You're an Ember. Nothing more."
Each word landed like a fist.
And the worst part? I knew.
Deep down, under all the hope and grit and plans I tried to wear like armor—I knew.
Everything she was saying... it was true.
But hearing it like that? Out loud? From her?
It still cut.
"People like me," she said, her tone shifting, softening just a little—"and you..."
She paused.
"And your father."
The word landed like a whisper and a weight.
"We don't get remembered. We sit here. We stand still."
She looked at me like she was already mourning me.
"You'll have to face them. And you'll get more people hurt."
"I can beat them, Mom," I said, cutting in before I could talk myself out of it. "My P.E.'s off the charts."
She slammed her hand down on the kitchen table—hard. The jars rattled. My breath caught.
"P.E. doesn't hurt them, Elric!" she snapped. "Fire hurts them. Something you can't make."
I flinched. Then bit back the sting and pushed forward.
"What about you and Dad?" I shot back. "You told me you two traveled the world. That he kept you safe. Am I different?"
"No."
Her voice dropped.
"You're not."
She looked tired. Older than a second ago.
And then she said it.
"That's the problem."
My stomach turned.
"Your father went and got himself killed before you were even born."
The breath left my lungs like I'd been sucker punched.
"I don't want you doing the same thing."
"Ma—" I started, but my voice cracked.
"I'm strong enough," I whispered.
"I know that," she said, her voice shaking now. "I promise you—I know that."
She stepped forward. Her hand wrapped around mine—tight, shaking.
"But I'm not strong enough to lose you."
Her grip squeezed tighter. Not desperate—just final.
"You can intern for the Forgemasters," she offered. "Nia needs more hands. You'd be helping. You'd still be contributing."
She was pleading now, selling me a future I didn't want.
"You'd be just as good as the others. Okay?"
I didn't say anything. So she kept talking.
"Or—or you could be a local officer."
I blinked.
"What's the difference between criminals and the dead?" I muttered.
Her eyes snapped to mine.
"The dead don't run, Elric," she said.
And that's when her frustration broke through—burned clean through the fear.
"And when you look into their cold, dead eyes," she said, voice low now, shaking, "you'll realize there's nothing you can do."
"They'll kill you," she whispered. "With no mercy."
I didn't answer.
I couldn't.
I walked toward the door.
Because I knew she wasn't going to stop.
I knew she wasn't going to let me breathe.
And right now, I needed to get out.
I needed to move.
Or I'd start sinking.
walked down the hill.
Didn't run. Didn't storm off like a rebel with a cause. Just… walked.
The grass was cool under my boots. The sky looked like someone had smeared out all the stars with a dirty rag, leaving behind just a handful. It was quiet out here, like it always was. But I felt loud inside.
Too loud.
I kept thinking about the look on her face.
How fast the joy drained out of it.
I knew what this would do to her. I knew the moment I signed that application. Knew it every second leading up to now. And I still did it. I still did it.
Because I couldn't stop.
I don't think I can stop.
And that's the part that scares me the most.
How far am I willing to go?
How many people am I willing to hurt just to get where I need to be?
Because that's what this is, isn't it?
I'm not just chasing some dream. I'm chasing change. I'm chasing a world where people like me don't get boxed in, labeled defective and put out to rust. I'm chasing something bigger.
And I keep telling myself that it's worth it.
That it has to be.
But… who takes the hit while I run toward that future?
How many people am I willing to watch break for me to build something better?
Who do I leave behind?
I rubbed at my chest. It felt tight.
I could still hear her voice. Not the yelling. Not the anger.
The fear.
"I'm not strong enough to lose you."
I looked up at the sky, like maybe it had an answer hidden somewhere between the stars.
But it didn't.
So I kept walking.
Down the hill.
Into the dark.
With too many questions in my head, and no one around to lie to about the answers.
Before I could even finish the sentence in my head—"How many people am I willing to hurt—"—something blurred past me on the left.
Fast. Low to the ground. Dirt kicked up in a spray behind it.
Shit.
The dog.
Again.
I didn't even have to look to know which one. Big, dumb, overexcited, no sense of boundaries—clearly convinced it was born to hunt gods and shadows alike. Straight toward the woods, tail up like a flag.
I sighed and turned just in time to see the second half of the scene.
There he was—grumbling, sweating, probably cursing under his breath already.
Forge Master Tannik.
Broad-shouldered. Beard like steel wool. Voice like he gargled ash every morning for fun. The kind of man who could hammer a sword into shape and then use it to carve a roast without flinching. One of the best smiths in the village, especially for the knight station outpost—the crew that held the front just outside the walls.
The people who kept things from slipping through.
Because out here, this close to the walls, things did slip through sometimes.
We were on the outer ring. Not quite city. Not quite wild. Which meant we got the worst of both when the sun went down.
"DAMN DOG—!" Tannik shouted, voice echoing off the hill. "You are NOT bringing back another bonesnake head, I swear on all ten forges of andol!"
I snorted.
Reflex.
Tannik didn't even have to ask I already knew, we had done this so much I knew,broke into a run.
Not because I had to. But because I needed to.
To clear my head.
To convince myself that I'm still someone who helps. That I can still be that. Even if that help's just chasing a dog through the dark.
Even if I'm really doing it to bury the guilt.
Even if I know it.
I took a deep breath.
"It doesn't matter," I muttered.
I kept running.
Then—
Gnrrk. Crunch. Gnrrk.
I slowed. Tilted my head.
Sounded like chewing.
Ragged. Wet. Persistent.
I exhaled. "The mutt probably found something to chew on. Bones. Leftovers. Typical."
I changed course.
Ran toward it.
Fast.
Quiet.
Focused.
The trees opened up.
Just enough to let the moonlight spill in, cutting a pale circle into the grass. A clearing. Silent. Still.
Except for the sound.
That horrible, wet sound.
Chewing.
My boots slowed.
The thing in the middle of the clearing had its back turned.
Big. Too big.
Claws like it dug itself out of its own grave. The stench hit next—burnt flesh. Like old meat and ash had been stitched together and left to rot in the sun.
I didn't breathe. Couldn't.
I'd never seen one before.
But I knew.
Every part of me knew.
A Dead.
One of them.
The chewing didn't stop.
The mutt.
No. No. No.
It was hunched over the dog—ripping something from it. Strings of meat. Bone crack.
My heart dropped. Deep. Like it hit the bottom of me and kept going.
They were larger than the stories made them out to be.
Scarier.
Not monsters—wrongs given shape. Like the world made a mistake and then tried to bury it under skin.
I couldn't think.
Couldn't move.
I was scared. More than I'd ever been.
And then I saw the rest.
Four bodies. Scattered around the edge of the clearing.
Bandits, by the look of them. Blades still drawn. Blood pooling out around their necks, stomachs, faces.
There was a fight.
I could see that clearly now. One they must've won.
But it didn't matter.
They killed him—and then he...
He turned.
And he—
He killed them.
And he was still—
Still there.
Chewing.Okay.
I get it.
Fire. That's all this thing is using.
Looks basic. Like a burnt corpse with claws. Not that eccentric flare you see from higher-tier pyrokinetics. So it must be weak. Any real fire user could take it down. Simple. Clean.
So why the hell am I still standing here?
That little voice—I know it. I hate it. That creep of defiance.
It whispers, slipping between my thoughts like smoke through cracks.
What if this is your only chance?
What if this is it?
What if you take it down, and they finally shut up?
What if you prove it?
I'm not what they say I am.
I'm not naked.
I'm not weak.
I'm strong.
I've always been strong.
I say it out loud as I back away, like if I give the words breath, they'll start to believe me too.
And then—
Crack.
My foot hits a branch.
The thing's head snaps toward me. Fast. Violent. Unnatural.
We lock eyes.
And that's when her voice comes back.
"When you stare into their cold, dead eyes… you'll know. There's no hope of survival."
"They'll kill you."
Suddenly—I get it.
I feel it.
That thing doesn't move like it wants to fight.
It moves like it's already won.
It's circling me now. Slow. Deliberate. Measuring.
Like it knows I'm not fire-born.
Like it's reading the fear straight off my skin.
I take a breath.
"I can still outrun it," I whisper.
"My P.E.'s off the charts."
I swallow. Then sigh.
"…But do I want to?"
My fists clench tight. Nails bite into my palm.
It's instinct. Stupid, suicidal, bone-deep instinct.
I square my stance.
And then It hit me then—loud and sudden—like she'd never left my head.
"No, you idiot," she barked, and knocked her fist against the top of my skull like she was trying to hammer the lesson in. "It's not stamina. Don't you dare call it that. Stamina runs out. P.E. listens."
She crouched in front of me, grabbed my hands like she was holding something sacred, and said—
"You're different, yeah. But that doesn't mean you're behind. Not if you use this right. P.E. lets you choose. You wanna move faster? Push it into your legs. You wanna hit harder? Pour it into your fists. You pick the part. You light it up. And suddenly, you're not behind anymore—you're dangerous."
That look in her eye... like she knew I needed to hear it before I even knew I needed to
And I whisper:
"Alright."
"This is it."
"Time to find out if I'm worth anything."
"If any of this has ever been worth it."
didn't growl. Didn't snarl. Didn't announce itself.
Just a rush of claws and black muscle, blurring between trees and aiming straight for my throat.
I ducked—barely—and it tore a chunk out of the bark behind me instead. That's when I realized something important:
I was probably gonna die here.
It didn't wait.
The second I blinked, it was already lunging again—claws bared, eyes wide, mouth twitching like it was laughing and snarling at the same time.
I ducked the first strike. Slid under the second. My foot caught bark, kicked off it. I twisted midair, threw a punch straight for its ribs.
Missed.
It blurred sideways—legs too long, back bending wrong—skittered up a trunk and sprang back down like a springtrap.
I blocked with my forearm. Sparks lit off skin. The jolt rattled down to my spine.
We broke apart again.
I landed on one knee, breath sharp.
It circled wide.
Then—again.
We crashed together. A flurry of fists and near-misses. My knuckles grazed its hide. Its claws sliced wind beside my ear. We were moving too fast for clean hits. Too fast to think.
And that was the problem.
I was fast because of PE—because I was pushing energy through every tendon, muscle, joint. My brain was clocking triple speed just to keep up. But it wasn't built to last.
The creature? It was fast because it was born fast. No strain. No effort. Just instinct.
It moved through the trees like water, like it knew every root and branch by memory.
I, on the other hand, had to map.
I was ducking under low limbs, sidestepping half-sunken roots, diving through narrow gaps between trunks like I'd studied the place—and I hadn't. I was improvising. On the fly. While dodging teeth.
Another jab. Another miss. I pivoted on a fallen log, leapt toward the shadow I thought was it—but it wasn't.
The real one slammed into me from the right.
I rolled. Came up fast. My heel clipped a stone. I adjusted mid-sprint. It tried to flank me again, but I bounced off a tree and threw a punch straight across its jaw.
This time?
It connected. Not hard. Not deep. But real.
The creature hissed and twisted, momentum ripping it sideways into a low-angled branch.
I didn't have time to celebrate.
Because the moment I landed, my knees buckled slightly. My vision blurred for just a second.
PE drain.
Too long.
I was holding it too long.
You've got maybe a minute left, I thought. Maybe. And even that was stretching it.
The creature didn't slow down. It darted between trunks again, stalking wide, trying to flank me from behind.
I wiped sweat off my brow with the back of my hand. My chest was rising too fast. My fingertips buzzed.
Still—
I wasn't done.
I squared up. Readied my stance. Raised my fists.
And then it struck.
Claws flashed.
I turned too slow.
Hot pain ripped across my shoulder, like someone had taken a rake to it mid-sprint. I hissed and stumbled back, gripping the wound.
Then… it just stopped.
Didn't press in. Didn't charge.
It crouched there, a few paces away, and looked at its hand. My blood dripped from its claws—thick, dark—and it tilted its head like it couldn't decide if it was impressed or just hungry.
Then the tongue came out.
Long. Black. Way too wet.
And it started licking. Slow. One claw at a time.
I blinked.
"Seriously?"
It wasn't watching me. Wasn't worried. Hell, it barely seemed aware I was still here. I was just a scratch it picked up on the way to whatever the hell it really wanted.
And for some reason, that made me smile.
I flexed my fingers, wiped the sweat off my face with the back of my good arm, and laughed under my breath.
"If that's all you care about," I said, stepping forward, "then I've already won this."
It snarled this time.
Louder. Rougher. Like it just remembered I was still bleeding and not dead.
"Yeah," I said, low. "Thought that might get your attention."
I pressed my fingers into the cut.
Hard. Sharp pain flashed up my neck. Blood welled up, fresh and thick. I hissed but didn't back off. I rolled my right fist into it—just enough to smear it red, coat it.
"C'mon," I whispered. "You want it? Then come get it."
The thing twitched. Jerked its head to one side, then back. One slow step forward. Another.
Then—
It vanished.
And time slowed.
Just like that.
Like someone cracked the world open and let the seconds leak out.
The trees blurred behind it, wind ripping through branches. But all I could see—all I could see—was the way its body twisted through the air. Fluid. Sharp. Cruel. Like motion itself had teeth.
And I thought:
This is it.
All my hopes. All my dumb dreams. Every sleepless night. Every bruise. Every joke I laughed off like I didn't care.
All of it—relying on this one hit.
I pulled back my fist.
" max overload !" I shouted.
And I could hear Malcolm's voice in my head.
"You named it? Bro. You're yelling it? You know they can hear you coming, right? Like, they can actually hear you. Idiot."
I smiled.
I don't know why.
Maybe because he was right. Maybe because I didn't care.
"I don't care, Malcolm."
The world snapped forward again.
And I threw it. My whole body. From the ground up. Every ounce of blood, muscle, and fear I had left—straight into that one punch.
My fist slammed into its chest.
And the forest exploded.
It didn't just fall back. It flew. Launched.
Through one tree. Then another. Snapping trunks like matchsticks. Leaves and bark and dust shot into the air like shrapnel, echoing through the woods.
And then—nothing.
Silence.
I stood there, panting, blood dripping from my hand, shoulder screaming.
But I was sure of it.
I got it.
I couldn't help it.
I smiled.
"you were dead wrong," I muttered to nobody.
My whole arm was shaking from the hit, blood still trailing down my side, but I didn't care. I was still standing. And that thing wasn't.
All those looks. All that doubt.
They were wrong.
I tilted my head back, cupped a hand around my mouth, and yelled into the trees.
"You hear that?! You were dead wrong!"
The echo came back hollow. Night swallowed my voice whole.
I wiped my nose with the back of my wrist, turned around, already halfway planning what to say when I got back.
"Alright," I muttered, "village first. Get help. Make sure the other four don't turn"
The forest was quieter now.
Each step felt steadier. My legs didn't tremble. My lungs weren't clawing for air. I could finally breathe without tasting iron.
I wiped the sweat from my brow, flexed my fingers, and realized—
Yeah. My PE was coming back.
I could feel it. That steady hum just under the skin. Like coals warming back to life after a storm. Walking didn't hurt anymore. My feet weren't dragging. My body was syncing again, piece by piece.
I did it.
I actually did it.
I looked up, just for a second—sunlight slipping through the canopy in broken shafts—and let myself feel it.
Relief. Pride. Something close to joy.
I was strong enough. All the drills, the late nights, the near-passes, the bruises I never told anyone about—they hadn't been for nothing. Not this time.
I took it down.
Me.
The forest shifted.
It was subtle—a breath, a breeze, the faint wrongness in the way leaves stirred.
I slowed.
Then stopped.
Something wasn't right.
My hand flexed at my side. I could feel PE humming again—stronger now. Walking was easy. Breathing was easier. And still—
I turned, halfway, just a glance over my shoulder.
"They've turned already?" I muttered.
Then the pain hit.
A flash of heat. A wrenching snap.
And something was gone.
I didn't even scream.
By the time I spun fully around, gasping, blinking, the direction I thought it came from—wasn't where it was anymore.
It was behind me again.
Exactly where I'd been walking.
I turned again. Too fast. Too dizzy.
The forest smeared. My vision swam.
I stumbled, grabbing at my side with my good arm. My brain was trying to catch up—trying to name what had just happened—but my body already knew something was wrong.
There was a sting. Sharp. Buzzing.
But distant.
Like my nerves were too slow to report in.
And then I saw it.
Crouched in the middle of the path ahead.
Back arched. Knees drawn tight. Head low.
Its hands were stained black, like someone had dipped them in tar that refused to dry. The claws shimmered under the fading light. And it was chewing.
No—gnawing.
Slumped over something.
Gnawing.
I froze.
My breath locked in my chest. My lungs refused to move.
"Shit…" I whispered. "He doesn't kill them."
The sound got louder. Wet. Rhythmic. Squelching and snapping in slow, deliberate bites.
I squinted. "What the hell is he chewing—"
Then I looked down.
And there was nothing.
Nothing past the elbow.
Just a wet stump and a slow, thick drip of red from where my arm used to be.
For a second, I didn't feel anything at all.
Just space. Like my body had opened up and invited the air inside.
Then the fear came.
Not a scream. Not a panic.
Just dread.
Quiet. Bone-deep.
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't move.
The creature didn't even look at me.
It just kept chewing.
And I stood there like a tree—
Stiff. Silent. Rooted in place.
As the gnawing grew louder.
And louder.
And louder.