I had been following a faded path, where the ground had been paved with some kind of crude cobbling. I remember walking along it and feeling the stones dig into the soles of my boots as I idly pondered the troubles a cart would have passing through such an area—not that many would choose such a rural road, which hardly counted as more than a footpath, like this one anyway.

There wasn’t much to describe about the area. It was desolate, barren, and almost disheartening in that regard; yet the subtle disconnection from any traces of society other than crumbling brier-bordered stone walls and the fading path created a strangely harmonious atmosphere.

The path was mostly hidden away, tucked in behind a gathering of wide but not so tall hills, and appeared to connect itself into a forest, where the trees’ canopies hung low and a small clear pond laid just beneath the ridge the road sat upon.

Foliage was abundant as a result, which was a rare sight pleasant to the eyes for one who had previously lived most of their life in the Fraylands—the large land mass between two warring nations where the flames of war often devastated any such fauna.

Even the grass, which usually resembled straw more than anything, seemed to look a little more green—or perhaps that was just my imagination.

It was because of the barren nature of this path, placed behind the hills and passing by a small forest, that I wasn’t expecting to come across anyone. The chances of meeting someone were not so thin that it was an utterly unforeseen occurrence, but I did not think much would come of any interactions to possibly be had. I would have surmised it to be a short greeting of two passersby and nothing more.

The risk of meeting a dangerous person(s) was not something I worried about either. If bandits were to camp in such a desolate place, I no doubt would find it such a hilariously queer endeavour that I would be able to fork over any possessions without qualms.

Meeting someone out here is less likely than not, and what are the chances they have anything worth taking? It would be a strange location to pick and prey upon indeed.

My destination had been this commercial town, one I had heard of through hearsay and asking some of the locals I came across for general directions. It was the next big stop in my journey, and I had business there; mostly general tasks including: selling some items of value, assessing my next point of interest, finding a place to stay for the night, and searching; searching as I had done for the whole of the previous ten years prior.

Among the valuables on my person at the time, I possessed a map of which the origin I knew not. My guess was as good as yours for who the cartographer was, and its credibility was a complete mystery.

Actually putting it to use was a risk in itself, but it was my greatest guide I could access at the time with my only other option being to ask every local I came across for an understanding of where I was and directions for where to go next.

I had seen success following it before—though on the other hand, it was also wrong an equally large part of the time. My assumption was that the map was an old and outdated one. This theory was further reinforced by the written language, being Christeyeran, but quite hard to decipher at times and resembling what appeared to be a much older form of the language.

Many times had I considered selling the map when I thought about how much an esteemed linguist may be willing to fork up for a comprehensive piece of ancient writing—but it was ultimately too useful to do so.

Why am I mentioning this map of mine? It is because this map is the one responsible for pointing this path out to me.

Earlier, when I was consulting the locals on directions to Cherepakha (the large commercial town I had been heading to), not a single one of them had even spoke of the existence of such a road, most instead directing me around the mountains on a rather long, convoluted trip with many points where it was necessary to head in the completely opposite direction to eventually reach Cherepakha.

The map on the other hand showed this convenient little path to the right-side of the mountains, in contrast to the locals' directions toward the left-side.

I had attempted to show the locals this path on the map, naturally questioning its credibility to which was a coin flip most of the time, and in response the majority of them feigned ignorance, expressing they had never seen this route, and adamantly insisting not to go there despite their supposed ignorance.

I don’t mean to boast, but I see myself as a rather good judge of character. If someone is being deceitful, I can tell almost instantly with an absolute success rate—and that’s not even an exaggeration, though I understand that may be hard to believe or take at face value.

Anyway, I could tell not all of the locals were being honest. Some seemed to have no dishonest intent, but a large number appeared to be lying at the least; the likely reality being they did know of the ‘secret’ path.

What I devised it being down to was a tourist trap, a scam if you may. They all recommended that one long and perilous path after all. It was by many mountains and made the trip needlessly longer for anyone attempting to pass through, and was no doubt going to be strenuous for travellers.

Making it in a single day seemed nigh-impossible. That is why the travellers would need to find places to stay, food to eat, water to drink, etc… And who would provide that? The locals!

It’s in their interest that people have to go that way, so naturally they’d attempt to hide such an easy and quick route to pass by those dastardly mountains. That way they can sell more produce and useful resources.

Those not being dishonest I assumed to have merely been told not to tell travellers of the path, or had also been fed lies, or simply had not been told about the path in the first place. It all started making sense when I considered that those who held the greatest dishonesty tended to be the oldest among their fellow locals.

Hence, when none of the locals were looking, I took to this path and had been walking along it for the better part of an hour. Closely scrutinising the specific details of the map in accordance with my surroundings, and accounting for any errors in consistency as a result of the map's unreliability, I surmised myself to be about halfway through the entirety of the path. So, in another hour or so, I should end up on the other side of the mountains, is what I presumed.

With muddied, time-worn boots and restrained steps I walked. I could feel the coarseness of dirt and stone beneath my feet even through the leather; but such a grainy texture was a delight to me, as it made walking a calmer and more steady process.

Although, regardless, each pace I took showed hesitation. There was a certain, obvious fear and expectancy of falling. Run too fast and you will fall. Walk at a pace too quick, fall again.

I had not fallen in a very long time. I suffered from an ailment but had grown agile and nimble above those like me. Yet the slight shaking between each step was ever present.

With this aged line of thought suddenly resurfacing beneath the black, sludgy waves, my eyes traced my surroundings like the inevitable ripple. To describe what it was that I saw was a simple task. There were autumn colours like brown, orange, and a hint of green, trees standing proudly thrice my height, falling leaves in the corner of the eye like a predatory animal.

Except this was seen through a broken lense. Much better than pitch-black, but the bloody entrails dragged along… were from pleasant or wanted. But then a squelch under my foot shot me straight out of those distracting thoughts.

Staring down at the thing beneath my feet—what I hoped to be mud, but forebode something more vulgar—what layed below turned out to be much, much worse. A pool of bloody viscera and torn flesh stained my old boots red.

“Uh… Mm,” I grumbled. Frowning as I came to terms with whatever it was that was sticking to my boot, some sort of internal organ no doubt yet of which was unknown, my mind raced quickly with a mixture of rational and irrational thoughts.

Taking a deep breath, I calmed myself without overreacting. Blood wasn’t new, it wasn’t rare, it wasn’t unexpected, but it was enough of a cause for caution.

I quickly looked around myself, scanning my surroundings for life. In my search I did not find any signs of people, animals, or… aberrants.

The pool of blood was shocking at first because I had neglected to realise it was there until I had already stepped in it. In a forest setting, blood often indicated an injured animal.

It could have ran off, been picked up by a hunter, or eaten by another animal. My heart rate slowed back down. Still, there was one particular feature that confused me—the boiling nature of it. Why was the blood boiling, or moreso scorching hot? It actually hurt through my boots…

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‘Such strange blood… could there really be an injured aberrant here…?’ I wondered, becoming more wary. The way forward suddenly felt considerably more dangerous. However, that might have been a hasty thought. We were far in Christeyeres—hardly near the Fraylands. There could not be any so close to the human mainland.

“I’m being biased. I must be, it isn’t realistic,” I muttered before stepping forward again.

Yet more time passed and that cesspool of viscera proved not to be standalone. More, noticeably fresh blood stains painted the forest, and ‘paranoia’ was no longer a reasonable argument. Not all of it boiled too—meaning the creature with boiling blood was not the only victim of this incident.

“The boiling blood is still here though… It lived from all the way back there, and it’s fighting?”

The explanation I previously created to reassure myself was no longer holding up. It was then that I seriously considered turning around. However, surprisingly, something was visible slightly beyond the carnage. There seemed to be a man resting on a stone half wall.

I stopped in my tracks. As for the exact reasons factoring in my decision to not turn back at that moment—the most rational concern of mine was that the figure was that of an injured man, of whom could not move and was unlikely to receive help any time soon in such a desolate place.

However, there was then a much more irrational idea circulating in my mind, purely subjective and specific only to me, in that his figure seemed wholly and strangely familiar.

I felt an abnormal, yet immense beckoning in which I could not turn my gaze as if I were a moth to a flame. Like the abhorrent claws of a ghast, there was this gradual tingling sensation that grabbed at my skin and tempted me to go forth. It was as if an invisible force was pulling at me.

How I felt in that moment of time—was a mix of fear and bewilderment. Before I knew it, I had approached the figure. The false pretence of concern derived from the position of the good samaritan had all but vanished.

Standing before the man, I asked nervously, “Uhm… Excuse me, do you need help? What… happened here?”

His back was turned and I could not see his face. He wore a rugged leather coat, sullied in dried blood and tail ends tattered; his hair was uncut, hanging loosely so that his ears were covered.

In his hand was a glove, seemingly peeled from the other hand. Blood dripped down from it, and under the light of the sun to which he held it up to, the glove was noticeably damaged.

I wondered what the cause was, but my curiosity wasn’t piqued nearly as much until I noticed a particular detail. The glove had been reinforced with scales—and those scales were completely shattered beyond repair.

Even at a first glance, it was clear they were no ordinary scales. They were aberrant scales. Scales sourced from aberrants were not only expensive, as anything sourced from an aberrant really, but were also meant to be very hard to break.

It was a result of a long-lived species which lived by survival of the fittest. Such scales were often used for light armour, specifically for protecting vital points as they were too expensive to fully laden armour with; and also were sometimes placed on gloves to protect the fists and for use offensively as a weapon, utilising the rough and jagged nature of the scales.

They are supposed to be very resistant despite not being overly encumbering… That is right, they’re supposed to be; yet, the scales on his gloves had been almost entirely shattered. What could have possibly caused such a break?

He appeared to be looking at something, although his face was not visible so such an appraisal was hard to make. Nonetheless, his body faced towards an open patch of land diverging off the path; and I, who was standing at his side by this point positioned slightly behind him, couldn't refrain from following his line of sight. I had an idea of the vista I would be greeted with, but I was still powerless to stop my eyes as they widened in shock.

To put it simply, it was a mess—a bloody mess. Corpses layered upon each other, about three or four of them, piled below and slung across the ground where the grass had been stained red as if there was never a hint of green to begin with. It was a relief to see they weren’t human corpses, but that was as far as any good omens went.

They were creatures of strange form, although it was hard to depict exactly what was a part of their original structure and what came about from their now mangled state, but they appeared to be large reptilian creatures, dwarfing the average adult male, and their skin was coarse and rough like stone, yet had been shattered even worse than the man’s gloves. Copious amounts of blood flowed through the cracks. They were aberrants for certain, though I did not know their specific race.

I walked forward, past the man and approached the corpse-pile, furrowing my brows.

I felt like throwing up.

I felt weak—though not physically.

“Is it that interesting?” I had been standing there, staring at the scene for an uncertain amount of time until these words broke my trance. Coarse, bitter, and cynical were my first impressions of his voice.

There was no hint of compassion or remorse. Not that I was expecting there to be, but in the advent of such brutality, even when targeted toward aberrants, his cold question that almost seemed to mock my own dazed reaction was spine-chilling.

I did not respond to his taunt. My breathing was becoming increasingly more ragged, my head felt awfully hot, and sweat trickled down my back. But do not misunderstand, it was not the gruesome display before me that caused this severe distress. I was no stranger to this kind of mess, nor to this type of man.

There was something much deeper, threatening my very sense of self. There was something I needed to confirm. My mouth still shut, when I still had yet to blink, I turned around slowly and laid my eyes upon his visage.

I stared at him, and he stared back. His eyes were like a dark abyss, a void encompassing all they set themselves upon. His harrowing figure was nothing short of nightmarish, and his presence was enough to make me hold my breath subconsciously, scared my next inhale would be my last. His aura was simply and purely suffocating.

I had not uttered so much as a single word, yet I already felt like turning tail and getting the hell out of there; escaping while I still can, before this goes any further, before—I break.

I couldn’t stop myself from falling into an excessive breathing fit; my eyes strained on the man before me, and that’s when it happened. I suddenly froze.

A paradigm of shapes and colours converged before me, sending a cold chill down my spine before a rush of burning heat. As the memories flooded in, the surroundings seemed to almost vanish as it was plunged into a raging torrent of fire and flame.

Agonising screams of death filled my ears as a deafening orchestra of bloody savagery; but they were not from him, myself, or anyone else in this forest. Far from it. They were the screams of the deceased, the damned, and the innocent.

What I had kept buried away under layers of cloth and hidden from sunlight, the dormant pain of my scarred skin from all those years ago rushed back at once. The events of that day had lingered in the back of my mind all this time, suppressed but never gone. The sensation of blood trickling down my face… how long ago was it now, the day I lost my sight?

Years ago now, I was permanently blinded. My whole world turned black. I was alone and afraid, isolated in the dark; and the sounds of bloody slaughter that surrounded me brought no respite. It felt like a horrendous nightmare.

Those I knew, cared for, and loved were dying one by one; dropping like flies. My turn would be next. And as footsteps approached me, I could not gauge the distance because I lacked the sight to do so. Regardless, I knew they were coming, and that made it all the more frightening.

However, a sudden thud broke the footsteps’ rhythm. As dust hit my skirt from the impact, I couldn’t help but flinch apprehensively. I was completely defenceless. However, the thing that unexpectedly met me was a hand. Despite losing my vision, I could somehow tell when it hovered out before me.

“Take my hand, it’s safe now,” a gentle voice relayed.

The warmth of his hand is something I will never forget. Like a singular flame in a world full of darkness, I could see him clearly. Not to say I regained my sight at that moment.

As blood dripped down from the upper half of my face, even at the meagre age of seven years old, I knew I would never see again. What I could sense from him was something the human eye would never be able to discern.

His figure. His shape. His soul. I could see it all. That was the first time I sensed it.