Jerome stopped in his tracks just before he stepped beyond the copse of trees that obscured him from the village ahead – or a hamlet by the looks of it. It was walled around with a wooden fence no more than five feet in height. The hamlet was moderately dotted here and there with houses that looked like a cross between a cottage and a mud hut. Many of the buildings had burning roofs which smelled like burning hay. Crashes sounded everywhere and he could hear the cries of little children.

Jerome wanted to take to the skies to investigate better but he was worried that whoever was raiding the hamlet would see him and probably focus on him. He’d lose the element of surprise. He went forward as quietly as he could, sticking to the shadows of the trees. When he observed a few feet ahead of him with his mental energy, he found no one in his vicinity.

Jerome closed the remaining distance between him and the entrance of the village. He quickly concealed himself as best he could behind one of the houses. One look at the ground and he nearly puked.

The ground was covered in blood and littered with body parts. The gruesome scene reminded him of his own nightmares which threatened to resurface as he took in the whole village. Jerome calmed his racing heart as best as he could. He was different now — stronger. He wouldn’t let something like this overwhelm him.

He walked into the village, heading straight for the wails he was hearing. Halfway there he sensed someone with his perception and quickly hid back in the shadows. A few scans later, Jerome came out of the shadows, embarrassed at his over-cautious behavior. The person he was hiding from was Blank. And from the information he received from his mental energy, not a very strong one.

He walked up to the Blank as silently as he could to glean more information. About a few paces away, he stopped to observe. The Blank was a lot more tanned-skin than anyone he’d seen and he had on some really strange clothes on — light like the few robes he’d seen recently but still different from them. His head was adorned with a strange yellowed skull that hummed with power, though, weak it was.

The Blank had been standing over a pile of corpses and smoking from a strange pipe in his hand. Jerome’s blood boiled in anger as he witnessed the carnage and destruction before him. Limbs and heads were piled up like they were garbage; some of the corpses still had their bodies intact, and some were mangled beyond recognition.

The sight was dizzying and he felt he lost the ability to hold his saliva in for a bit. His throat felt patchy and dry. Without holding back, Jerome extended the living steel out of his hand and took off the Blank’s head. That was a far merciful death than he deserved but he had no time or the stomach for torture.

The headless corpse flopped to the ground and joined the pile before it. The head rolled for a bit before stopping in front of another pile. Jerome watched as the skull on the head slowly turned red as if absorbing the blood from the pile of bodies near it.

“What the fuck?” he muttered. He picked up the head, removing the skull to study it. It looked like the skull of a strange carnivore. The lower jaw was missing to accommodate the head of the wearer and the insides had been filed to a smooth surface.

The energy he sensed from the skull was strange and reminded him of blood in a very disgusting way. He almost wanted to throw away the thing but his curiosity won over his irritation. The skull hummed in his hand for a fraction of a second before the blood started disappearing, as if the skull was absorbing it into itself.

“Strange indeed.” This was not part of what he learned from the Sovereign about essence. But perhaps this was just another application that wasn’t common to Vorthe.

Another scream lit up the afternoon sky like a flare and he had to concentrate on why he was here. Jerome held the skull in hand as he raced forward. He’d be studying this thing later. For now though… There were at least six people ahead, toward the center of the village. He made short work of the distance between himself and the wailing.

This time his stomach was ready for the effects of the carnage. They had built a stage on which they beheaded the villagers after much torture. They strung them up upside down to drain the blood out of their bodies into barrels.

The whole area was littered with corpses of men, women, and children. Jerome felt the Beast stir within him. His rage kindled and he whipped out Suzie. He tore through the first Blank in front of him like he was a piece of butter. When he turned to face the rest, they had their weapons at the ready.

“Who the fuck are you?!” someone demanded. Jerome didn’t bother answering. He charged at the nearest person.

The clanging of steel rang out as all the remaining Blanks attacked. Jerome sensed a Sprout among them but he neither participated nor stopped his comrades from heading towards their death. He just stood there and watched as Jerome butchered all of them.

When he was done he looked up at the Sprout standing on the stage. He had a cold smirk on his lips; a young man — younger than the Blanks Jerome just killed. The Blanks looked to be in their mid-twenties while he looked like he was a teenager. Jerome wasn’t fooled though. The strength of his presence let him know to not underestimate him. He probably was someone of import and status wherever he came from. Wherever that was, he knew it wasn’t Vorthe. No Vorthean would do something like this so casually.

Jerome didn’t take his eyes off the youth. He was covered from head to boots in blood. Yet he was so comfortable in it that Jerome instinctively knew this wasn’t his first or second time doing something like this.

The Sprout had on a crown of bones, much like the skull the Blank before had. But his was more elaborate. Nothing like a mere skull. There were cowries dangling from the sides of the crown giving it a weird kind of beauty. He also had bracelets on each hand made of the same bone. He wouldn’t have noticed though, if he hadn’t held one in his hand before. The bone crown and bracelets were steeped in blood and Jerome wondered if he’d see them absorb all the blood on their surface.

“Who are you?” Jerome asked. A quick scan of his surroundings let him know there was no one else alive. Jerome sighed to himself. These psychopaths had murdered an entire village… And he thought Hedon was bad enough.

The Sprout smiled widely. “I am Lokta of the Bloodreign Isles,” he said with a fluency that belied his barbarian looks. “Son of Grogg… and champion of the moon!” He beat his chest and bits of blood and entrails trickled down his blood-soaked robe.

“Isles… you’re not from Vorthe,” Jerome said, more than asked. He also heard the foreign lilt in the Sprout’s tongue which told him much about the boy’s origins.

“Since crossing into Vorthe, I haven’t met a challenger who could stir the blood essence in me. Maybe you, stranger, could be that challenger.” The Sprout drew his sword and lunged for him. “Let’s fight!”

Jerome didn’t bother parrying blows with this Lokta’s sword. The spear he formed from Suzie had enough range to keep him at bay. He thrust at the advancing Sprout who quickly halted in his steps to parry his blows. The moment the living steel clashed with the Sprout’s blade he felt it stir in his blood.

Jerome pushed his advantage and the Sprout’s demeanor changed from haughty to concentrated. He struck hard, thrusting again and again and landing deadly blow after blow but he dealt no real harm.

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Jerome stopped to observe the boy. The Sprout grinned as he noticed Jerome was trying to figure him out. He kicked a corpse out of his way and attacked. They continued at it for a while, each looking for a weakness to influence.

Every time he struck a blow, Jerome noticed a red outline lit up the boy’s silhouette. He attacked faster, sensing it was a sort of shield. He didn’t see it before because he wasn’t searching for anything.

But this Lokta guy wasn’t without skills of his own. He combined his sword skills well with his strange barrier in a set of techniques that made Jerome come to the conclusion he could fight well. He wasn’t as agile on his feet or as fast at swinging his sword but every now and then the barrier glowed from a hit — whether to his head or his chest. He followed up with a hit of his own, sensing openings whenever Jerome landed a hit on him.

Jerome played along. It would be an easy thing to create an earthen armor but he didn’t. He didn’t want to show all of his skills. He parried an overarching sword wave and smacked the Sprout’s hand. The Sprout dropped the sword with a groan of pain but quickly extended his other hand to catch it mid-air.

Jerome pounced forward. He trapped the sword between his legs and spun around, flinging it to the side. With a spin of his spear like a shield, Jerome stepped closer to the Sprout knocking away a punch headed for his gut. Most spear wielders would do everything possible to not be in such close range with a sword wielder but not Jerome.

Not missing a step and with the same fluid motion, Jerome elbowed him in the gut. This time around, he wrapped his elbow in living steel and extended a sharp point out of his elbow like a claw. The barrier shattered from the force and the Sprout staggered backward, holding his stomach but Jerome wasn’t done. He brought his spear down and slashed his forward thigh. Blood gushed out like a fountain from the deep wound and Suzie sang in his veins like it wanted to consume it all.

There was something different about the way the living steel was responding to this blood. It was different from the way it responded to others. He remembered the Sprout said something about blood essence.

“This ‘blood essence’ you speak of. What is it?” he demanded like he was a superior talking to a subordinate from his throne. His voice was cold and unfeeling. He looked down at the Sprout who was finding it difficult to stand let alone fight. He pulled out another sword from the storage bag attached to his belt and held it firmly in his hand. His stance was still quite good — he had definitely received excellent training.

“How are you not affected by my blood essence?!” the Sprout said, stepping back to get a better footing and putting some distance between them.

Jerome raised the blade of his blood-red spear to eye level, scrutinizing it as if he could comprehend some esoteric knowledge about it. “I ask the questions here,” he said. “What is this blood essence?”

“You speak to the son of a liege lord, you miscreant!”

Suzie shot forward so quickly the Sprout had no time to react. His wounded leg came away like it was never attached to his body. Jerome held the leg up for the Sprout to see as he fell on his butt.

He screamed a moment later as pain shot through him. Jerome felt him cycle to stop the bleeding. He reared his head back as the stench of dead, rotten blood filled the air as the Spout cycled. It was coming from this Lokta and Jerome almost took a step back at how suffocating it was.

When the Sprout finally calmed down, he sat up on the blood-ridden soil and glared death at Jerome. Jerome raised the leg again and willed Suzie to devour the blood and vitality in it. The leg visibly shrunk and lost all vibrancy in the span of a single breath. Jerome watched as fear came into the Sprouts eyes. His once arrogant demeanor was gone.

“I’ll chop off and devour every limb from you before the day is over if you don’t tell me what I want to know. Tell me and you get to die a quick death.” Lokta’s foot came off with one swipe of Suzie. Jerome dragged the foot to himself with Suzie and the process repeated itself.

~~~

Lokta

This was hell! What the fuck was happening? Why was his blood essence not overpowering this foe? He had never met anyone in his Realm who wouldn’t fall victim to the overpowering suppression of his blood. Even if they could still stand and fight, they’d find it hard to. It would take a lot of willpower and focus on the part of his foe to deliver skills half the strength of what he was receiving from this strange Sprout.

“Stop!” he screamed. He had to stop this boy somehow. He wasn’t ready to die. He had seen the resolution in the boy’s eyes. This wasn’t someone who would let him live. “I’ll tell you…what you want to know. But you must not kill me!”

“Speak,” the Sprout said, causing him to shiver in fear. His steady gaze never left Lokta and that made this conversation all the more eerie. He’d never been on the receiving end of such torture. He’d always been the torturer.

“I said speak!” the Sprout growled.

Lokta growled back in anger and frustration. He wasn’t one to take orders from someone in his Realm. He looked the Sprout in the eye for a moment, taking in his measure. The Sprout was younger. Younger than he’d thought. He was dressed in blood-stained rags but carried himself with authority like a chieftain. The fading scar on his face didn’t go unnoticed to him, which to Lokta added to his hardiness as a sacred artist.

“Blood essence is a different type of essence than you mainlanders wield. It’s a mutation, formed from vital aura and the blood of our enemies. And you’ve become one as of this day!” he snarled, raising himself into a sitting position. “My father will find you and make you regret ever crossing paths with me!”

“Why do you kill so much?” the damned whelp asked as he flicked a finger and shaved a few inches off the still bleeding stomp of his leg.

“Orka’s tits!” Lokta screamed in pain.

“You only answer the questions I ask you. Am I understood?”

Lokta took a deep breath and cycled furiously to stop his stomp from bleeding him dry. He glared at the boy who responded by shaving off another inch or so from the same leg. Lokta screamed in pain!

“We kill to replenish our blood essence! We kill—ooouuhh!!!” The damned Sprout did it again!

“Faster,” he said. “You have no time to scream or complain.”

Lokta held his voice with all of his willpower. He could tell the boy was just waiting for him to utter something that wasn’t an answer to him and he’d deliver damnation to him again. He was so calm doing this — with all the grace and patience of a sea serpent. Only through his eyes could Lokta see the turbulence of emotion in him. If it were him in the torturers position, he’d be cackling with glee and enjoying himself. The boy’s calm demeanor, together with his facial scars, made Lokta more afraid of him.

“We kill to replenish our blood essence.”

“You said that before. That can’t be the only reason,” he said, getting closer and squatting down to eye level with him.

“We have to kill!” This was getting frustrating! He wasn’t born to answer to another. “It is our way as a people! If we don’t kill we don’t grow stronger!”

“Then you die like the many you’ve killed. Only not by my hand but by the hand of Vorthe.”

The boy snatched his storage bag and rifled through it. He plucked the artifacts from his head and wrists asking, “What kind of artifacts are these?”

“...”

The Sprout looked back at him with a raised eyebrow. His strange whip-like artifact coiled around his finger, ready to strike again.

“We call it Amarkh!” he quickly blurted out. The whip retracted and he shoved the Amarkh into the storage bag and tied it to his clothes.

“Explain.”

“It has no equivalent in your language. The closest translation would be devourer — something which takes of another and makes it a part of itself. But even that is quite lacking in definition. The Amarkh doesn’t just take. It takes all the good parts, the strong parts and makes them one with itself. The bones are alive, you see, in their own way.”

The boy nodded in thought for a moment before looking to the sky. The sun was still high in the sky but it had started to crest westward, stretching available shadows. The weirdest thing Lokta had ever seen manifested behind the boy. His back sprouted wings — blood-red bat wings with the glint of polished metal. He stood up and hefted Lokta before shooting into the sky, heading north.