Chapter 2

God-Eater

Sabo crouched in the hold of the airship, barely breathing. Every creak of wood and rustle of chains above seemed amplified. The stranger lay sprawled beside him, unmoving except for the faint, unsteady rise and fall of his chest. In the dim, swaying light that seeped through the gaps in the floorboards, Sabo could see the man’s burns and torn flesh, remnants of a brutal journey and whatever horrors he’d escaped before crashing onto the airship’s deck.

The voices of the Morduin knights drifted down to him, cold and unyielding. Their tone was sharp and authoritative, clearly used to commanding obedience.

“What is the matter of all of this? Church Paladins on an imperial carrier?” It was the warden.

Sabo lost some of the sound from above, but could see one of the guards address his superior officer.

“Are you certain?” one knight’s voice cut in. The voice reminded Sabo of the threat of a blade undrawn.

“We know our prisoners,” came the voice of one of the ship’s guards, the nervous tremor clear in his answer. He turned back to the warden. “No stowaways, sir.”

Silence followed, a silence so profound and foreboding, Sabo could almost feel it sinking into his bones. Then, after a long moment, the second knight spoke up. Their voice was soaked in crackling rage, even from behind the red grimace of their mask. “Since you know your prisoners so well . . . How many prisoners on board?”

“Forty-three,” the guard replied, each syllable tinged with the desperation of a man speaking to avoid his own execution.

The knights paused again, voices muffled as they seemed to exchange a quiet but weighty conversation. Sabo could only make out fragments of words, but he didn’t need to hear more to feel their mounting suspicion, and with it, his own dread. He could feel his heart hammering against his ribs, each beat heavy as a drum, pounding alongside the stranger’s ragged breaths.

Beside him, the man stirred. A faint murmur escaped his lips, too soft for Sabo to catch. He leaned closer, heart still pounding, straining to hear.

“Vitomir…” the man whispered, barely more than a breath.

Sabo stiffened, a chill racing up his spine. Vitomir? His gaze darted to the stranger’s face, searching for some hint of recognition, but the man’s eyes were glazed, distant, almost empty.

“Who . . . who are you? How do you know Vitomir?” Sabo whispered, voice trembling. But the stranger didn’t answer, his body too spent, his breaths shallow and fading fast. Sabo clenched his fists, feeling helpless, useless—like he’d felt every single day of the last brutal year. Since the day the Ravaelian Empire took everything from him.

Then, with what seemed like the last reserves of his strength, the stranger’s hand reached inside the scorched remains of his cloak. Sabo blinked in surprise as the man’s fingers fumbled to withdraw a small, slender scroll, no longer than his own index finger, wrapped in a ribbon stained dark with something that might’ve once been blood.

The man thrust the scroll into Sabo’s hands, his voice little more than a rasp. “Vitomir . . . give . . . to him . . . he’ll know . . .”

“How do you know Vitomir? What is going on?” Sabo desperately asked again.

A rattling breath escaped the man’s lips. “The Tower . . . Hecate’s Tower . . . He’ll know . . . Vitomir will . . .”

Sabo stared at the scroll, feeling the faint pulse of something strange, some energy that hummed just beneath the surface. It wasn’t like any paper he’d held before; it seemed almost . . alive. The sensation was almost like touching living flesh. He swallowed, unsure of what to do with the growing sensation in his gut that felt oddly like dread and responsibility, mingling together in a way that made him want to vomit.

“What . . . what is this?” he asked, his voice low and urgent. But the stranger’s head slumped to the side, breath rattling out one last time. He was gone.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Sabo’s gaze lingered on the man’s hollow, lifeless face, but the sound of the knights’ voices above jolted him back to the present. He turned his attention back to the deck, heart pounding as he crept closer to the wooden floorboards, peering through the narrow gaps.

On deck, the interrogation was growing tense. Sabo could see the faint outline of the Morduin knights, draped in dark leathers and cloaks, looming over the guards and prisoners with the kind of controlled violence that only came from long practice.

“Now,” one of the knights intoned, cold and patient. “Are you sure no one knows where he is?”

The guards looked at each other, faltering, then shook their heads. “No one here knows of him,” one guard stammered, his voice a thin thread stretched too far. “As we said, we’ve been flying for days and have uncovered no stowaways. And you’re the first of the Order to appear before us.”

The knight’s mask turned slowly to survey the prisoners, then paused. “Hmm . . . Perhaps you’re all a little too sure of that,” they said, voice dropping to a low, venomous murmur. “And perhaps you have a few too many prisoners to accurately monitor this ship.”

The prisoners fell silent, shrinking back, but the knight seemed to drink in their terror, savoring it. With a gesture as casual as if they were tossing a scrap of meat, the knight flicked their fingers, and fire erupted from their hand. The flames coiled around one of the prisoners—a man Sabo vaguely knew, another laborer from Olendar. The man screamed, agony tearing through his voice as the fire consumed him, flesh melting beneath the knight’s dark magic until there was nothing left but a charred, crumbling form on the deck.

The knight turned to another prisoner. Again. The man erupted into flames, his screams quickly choked off as the fire consumed him and he toppled over the railing and off the side of the ship.

Sabo pressed a fist to his mouth, stomach twisting, struggling not to retch. The smell of the burning men was sickeningly sweet. He glanced up too see Vitomir. The old man had already stepped forward through the crowd of other prisoners, his expression grim but resolute.

“Enough!” Vitomir’s voice rang out, firm and unafraid. His gaze never wavered as he approached the knights, shoulders squared, a fire in his eyes that Sabo hadn’t seen in a very long time. Even the guards and warden seemed to take a slow step backwards at the old prisoner’s approach. “You’re wasting your time.”

Sabo’s heart sank. “No…” he breathed, watching Vitomir with a desperation bordering on fury. But there was no stopping the old man now. All Sabo could do was stare up through the floorboards and watch, a prisoner to the scene unfolding before him.

Vitomir stopped a few paces from the knights, standing as tall as his frail frame would allow. “The man you seek did land here, yes,” he said, voice steady and strong. “But he was already dead. We didn’t want trouble, so we threw him over the side.” He gestured toward the edge of the ship, unblinking. “He’s in the sea now. Whatever you wanted from him was likely been swallowed by those dark waters.”

One of the guards cursed under his breath, stepping forward and grabbing Vitomir by the shoulder and yanking him down to his knees. “Shut up, old man!” he spat, then turned to the knights. “Forgive him, sirs. We don’t know what kind of madness may have a hold of his old, addled mind.”

But the knights didn’t look amused. One of them stepped forward, darkly elegant, bending until their masked face was level with Vitomir’s. The old man glared at the knight, confident, defiant.

“You threw him into the sea, did you?” the knight murmured, their voice sharp as blade off a whetstone.

Vitomir met his gaze, unyielding. “Aye,” he replied, calm as ever. “He’s gone.”

The knight straightened, silent for a moment. Then, with a fluid motion, they slashed their arm across the air. The effect was immediate. Vitomir’s body jerked as blood sprayed from his chest, splattering across the deck in a wet arc. The old man fell, limbs slackening, his face frozen in a final look of defiance.

A strangled gasp escaped Sabo, and he clamped a hand over his mouth, biting down on his knuckles until the pain blurred the raw horror of what he’d just witnessed. The image of Vitomir lying motionless, his blood pooling around him, carved itself into his mind, a memory that would haunt him as long as he lived.

Then, a strange warmth prickled in his hands, and he looked down. The scroll. He had forgotten about the small, delicate thing in his palm. But now, as he held it, he felt an insistent pulse, a beat that matched his own racing heart. His hands shook as he unfurled it, eyes widening as golden runes began to glow on the parchment.

One by one, the runes lifted from the page, shimmering in the dim light, and then they moved—sliding up his hands, crawling like fireflies beneath his skin, searing him from the inside out. Jebati! He silently swore in the Olenish tongue. He grit his teeth, trying to keep his cries muffled as the runes burned deep into his flesh, their bright light fading as they etched themselves into his skin. What is happening?!

The pain ebbed, leaving his right arm throbbing and his senses numb. Then, from the corner of his vision, something new appeared—words, neat silver script floating in the air like a hallucination. He reached out, but his hand passed through the strange runes as though they were smoke in the air. The runes distorted for a moment, before arranging into silver script in the written common tongue.

[Access Denied: Yggdrasil]

[Explanation: Soul Incapable of Ignition]

[Detected: Divine Mark, Designation: God-Eater]

[Overwriting Permissions . . .]

[Forced Ignition Initiated . . .]

[Access Granted: Yggdrasil]

[Soulsinger Designation: Sabomir]

[Class: God-Eater]

And then, a voice rumbled deep within his mind, a dark growl that made his blood run cold.