He advances hunched over, shuffling his feet, sweating, defeated, his forehead peeling in the sun. He holds his face twisted in pain with one hand and curses aloud the consequences of his actions. He curses aloud the consequences of his actions. Would life change if he had chosen a major in automatons, instead of a career in letters and philosophy? His mother warned him, and he ignored her, when a mother always knows. Now fate leaves him stranded in that no man's land (nor the Lord Slaver's, even if he shouts it hoarse). He is not guilty! He believes firmly. Simply the need to eat and use deodorant pushed him to become a delinquent, like the many chain gangsters out there. Isn't he a victim of society? Of his time? Of the war?

"That slut was a round business! But the nobleman ruined it? I spit to heaven!" He says between involuntary groans, but without really spitting. He knows what would happen if he spits up, he's smart, he's got a college degree. He plots in his mind a slow and painful revenge for his enemies. The burning anger that permeates his mind prevents him from looking ahead. "I will kill them! No, I'll gut them! I'll show them a world of pain!"

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

For every staggering step he takes, the other shadow of the surrounding wasteland takes ten. That humanoid bullet is a metallic glinting specter unafraid to fly by day, it goes with its head and torso bowed, and both arms thrown back.

The bandit stops at the foot of a dune. He removes his hand from his face and flashes a toothless smile as he imagines his future triumph.

"Yes, and I'll make him watch when I do it, so he'll savor how I make his whore scream. I'll make them pay so dearly, that not even in death will they forget my name! bre...!"

The last syllables are cut off. The ghost passes like a breeze. The slaver, with wild eyes, loses his balance. His hair falls out, accompanied by a juicy, red slice of forehead.... Then his gaze, his nose, his mouth ajar with shock. His back is the last thing to hit the red soaked dust.

The hunter accelerates. The five curved blades protruding from the fingers of his right hand, retract with a sharp slide, totally clean.