Azrael’s body leapt into action, like an unholy creature finally free of its chains.

Without heed for his own wellbeing, he accelerated beyond what his limits should have been. His muscles screamed in protest at the sudden acceleration, as he tried to eke out every little advantage. Blood squirted out of his wounds, filling the air with the scent of iron. And his body practically flew at the captain, but he wasn’t his prey.

An incoming dagger joined him in the air, aiming for his vitals. He caught it in mid-air, spinning, rotating and launching it back at the knife thrower. A moment later it was followed by the blade he’d pulled out of his shoulder. Two messengers of death, one clean silver, one drenched red. He didn’t even look as the blades returned to their sender, instead continuing his rotation and catching the blade of the captain’s sword in his left hand.

He half screamed; half roared as the blade cut deeply into his palm. The captain’s eyes widened in shock, only to widen even further as Azrael’s hand clasped him around his mouth. Both struggled and both knew that inevitably the captain, with his superior strength, would win, but Azrael only needed a few seconds.

The captain’s head imploded, in a shower of gore and golden flames, as he pumped all his mana into a fireball that detonated from the inside.

The captain’s lifeless body flopped to the ground, allowing Azrael to look at the devastated village. It truly was a hellish scene. Houses were burning with hungry flames, filling the air with the smell of ashes and smoke. The knife thrower lay impaled by his own knifes, one in the throat and another in his chest. The captain lay beside his dead men, who were drenched in pools of their own blood. And from the shadows frightened villagers peeped out of their homes, their eyes lit up by the burning houses of their own village,

And amidst all that he stood, a lone survivor, blood drenched and shadow cloaked, a hunter, a murder. His mana was almost drained, his health was low,

The beast in him looked at the scene satisfied and left. It had won, he had survived. The forest was safe.

For a long moment he stood there, drained, before he walked over to the three soldiers he’d killed in the alley. With an apathetic movement he drew the spear from the man’s throat and leant his weight on it. He used the spear as a walking stick and began the trudge home, back to his cave. Once there he logged off.

The capsule door hissed open, but he just lay there and stared at the blank ceiling. For how long he wouldn’t have been able to tell you, but slowly he got out of his capsule.

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He moved in auto pilot. Refill the little of the nutrition capsules he’d used. Everything happened without him consciously taking it in.

He went for a shower. He dried off. He got dressed. He threw a pizza in the microwave. He went to the sofa. He ate. Nothing registered.

He didn’t even taste the food as he bit in. Seated, he picked up the remote and the TV flickered on, before he turned it off. This all somehow felt wrong, too normal.

All of a sudden, his small apartment felt stifling. Heavy, oppressive, too small.

He grabbed his wallet and left the building. There was no plan, no destination, only out, away, and the next thing he knew he was in the mountains behind the neighbouring city.

He followed a mountain path up through the green trees, sunlight dappling the trodden path and illuminating the small blooms that strived for the light. A breeze whispered through the leaves, sending them dancing and in a moment of dreamlike clarity he took it all in.

In some ways it was more enchanting than the most magical forest. A simplicity of the natural world. There was a tranquillity in the air. It was everything he wasn’t; peaceful and calm.

Up and up the path went, winding around the mountain, until he reached the top. Here, there was a small clearing and the wind grew slightly stronger, as the trees no longer protected him.

It was a green glade, wind ruffled and in the centre was an outcrop of boulders, broken, yet still proudly stretching for the sky.

He clambered up, seating himself on the tallest one and looked out into the distance. Amidst the green fields, the city sat far below, glass-clad skyscrapers turning golden in the setting sun. Cars flashed by busily, travelling on roads that crisscrossing the lands below, but up here it was silent, the wind washing away the sounds of the busy world below.

Up here there were no cars, no people. It was as if he was the only person in the world. And he cried.

Enveloped by nature he let his tears fall, first one drop, then another. His fear, his anger, his guilt, was washed away in an absolution of salty tears.

Time stretched on and when he came to the wind had turned chilly, yet the sun still smiled at him from the horizon. For the first time in many years he watched a sunset. He’d forgotten the beauty that such a small moment could hold. And he smiled contently. There were many things he’d realised that he’d forgotten.

The shadows drew longer, creeping across the lands below and he watched the sun set. Even when the world below was dyed in the first shades of night, the sun touched his face, caressing his cheeks, before finally slipping beyond the horizon. He stayed a moment longer before heading back down the mountain.

He caught a train back home, watching the world flash by as it travelled. Cars drove, people walked, and streetlights shone upon empty streets.

Back at his apartment he opened the front door and switched on the lights, before taking off his shoes.

“I’m home” he sighed. Nobody answered back. The house was silent.

Making his way to his room he briefly looked at the silver pod, before slipping into bed.

But back on the mountain the wind blew, the leaves whispered, the stars shone down from above.

He closed his eyes and breathed out. His heart was calm.