My hands trembled like never before. I had just committed an act I myself considered criminal. The soldier's blood was red and warm, and I watched as it spilled from his neck and seeped toward me. My knees, pressed against the ground, were the first to be soaked in sin.
My stomach churned. A powerful wave of nausea began to consume me, a sense of disgust and regret spreading through the deepest corners of my soul. This emotional sickness manifested as a physical emptiness in my stomach.
I couldn't hold it back. I staggered to my feet and stumbled out of the house. The moment I was outside, I vomited. Days of barely eating left little inside me, and now my stomach had emptied itself of whatever remained. A sharp, burning sensation scraped up my throat, and the vomit’s pale color was unlike anything I had ever seen before.
I wiped my mouth with the back of my sleeve and leaned against the wall, trying to steady my breath. My body was trembling, but my mind refused to calm down. The image of the soldier flashed through my thoughts, his lifeless eyes staring back at me.
"I... I didn't mean to..." I repeated to myself again and again. "I-it was impulsive... I wasn't thinking... Oh, what have I done?"
I clutched my head in my hands, trembling as if I were freezing. What would my parents say if they knew I had just killed someone? What would Elyra think, knowing her older brother was a murderer?
No, wait. I am not a murderer. It was circumstantial. He tried to rob me; he was responsible for the deaths of others before. I'm just a victim.
Yes, that's it—a victim. It was a desperate measure to survive. Like my father said, survival comes first, right? Of course, it wasn't my fault. I was forced to act.
What am I doing? Trying to justify killing a man... I did it, and what's done is done. My eyes felt heavy, like I was about to faint. Just as I felt my body about to collapse, an image of my family crossed my mind. This is all for them. I can't afford self-pity.
I lowered my hands from my head and took a deep breath. "Alright..." I muttered, looking back toward the burned house. I had to take responsibility for my actions, but first, I needed to find something useful here. That was why I came.
I stepped inside the house slowly. If it had felt sad and melancholic before, it now felt heavy and suffocating. Just being inside made breathing a challenge. The walls were blackened with soot, their cracked surfaces resembling veins torn open by fire. Pieces of charred wood hung precariously from what remained of the ceiling, and ash rained down with every movement, clinging to my skin like a second layer of guilt.
The air was thick, suffused with the acrid scent of burnt flesh and smoke. It stung my nostrils and made my stomach churn again. Each step I took made the debris underfoot groan, as if the house itself protested my presence.
I searched through the house, but to my misfortune, there was nothing—everything was burned. The only thing intact was the soldier's corpse.
I approached, but with every step, the nausea grew stronger. The body lay still, its uniform was dirty but intact, save for the deep gash in the neck. Blood had pooled beneath it, dark and congealed, contrasting with the ash-covered floor. I needed to calm down.
Dropping to my knees, I avoided looking at his face and began searching through his belongings.
The first thing I checked were his pockets. The State Guard uniform had four in total—two on the chest and two on the pants. The lower pockets were completely empty, but to my surprise, something rattled inside one of the upper ones.
It was a cluster of silver coins—three, to be exact. Not much, but enough to stir a mix of excitement and guilt within me. Fifty of these made up a single gold coin, yet in my current state, even these scraps of currency felt like buried treasure. My fingers trembled as I grabbed my small bag, its weight oddly heavier than before, now damp with the soldier's blood. I shoved the coins inside, trying to push away the nausea rising in my throat.
Then my gaze fell on the soldier's hands—and there it was. The reason this all happened. Sareth Dansten's rings.
Sareth had been the eldest son of the Dansten family. He was eleven years older than me and a man of principle. He'd helped us through hard times, offering small favors without asking for much in return. When the war broke out five years ago, he was the first to warn us, speaking with urgency and dread.
Now his legacy sat cold and lifeless in the hands of a man I'd just killed. The rings were more than just ornaments—they were heirlooms passed down through generations. His grandfather had gifted it to him before he passed.
That should have been all he had—or at least, that's what I wanted to believe. But beside the corpse, resting in the puddle of congealed blood, was his Gamma pistol. My breath caught as I carefully picked it up, its surface slick and stained red. It felt heavier than I expected, or maybe it was just my nerves amplifying the sensation.
I turned it over in my hands, inspecting the intricate designs etched into its frame. These weapons weren’t just tools; they were symbols of authority, wielded only by those deemed worthy by the State. A part of me burned with curiosity. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to try it—just once.
But fear crept in. When someone joins any branch of the military, they undergo medical tests to ensure their Gamma levels are high enough to wield these weapons safely. Too little Gamma in the bloodstream, and the weapon could backfire, causing catastrophic damage in the wielder circulatory system.
I was just a farmer. I had no way of knowing if I was capable of firing it—or surviving the attempt. Swallowing hard, I slipped the pistol into my bag alongside the coins and rings. For now, my curiosity would have to wait.
The scythe was mine. Its blade, however, was still buried deep in the corpse's throat, wedged between flesh and bone. My trembling hands gripped the handle tightly, sweat slicking my palms as I tried to pull it free. The blade resisted at first, as if the corpse itself refused to let go.
I swallowed hard and pulled again. This time, it gave way, sliding out inch by inch. Each movement tore through flesh, releasing sluggish streams of blood that joined the pool already beneath him. My stomach churned, and for a moment, I thought I might vomit again.
When the blade finally came it was a huge relief. I wiped it clean on the soldier's uniform, my hands trembling so badly I could barely hold the cloth steady.
"I'm sorry," I muttered, my voice barely more than a breath. The words felt hollow.
Finally, I could leave this damned place and never return. The site where I had committed my greatest sin—the murder of another man. The walk home felt endless, each step haunted by the memories of what I had done.
I pushed the door open quietly, but luck wasn’t on my side. My mother stood just beyond it. Her eyes locked onto me, widening in horror as she noticed the blood staining my clothes.
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"Aidan! What happened to you?!" she cried, her voice trembling.
"It's okay, Mom. I'm fine..."
"But all that red... is that... blood?"
I hesitated. The truth hung heavy on my tongue, but I couldn’t let it escape. Instead, I lied.
"It's not mine. It's from the Danstens. I went to their house to see if I could find anything, and... I found what was left of them."
She stared at me in silence. Did she believe me? Or had she already seen through the lie? I couldn’t bear to find out, so I reached into my bag and pulled out the three silver coins.
"Look, I found these. It’s not much, but it might help us."
Her eyes dropped to the coins. The silence dragged on, heavier than before. Finally, she spoke.
"Three silver coins... It won’t be enough for your father’s medicine, but maybe we can get some food with it," she said, her voice distant.
"Yeah, that’s what I thought. I’ll head to town in the morning and see what I can get."
I avoided mentioning the Gamma pistol and Sareth’s rings. Those secrets would stay buried, for now.
"How’s Dad?"
"No fever. He’s been asleep for a while. Elyra is with him."
For the first time in days, some good news. My father was stable. That gave me time to figure out my next move.
"That’s good... I’ll get some rest then. Tomorrow—"
"You’re not hiding anything from me, are you? You know you can tell me anything." Her words caught me off guard.
I shook my head. "I know, Mom. I’d never hide anything from you." Another lie. Lying to her is the right thing... right? I can't burden her with this. Not after everything she's already been through. Maybe someday... when this is all over, when the coins are enough, when Dad is better... Maybe then I can tell her the truth.
I retreated to my room, closed the door, and finally allowed myself to collapse onto the bed. Sleep came quickly, but not peacefully.
The next day I woke up feeling physically rested, but my mind was a tangled mess. The night had been restless—fragmented dreams and sudden awakenings ocurred several times.
Still, I had no time to dwell on it. I had to get to town. I changed into clean clothes, shoving the bloodied ones into a cabinet. Grabbing my bag—with the coins, the pistol, and the rings safely tucked inside—I moved quietly. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. Not yet. Not with this guilt weighing me down.
The walk to town went as usual. I followed the dirt path through open fields, passing rows of small wooden houses surrounded by stretches of wheat. They looked just like mine—simple and weathered, yet stubbornly standing.
It took about ten minutes before the town came into view. A large, worn sign greeted me: "Welcome to Alessandria." The entrance had a few members of the State Guard stationed nearby, standing idle but armed. My stomach tightened at the sight of their uniforms. The image of the soldier I had killed flashed through my mind.
I lowered my head, hoping to avoid any unwanted attention. Thankfully, in a place like this, people came and went without much scrutiny. The guards barely acknowledged my presence as I slipped past them.
Inside, Alessandria felt empty. Once home to nearly 20,000 people, the town now seemed to house only half that number. Boarded-up windows and locked doors lined the streets. Shops that once hummed with activity were silent. The streets were cracked, uneven, and littered with debris.
Amerite crystal lamps lined the roads, their faint glow struggling against the encroaching gloom. Some were shattered, others flickered inconsistently, barely clinging to life—much like the town itself.
Despite the decay, there was movement. Carts rolled through the streets, pulled by horses fitted with mechanical implants. These enhancements were commonplace, their faint hum blending with the sound of hooves on stone.
The mechanical implants had Amerite crystals embedded in their chests and ribs that pulsed faintly, channeling small surges of Gamma energy through their nervous systems. The system worked by transmitting low-energy Gamma pulses through the reins, which acted as conductors. These pulses traveled to the Amerite crystals, which amplified and converted the energy into electrical signals. These signals stimulated the horses' nervous systems, overriding panic responses and enforcing calm and obedience.
It was said that the process didn’t harm the animals. The Gamma pulses were too weak to cause damage, and the Amerite crystals absorbed most of the energy before transmitting it. Instead of relying on brute force or whips, drivers could direct their horses with precision through subtle shifts in the reins.
I walked for a while until I found a small shop that still seemed to have goods. The building was worn, its wooden frame reinforced with scraps of metal plating bolted along the walls. Inside, the scent of rust hung in the air, and faint scorch marks lined the edges of the shelves, as if a small fire had once broken out there.
Behind the counter stood an old man. His clothes were stained with grease, and his fingers bore the marks of years spent handling tools—blackened nails, calloused skin, and faint burns that hadn’t healed properly. He looked up from tinkering with what appeared to be a broken Amerite-powered lantern, his eyes squinting as if the light above wasn’t enough for him.
"Excuse me..." I said quietly.
"What? Speak up, I can't hear you," the old man replied with an aggressive tone.
"I'm looking to buy something to take home. Food, to be specific," I said, this time more firmly.
"Food? What a surprise. That's what everyone's been looking for these past few months."
His response deflated my hopes. Maybe he didn’t have anything either.
"...Look, how much do you have?" he asked, scratching his head. His tone had softened slightly—maybe he pitied me.
"Three silver coins."
"Three coins? With two you can get two medium-sized loaves of bread, about a pound each."
"What? Only two loaves? But before they cost—"
"Look, kid, maybe you don’t understand economics, but I’m sure you understand scarcity. Do you want the bread or not?" He snapped, clearly losing patience.
"Fine… And with just one silver coin?"
"I can give you what’s left of the potatoes—ten of them. Each weighs about eight pounds. That’s all I’ve got."
It was expensive—outrageously so. Just a few months ago, a single silver coin could buy enough food for two weeks. Now it barely bought scraps. But I wasn’t in a position to argue.
I reached into my bag, pulled out the three coins, and handed them over.
I stepped out of the shop with a new bag in my hands, carrying the food I’d bought. It had been expensive—too expensive—but at least I wouldn’t return home empty-handed.
"Hey, you!" someone called out.
I froze, the hairs on the back of my neck rising. Turning slowly, I spotted them—a group of five men lingering near the edge of the street. Their clothes were ragged, their eyes sharp and predatory.
"What’ve you got there? Let us take a look!" The one in front smirked, his tone playful, but the menace beneath it was impossible to miss. They weren’t here to look. They were here to take.
They started moving toward me. I could feel the tension in their steps, like wolves closing in on prey. My hands tightened around the bag’s strap before I carefully set it down. My other hand slipped into the other bag where I had the rings… but I was not going for the rings. My fingers brushing against a cold metal—the Gamma pistol.
Run. That’s what I should do. But my legs wouldn’t move.
I wasn’t thinking. My body acted on its own, driven by something deeper—something primal.
I gripped the pistol tighter, my breath steadying as my pulse quickened.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed movement—people peeking out from windows and doorways. Some quickly shut their curtains, pretending not to see. Others lingered, their eyes darting between me and the group, waiting to see how this would unfold.
This food wasn’t just survival. It was hope. Proof that I could keep going, that I could protect my family. And now these men wanted to take it from me?
My heart pounded, but fear didn’t cloud my mind. Not like before.
Survive. My father’s words echoed in my head. Survive at all costs.
I had killed for this. I had taken a life and crossed a line I couldn’t return from.
And no one—no one—was going to take what I fought for.
I gripped the pistol tighter, my breath steadying as my pulse quickened.
Because I have to survive.