Year 3917 of the Almanac of Ages, in a remote rural region

Night was an oppressive mantle in the woods surrounding the village. I walked aimlessly, trying to escape the voices that tormented me, but they were more insistent than usual. My fragmented emotional state had made them stronger, bolder.

"You are weak," they whispered. "Like them. Like all humans."

"Silence," I growled, but demonic laughter filled my mind.

"We will take you with us," they chanted. "Like we did with Eleonor."

The name made me lose control. With a cry of rage, I struck an ancient tree. My hand shattered on impact, bones reduced to splinters, but the tree broke like a twig, crashing down with a boom that echoed through the forest. My hand regenerated in moments, skin closing over new flesh, but the pain remained, more emotional than physical.

"You won't take me like you took Eleonor," I hissed, clenching my healed fist. "Never."

"Oh, but we will," the voices chuckled. "You're already ours. Look how you let anger consume you. How long before you become like us?"

I wandered for hours, fighting that inner battle. The trees bore the marks of my fury: broken trunks, shattered branches, the earth itself torn by my uncontrolled powers. I had to relearn how to manage human emotions, those I had forgotten for so long. Anger, pain, compassion... they were weaknesses, but they were also what distinguished me from them.

Dawn saved me. When the first rays of sunlight filtered through the trees, the voices began to yield, retreating into the depths of my mind. Their power vanished with the shadows, leaving me exhausted but lucid. I leaned against a tree, breathing deeply. I had to be stronger. Not for myself, but to maintain control.

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I walked toward the village entrance, where I had arranged to meet the volunteers. Mud encrusted my boots, my clothes torn and dirty from my night battle. I expected no one. My words from the previous evening had been more of a warning than an invitation.

Yet, as the sun rose, I saw figures emerging from the twilight. Twenty people, each with an air of uncertainty but determination. Some clutched work tools transformed into weapons, others brandished rusted swords. The village chief led the group, old but resolute, with his son at his side.

I watched them approach with clinical detachment. I didn't need them. They were just a burden, an annoyance. Yet, there was something in their gesture that awakened echoes of forgotten emotions.

"I didn't think you would come," I said coldly. "Yet here you are."

The village chief met my gaze. "We didn't come for you. We're here for ourselves."

"As you wish," I replied, turning my back to them. "But don't expect protection from me. Those who can't fight will die."

The chief's young son stepped forward. "We don't ask for protection. We want our revenge."

I looked at him with a mixture of contempt and curiosity. "Then take it. If you're capable."

It took three days to reach the bandits' base. I didn't slow my pace for them. Those who fell, stayed behind. Those who couldn't continue, turned back. By the end of the third day, only twelve people were still with me when we reached the hilltop.

The bandits' fortress rose before us, decaying but menacing. Smoke rose from its walls, a sign of life and death together.

"That's it," I said, without turning. "That's your battle. I don't expect you to survive. But at least you'll die standing."

There was no compassion in my voice. Just a cold observation. The voices inside me laughed softly, satisfied with my hardness. Maybe they were right. Maybe compassion was truly a weakness I could no longer afford.

But as I looked at the fortress, a part of me remembered Eleanor, and knew that true strength lay not in denying humanity, but in accepting and overcoming it. Even if that meant suffering. Even if that meant remembering.