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I stir to the sound of voices arguing. The forest is a quiet place by nature, any man-made noise tends to stick out. What’s more, the racket seems to unfold right outside the flimsy window above the bed. It's like there's a large number of people engaged in a heated debate in our very own front yard. As you'd expect, that wakes you up.

I sit up on the bed and rub my tired eyes.

The spot next to me is empty. Selia is gone. I turn to the window and peer through the foggy pane. The outside world is dyed deep velvet blue. It’s that precious moment on the threshold between the dying night and the new day, when only the retired insomniacs are up. The glass is too filthy to see through clearly. All I can make out are blurred, shadowy shapes and glowing spots of light that look like torches under the treeline.

“Are you fucking kidding me…?”

Did the villagers decide to go Frankenstein on us?

Any lingering drowsiness is gone in a flash. A blend of frustrated anger and a bit of healthy worry swirling in me, I pull on the rags I call clothes and head for the door. So much trouble over a bit of wood. Can’t these people find real problems?

The winter morning is biting cold. The air stands still. I pull the shawl tighter around my shoulders, trembling, and hop across the little porch and down the short stairs. In front of the cabin, I pause to take another look at what’s going on before I throw myself into the middle of it. Thanks to my excellent night vision, I can see the gathering clearly enough from here, though they can’t see me.

It's not the villagers.

On the edge of the clearing, I see a line of horsemen. They’re dressed sharp in clean hauberks, pricey blue cloaks, and shiny pot helmets. They have real leather boots on their feet, and thick gloves to keep their hands warm. That fellowship hasn’t seen a hungry day in recent memory. A few hold torches to show the way. They’re definitely not from around here.

The sight of knights brings me some unpleasant flashbacks.

In front of the grim crew stand the two people I got in the habit of calling a family, looking heart-wrenchingly small, vulnerable, and alone.

It’s not hard to guess what the scene is about. It turns out Selia’s prediction has come true.

Speak of the angel.

“—You have to believe me!” Selia tells the guests. “She meant no harm to anyone! She only did what she did to help us, and—”

“—And be that as it may,” the knight Selia’s talking to interrupts her, “the unsanctioned practice of witchcraft is nonetheless prohibited by the law of Alberion. For this reason, a thorough investigation must be conducted, and the person in question detained.”

“I beg of you, can’t you please leave her to us? We are a threat to no one here! I will look after her! I will make sure she never does anything of the sort again! We’ll give away all the wood we have too, just please—”

“—Madam, I am not in the position to decide such things,” the rider interrupts again and shakes his head. “We have our orders. The best you can do under the circumstances is show us to the suspect, so that we may take her into custody and be on our way without further delay.”

“But I—”

“—Should you refuse,” the man coldly adds, “you may be considered an accessory to any crimes to have occurred, which is no less lawless on its own, as I'm sure you understand. Is that your wish?”

“That’s…!”

“—Please leave,” the old man speaks up. “There is nothing for you here.”

The knight gives him a sardonic look. “Nothing? I believe we have already established the suspect is in your house. It is much too late to deny that now. The other villagers have told us as much.”

“You find no suspects in my house,” the old man shoots back. “Only family. And I’m telling you now, young man, that we do not abandon our own in these parts. Go home! There is naught more for us to discuss.”

The old man’s unusually adamant display of character stuns me.

I never knew he could sound so tough. But he couldn’t have timed his manly act much worse.

He’s doing something very stupid—and he’s doing it for my sake. A sobering sense of guilt and regret assails me when I realize that. But I can’t afford to hang back another minute more. I cross the clearing we call our front yard in quick strides, till I’m close enough for the crowd to see me, and speak up,

“Hello. In words of Lionel Richie—Is it me you're looking for?”

They all turn to me.

“Don’t come close!” Startled Selia yells. “Go back inside!”

“That’s my line, sweetheart,” I answer her and walk past the two to face the early visitors. “I’m not going to hide from a gang of potheads that bully women and elderly. If you’ve got a bone to pick with me, you leave others out of it!”

The knight in the middle of the line sizes me up with a frown.

“So you are the rumored witch?”

He’s the only one without a helmet, probably the one in charge. A lad in his twenties or thereabouts. Short black hair, cleanly combed, a pale face free of dirt and soot. A real metrosexual by local standards. He’s even got a Poirot-style ‘stache. Must be nobility, to afford to worry about fashion.

“Younger than I thought,” he remarks. “Oh well. In the name of his majesty, the King of Alberion, I hereby place you under arrest on charges of unsanctioned practice of witchcraft, attempted murder, assault by sorcerous means, issuing of illegal threats, as well as the theft and destruction of private property. You will now come with us to Pelgen to stand trial for your crimes.”

“...”

Seems the story got a lot bigger on the way.

“And what if I say no?” I ask him. “I’d rather just go back to bed.”

“Then resisting arrest will be added to your crimes,” he answers. “We have the authority to use lethal force, if need be. I suggest you come along quietly, unless you wish to get hurt.”

The officer nods to a nearby soldier, who dismounts and takes out a set of cast iron handcuffs from his saddlebag.

Looks like the talking is done. Aren’t you going to tell me my rights? I do have rights, don’t I?

Wouldn’t count on it, huh?

I scan the lineup one more time. There are twelve of them. All are armed with swords, though still sheathed at present. Two on the far left have also spiked maces, one has a light battleaxe. A few hold round shields. Two in the far right are equipped with small crossbows, already loaded, but not at the ready. The rest hold torches, except the chief, who is barehanded. My odds don’t look so good. I’m confident I could manage one or two no problem, but twelve together? On horses? With bows? While protecting civilians? What combat experience did I have again? They wouldn't settle for a dance-off, would they?

Only a delusional idiot would start shit under these conditions.

I look back over my shoulder.

“Selia. Take the old guy and go back inside.”

Selia recognizes the resigned look in my eyes and her expression turns anguished.

“Please. You don’t have to do this,” she says.

I face forward and force my tone hard.

“I do. This is my just deserts. Sorry, for not listening. For being such a crappy kid. But here's where I fly the nest and start acting like a grownup, for once. Now get going.”

“...”

If I saw the look on Selia’s face, I’m sure my heroic resolve would crumble on the spot. If she told me not to leave, I couldn't. Thankfully, she's smarter than that. She understands arguing endlessly will only make things worse for everybody involved. Or maybe she's actually scared—of me. My magic. What I could do. I hear her feet shift on the snow. She mumbles a muffled, “Come on,” to the old man and they head back towards the cabin.

Then the knight’s dry cough interrupts us.

“—About that,” he says. “I’ve changed my mind. Those two will be coming with us.”

I raise a brow at him. “What was that?”

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“It’s become clear to me that a firm bond exists between the three of you. It is very likely these people have collaborated in unnatural acts together with you, or have been put under some manner of a spell. It is easier to verify the truth of things if we bring in all of you together.”

Not one to read the room, is he?

I stare the guy in the eye long and hard, but it seems he really can't tell what a critical mistake he's just made.

And there’s obviously only one way I can answer such terms.

“Guess what, asshole?——I’m about to resist arrest!”

Before he blinks again, I swing my arm down and cast a Shockwave at the feet of his horse. The blast smites the snow-dressed earth and kicks up a tall cloud of the white stuff. The horse is knocked up by the rebound pressure and rolls over on its back, the rider left under it. All nearby steeds are staggered and panic. Another three riders slip off the saddle, the others busy trying to regain control. The formerly clear line formation becomes a frantic mess. With that move, I have half of them out of the game for a short while.

I look back and shout at the two behind me.

“RUN!”

Then I point my finger at a guy fiddling with his crossbow in the far right and fire a Flaspoint at his visor. If the shot can pierce through frozen wood, a millimeter of cheap plate isn’t much of an obstacle. He twitches briefly and then slips off the saddle. Come to think of it, it’s the first time I’ve killed a person.

There’s no time to think about what it means to me, my mental well-being, or my ticket to Paradise. One de-saddled troop right in front of me recovers faster than expected. He rolls up from the snow, draws his sword, and rushes at me. It’s clear by his body language he means business. I suck in the reflexive urge to flee, wait until he lifts the blade to cleave me and then receive it with an Ice Shield. The knockback leaves him wide open. I dispel the shield and nail his knee with a clump of Frost.

“Arrghhh—!”

His leg from the knee down is frozen solid and glued to the earth. I run up and jump kick the soldier in the chest with all my mass. He’s struck back and the frozen knee snaps in two. He's down for the count.

I bounce back up, looking for the next target and then I’m hit by a truck. Or, that’s how it feels.

What actually hits me is a horse, a jet-black stallion its rider has turned at me. The close brush with half a ton of bulging muscle shoves me off my feet, and I go rolling into the shallow layer of snow. Which is not half as soft as it looks.

“Oof.”

I’m not sure which feels worse, the melting snow stuck all over my bare skin, or being unable to breathe.

I have to take a moment to gather my bearings.

“Ereia!”

Selia’s voice reaches my ears from a distance. It’s faint, half drowned out by the sound of my own breathing and pulse and the noise of the horses and the angry yelling of the dudes, which all melts together into a dizzying cacophony. I want to believe I imagined it. Surely no one would willingly hang around a free-for-all deathmatch? And here I thought she was smart.

Past the general background noise, I also hear a pair of heavy boots land on the ground unnecessarily close to my head. That wasn’t imaginary. A soldier uses his foot to flip me over to my back and leans over, a mace in hand. He must be planning to pull me up by my hair, so he can give me a good morning kiss. Is that why they call it morning star? Before he grabs me, I hit him first, square in the chest with a Shockwave. A direct hit from point blank range smacks the chap about six meters straight up in the air. Before he lands, I get up and give him another for good measure.

There are soldiers and horses going everywhere. Mounts without riders mixed among riders without mounts and riders still on their mounts. Since most of them dropped their torches, they have a hard time telling who to hit. I can't get careless either, but need to pick out who’s an imminent threat and who can be left in the queue.

One guy tries to be clever. He hides behind an ownerless horse, while aiming his crossbow at me, thinking he can’t be seen in the dark. I pretend I can’t see him, though I can see him, and blast his leg with a Flashpoint under the belly of the horse. The compressed air bullet rends through the thigh muscles with a juicy splatter effect.

“Ouuegh—!”

As the horse scurries out of the away, I pitch a serving of Frost at him like we’re at Wimbledon. The orb of cold light lands on his shoulder and the man drops on the spot with a faint groan, his other arm entirely useless. That’s my “love-all”.

Then I look to the right and feel my heart skip a beat.

I see the old man wander alone in the middle of the powdery snow and chaos. He’s somehow become separated from Selia. Or did he lose sight of the cabin and go the wrong way in the dark? You don’t suppose he thinks he can help me? What a time to grow demented!

I’ve no choice but to drop what I’m doing and try to escort him to safety. I turn and take a step to run to him, but can’t make it further than that one step. A flash of metal in the twilight. A soldier rides past the old man and cleaves his back with a sword in passing.

“OLD GUY!”

The old man sinks to his knees and then drops face first into the snow. I dash to him as fast as I can and pick him up, but there’s nothing left to do. He’s only good for cannibal barbecue now. The sword has passed through the right shoulder and across the back, and cut clean through a handful of ribs as well as the spinal column. Blood pours out of him like from a fallen bucket. How he didn’t die instantly can only be called a miracle—or just terrible luck.

“Hang in there, old-timer!” I hold him in my arms and try to think of a way to put him back together, unwilling to face the facts. But instead of telling me what I want to know, my magic sense only insist the feat is impossible.

The old man raises his hand a bit, not to touch me, not to seek help, but as though to wave goodbye.

“Ereia...” he whispers. “Ereia su renná.”

“...”

—'I’m leaving on a journey and don't know when I’ll be back.'

The words coined to capture that melancholic feeling of leaving the life you knew behind, to face an uncertain future.

Then the hand falls and Miller Bengholm is gone.

Nice going, old man. Right when the name was starting to grow on me, you have to go and die with it on your lips. From now on, whenever I hear someone utter those words, I’m going to think back to this moment and the blood on my hands and remember that even a modest power comes with one hell of a responsibility.

I’ve seen death before. I’ve seen gore.

Life the moment it exits its frail container.

It being among my first experiences since birth, I thought I’d grown numb to the sight of killing. Life in the Felorn forest only replayed the same tired message over and over: death’s the other half of life, nothing more mysterious than that. After summer comes winter. Thing grow and then they wither. Why make a ceremony of it? It’s too obvious for words.

But it’s when I see off the old man that I learn the true meaning of people dying.

Here, in this place, I’ve made a debt I’ll never be able to pay back.

The old man saved my life, though he had no reason to. He took me in when I had no one, when I was helpless and lost. He gave me a home, a family. Food and warmth. For that, I owe him, big time. I thought I'd repay this debt one small favor at a time, stick by stick, if I had to. I thought I had a lifetime to do it. But now, I can’t. The deadline has come and gone. From here, I’ll just have to live with that haunting sense of imbalance and bear it to the grave. And it’s a feeling you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy.

I lay down the old man’s lifeless body and stand.

Strangely enough, I’m not even that angry.

What fills me is a steady calmness. An internal peace I’ve never known before. A steely sense of purpose.

I can’t bring the dead back to life——but I can give death.

That's the one thing I know for sure. I was brought into being just to take lives, so why waste time philosophizing about unrelated things? It's high time we got to business for real. Yeah. Let’s drop off all this extra baggage. No more daydreams or side tours. No empty words or arguments.

I had to have been stupid, trying to live like a regular person. There was never any need for that. Who am I? Who cares? That information is irrelevant. All I need to think about is how to best bring these people the ending they're looking for. A definite finale to every man. If everything is going to die anyway, then why not start straight from there?

So that's what I'll do.

I'll give it my all. The processing power required to move, to speak; reroute it. Eyesight and hearing, they don't need that much capacity; reroute it. Sense of feeling, smell, turn them off. From here, every molecule, every particle of [me] is committed just to that purpose—to sever you off the face of the earth in the quickest, cleanest, most economical way possible. How should I do it?

Punching and kicking is inefficient. Unreliable. Involves too many superfluous steps.

Using swords or bows is inefficient. It takes too much time and the instruments are suboptimal.

Employing long-winded elemental rituals is inefficient. You don't need that much energy and calculations just to kill.

I don’t need weapons to kill. I don't need this body at all to kill.

All I need is—light.

Yes, light. The simplest and most effective weapon, always available. The sun hasn’t risen yet, but there’s more than enough photons present to deal with a handful of humans. All it takes is the minor hassle of gathering and compressing the waveforms. Only a bit of menial labor.

I reach out my hand and interface with the atmosphere. In response to my outstretched will, lightwaves begin to assemble, one by one, like little ants. Cute little ants. My friends of light. I love them. They understand me, they don't waste my time. They’re quick to act and they don’t ask questions. The beauty of boolean forms. As long as the ones and zeroes are in order, they stand or loop the way I tell them. Between the invisible threads that link them, they call more of their kind and bring them over and step by step, the chain reaction accelerates.

Light descends in the middle of the nightly forest, dancing in glittering, sparkling bundles among the branches, above the ground, and between the soldiers. The discarded torches give up their luminescence and go out. The snow turns black. The scattered men stop to stare at the amassing lights, overcome by wonder and dread. The horses shriek and chortle as they take off into the woods, sensing terrible things about to come. Terrible. Terrible.

Stupid animals. There’s no reason to be afraid. True, you’re going to die, but it’ll be a thing of beauty.

You should be glad to know your demise was glorious enough to justify the aimless floundering before it.

Only a bit more light and I can take you there. Sit quietly and wait. Just a little more.

More, more, more, more, more—!

But there’s still something essential I’m missing as a magician. Namely, experience.

My awareness entirely lost in the complexity and grandeur of my own ritual, I fail to pay attention to the surroundings. It’s only when I sense a sharp concentration of mana in the vicinity that I regain a modicum of my sense of self. But by that point, it’s already too late to react. The foreign casting has begun. 98% of my mind is tied down controlling the elements, I have nothing to answer with. I'm caught with my pants down.

A warm star shines between the trees. A light that’s not mine. It’s the last thing I see.

Then I get a dazzling thunder spear right in my face and drop where I stand. My gathering magic unravels, unfinished.

Yeap. Zap.

That’s it. You died.

The show’s over, everybody go home! Thanks for reading!

Oh, I wish.

Hate to tell you, but what we had up until now was only a very grounded and sensible prologue.

And here's where it gets weird.