Chapter 7

Brooding Before Bad

The road was finally clear of the bandits’ remains, an effort that struck me as respectable but quaint. Those corpses included the men I’d fought, their bloodied forms nourishing the earth beneath the very trees they once hid among.

I couldn’t say for certain if any of them had died by my hand. Violet had made sure of that, beheading them with cold efficiency as I laughed until my voice was raw, leaving me the task of dragging their decapitated bodies off the road

An hour after the clean-up, I still couldn’t understand why she did it. Was it to spite me? To leave me guessing, forever uncertain of my own kill count? I had no answer, and frankly, I didn’t want one.

Now, I sat in the driver's seat of the carriage alongside Valence, neither of us holding the reigns. My thoughts wandered as my eyes drifted between the road and the bestial horses, their muzzles stained with blood from the limbs they had devoured so casually, as if flesh were no more than butter. It was a sight I doubted I would ever forget, and would forever recall when I was within arms reach of the suddenly not-so-cute steeds.

Next to me, Valence contented himself with the scenery, calm and quiet, seemingly unfazed by everything that had happened. He hadn’t spoken a word to me since I arrived, and yet, I could feel his attention on me—a subtle awareness that I wished I could shake.

Yet, even his silent observation was better than being stuck with Violet. After I killed the bandit chief, her behavior towards me had changed, in both the subtle and the not. Where once she greeted me with scornful looks, filled with dismissive contempt, there was now a grudging respect. It wasn’t fondness or even like, it was more like the act of me killing forced her to no longer regard me as unwanted trash. Instead, I was just tentatively unwanted.

However, the biggest, and most annoying, change was in the verbal. The silence that had once stretched for days between us had vanished, replaced by incessant chatter, constant probing questions inflicted upon me about every possible aspect of my life. They were mocking, mostly, but they could not hide her newfound curiosity towards me, a curiosity that grew alongside her annoyance at my curt-at-best responses.

Regardless of whatever fledgling views about me she was now developing, I didn’t want to entertain her inquiries on how I felt and if I had killed before I came to this world. What I wanted was silence, time to ruminate on my actions and how I felt, to sort through them while they were still fresh. The brief minutes of adrenaline and battle now felt surreal, like a feverish dream that still lingered, making my leg bounce with restless energy.

The tapping of my sneakers against the wooden floorboards was the only sound I contributed to the space I shared with Valence—my unusual quietness noted, but so far unacknowledged. There was no snarky commentary, no sarcastic remarks on the great and varied views of a straight road, no wisecracks that only sprouted to put down another. There were so many opportunities, a veritable smorgasbord of flaws and blemishes I could pick at, yet as I recalled the bald man’s oafish and clumsy attacks, remembered the ridiculous war cries, and looked back on the third-born noble garbed in dirty leathers and fur, I couldn’t form a single joke, the tip of my tongue an insurmountable barrier. For once, levity escaped me, the crutch I usually leaned on now elusive, leaving me to deal with thoughts and feelings I would much rather avoid or shroud with ill-fitting humor.

Self-reflection had become a familiar routine, especially with a personality like mine—callous and abrasive, yet still caring for the validation of those closest to me. It was a frustrating combination. And yet, after just months of losing that inner drive to reflect, I realized I was out of touch.

It felt like playing chess with myself, where every rationalization and each justification was countered by the same, unbeatable rebuttal: "No, you were just being an asshole." Before, that would’ve been enough for me to label my actions as “Bad.” And, if I had doubts, I’d simply ask my dad for the verdict. But he wasn’t here, would never be here, and whatever guilt I managed to muster slid off me like it was covered in oil, leaving me with a mess of inconclusive and troubling thoughts. A complete waste of time—time that I did not enjoy the slightest bit.

Fortunately for me, it didn’t last forever. I sensed it before I saw it—a shift in the air, in the very world around me. Goosebumps rose on my skin, not from any drop in temperature or anything I could easily explain, but from a vague sense of malevolence, like a wild animal lurking just behind me, deciding if it should deign to pounce. My eyes snapped open, and I whipped around, but nothing was there.

“Did you sense it?” Valence suddenly spoke, breaking the silence we shared.

“Huh?” I eloquently replied, confused.

“Its gaze,” he cryptically answered, explaining nothing.

What?” I snapped, then quickly shook my head. Something up ahead had caught my eye—a break in the endless stretch of trees. “Never mind. What is that?” I asked, pointing at a distant stone structure that looked like a miniature castle guarding the road

Valence followed my gaze, nodding in recognition. “That’s the border station between the Badlands and Alvalon,” he said, humming in thought. “Though I suspect it’s been repurposed into a camp by the bandits we encountered.”

I suppressed a flinch at the mention of the bandits, images I didn't need nor want flashing in my mind. “Was it abandoned?” I questioned, wondering how they could’ve taken over what had to be a military outpost.

“It was,” he confirmed. Noticing my unspoken question, he continued. “The benefits of maintaining the station were considered insufficient, in light of the demands of the war.”

I nodded, and that was that. Silence settled over us again as the carriage rolled closer to the border station. As we approached, it became clear what had happened since its abandonment. Everywhere we looked, there were signs—some glaring, others more discreet—that this place had become a makeshift camp. It was an odd transformation for what had once been a military outpost.

Tents were strewn about the overgrown courtyard, made of various hides and leathers sewn together in a patchy amalgamation. Blackened logs covered in soot and ash stained the stone floor from bonfires long extinguished, though the fact they had yet to crumble meant they were used somewhat recently.

“This was their camp,” I said quietly, the state of abandonment making my voice feel so much louder than it was. Hopping off the carriage, I made my way to one of the tents. Inside, furs covered the dirt floor, along with an assortment of random belongings. Finding nothing noteworthy, I stepped back and glanced at Valence. “Right?”

“Correct,” Valence replied as he strolled through the camp, his gaze sharp and his head on a swivel, as if searching for something. After a few moments, he paused and nodded, sounding almost relieved. “It seems they haven’t been here long, however.”

“Then why’d they sleep in tents?” I asked, peering around at the much more stable and fortified stone structures. “This place has to have a barracks.”

“Because they’re bandits, moron,” came a much more feminine, derisive voice. It seemed Violet decided to join us.

“Yeah, I gathered that much,” I replied with a raised eyebrow, my tone making deserts look humid.

“Barracks are for soldiers,” Valence said, stepping in before our budding feud could gain momentum.“Most of those men ran from such an occupation. It also provides unwanted structure, an air of order when one sleeps with their comrades in neat, arrayed, and impersonal bunks. Bandits, lowlife as they are, love to think of themselves as free-spirits, their own man, them against the world.” His smile turned wry, but then twisted into something darker, his usual calm demeanor cracking with a flare of red-hot anger that I’ve yet to see from the unflappable, affable old man. “That pathetic, baseless pride is what drives them, justifies the sins of their depravity.”

After his unexpected outburst, I wished I was in the mood to snark, to come up with some banal comment to pierce the sudden silence. Instead, I remained quiet, letting the heavy atmosphere stay intact as it washed over me with ease in the way only apathy could provide.

“...Apologies,” Valence mumbled after a few long moments, coughing into his hand as he seemed to return to himself, a sheepish look crossing his face. “But forget that!” he said, forcing some cheer into his voice. “Caelum, come here,” he called, beckoning me with a hand. He was standing at the far end of the station, just beneath a raised metal gate that spanned the width of the road. Seeing no reason to refuse, I walked over to stand beside him.

“What’s this about?” I asked, curious why he’d brought me here.

“This,” he began, gesturing at the view ahead of us, “is the border to Badlands.” Despite the obviousness of his statement, his words were heavy, weighted with a seriousness I did not understand. “Do you notice anything different?”

I gave him a sideways glance, unsure what he was getting at, but still, I looked around for the answer. “Yeah…yeah, I do,” I breathed out, suddenly far more wary than I was just a moment ago. “That feeling from earlier—whatever it was—it’s stronger now. Skins startin’ to itch.”

My eyes drifted to the road ahead. It looked almost the same as the path we had come from. Almost. “The rocks on the road... they’re sharp, like they’d shred your feet in a few steps.” I shuddered at the mental image before turning my gaze to the trees. At first glance, they looked just like the ones we’d passed earlier, with viridescent green leaves and earthy brown bark. It was the branches where they were different, twisting and snapping at harsh, unnatural angles, as if some cruel child occasionally wandered by to break their limbs in some parody of arbortecture. Even the grass seemed off—too rigid, swaying but refusing to bend with the breeze. “Feels like everything here wants to kill you,” I concluded, earning a chuckle from Valence.

“That it does,” he agreed, “But you have yet to see its most infamous weapon.” Before I could ask what he meant by that, he placed a gauntleted hand on my shoulder.

“Should I grab my spear for this?” I asked, glancing back at the carriage. The dagger I’d recently acquired was strapped to my side, but I much preferred the pointy stick that could stab things far away from me.

“No,” Valence answered. “You will not be facing what will come. Not yet.”

Great…that wasn’t ominous at all.

“If you say so. But where is it?” I scanned the harsh landscape, searching for anything unusual, but there was nothing besides the hostile terrain.

“It’s not here yet,” he replied. “Now, close your eyes.” I gave him a skeptical look but did as he asked. “Good. Focus on happy thoughts. It doesn’t matter, if it’s dredged-up memories or contentment for the present–what matters is the feeling behind it, understood?”

I frowned at the strange order, curiosity dulled by annoyance at such an act. “There any other way to show me whatever this is?” I asked dryly, cracking an eye open to glare at the old man.

“None that you can manage,” he shot down, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips, amused by my open irritation.

“...Fine,” I grumbled after a moment, deciding that enduring a little mental discomfort was worth learning more about this land.

With a reluctant sigh, I closed my eyes, trying to follow Valence’s strange instructions. Chanting I’m happy in my head ad nauseum didn’t work, much as I’d like it to, so I realized with significant annoyance that I had to go in a new, far more vexing direction: memories. They sped through my mind at a rapid pace, never staying so long that they could burn me, but enough to hurt. Glimpses of people I would never, could never forget, with accompanying faces that were already blurred.

Blonde hair cascading down on me like a curtain, framing a smile so bright and happy it seemed to warm up the room. Sitting at the table, eating food I’d never taste again, my snark just another element of a routine, but not boring conversation. I knew if I looked to my left, I’d see her, a donkey trapped in a beautiful young woman, laughing so hard as she curled into herself, her guffaws punctuated with ugly, yet adorable snorts, all that humor sparked from a deadpan delivery of the word “fart.” At the head of the table, a burly man, so much larger than me even now, pretending to read a newspaper, the twinkle in his eyes betraying where his real attentions lie as he watched over us from behind his grey cover.

The memories should have brought joy, a smile to my face, or maybe even forced a chuckle from still-lingering amusement. Instead, they stirred a mix of sadness and anger, my eyes burning hot beneath their lids as my fists clenched in regret for indulging that stupid whim of curiosity.

I pushed the memories back where they belonged, in the dusty, locked cage where the rest of their brethren slept, and took a deep, calming breath. As I reopened my eyes, a startled yelp escaped me, and I jumped back in alarm.

On the jagged, rock-covered road stood a hideous creature—a nightmarish parody of a deer, seemingly engineered for a singular purpose: to gouge and kill. It was colossal, almost as large as the behemoths Valence lovingly called horses. Blood dripped from its cruel maw, its reddened lips peeling back to reveal flat teeth that could powder bone.

Instead of the regal, almost royal antlers I would expect from a deer, it had two monstrous horns that looked like they’d been ripped through its skull to emerge, numerous spikes branching off from their center to create an array of death for anything in front of it.

It was pawing the ground, sparks flying off from the sheer force and speed its large, muscled legs could bring to bear. However, despite its menacing posture, it held back from charging, keeping its head low and ready to impale.

“...Why isn’t it moving?” I asked Valence, struggling to shake off my initial shock at the sight of the beast.

“It cannot cross the boundary,” he answered, pointing at the demarcation in front of us, where the gate would be had it not been raised. Looking at him, I felt his hand still on my shoulder, realizing why it was there. It wasn’t just to comfort me–if it was at all. No, it was to keep me rooted in place, his hand gentle but unyielding.

“Why not? Is it scared of a gate?” I joked, suspecting some magick bullshittery to be at work.

“No, it’s because this marks the limit of its creator’s domain.” Valence’s hand lifted from my shoulder as he clapped his hands together. “Now, we wouldn’t want to keep the beast waiting, would we?”

I did, but wasn’t given a chance to say so as Valence immediately strode forward. As soon as he crossed the line of the gate, the abomination of a deer blurred into a charge. Within a second, the beast crossed the distance of dozens of feet, moving so fast it would have been hard to see had it not been moving in a straight line.

When the two collided, I learned what happened when something that thought itself unstoppable met an immovable object: a bang.

The ground quaked violently beneath my feet from the sheer force of their slam, the beast’s blistering speed abruptly arrested by Valence’s gauntleted hands, which held its lowered, spear-like horns in a vice grip. The beast thrashed in place, first trying to continue its charge and skewer him to avail, then desperately trying to backpedal out of his grip, its hooves carving deep furrows into the road in a futile bid to escape. It growled, enraged by its prey’s overpowering strength, the sound like the grinding of metal, only deeper, a low rumble that I could feel in my chest.

“Caelum,” Valence called, voice not even strained, “and Violet as well, if you wish,” he added. “Come. It would do you good to see the beast up close.”

I struggled to see how it would, but it seemed unlikely it would escape unless its horns somehow shattered. Regardless, I did had no interest in being closer than I already was.

My choice was somewhat taken from me when Violet gave me a forceful slap on the back, sending me stumbling forward. In my old world, with my unenhanced body, it would have been enough to knock me out, yet for Violet it was light enough to claim it as a “love tap.” I’d know, as I’ve felt what went above that level. I did not intend to feel it again.

“Move it, Killer. The live ones attract more of their brood,” she called out as she passed me.

I bristled at her new nickname, though I supposed it was preferable to “coward” or “wastrel.” Not letting her taunts get to me, I followed without a word, pausing for a moment as my foot crossed the threshold of the gate. When I passed it, the sense of malice I felt suddenly grew by an order of magnitude. Before, it was in the background, a threat waiting in the wings, menacing but relatively quiet. Now, it felt like there was a constant, bestial roar in my ears, or at least my spiritual ones, seeing as I could still hear just fine.

Initially, it was unsettling, making me twitch a little in fright. But when nothing happened except increased pain and itchiness on my skin, it soon just became an annoyance. Shrugging, I continued walking. No matter how loud it was, it might as well be empty posturing. Easily ignorable.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

On the other side of Violet, I stopped less than a dozen feet away from the still-struggling beast. Already, the ground was torn asunder from its futile efforts, leaving the irate thing standing in an indent several inches deep–up to a foot in some places. Despite its trapped and helpless state, one look at its sudden, sporadic thrashes, was enough to tell me it wasn’t something I wanted to mess with. Beneath its hide, thickly corded muscles rippled and writhed as it moved with explosive speed that belied its larger size.

“The hell is that thing?” Were the first words to come out of my mouth as I cautiously peered at the beast.

“Curious, are you?” Valence replied with an easy demeanor, though his gaze remained fixed on the beast, tracking its every movement. Sensing my lack of amusement, he continued. “They are known as demonic beasts, offsprings of the Dead God,” he began. “Colloquially, they are called daemons–faster that way. Specifically, this one is called a Spearhorn.” He gave the antlers in his hands a shake for emphasis, the casual display of dominance angering the beast even further.

“Looks like a deer…” I started, but a splatter of foamy, bloody spittle landed on my shoes, flung from the gnashing teeth of said deer, and I decided to revise my assessment. “...If it went on murder-roids.”

“Oh? We have no records of what the creatures looked like before their…” Valence paused, searching for the right word. “...Their corruption, yes.”

An interesting tidbit, but I wasn’t up for a history lesson on their shoddy bookkeeping. “Cool. But why did you want me to get close to this thing?”

“Think happy thoughts, once more,” he replied, seemingly ignoring my question. I frowned at the order. Doing it once was aggravating enough.

“Why?”

“Indulge me.”

I rolled my eyes. Indulging him wasn’t exactly high on my to-do list. Frankly, it wasn’t on it at all.

“...Whatever.”

This time, I decided to avoid my previous mistake. I thought of a chill evening, not warm, but not cold. It was a rare moment for it to be in the vaunted, perfect in-between, at a time when the sun had begun to set but the world had not yet gone completely dark. It was a simple memory, a boring one, where I had dinner outside on the patio, enjoying the soothing breeze, an unusual moment of tranquility. Most importantly, it was a memory of solitude, where it was just myself, no painful reminders of what was–just me enjoying some grub outside.

When I opened my eyes, I saw that the beast was thrashing even more violently, with an intensity that made its previous struggles look token.

But it wasn’t just struggling against Valence’s grip; it was trying to get to me. Its bloodshot eyes burned with a deep, unintelligible hatred, its hooves scraping furrows into the road in an emboldened attempt to gouge me.

“Do you understand now?” Valence’s question was punctuated by a loud snap in the air as the best went still. Still twitching, its body collapsed while its head was twisted grotesquely in Valence’s hands, its chin nearly touching its back.

To my shame, it took a few moments for me to realize what he said, so absorbed was I in the beast’s frantic behavior. Never before had I seen such raw, mindless hatred before—not even in the eyes of the man I...

“...They don’t like happy thoughts?” I questioningly guessed. It was practically spelled out for me by Valence, but the concept was still outlandish.

“Correct,” Valence said. “They are drawn to positive emotions. These—” He kicked the lifeless corpse, frowning in distaste. “—abominations exist solely to sow suffering, threatening those who aren’t miserable with death.” Valence turned away from the dead beast with a final huff, only to frown in confusion when his gaze landed on me. I raised an eyebrow at his puzzled look, the small movement hurting for some reason.

“Why are you red?” He asked.

I glanced down at my arm, seeing the skin swollen and irritated, with a tomato-like redness.

Ah. So that’s why.

——————————————————————————

Fortunately for me, we set up camp on the safer side of the border. The fact that my skin wasn’t constantly itching here was just an added bonus. According to Valence, camping in the Badlands was a “right pain in the tuchus,” so we wouldn’t have done it regardless. It wasn’t hard to imagine why, what with the murder-beasts that sniffed and snuffed out happiness prowling the place.

“Least they taste good,” I muttered to myself, biting into a chunk of warm, freshly cooked meat held between two leaves, my improvised substitute for silverware. Turns out that for all their deadly deformities, daemons were quite the delicacy in this world, something-something about “Innate magickal properties” making them taste better. Valence tried explaining the details of it, but I didn’t pay much attention. It tasted good and wouldn’t poison me, that’s all I needed to know. Still, it was surprising how scientific he was for a dude whose schtick was being good with murder-tools.

Despite the simple seasoning of salt and the crackling fire, dinner was surprisingly enjoyable, the first in weeks that was worth savoring. We had other seasonings, but in this world, they were actually expensive, so Valence was saving his more “exotic” spices for future trades. Not that I was complaining, it still tasted decent enough. What did detract from the meal, however, was the incessant moaning from across the campfire.

Violet, it seemed, was quite the expressive foodie–the one downside of having a good meal. Ordinarily, I would have taken the opportunity to mock her for the girlish sounds of her enjoyment, but I wasn’t in the mood. Nor was I hot-blooded enough for it to at least be titillating.

“Something on your mind, Caelum?” Valence’s voice was accompanied by the sound of creaking as he sat beside me, his bulk jostling the log we now shared. Glancing at him, I couldn’t help but notice that he was still in his full armor—something he, ostensibly, only took off to bathe, not that I’d know.

“Besides the sound of your daughter getting off to meat?” I looked back to the fire and took a bite of said meat, but my attention remained on Valence out of the corner of my eye. The reply was inflammatory, intentionally so when his daughter was the main subject of it. Yet, predictably, yet still somehow unexpectedly, Valence remained unphased, his expression unreadable behind the mask of placidity.

“Do you wish to talk about it?” His voice was soft and gentle, aggravatingly so. I scoffed and took another bite of food, the force with which I did so enough to fling juices into the fire, momentarily fueling the blaze.

“Sure. Your daughter eating makes my pants tight.” In contrast to Valence’s soft probing, my response was scathing, dripping with venomous sarcasm that I regretted the moment it came out.

“Caelum.” His lips twisted into a concerned frown, the repetition of my name somehow conveying a paragraph with how he said it alone.

“Me,” I agreed, but my veil of misunderstanding crumbled quickly under his wilting stare. “Fine. Whatever.” I took a deep breath, giving myself a moment to articulate my thoughts. “...I don’t know how I feel, alright?”

“Understandable,” Valence said, his tone understanding. I relaxed, thinking that was the end of our little ‘talk,’ but he pressed on. “But that’s why it’s important to speak about such things. Sometimes, saying it out loud is the only way to make sense of it.”

“You a therapist or something?” I shot back, brushing off his advice even if did ring true. Talking helped. Didn’t mean I wanted to do it, however.

“No,” Valence answered seriously. “But I have gone what you have gone through, seen men changed by the experience. Many wished to never do it again, many hungered for another chance, and more died before they could decide.” His words were soft but firm, with a heaviness to them that paled in comparison to the far-off look in his eyes, as if, for a few moments, he wasn’t beside me, but somewhere else entirely. “I won’t tell you how to feel about killing, but keeping it locked inside? It’ll only grow worse.”

Silence reigned for several moments, the crackling fire the only indicator that sound still existed in the camp. It was that silence that told me that Violet was either done with her food, or had enough tact to stop her gluttonous moans. The thought made me snort, something about both of those options coming together to be funny to me. Perhaps, it was that amusement that convinced me to speak, a ‘fuck it’ mentality that didn't care about how lame it would be.

“…A few months back, I started going to this dojo—one of those old-school, no-frills places. Real traditional. Not some karate pop-up in a strip mall,” I began without preamble, jumping into it without regard for context that Valence wouldn’t understand.

“When I first went, it was out of… I don’t know, it seemed like the right thing to do. It wasn’t desire, but more like… rationale. You know, like self-improvement. Like it was the responsible choice or something.” I shook my head, memories of half-hearted attempts at other hobbies bubbling up, all of them activities I could barely remember the name of.

“Anyway, figured it could help me release some anger while I was at it. Punch and kick until it went away. Didn’t work. Instead, I got my ass kicked, a lot. Sometimes by dudes who looked like they’d fly away from an errant breeze, many times by the old fucker who ran the place.” I laughed at the memory, a hollow sound as my eyes remained glued to the fire.

“Few weeks go by, something shifts. I start winning. First against my peers, then supposed betters, and soon I didn’t lose. Ever.” I huffed in morbid amusement. “Turns out I got a real knack for the rougher arts. Even started to tie with the old fucker, sometimes won if I made him gas out.” A genuine smile tugged at my lips, marred only by the savage glee of primal of those remembered victories. It faded as quickly as it came.

“But the spars weren’t enough. I thought they were, at first, but that was just because I was losing. Hurting. When I started winning, there was less pain,” I huffed, “Anyway, they were spars, right? Couldn’t go all out. If I did, I’d be kicked out. The old fucker was real strict on that part.” I straightened in my seat, as if a rod was shoved up where the sun don’t shine all the way to my skull, hands clasped together behind my back.

“This is dojo! Not arena! No fight, only spar! Fighting hurt, spar train. Here, we are friend! Friend does not a hurt a friend!" I recited in an affected, over-the-top Japanese accent that was only slightly exaggerated.

My arms moved from my back to rest on my knees as I leaned forward, closer to the fire, my little imitation done. “So I found my kick elsewhere–quite literally, at that. I’d go out at night, find some blackout drunks and fight them. People that wouldn’t remember, that when they saw the bruises, they’d shrug it off as some bar fight. Bunch of fucking bums who wouldn’t even know how they got hurt.” I pulled out the black, breathable cloth from under my tunic, slipping it over my face up to my nose. “Either way, I wore a hoodie and mask—usually a gaiter neck, good for blending in. Inconspicuous until it isn’t.” Point made, I let it drop.

“A lot of them were receptive, a lot weren’t. Most were too dumb and drunk to just run away, so it didn’t matter. But for all their drunken bravado, they were terrible—slow, sluggish, gasping for breath within a minute. Yet, despite their gross incompetence, their lack of challenge, I went out every night, drunk in my own way.”

My voice dropped, the words pouring out almost thoughtlessly, delivered as if I were performing a confessional, professing sins I had yet to even acknowledge. “By that point, it wasn’t about fighting, it was about hurting. Pain for pain’s sake, inflicting it as if it would take away mine. It never did. Not for long, at least. After the first night, I grew addicted, kept escalating from there. Within days, solos weren’t enough. Too clumsy to even warm up from, too weak to even hurt my fists. I broadened my targets, started lookin’ for groups. More people to distribute the pain. But even when the numbers grew, I kept going harder. One, two, ten bloodied faces, it wasn’t enough. Quantity started becoming inadequate. I’d see them below me, insensate but capable of whining in pain. My hands would be dyed red from them and their friends, and I’d want to keep going. Every time, I wanted to go just a bit further, see if the next punch would make them go quiet. I wanted to feel how it felt, to end a life, for no other purpose but because I was curious, because I could.” My eyes grew hot, burning, but it wasn’t because of the fire. “I never did. No unlucky knockouts, no unfortunate medical conditions. Checked the news every day, never saw any deaths, just reports of random violence. Not even worth a headline”

I took a deep breath, my long, drawn-out explanation finally coming to its conclusion. A conclusion I only arrived at along the way. “So…I don’t know. I waited all this time to kill someone, to see how it felt.” I sighed, deflating like a damn balloon. “…I guess, in that moment, I just found it funny that, when I finally did the deed, I didn’t feel a thing.”

Once again, silence reigned, but this time it was up to Valence to break it. As the silence dragged on for several moments, I began to wonder how he would react. Would he be disgusted, abhorrent at my apathy? Would he encourage that callousness, molding me into a perfect little soldier? Or, would it be neither, just an acknowledging grunt alongside empty words, uncaring about the specifics of what I felt, just that I get over them?

My musings were cut short by their answer, Valence’s bare hand gently landing on my shoulder, giving it a squeeze in an attempt at a comforting gesture.

“That is not as unique as you might fear, Caelum, especially for those whose first kill was like yours.” His voice was soft, understanding. Grating…but well-meaning.

“And what’s that like?” I asked, still staring at the fire.

“Sudden, reflexive, from one blink to the next. Many are too shocked to feel at that moment, more don’t even realize what happened until moments later.” He tugged on my shoulder towards him, not with enough power to force me–even though he easily could–but enough to cause me to look over. “The fact you feel concern, trepidation about such lack of feeling speaks well of your character, Caelum. That alone is what separates you from the true monsters of the world.”

I held his gaze briefly, before looking away with a noncommittal grunt. Being aware didn’t mean anything. Just meant I knew how far I’d fallen–would fall.

“What about you? How was your first time?” I changed the subject, redirecting the focus. I didn’t want to hear platitudes about my supposed ‘character.’ Nor did I care to add “If you don’t mind asking.” If he wanted to talk about my shit, he was going to talk about his.

“Me?” Valence mused, retracting his hand to stroke his silver beard thoughtfully. Whether he was sifting through memories or just choosing his words, I wasn’t sure. It would have been amusing if he had forgotten, though also equally concerning. “It happened when I was a few winters younger than you. It wasn’t on my nameday, nor any particular occasion. My father had gone out hunting, as he was wont to do, but when he returned, he brought back with him a man instead of a beast. The man was bruised and bound by rope, yet still defiant. When he saw me, watching from the windows, as I was wont to do, he beckoned me down, his small, welcoming smile gone in the place of a flat line. In the courtyard, he brought me to the now kneeling man, whose spit soon adorned my boots. My father introduced him as the leader of a group of bandits he happened to come across, marauders who hoped to plunder our people. The man didn’t bother denying it, and my father handed me his sword.” At that, Valence’s hand drifted to the pommel at his waist, the movement seeming unconscious. “He told me I was to kill him, to bear the first burden of leadership. It took me a moment, an eternity of hesitation, it felt like, to grab it.”

I nodded along, waiting for him to continue, but after a minute still, he remained quiet. “...and?” I asked incredulously. I assumed he killed the guy, but I didn’t like ambiguity. When I was on the receiving end of it, that is.

“Hm? Oh, yes, my apologies. Well, I then beheaded him, obviously–harder to do than you might think, by the way,” Valence finally said, and I couldn’t help but turn to stare at him, hoping my dumbfounded expression would convey how little I thought of his orating abilities.

“That,” I began, taking a deep breath, “Was a terrible story.”

Valence put a hand on his chest, feigning hurt. “How rude. That was very personal of me, you know,” he chided, but there was mirth in his eyes. Seeing them, I rolled my own.

“Uh-huh. Were you…” I paused, and looked away, back to the fire. “...Didn’t you, I don’t know, feel bad, or something? When you killed him?” I added needlessly.

“Are you asking if I cried on my mother’s bosom? Because if so, the answer is yes, yes I did,” Valence stated without shame, a wry lilt to his tone.

“Hmph,” I huffed, amusement seeped in without my intention. “So you were a crybaby back then, huh?”

“Hoh? Would you like to have a spar with this ‘crybaby?’” He taunted, a spear coalescing into existence in one of his hands.

“Yeah…no.” I held up my hands in surrender, Valence adopting a good-natured smirk at the response as he let the spear disappear. “I’d rather not get jabbed for an hour with you lecturing me all the while,” I griped, and then a thought struck me. “Those men, the bandits, why were they so weak?” I wondered, mind thinking back to what could only be charitably called a fight. They were clumsy and oafish, but most of all, so slow. Not only was every move hilariously telegraphed, it was performed with the alacrity of a particularly stubborn cat. I’d seen such slowness in new fighters, but they were bandits, experienced ones too, so I doubted they shared the same hesitation to hurt someone.

“So weak, you say?” Valence pinned me with an indecipherable gaze, examining me as if I were a curious anomaly. “Caelum, do you know of the previous heroes?”

I raised an eyebrow at the non-sequitur, before nodding an assent. “Yeah. Voin told me about them. They died like a thousand years or something, right? What about them?”

“The Seven Heroes,” he began, making my eyes narrow at the significantly smaller number compared to my not-so-little cohort, “Were known for many things, but most of all, they were renowned for their strength; specifically, their rapid growth. Legend has it that within a week of their arrival to this world, they had already surpassed all but the most talented of warriors, the wisest of mages, and the faithful of priests.” He reached out and poked my chest, his finger hovering over my heart. “You too, have that power. A pathetic bandit who shirked enlistment cannot compare to even a hedge knight, let alone a summoned Hero.”

I nodded along at his words, agreeing with him that I was, indeed, quite awesome, until I paused. “But I’ve been here nearly a month, and Violet can still kick my ass with one arm and no legs.” I studiously ignored the pleased, yet condescending harrumph from across the camp.

Valence retracted his hand to scratch at his chin as he chuckled at my point. “True, very true. There are…forty-eight of you, it only makes sense you would not be so swiftly powerful.” He shook his head.

“But don’t let that distract you. Your growth is still remarkable; it’s been less than a month, and yet you easily dispatched a group many times your number.”

“Doesn’t feel all that impressive,” I grumbled, “Like you said, they were losers who ran away; not someone you’d boast about beating.”

“I’d whack you if you did,” he agreed. “And I’ll whack you now if you continue to whine about only being remarkably precocious.”

“I ain’t whining,” I scoffed, “Just making an observation. Oh, yeah, before I forget.” That string of thought brought to another peculiarity of my encounter with the bandits. “Why the hell did those bastards keep calling me ‘Goldie?’”

At the word, Valence’s face twitched almost imperceptibly, his jaw clenching for a split second as his eyes narrowed in anger. “I see. What do you know of the Zolotoy Empire?”

“That they’re an empire called Zolotoy.”

“So, nothing, I presume.”

“It could be interpreted like that, yeah.”

“They are- were the most powerful nation in the world, a fact they loved to remind everyone else about.”

“Were? If they were so powerful, how’d they get introduced to the shed then? And how does that relate to me being called Goldie?”

“Introduced to the shed?” He muttered, before shaking his head. “Their reign was abruptly ended by the enemy you were summoned to fell. And it’s related because ‘Goldie’ is a slur, one that just fifteen years ago would only be publicly uttered by the foolish and the suicidal.”

“Wack. The only slur I’ve been called was something you put cheese on.” I said with a shrug, Valence raising a slightly amused eyebrow at what to him was nonsense.

“Moving on. The Zolotoy Empire was most famous for its gold. They liked to boast ‘In one inch, more than an acre.’ An exaggeration, but only slightly.”

I raised a disbelieving eyebrow but didn’t question it.

“Seems like they were compensating,” I quipped. “So that’s why I got called Goldie?”

“You were called Goldie because you happen to look like the poster boy for Zolotoy nobles. Blonde, blue-eyed, with lilac white skin and a lean frame. If I didn’t know you were a Hero, I would have been certain you were a Boyar.”

“That’s Manar, thank you,” I corrected, not that I knew whatever the hell that meant. “Their leader didn’t happen to have a funny little mustache, did he?”

“No, actually. They happened to despise facial hair,” Valence replied, chuckling as he rubbed his own.

I pointedly stared at the bushy, silver beard he was scratching, the hairs almost gleaming in the firelight. “Don’t share their beliefs?” I asked already knowing the answer, Valence frowning instead of smiling at the admittedly unfunny joke.

“No,” he flatly said, before patting his legs as he stood up. “But it is getting late. You have a busy day tomorrow, so rest; you’ll need it.”

“The hell am I doing tomorrow?”

This time, it was Valence’s turn to smirk, one that promised pain and suffering that he would be all too amused by. “Hunting.”