“Drink! Drink! Drink!” I heard those neanderthals continually shout, almost like clockwork. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if they really did do that at certain intervals. They always were so loud, irritating, and obnoxious at that hour, sitting in the same seats and telling the same jokes.

I, on the other hand, made acquaintance with the dimly lit wooden wall behind the bar counter. I didn’t have to interact with anyone, seeing as no one ever sat next to me, and it gave me something to look at that wasn’t slobbering with every other word.

The room around me was dingy, rustic, and heavily used by familiar feet. The light from the chandelier above gave off a hesitant yellow glow, cascading many unsure shadows. The wood moaned and creaked with every step, but it was hard to tell if it was in agony or in comfort. Although for some patrons, it always sounded the same.

Beside the occasional lenient splashes of “color” that sporadically painted the tavern walls, there was nothing to view besides the drunkards that danced around. And that was of no interest to me. That is why I decided to sit and stare at the embodiment of boredom.

“Another one?” the bartender asked, motioning towards my mug.

He was a slender man with a nicely trimmed beard that was cut short against his skin. The vest that he wore was presentable, but if someone were to look at it a bit closer and for a long enough period of time, they would see the years of wear and tear that was subtly covered up all around it.

“Sure,” I replied with a deep exhale.

I then effortlessly tossed a coin in his general direction. I didn’t bother to look at where exactly he was, nor if my money made it to him—I didn’t care about either. My thoughts were only that of my mistake and inaptitude.

If it wasn’t for that, I thought, I wouldn’t have to endure all that I am.

Taverns were painful for me, but still, it’s where the true colors of a town come to light. In the night, it’s the only chance I had at finding any other possible lead.

“You know,” the bartender started to say, sliding my now half-full cup towards me, “you’ve been here for the past two nights. There’s a reason why no one is by you: you don’t fit in here.”

“So?” I swirled my mug.

The bartender then scratched his beard and leaned an elbow on the table. “You make a lot of the customers uncomfortable. Anyone is looking for a chance to get you out.”

Taking a drink of my ale, I replied, “I don’t see how that’s my problem.”

“I’m just saying,” he responded, standing back up, “you better watch how much you drink. One slip up and the owner won’t hesitate to throw you out. It doesn't matter who you are, she’ll manhandle you.”

“Yeah? Well, she’s never taken me on,” I countered, placing my hand on the bar for stabilization. “Piss off.”

With that, the man left me alone with my thoughts. And like every other night in that odor-filled, overcrowded room, I continued to look dead ahead of me. My mind glazed over a new layer with each added drink…and it took a lot to feel anything noticeable.

Why am I even here? I asked myself. I should’ve gone back there and stood watch for a few more nights.

I took a drink.

But why bother? He's not going to show up again. He’s probably long gone. Hell, he’s probably out of the damn town.

The front door bells chimed and a breeze of a warm night’s air gusted through the space.

“Ayyyyyy!” a few of the drunkards shouted.

“Oi, Hunter,” one of them called out, his voice ragged and torn, “where have ya been? It’s been a few days.”

“Well, you know,” the voice who I assumed belonged to Hunter started to say, “I had to sit home to recover a bit. I got in a tussle with this brooding fella—you know how it is.”

His voice was softer, but it bounced around the room, inadvertently making it the one voice that always stood out among the crowd. There was an equal amount of whimsy and cockiness when he talked.

Oh good, another regulator, I sickeningly sighed. Will I ever find peace in this stupid shack?

“Oh really now?” another voice said, this one being more slimy and meek.

“Oh yeah,” Hunter responded. “I really showed him who’s boss. He didn’t stand a chance.”

The rugged voice jumped back in, saying, “I’m sure you did. Is dat why I can still see da tail between ya legs?”

The vicinity around where I heard those voices burst into laughter. I continued to sip at my drink, deliberating about myself, within myself. The vague shadows of the people reflected off my wall every once and a while whenever the lights from the chandeliers swung in a certain direction. For once, it seemed like those shadows were taller than me, looming over my space. While I wouldn't admit it at the time, the very idea of my own person getting dwarfed by those who I felt disdain for sank me lower into my own mind’s abyss.

I always told myself that I would get through my life, with a single goal in mind, without caving to the irrationality of emotions. But time and time again, I found myself succumbing to the allure of hate. It was too easy to not fall for. It was so convenient to always have that feeling by my side, always ready to be weaponized. That was something I had to deal with since the very start of my journey.

A few glass and wooden objects fell to the ground, all while that sound of some jovial scuffling ran overtop of that noise.

“Hahaha,” the rugged voice laughed, “a classic Hunter show, everyone! How does he balance on dees wobblin’ tables?”

Hunter replied, “Oh please, it’s because I’m incredible.” I could hear his shit-eating grin.

“Catch this!” the meek voice called out.

“And this!” another voice added.

“An’ this!” the rugged voice interjected.

All of those annoying voices erupted in cheers. The way the roaring yells ebbed and flowed reminded me of time I had almost forgotten. Back when I was just starting off as a Slayer—just mere months after the family’s demise—I found myself seeking refuge within a small coastal village. That village was, for lack of a better phrase, humble, traditional, coastal, and inviting. The sky was always an emerald-orange color in my recollection, and the sea was a lavender-blue. To blend in nicely with that natural canvas, the town’s buildings were mainly made of gray stone and corral.

The people who made it, ran it, and kept it the pristine, unknown gem that it was, welcomed me with open arms. They never asked any questions of who I was. Even when seeing the trail of blood that followed me wherever I went, they simply chose to wash it off of me by submerging me in the ocean that they all shared.

I lived there for a few years, finally enabling my cold exterior to open up to the warm breeze of people that sheltered me without compensation. Fortunately for me, they didn’t have enough time to truly crack me open, entirely.

One day, as the night grew darker than ever before and the winds of the wicked water grew colder, abominations from the sea rose up, killing the townsfolk for no apparent reason. They were monsters through and through, simply murdering becuase it was their nature. That being said, they became corpses before I even realized they had heads. Thinking back, that must've been the first time I truly gave into my own heart’s anger. My unbridled hate for what they were allowed me to slaughter and massacre all of them without a shred of remorse. But it wasn’t satisfying.

“C’mon, one foot, huh?” the rugged voice antagonized.

“Yeah! And catch more things!” another voice tried to add on, her voice sloppy and borderline incoherent.

“Nah, make him do something else,” the meek voice suggested.

“Take your clothes off!” the sloppy voice quickly, almost suspiciously so, suggested.

“Yeah!!!” the rugged voice cheered. “How you gonna do that wit jus’ a foot on da ground?”

One after another, I recalled how my feet pounded the ground as I tirelessly traveled the world in search of something. I never really felt what it was like to rest. I never got any reprieve—the world always found a way to try and knock me down. But still, I kept moving on, adopting the way of the Slayer to fund my adventure towards my one true goal.

Most people would use their experiences with monstrous creatures to validate their hatred for them, but for me, I never really felt that way. Well, not anymore, at least. I’m sure there was a time in my life where I felt empathy for those who were just as affected by those creatures as much I had been, but after killing so many of them for survival, I must've grown cold to it. Those creatures are just a part of nature, just like humans, and in my opinion, they aren’t any worse. The difference only lies within the subtly. That was always my experience. It was just much easier to slash at an obvious threat, like a dragon or a raging bramblebear, than it was to have to meticulously abide by the constructs of human society—things they invented just to protect themselves. Monsters attack, humans scheme, but they both thrive off of the death of the less fortunate and the weak. It was something I noticed, but not something that concerned me. I needed only one thing in my life: my revenge. I was convinced that doing that would finally fill the hole in my heart that was punctured when I was covered in my parents’ blood.

“AYYY!” the room erupted in praise. “He did it!”

“Damn, Hunter, what’s wit the big scar on ye back?” the rugged voice asked.

“I told you,” Hunter began to counter, although in a prideful fashion, “I got in a scrap with a mean fella. But don’t worry, I showed him a thing or two.”

The meek voice then jumped into the conversation. “And so you got a scar on your back? A true sign of a warrior who faces things head on!”

“I think that’s mighty brave of you,” the sloppy voice tried to add on. “It looks good to me.”

The rugged voice then boomed even louder than before, something that I was painfully unaware that it could do. “Well, if you're that courageous and heroic, then we gotta have a toast for ye!”

There were then a couple of other voices that seemed to reciprocate that energy, but it was hard for me to really tell what exactly they said. It was hard enough for me to even focus on myself and my wall with all of that racket.

“For our shining hero and the mightiest warrior in all of Varunia!” the rugged voice announced.

The room filled with an equal amount of laughter, excitement, and anticipation—things that the atmosphere itself seemed to be accustomed to.

“Screw you,” Hunter chuckled.

The booming, ragged voice filled the entirety of the room. “Let’s give him the Hero’s Toast!”

Everyone started pounding on the tables, on the walls, and on anything that didn’t break. The rhythm was one giant pound, followed by two quicker bangs. They all sang, as discordant as it may be, this tune:

“We raise our cups to the night

To give us courage and might

With blood of ale in our veins

May this song be what remains”

I started to think about what it really meant to be a hero. I knew, even in my slightly intoxicated form, that I was nothing of the sort. Heroes are people who willingly put themselves before danger in order to ensure that the threat doesn’t reach those who can’t take it on. It’s a foolish thing to do. Every person who deludes themselves into thinking that they are a knight in shining armor, chosen to be the protector of the weak, is always killed before even the local dairy farmer knows their name. The fantasy of adventure and saving the world is something that, ironically, the most unqualified people believe in. If someone is sane enough to have such ideas in their head, then they are not cut out to be whatever they envisioned.

Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

Those who truly embodied the visage of insanity and power were the only ones cut out to be Slayers. From my experience, there were three kinds of people who managed to survive in the field. The first were those with single-minded goals—something they wished to accomplish above all else—who used the job as a means to an end. Another group were those addicted to the highs of battle and adventure, and were crazy enough to do whatever it took to feel it. Finally, the rest simply did what they did for coin and other such rewards. Regardless of the motive, in every case, they understood that throwing away their morals—the one thing that limits humanity—was the only way to survive in such a world. There's a reason why righteousness is found only within the day. At night, when the most twisted images appear and all perceptions are challenged, that’s when reality finally takes hold. That’s why anyone who understood that worked within the night…within the veil of darkness that shrouded all they did from the world and from themselves.

“A toast to Hunter, may he die

In brothers’ arms where he lie

And if the morn’ comes to be

We’ll all sing his memory!”

And that thought led me to reflect on where I was at the time. For some reason, it hadn’t really set in what I was doing. The wall in front of me seemed to warp and twist into the memory of a few nights ago. The yellow tint of the room’s lights encircled itself, staring back at me like his eyes. I went to take a drink of my ale as an excuse to cover my gaze, but before I knew it, I was already out of alcohol. And so, I was forced to confront the vision before me.

I saw the pile of animal corpses below me, and I felt them beneath my feet. In front of me stood a smiling image of all that I loathed. With fangs that exaggerated beyond the mouth and eyes of electrifying yellow, the fanged man continued to stare me down. My breathing grew more intense, my veins swelled, and I bore my own teeth at him. He taunted me and I accepted the gesture, charging with all my soul towards him.

I heard the clap of thunder and the gust of rain blow all around me. With each swing of my sword, the splash of dozens of raindrops cascaded from the blade as it sliced through the dampened air. I felt faster and more powerful than ever before, but it wasn’t good enough.

The fanged man continued to laugh at me and prod me with gestures. Each time I would go to make an attack, he would already find a way to move out of my range. Every. Single. Time. Slash after slash after slash after slash, no matter what I did, he always found a way to get further away from me. I could do nothing.

And then it happened.

I found myself surrounded, not by the calming blue of rain, but by a world of red. It was deeper than blood could ever be and it saturated everything that was around me. The only thing that remained its original color was the valrose.

For some reason, in that crimson world, I managed to hit him. Just as he was running away from me, I managed to finally land a strike on him, cleaving a piece of his back. The cut ran deep, and the blood that poured from it was purple and black. Those colors then mixed with my world, clouding my vision, completely—the only thing that I could see was the wound that I inflicted.

Suddenly, a spark of realization zapped through my head, causing my entire body to jolt up and out of my stool. The world had returned to the present, but the feelings and the storm remained. I looked down at my empty cup and then at my leather-strapped boots, breathing heavily but rhythmically. I continued to do that until my thoughts managed to sort themselves out, and when they did, my eyes widened.

Slowly, I lifted my head up and turned around. Just as I managed to look behind me, I saw a sight that I did not believe. The confusion brought me to a point where I continually made up reasons as to why what I saw was not what it seemed. After all, it was night, and nothing is what it seems at night. But there was no way it wasn’t.

Standing atop a table, surrounded by the patrons of the tavern, was a yellow-eyed younger man, laughing and drinking.

I just stared at him. I have no idea how long I did, but I continued to do it. Eventually, for some reason or another, he looked back at me. His own eyes betrayed him the moment they landed on me, and the way they opened up was all the confirmation that I needed.

Instinctually, I reached back for my sword, but found nothing. I had almost forgotten that I was forced to leave it outside in order to come in. Flustered, confused, angry, and slightly crazed, I shook my head and yelled. With a primal roar, I immediately charged at the man.

I barreled through multiple passersby who didn’t even have time to react before I knocked them to the ground. The sound of the wooden furniture that I bashed through rang in my ear like a war drum, drowning out all other sounds. My sight was solely focused on my goal, as it always had been in my life, and his eyes were still locked onto me.

Just as I made it to the fanged man, I licked my lips and planted my feet. Using the momentum from my run, I leaped through the air, colliding with the wide-eyed figure. The rickety table overturned and we were both thrown to the ground, with me on top.

The muffled sounds of cheering briefly filled my red-filtered ears, but my entire being was focused on the struggling creature beneath me. My knees pinned his legs to the ground and both of my arms were clenched around his throat. I used the weight of my strength, hatred, and position to choke the life out of him. I could see his electric eyes turn into a more fragile, dandelion-yellow color as the panic seemed to set in. And there was no hesitation from me.

However, in a flash quicker than I could follow, he managed to slip his legs out from under my pin and swing them above me. They wrapped around my upper torso, locking themselves into place. With a speedy flourish, he twisted his body around, flipping me to the ground—he managed to completely turn me over.

I brought my fists up in a defensive manner to counter whatever barrage of attacks he was going to release...but none came. I felt a weight suddenly lift off of me, accompanied by a flash of movement. It took me a few moments to realize what was going on, but when I did, I saw nothing but a shoddy-looking ceiling above. I then swung my legs and, using the strength of my inner core muscles, jumped to my feet.

My eyes crazily darted all around the tavern, trying to look past the stumbling, cheering faces of the animals that made up the crowd that had gathered around me. But I could not find him. With the sharpness of a dagger, my breath staggered and cut through the small gaps within my teeth. Each movement of air was hotter than the last. Each twitch of my predatory eyes was more bloodshot than before. Each wild vein on my body was flowing faster than it had been. Every system within me was stressed beyond mad, looking for him.

Then I heard a clattering sound to my left. My body instantly twisted in that direction just in time to see Hunter breaking out of a rowdy bunch of people that were grabbing at him and pulling him in my direction. His slippery movements allowed him to escape their grasp, but not my sight. With a crack of my neck, I sprinted at him—he was not going to escape me for a third time.

Just as he managed to disconnect himself from the last person, I managed to get within a foot of him. Continuing my charge forward, I wrapped my arms around him, using all the strength my crazed body could muster. I wasn’t going to let go unless my arms were sliced off.

Forward. I couldn’t see where I was going, seeing as the body of the fanged man obscured my vision, but I just let my legs pound the ground and push forwards. Nothing stopped my rampage. Not the tables I slammed him into. Not the people that I let his back plow over. Not even the dozens of cuts and bruises my legs got from the broken barstools and table. The thing that finally stopped me was…myself.

CRASH

Through the main window, both of our bodies smashed through it and tumbled onto the gray, rain-soddened stone street. The cold, razor-like wind that carried the tears of the heavens swirled around me as I lay on the ground. Despite the arctic temperatures, my body was still warm. Not nearly as warm as it was within the building, but hot enough for me to disregard the rain. I wouldn’t let the natural sensations of the world cool me down…at least not yet.

I pressed one hand of mine on the ground in an attempt to prop myself up. It sank into a tiny puddle that half of my body was submerged in. As my body lifted out of it and my face pulled away, I saw the visage of a monster. Staring at me from the other side of the reflection were eyes as blue as the ice-filled glaciers of the Grand North, surrounded by a once white sclera, now bursting with crimson hate. The face I saw was twisted and matted with hair that almost seemed to strangle the humanity out of it.

I couldn't bear to see it anymore, and so, I averted my gaze, instead choosing to look at the only other body around me. A few yards away was a man starting to groggily sit up from the back-lying position that he was in. I matched and surpassed the speed in which he was getting up with, even if that caused most of my joints to pop.

Before he got a chance to make any more movements, I looked behind me, towards the tavern. I could see the shattered mess of a window that I caused, the trail of broken wood that was left in my wake, and the faces of the ever-judgemental people that stared at me, both in disgust and anticipation. But more importantly than that, just to the right of that sight, next to the entrance of the tavern was exactly what I was looking for: my sword.

With quick, ravenous movement, I picked it up and stood, towering over the fanged man. I looked down on him, and for the first time, I truly got a good, long look at him. In the dark, dreary rain, partially illuminated and shadowed by the light that was bleeding out of the tavern, I saw exactly what I wanted to see. Below me was the face from that night: a face accompanied by two fangs, barely jutting out of the mouth. The fanged man’s scraggly hair covered most of the rest of his face, making it hard to see anything but those fangs, but that was more than enough for me.

Pointing my blade just inches from his neck, I huffed, “There’s nowhere left for you to run. This is it for you.”

His arms were propped up behind him, allowing him to barely sit up. Barely blinking awake, his eyes finally opened and looked at me with a duller yellow color than I was expecting.

“What the hell are you talking about?” he asked, his voice slightly whimpering. “I have no idea who you are.”

I pressed the blade right up against him, causing a slight trickle of red to flow down his neck.

“Do you really kill so many people that you can’t recognize the face of one of your victims?” I gritted my teeth. “It’s been so many years since you killed my family, but I will never forget the pain I felt.”

“Woah, woah, hold on,” he started to plead. His voice suddenly shifted to a higher, more honest pitch, and his words started to speed out of his mouth. “I ain’t ever killed someone—I think you got the wrong guy.”

“Lies!” I yelled back.

“No no no no, I’m serious, I’m sure of it.”

I moved my blade from his neck and up towards his mouth. I then used it to open his lips, revealing the entirety of his teeth.

“And I’m quite sure that I have the right guy,” I responded, only looking at his mouth. “These fangs are all the proof I need.”

“Fangs…”his voice lingered. I then saw his tongue feel around his mouth, followed up with him softly saying, “Fuck.”

“Exactly. Now, prepare for my blade, monster.”

I moved the blade back towards me, grabbing it with my other hand and pulling it behind me. Just as I was about to thrust it forwards, I heard him speak.

“Just because I have fangs, doesn’t mean it was me,” he said, although there was regret in his words.

I held off for a second.

“How not?” I asked, tired of talking.

“Because I’m not the only fanged person, dumbass,” he sassed me.

I loosened my grip and stance, and asked, “There’s more of you?”

His eyes faltered for just a second, and his breath hesitated before he spoke again. “Yeah,” he began to answer, “but I don’t think any of them did it either.”

“And why’s that?” I prodded, my body relaxing just a touch…something I later realized he immediately clocked.

“Because…” he started to say but not before kicking himself to his feet.

In my moment of weakness that my questioning afforded him, I let him stand on equal footing with me. Furious, I ceased any future conversations and launched my blade straight towards him. Like a lance, I aimed to pierce his scrawny chest. Unfortunately, however, he was on his feet. And like a dancer, he swerved around my strike, his toes gliding over the slicked ground.

I then brought the sword back to me and raised it above my head. Flexing my arms and back, I brought it down with a lightning-like force. As it missed him, it collided with the stone road with a thunderous crash, sparking in the rain. I felt my own long hair tossed with the storm that was now picking up, but that didn’t stop me from taking another swing at him.

Each swipe of mine was heavier than the last, and I felt the weight of the rain pushing down on me. After every attack, he managed to put a little more distance between us. It seemed impossible.

How was he effortlessly gliding over the water-slicked street? I asked myself. How is it that my feet keep slipping? What’s the difference?

Tired of the tango that we were engaging in, I charged straight for him, trying to close the distance that he created. I brought my sword to the side and prepared to cut that man in half. However, just as I got close to him, a sobering calmness washed over me as my eyes got the most honest look at his face that I ever had. The light from the moon above managed to penetrate the howling storm in that instance, brightening his face with a white glow.

There was a teenage tenderness to it that I never noticed. I saw every smooth curve that rounded it, surrounded it, and that defined him. There was a rebellious innocence to his eyes that wasn’t there when his fangs were out. It took the breath out of me, and in my mind, just for second, a feeling of nostalgia that I thought was long-lost filled me.

In that second of hesitation, he parried my strike, knocking my sword to the side. The weight of that steel weapon pulled me in its direction, causing my feet to lose its grip with the ground. And down I fell, my face splashing against one of the numerous puddles.

“Not again!” I screamed into the water.

As I lay there, I heard the slowly quieting splashes of steps move away from me, until they were no more. Slowly I stood back up, my hair matted to my face. I pushed those sopped strings away from my eyes. As I did, I found myself surrounded by a few of the patrons. Most of them looked down at me with expressions that I was all too familiar with.

“Whatjya doin’ tryin’ to go afta Hunter wit dat sword?” a bulbous man asked, his voice rough and rugged.

“Yeah, what’s gotten into you, Slayer?” a slimy voice added, this one belonging to a slender gentleman.

“Typical Slayer,” a hiccupping female added, “bringing nothing but death and destruction.”

“We ain’t gonna have it!” the giant man shouted.

The rest of the crowd followed suit, slowly surrounding my head with words of hate, anger, and verbal violence. I let those nonsensical sounds enter one ear and leave through the other. The only thing I focused on was the fury that still raged through my heart.

Without thinking, I yelled back at them. “‘What’s gotten into me!?’” I mocked. “Why am I going after your friend?! Because he’s a monster!”

The voices slightly quieted down and their eyes looked at me in confusion.

“That’s right,” I continued in my fiery passion, “you were harboring a fanged man among you. I fought him once before in a pile of corpses—I saw him for what he truly is.”

I stomped the ground and felt a rush of emotions flourish out of me.

“So don’t look at me with those eyes—the eyes that only see what they want to. I’m tired of you all looking at me and what I do with such contempt…contempt against the only person who can truly see in the night!”

Thunder boomed and a flash of lighting sparked across the area, lighting up everything, except for myself. My shadow towered over every one of them as they sank further into the warm interior of the tavern—the only thing that they found comfort in. They couldn't bear to stand out in the darkness with me any longer.

“Now if you’ll excuse me,” I said, “I have some justice to enact.”