Raiten:

  I think I am dead. I certainly feel dead. My body is a mess of blood and tears, wounds and wear. My soul is tired and dim. My eyes have certainly lost their luster. Everything goes in and out of darkness.

  When I feel my back break against the ground, there is little pain. Only peace.

  Short-lived peace.

  I awake in a scorched field. A forest of stumps and black roots. A rocky valley spreads out below me, littered with dead souls. Men. Women. And of course, many, many children.

  Ahead, on the bluffs of a green mountain, an army lies in wait. It is a sea of rot, boils, and black worms—the plagued. They have swept over the land.

  At their head, a feminine figure sits upon a steed. She looks young, dressed in a fine blue and maroon brocade accented by a white scarf. Though, she does wear an oddly dull wooden mask to accompany that outfit. Her steed is what grabs my attention more—for it is the elk I just vanquished, back in its full glory.

  The woman is looking at me—some sixth sense of mine tells me so. Even through the wooden mask, I meet the piercing gaze of her blood red eyes. They are quite beautiful, in fact. Certainly, they are a brighter shade of red than my own eyes.

  At her side, she carries a silver sheath. From it, she draws forth a raw, unadorned, unguarded and unhilted blade. She grasps it from its iron tang and points the tip my way. It is a long arms blade of Western-make—unfinished, yet sharp as all hells, glinting in the orange light of a rising sun that seems too vast in this plane.

  “You think you can hunt me?” a voice whispers. It is seductive and menacing all at once—like a lover giving their voice a hard edge. The words tingle up my spine—the hairy legs of a tarantula dancing upon my corpse.

  I grimace, but don’t turn away from her gaze.

  “Yes,” I say. I recognize what this is now. I won’t let her intimidate me.

  Laughter carries through the wind. High and mocking, like a noblewoman.

  “Oh please, you’re nothing but a slave foolish enough to turn against his masters,” she says. Then, she kicks the elk forward, riding it towards me.

  When she reaches me, she extends her hand rather than her blade. “I can end this, you know? End your foolish quest—steer you back to your real task. All you have to do is make a deal with me—”

  I slap away her hand, which is gloved by a delicate white leather.

  The elk snorts.

  She shrugs. “So be it.”

  Then, slowly, she takes her mask off.

  …

  I wake up in chains—hands cuffed and hanging by a hook.

  Where the hell am I? What the hell happened?

  Everything aches.

  My body is bloody and grimy, hair matted and dirty. My wounds haven’t fully healed. My jaw and inner mouth have fully regenerated, but I suspect my innards are still healing.

  I’m going to be shitting out antlers, I muse. Well, at least it's over. But by the heavens, that was my toughest battle. Ever. Never have I fought a more formidable opponent or been taken to such lengths. In fact, it was almost like a repeat of my first battle with Baroth—both times, the djinn pummeled me through and through, up until the end where I won by… a fluke. No other way to put it really. A scream and a tooth.

  That wasn’t an angel dumbass.

  It was most likely Sorina who saved me.

  Her, and my own, desperate thinking. Lightning imbued enamel huh? Who would’ve thought? Well, at least it all worked out.

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  At the cost of two amulets.

  So, now I’m down to four.

  Where is my amulet sack? I don’t feel the bag jingling on my side as I raise myself on the hook, trying to escape.

  The door to the small, firelit room I’m kept in is slammed open. Soot from the walls snow down now as four soldiers file inside, each carrying short spears. They stand at attention at the four corners of the room—sentinels in the brazierlight. Then, a fifth man walks in the room, commanding some presence.

  He wears fully kitted armor—a morion helm, a breastplate, vambraces, and shin guards. The man takes the morion off and sets it down below me. Sweat rolls from his black, short-cropped hair. Wrinkles crease his forehead. He seems like someone who's perpetually stressed.

  “Prisoner,” he addresses me. “You can call me Captain Riddeck.”

  I don’t answer.

  He sighs. “You know, when someone greets you with their name, you should reciprocate in kind.”

  I look between him and then shake my chains for a bit of emphasis: “Does this look like a formal setting to you?”

  He chuckles. “No, I suppose not. Apologies for that—you gave my men a bit of a scare.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “We were scouting out the forests for any signs of the enemy. I was leading my troop firsthand. And then,” he starts walking around me, behind me. “I see red lightning clash with blue fire. The sky drains of color. And I wonder to myself, ‘Ah hells Riddeck, what have you gotten yourself into?’”

  I stay silent. I’d rather let him play this out—I have no idea who these people are, though I have guesses.

  He continues: “Then, I see you falling about one thousand feet from the sky. I thought—surely, he must be dead. But no, you lived. Not only that, your wounds began to heal as well. And I think, surely, I must have stumbled upon some deity. Or,” he comes around now, face to face with me. “Some daemon.”

  I scoff. “I’m no daemon.” The Western pronunciation of the word feels very wrong. ‘Daemon’. Such a silly name for djinn or devs. It robs them of their nuance.

  “I’ll be the judge of that.” Riddeck backs away, reaching for his belt. From it, he produces the amulet sack. I try not to eye it too greedily. “Why were you clutching these so hard?”

  “I don’t know,” I answer. Obviously, he doesn’t buy it. He starts tossing the sack up and down. “Careful—don’t play with those.”

  “At least keep your story straight: first you say ‘you don’t know’ and now, you’re telling me—”

  “I’m being serious, stop tossing it up like that,” I tell him. You might just break one and kill yourself.

  Something in my voice gives him pause. He catches the sack and opens it, taking a peek inside. Then, with a shrug, he laces it back up.

  “Fine,” he says, making a dismissive gesture. “That’s not really all that important anyways. I have one question for you—answer it properly, and you might just live.”

  “What makes you think—”

  “Are you a scion of Sorayvlad?” He cuts me off. The question baffles me. What is it with people thinking I’m from Clan Sorayvlad?

  “You Catolicans can’t be this racist to think that every Eastern looking man you see is from Sorayvlad,” I mutter.

  “Say that again?”

  “I said, no, I’m not from Clan Sorayvlad.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “We’ve heard rumors of a boy from Sorayvlad wielding lightning like you do. Apparently, he does it by crushing amulets. Amulets like the ones in this sack of yours.”

  Interesting. So they have a Thunder Watcher of their own then? Or maybe, some poor fool who just tries using angel dust at the cost of his own health. Sorina did say something a while ago about Sorayvlad’s Shogun using it. Regardless…

  “I can assure you, that person is not me. I am from a different clan, though I no longer associate myself with them either. I quite despise the clans, in all honesty.”

  “How am I supposed to believe you? We’re at war with Sorayvlad and all of a sudden, a lightning wielding warrior starts causing a ruckus in our territory—it seems a bit suspicious, wouldn’t you say?”

  War with Sorayvlad?

  “Look,” I begin. “I’m from—was from Clan Adachi. Now, I reside in a little village up the road, down South. Takemeadow. Surely you’ve heard of that?”

  He sneers. “Sure. And I’m from Germanica.” He’s being sarcastic.

  “I’m telling you the truth!” I hiss, frustrated now. “You lot are all Catolicans, right?”

  If he’s surprised at my guess, he doesn’t show it. “Yes.”

  “I know one of your old princesses—Sorina. The one you married off to Sorayvlad. She’s the mayor of Takemeadow.”

  His face contorts in confusion. “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Why?”

  “Sorina is dead. She has been for sometime—this much is known. Hells lad,” Riddeck starts chuckling. “Why else do you think we’re at war?”