Hunched forward, the scarf obscuring his face like a hood, Kael circled the shop to a dead-end alley. He studied his surroundings, then double-checked the crowd cheering the temple priests. No one returned his vengeful gaze in the hubbub that swallowed his presence.

  Perfect. He glared at his palms. It better work...

  With a wince, he gripped a pipe steaming against the winter cold, but the scalding metal didn't make him jerk his hands. Instead, it reminded him of picking up tins before the tallow candles cooled enough.

  It worked, but he'd get actual burns if he lingered.

  Thrusting his thin arms up, his bare feet found grooves on the metallic wall, and he hoisted himself up. The edge of the sloped roof pressed against his elbows a couple of seconds later. He expected exhaustion to hit him, that he'd take long enough to feel the sting of the pipe. Yet, his muscles didn't throb as they would have last week, and his breath came out steady.

  I'm not stronger, but endurance makes me last longer.

  His eyes sharpened to the peak of the roof. Slowly, he crawled upward until Tovin and Ash's backs faced him. They stood by the edge, Tovin's fist raised, Ash watching with his arms crossed over his chest. Both their screams joined the celebration.

  Kael pressed himself against the roof, his hot hand muffling his breath, his eyes darting to the other roofs. Children and gang members all watched the priests before their sermon.

  It's now or never. Can I do it? No, I'll make them pay!

  He slid down the metal, then tiptoed behind the teenagers. They didn't realise until he latched his arm around Ash's neck. He wrenched it against his waist, squeezing as much with his bones as with his thin muscles. His other hand shot inside Tovin's pocket, closing onto his knife.

  "K-Kael?!" Tovin shrieked while Ash instantly elbowed Kael's stomach with an enraged gurgle.

  Kael gasped, the air caught in his throat, but the pain couldn't stop him from swinging.

  Tovin's eyes widened as the cold blade flashed across his throat. His mouth opened and closed. No sounds. Only wet gurgles. Blood poured from the thin line, disbelief twisting his face, his eyes pleading for a mercy that would never come. He crashed on the roof, his hands twitching one last time.

  Kael watched Tovin draw his last, and even Ash paused in his counter-attack. The feeling of slicing flesh, the blood dripping from the blade—they made the knife tremble. He had fought, broken noses, or legs over junk. But killing... made him bite his lip until the taste of blood filled his mouth.

  Ash forced him to recover with a barrage of strikes. The teenager tried to roar his grief, tears trailing down his cheeks.

  With a grunt, Kael dropped the knife. He threw himself back, bringing Ash to the ground. His free hand pushed Ash's neck forward, while he gripped his biceps with the other one.

  Ash struggled, but now that Kael was beneath him, his elbows barely reached him. Slowly, his face turned from pale red to purple. His strikes slowed and weakened until he tapped Kael's shoulder pleadingly.

  For a moment, Kael hesitated. Not because of disgust or morale, but something he couldn't put his finger on. A feeling of wrongness that clawed at him, and the sensation of something cracking.

  Then, he tightened his chokehold, whispering with venomous contempt. "You beat me up, stabbed me, and left me for dead naked after robbing all I had. How do you feel standing on the receiving end? Where is your gang? Where is your smug face when you cursed my mom when she wasted our money to celebrate your birthday? Plead for her forgiveness. You won't get mine."

  Ash's fingers clawed at his shoulder, then eventually stilled. It was only after ten more seconds passed that Kael released him. Even then, he pressed his ear against the frozen chest for heartbeats and placed his fingers beneath his nose for breath. Nothing but Ash's eyes, frozen in a glazed, reluctant glare.

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  Somehow, the satisfaction, as cold as it should have been, didn't manifest in Kael. His mind drifted to the time they fooled around the clock tower. Just remembering how they had been friends made him purse his lips in disgust.

  But he couldn't waste time. The cheers and claps weakened.

  He almost tore the clean shirt and pants off Ash's corpse. That was why he choked him, even if he would have preferred to make Tovin suffer more. He didn't want stains on his clothes. He got his leather shoes back from Tovin and still took the rest with him before he scrambled down the roof.

  Landing in the same alley, he put on the shoes and traced every pocket of the clothes before folding them. Tovin's pants held four copper crowns, while the one plundered from him made six more glint in his palm.

  "One silver crown... That's all we're worth..." He flung Tovin's bloodied shirt in the snow, lifting his own. His stomach hurt slightly, with minor bruises staining his pale skin.

  Before he left, however, he noticed his ledger shiver beside him. Could books shiver now?

  Frowning, he opened it, and his blue pupils instantly constricted.

  Stress on Anchor: 5%->25%

  Risk of Breaking: Null->Low

  As Kael grappled with the horrifying increase, blue ink bled into a new entry.

  ────────────────────────────

  Unowned truths of assassination and avenger conflicting with truth of endurance. Predicted stress on assassination's anchor upon anchoring: 55%. Avenger: 75%

  Predicted price range for both truths: mind-related.

  ────────────────────────────

  Terror froze Kael's blood, licking his back with sweat colder than ice. Other truths? At least he could have more than one and could vaguely expect what he'd pay for them. No, it didn't matter right now! The feeling of wrongness on the roof came from what he was becoming. But why did things he didn't have clash with his endurance?

  Avenger, revenge... Arthur wasn't the source of the stress. It increased along with his resolve to get revenge! Was it because he had never killed before? Unlikely.

  He covered his mouth, fingers digging into his cheeks, eyes trailing to the core of his truth: I persist.

  I stated it remembering Mom. She knew that tomorrow would come if she endured today, but her endurance calls for passivity and refuses conflict. Which means... I persist became a foundation of who I am. Refusing to align with it increases stress, and once the anchor breaks, I'll lose myself... or worse.

  He needed anything but passivity. Now he was stuck with a truth that wouldn't work with his goals. What could he do? Give up? Never! But continuing meant breaking his anchor.

  Shit, shit, shit!

  Silence made the realisation louder. The hubbub was now gone, and he faintly heard the beginning of a preaching.

  He gripped his forehead, his lips pressed into a tight line.

  At least I understand now. I need to limit the stress. Plans and big hits only. Or are there other ways? One thing's sure right now. The anchor will break. But if I can decide when and how, perhaps I can mitigate the collapse? I don't know... need to experiment.

  The preacher's fervent speech scorched through his thoughts. Eventually, he walked out of the alley, joining a crowd of lowered heads and clasped hands.

  "Say it with me!" The head priest struck the butt of his staff down, and the crowd repeated.

  "All true power burns with conviction."

  The priests spread their arms, the same sun emblazoned on their gowns, manifesting in red flames behind them.

  As the crowd gasped at the "miracles of god," the head priest continued.

  "When the seed was planted, it died. When the field was cleared, something was destroyed. And from that destruction, life rose stronger. So it has always been.

  So it must always be.

  Kythra does not bless the hesitant hand. She does not hear the prayer whispered with doubt. She does not kindle the spark that fears the blaze.

  She is the Eternal Flame. And Flame asks only one question: Do you burn enough to be worthy?

  Look within yourselves. Do you believe, or do you merely hope? Do you act, or do you merely wish? Do you burn, or do you smolder and call it virtue?

  The heretic smolders. The coward hides behind ashes and calls it wisdom.

  But the faithful, the faithful burn. Burn in love. Burn in hate. Burn in creation, and burn in destruction when creation demands it. For Kythra's Word is simple.

  Burn away weakness. Burn away doubt. Burn away those who would poison the harvest of the world with hesitation and false truths. May Kythra see your fire and may it never go out."

  Kael watched the priests begin their parade. Some of them breathed fire, while others juggled with it. The cheers returned, more fervent this time with echoes of burn, burn, burn.

  He clenched his fists. Last year, he would have snorted at the preaching, then enjoyed the mystical spectacle, oblivious to truths. Now, they seemed to target him with their words, to call his endurance false and that he should burn himself into oblivion. No, it was a warning to people like him; he was the heretic.

  Fuck Kythra and the other gods.

  He stomped to where he had left Els, shivering in anger that masked the fear devouring him.