Fifteen minutes had passed since the conflict began. One of the masked figures, silent and bored, drifted away from the group and slipped into a dark corner of the village. A cold wind blew through the charred houses, carrying the scent of smoke. The man leaned against a wall and began to unload.
"Pssssss…"
It was the only sound of the night. The screams and wails within the village had gradually subsided. Even the flames burned more quietly.
But in the darkness, not far away, Vantias was waiting for this moment. His hand gripped the hilt of a dagger tightly, its cold steel glinting faintly in the dim light. Like a predator whose mind was entirely focused on its prey, he crept forward, step by silent step.
The masked man was still busy with his own task when suddenly iron hands clamped over his mouth.
"Shhk!" — the blade slid softly between his ribs, and a muffled"mmph!" escaped under Vantias's grip.
The strikes were relentless. The man struggled, flailing his arms, hoping someone would notice, but the night was so dark that no eyes fell upon him.
Vantias's breath came fast. This was his first time killing a human, yet the feeling of nausea and regret was faint. In his mind, these people were worth less than animals.
Moments later, the lifeless body crumpled onto the dirt. Vantias looked at his hands… bloodied, warm, heavy. His heart raced.
"This… is human blood? What have I done?"
Then he gazed at the corpse and muttered under his breath:
"They aren't even worth a moment of sorrow. Time to execute the plan…"
A few minutes later, a man in a red cloak and mask arrived silently, as light-footed as an owl in flight. The masked guards, seeing him, relaxed.
"Where have you been?"
— "Went to… relieve myself."
The lead guard nodded. "Alright… we're finishing up. Let's move quickly."
The man lowered his head. "I'll go inside and handle the remaining tasks."
Inside the village, a scene of hell awaited. Women and children, their hands bound, stared at him with wide, terrified eyes. Vantias clenched his teeth and passed among them.
Suddenly he ran and shouted:
"Soldiers are coming! Hurry!"
The guards laughed around the fire. "Impossible! No one can reach here…"
But at that exact moment, lanterns emerged from the darkness. Their trembling light bathed the village. Fear radiated from the faces of the masked men.
Someone shouted, "We have to leave now!"
One by one, the houses ignited, as if vengeful spirits of the night had attacked the village. The masked men growled at each other:"Kill them all and retreat!"
But before they could act, the villagers' ropes were cut. In their hands were hooks, sickles, and old axes. With a collective roar, they charged the invaders.
A bloody battle erupted. Amid the chaos, the same masked man—Vantias—thrust his dagger repeatedly into their bodies from behind.
One of the masked men, retreating and gasping, shouted:
"There's a traitor! Kill him!"
But it was too late. The flames devoured everything, and the sound of death echoed through the village…
In the midst of the turmoil, a tall, muscular masked man—a true mountain of a warrior—roared through the battlefield. Anyone who approached him fell to the ground with a heavy strike of sword or fist. His gaze was filled with bloodlust.
His eyes locked onto Vantias through the smoke and fire. Gritting his teeth, he gripped his sword tighter and advanced with heavy, furious steps.
Without hesitation, Vantias removed his mask. Two pairs of eyes met in the blood-soaked battlefield. The clash of metal rang out; sword and dagger struck against each other repeatedly. The masked man's powerful blows pushed Vantias backward. Every time Vantias defended, the enemy's blade found a new path to carve a fresh wound.
Blood covered his shoulders and arms. His breath was shallow. The burly man pressed his hand to Vantias's throat, squeezing hard.
"Who are you?…" His voice sounded like a chain dragged over stone.
Vantias, eyes gleaming with an unnatural light, smiled.
He raised his fingers and snap! — a sharp crack echoed across the battlefield.
In an instant, everything collapsed. The flames vanished. The lanterns emerging from the forest faded into nothing. Men and women whose hands had been freed were suddenly bound and motionless again. Even the corpses on the ground disappeared.
A heavy silence settled over the scene.
The masked man's face twisted. His eyes widened.
No wound remained on Vantias. The cuts, the blood, the battle… had all been an illusion.
Vantias said softly:
"You and the others… you were killing each other all this time… and I was helping you."
The man stepped back, hands trembling. The answer to all his questions was summed up in one word:
They had been deceived.
The strong man's grip around Vantias's throat tightened. The veins in his neck stretched like cords. Breathing became difficult.
With a wild look and harsh voice, he growled:
"But you will die!"
Vantias stared in silence. His lips spoke no words.
The man let out a short, victorious laugh and slammed a heavy fist into Vantias's face.
Vantias fell to the ground, struggling to rise, but a brutal kick to his side sent him sprawling. Blood flowed from his mouth and nose. His head swam. Instinctively, he raised his hands to defend himself, yet each time, the man broke through and landed another strike.
Each blow felt like a sharp blade slicing through his body.
His face and body were bruised and bloody. He lay on the ground, barely able to breathe. He had no strength to rise.
He thought:
"I can't use the mark now… only once a day…"
The man pressed Vantias against the ground, lifting him by the throat. With a mocking smile, he said:
"All that effort… and in the end, death. You're just a fool."
Vantias croaked weakly:
"But… they…"
He struggled to raise his hand, pointing to the crowd:
"They… are saved."
The women, men, and children were no longer bound; Vensing had freed them all.
Vantias gave a faint smile and continued:
"I must… distract you—so they—escape."
The man's face paled for a moment. The pressure on Vantias's throat increased.
Vensing ran toward them and forcefully shoved the man.
Vantias fell to the ground, gasping several deep breaths, and Vensing immediately entered the fight.
The man swung a heavy fist, but Vensing skillfully blocked and simultaneously kicked him in the face.
Vantias, vision blurred and eyes heavy, struggled to stand.
The man struck with savage force, yet Vensing calmly and precisely parried and countered every attack.
Finally, the man lost his balance, knees buckling.
Vensing wrapped his arms around the man's neck, lifting him, and maintained pressure.
The man's face turned red. Despite Vensing's deep wound from a dagger thrust to his abdomen, he did not release his hold. The man's movements slowed; his breath cut off, and he collapsed, lifeless.
Vensing looked at his wound; blood poured freely.
His vision blurred, the last image he saw was Vantias crawling toward him with all his strength.
Vantias gritted his teeth. The metallic taste of blood lingered in his mouth. Fingers numb, he clawed at dirt and gravel, moving millimeter by millimeter. Every movement felt like crawling through shattered glass, yet only one image repeated in his mind: he had to save Vensing.
He reached him. His hands shook, not from weakness, but from something darker… an emotion rising from deep within. With all his strength, he pressed onto Vensing's wound; the warmth of fresh blood felt like it was burning his soul.
His eyes locked onto Vensing, but the edges of his vision began to blur… then darken… then—
That image.
Gazelle's body.
Lying still on the ground… but eyes wide open, two dark wells staring straight at Vantias.
A voice echoed—not in the air, but inside his skull:
"Do you see?… Do you see?"
Vantias's eyes widened, cold sweat dripped from his forehead, and his heartbeat raced.
His pulse throbbed in his ears. Breaths came short and broken. He felt the ground soften beneath him, as if sinking into mud. His hands trembled uncontrollably, yet he could not look away from those eyes.
Gazelle's body did not blink. It repeated—slowly, drawn out, in a voice no longer like Gazelle's:
"Do you see?"
The world around him twisted; the sounds of fighting and screaming vanished. Only he remained—him, the corpse, and that gaze… a stare more shattering than any blow could ever be.