The road wound through the forest like a scar across diseased flesh, and I followed it with the patience of something that had already conquered time. Dawn was breaking over this nameless wilderness, painting the sky in shades of blood and bruise. Appropriate, I thought, for a world that seemed to wear its violence like a second skin.
The merchant's memories had given me language, context, a framework for understanding this place. But memories were poor substitutes for direct experience. I needed to see this world with my own eyes, to taste it, to understand what manner of realm the universe had deposited me in.
Behind me, the massacre site was already attracting scavengers. I could hear the crows descending, their caws echoing through the trees like mocking laughter. Wolves would come next, then the insects. Nature's cleanup crew, efficient in its own primitive way. Within a week, there would be nothing left but bones and rust.
I walked for three hours before I encountered the next sign of civilization.
It was a village, if one could be generous enough to call it that. Perhaps two dozen structures clustered around a central square, surrounded by fields that looked exhausted, depleted. The buildings were crude timber and thatch, the kind of construction that spoke of a people who built quickly because they expected to lose everything regularly.
Smoke rose from a few chimneys. The acrid smell of burning peat mixed with human waste, animal dung, and the ever present scent of decay. I could hear voices, the lowing of cattle, the clang of a blacksmith's hammer. Life, continuing its stubborn persistence despite every indication that it should simply give up.
I paused at the edge of the village, considering my approach. The memories I'd stolen gave me language and cultural context, but I was still dressed in clothing that marked me as fundamentally other. My appearance alone would cause problems. The question was whether those problems would be interesting or merely tedious.
In a world where existence was suffering and suffering was existence, the arrival of the extraordinary was not greeted with wonder but with fear. For the people of this land had learned through bitter experience that anything which stood apart from the grey misery of daily life was inevitably a herald of greater misery to come.
A child saw me first. A girl, perhaps eight years old, carrying a bucket of water from a well. She stopped mid step, her eyes going wide. The bucket slipped from her hands, water spilling across the dirt. For a moment, we simply looked at each other. I, curious about her reaction. She, trying to reconcile what her eyes told her with what her experience said was possible.
Then she screamed.
It was a thin, piercing sound that cut through the morning air like a blade. Doors burst open. People emerged, weapons in hand, crude tools held like weapons. Farmers, mostly, with the bent backs and weathered faces of those who spent their lives breaking themselves against indifferent earth.
And there, pushing through the crowd, a priest. I recognized the vocation from the merchant's memories. Black robes, a symbol of the cross hanging from his neck, eyes that held the particular brand of fervor that came from believing in something without evidence.
"Demon!" the priest shrieked, raising his cross like a weapon. "Spawn of darkness! The hour of judgment is upon us!"
I tilted my head, studying him. "Demon? No. I've already explained this once today, though admittedly to a dead man. I'm not a demon. I'm simply perfect."
The villagers didn't seem to appreciate the distinction. More of them were emerging now, perhaps forty in total. I could smell their fear, sharp and acrid. It was a scent I'd become intimately familiar with in my previous existence. The particular cocktail of hormones that humans produced when confronted with something that triggered their deepest evolutionary terrors.
"Do not listen to its lies!" the priest commanded. "Demons speak only falsehood! We must cleanse this place with holy fire before the corruption spreads!"
"Holy fire?" I repeated, genuinely curious. "You're going to burn your own village down because I walked into it? That seems counterproductive."
One of the farmers, braver or more foolish than the rest, stepped forward with a pitchfork. "Leave this place, devil. We want no part of whatever evil you bring."
I considered him for a moment. He was middle aged, his body worn down by labor, his hands calloused and scarred. The pitchfork he held was a tool, not a weapon, but he gripped it with the determination of a man defending his home. There was something almost admirable in that, the way an ant's determination to defend its hill was admirable. Pointless, but admirable.
"I have no interest in your village," I said truthfully. "I'm simply passing through. Point me toward the nearest city, and you'll never see me again."
"Lies!" the priest shrieked again. He seemed to have a limited vocabulary. "It seeks to infiltrate our midst, to corrupt us from within! We must act now, while God still grants us strength!"
The farmer with the pitchfork took another step forward. Others followed his example. I counted fifteen men now, armed with various implements. Scythes, hammers, clubs. Even a few actual weapons, likely kept from some past military service.
I sighed. "This is tiresome. I've already killed twenty three men today. Must I make it thirty eight?"
That gave them pause. The farmer's grip on his pitchfork wavered.
"You... you admit to murder?" the priest said, though his voice had lost some of its earlier conviction.
"Murder implies illegality," I replied. "I simply defended myself from insects who thought they could harm me. The same consideration I'm extending to you now. I have no particular desire to slaughter you all, but I will if you force my hand."
The standoff continued for several long seconds. The villagers looked to the priest, to the farmer, to each other. Fear warred with territorial instinct. I could see the calculations happening behind their eyes. How many of them would die if they attacked? Was driving me away worth the cost?
Then a new voice cut through the tension.
"Father Matthias, lower your cross. Hendrick, put down your pitchfork. All of you, stand down."
The crowd parted, and an old woman emerged. She was ancient by the standards of this world, perhaps seventy years old, her back bent with age, her face a map of wrinkles. But her eyes were sharp, intelligent, and utterly unafraid.
She walked directly up to me, studying my face with the intensity of someone who had learned to read truth in lies and lies in truth.
"You're not from this world," she said. It wasn't a question.
"Perceptive," I acknowledged. "No, I'm not. Though how you determined that, I'm curious to know."
"I'm old," she said simply. "I've seen many terrible things in my years. Bandits, plague, war, famine. I've seen men do things to each other that would make devils weep. But I've never seen anything like you. You don't move like a man. Don't speak like one. You're something else entirely."
"And yet you're not afraid," I observed.
She smiled, revealing gaps where teeth used to be. "At my age, death is a companion, not a terror. If you've come to kill us all, we can't stop you. If you haven't, then perhaps we can be of use to each other."
I found myself genuinely intrigued. In a crowd of terrified peasants and hysterical clergy, here was someone who could look at me and think tactically rather than emotionally. Rare, even among humans I'd encountered in my previous world.
"What's your name?" I asked.
"Elsa," she replied. "I'm what passes for a healer in this miserable collection of hovels. And you are?"
"Kars."
"Kars," she repeated, testing the foreign syllables. "A strange name. Fitting for a strange being. Tell me, Kars, what do you want?"
"Information," I said. "Direction to the nearest city. Understanding of this world I find myself in. I have no interest in your village beyond what use it can provide in that regard."
Elsa nodded slowly, then turned to address the crowd. "Go back to your homes. This being means us no immediate harm. If it did, we would already be dead."
"But Elsa!" the priest protested. "It admits to being a demon! To murder! We cannot simply."
"Father Matthias," Elsa interrupted, her voice sharp despite her age, "you've been warning us about demons and devils for thirty years. In all that time, the only monsters I've seen have worn human faces. If this is a demon, then it's at least an honest one. Now go back to your church and pray for guidance. The rest of you, to your work. The fields won't plow themselves."
There was grumbling, but the crowd began to disperse. Fear gave way to the practical concerns of survival. Crops to tend, animals to feed, the grinding machinery of existence that didn't stop simply because something impossible had arrived.
The priest was the last to leave, shooting me venomous looks as he retreated to his church. I watched him go with mild amusement.
Elsa gestured toward a small house on the edge of the village. "Come. We can talk more privately there. And perhaps you can explain to me exactly what you are and what calamity your arrival portends."
I followed her, curious despite myself. The house was small, a single room with a packed dirt floor, a simple pallet for sleeping, and shelves lined with herbs and crude medical implements. The scent of dried plants was strong, almost enough to cover the underlying smell of poverty.
Elsa lowered herself onto a stool with a grunt, gesturing for me to sit. I remained standing. The furniture looked far too fragile to support my weight, despite my relatively human proportions.
"So," Elsa said, fixing me with those sharp eyes, "let's have truth between us. You're not a demon. I can see that much. Demons are supposed to corrupt, to tempt, to bargain. You seem to have no interest in any of that. So what are you?"
"Something beyond your comprehension," I said simply. "That's all you need to know."
"And these... beings beyond comprehension, they often fall from the sky into worlds not their own?"
I smiled slightly. "You ask many questions for someone who has nothing to bargain with."
"I offer information," Elsa said calmly. "I've lived in this world for seventy years. I know its secrets, its dangers, its hidden truths. You clearly want something, or you wouldn't be here talking instead of simply taking what you need."
Clever. She understood the transactional nature of our interaction.
"Fine," I said. "I need to know about this world. Its power structures, its geography, its... anomalies. In exchange, I won't kill everyone in this village. A generous trade, I think."
"Very generous," Elsa said dryly. "What do you want to know?"
"The nearest city. Its name, its distance, its significance."
"Windham," Elsa replied. "Two days east following this road. It's a fortress city, seat of Count Julius. One of Midland's strongest military positions. If you're planning to walk in looking like that, you'll be met with arrows before you reach the gates."
"Noted. And beyond Windham?"
"The capital, Wyndham, five days further south. Where the king holds court and the greatest concentration of military power resides. But if you're looking for civilization, I'd suggest avoiding both. A being like you will attract attention, and attention in this world means violence."
I moved to the window, looking out at the village. "The merchant I encountered yesterday had memories. Fragments of legends. Beings called the God Hand. Tell me about them."
The change in Elsa's expression was immediate and dramatic. Fear, real fear, flooded her features for the first time since we'd begun talking.
"Where did you hear that name?" she whispered.
"Answer the question."
Elsa was quiet for a long moment, her hands trembling slightly. "We don't speak of such things. Not here. Not anywhere."
"You will speak of them to me," I said, my voice carrying just enough edge to remind her of what I was capable of. "Or I'll find someone else who will. Though that process may be considerably messier."
She swallowed hard, then nodded. "Forty years ago, when I was young, I lived in the capital. I was training to be a court physician. There was a nobleman, Lord Garrett. Wealthy, powerful, respected. One night..." She paused, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "One night he gathered his entire household for a celebration. Sixty three people. Servants, guards, family. I was there, called to attend to his wife who'd been ill."
"And?" I prompted.
"I hid," she said, shame coloring her voice. "When the screaming started, I hid in a cupboard like a coward. Through a crack in the door, I watched as he sacrificed them all. As he called out to something in the darkness, and the air itself tore open. Five beings came through. Beautiful and terrible, moving in ways that defied nature. They granted him power, transformed him into something monstrous. And he fed them the souls of everyone who'd ever trusted him."
I processed this, my mind cataloguing every detail of her micro expressions, her heart rate, her breathing. She was telling the truth, or at least what she believed to be truth.
"These five beings. What do they call themselves?"
"I don't know. I never heard names. I only know what they did, what they offered. Power in exchange for sacrifice. Everything you love, everyone who trusts you, fed to whatever darkness they serve."
"And how does one summon them?"
"Through Behelits," Elsa said. "Cursed objects, egg shaped, covered in human features. They appear to those marked by fate, those whose despair runs deep enough. When the time is right, when the stars align, the Behelit calls out and they come."
Fascinating. So there were beings in this world with genuine power, entities that could transform humans into something greater. The mechanism was crude, requiring external artifacts and ritualized sacrifice, but the principle was sound.
"Where can one find these Behelits?"
"You can't find them," Elsa said. "They find you. That's what the stories say. They appear to those chosen by fate, those destined for the sacrifice."
"Destiny," I said, tasting the word with distaste. "Primitive nonsense. But the beings themselves are real. You've seen them with your own eyes."
"Yes," Elsa whispered. "And I pray I never see them again."
I turned from the window to face her fully. "Thank you, Elsa. You've been remarkably forthcoming. More useful than I anticipated."
"Will you kill me now?" she asked, her voice steady despite the fear in her eyes.
I considered it. She knew I'd been asking about the God Hand, knew I was heading toward civilization. That information could potentially be valuable to whoever might pursue me. But then, who would believe an old peasant woman? And even if they did, what difference would it make?
"No," I said finally. "You've earned your continued existence. Though I'd suggest you tell no one of this conversation. I dislike loose ends."
"I understand," Elsa said.
I moved toward the door. "One more thing. If anyone asks, tell them I headed west. A small deception to buy myself time."
"You expect to be hunted."
"Eventually. Humans always hunt what they fear. It's one of your more predictable traits."
I stepped outside, back into the morning sunlight. The village had returned to its routines, though I could still feel eyes watching from windows and doorways. Insects observing a predator, trying to determine if it had moved on or merely paused.
Let them wonder.
I set off east, toward Windham, my mind already working through the implications of what I'd learned. This world had its own supernatural hierarchy, beings of power who operated according to rules I didn't yet understand. The God Hand. Five entities who granted transformations through sacrifice.
It reminded me, unpleasantly, of the Stone Masks. Primitive tools that granted power at the cost of humanity. Though from Elsa's description, these beings operated on a grander scale.
I wondered idly if they would bleed like the mortals of this world. If perfection could be challenged by whatever crude divinity they possessed.
Only one way to find out.