CHAPTER 18 - THE FIRST COLLISION
Borz and the dog moved down the slope.
The distance between them didn't change.
But the silence did.
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The valley was dark.
The construction site lights were behind them now, yet not completely gone. A faint yellow glow still pulsed through the mist.
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Borz stopped.
Turned his head slightly.
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The sounds carried more clearly now.
Running feet.
Shouts.
And then—
a noise that cut off too suddenly.
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The dog lifted its head.
Ears sharp.
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There was a scent.
Fresh.
Sharp.
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Blood.
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Borz's jaw tightened.
"I know…" he whispered.
Not an answer.
An acceptance.
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They kept moving downhill.
The soil was loose.
Footprints formed too easily.
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That was a problem.
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Borz halted.
Looked around.
Then dropped to one knee.
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He brushed the dirt aside.
Erased the tracks.
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The dog turned back.
Watched him.
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"They'll track us," Borz said, this time clearly.
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They moved again.
Slower now.
More careful.
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As they descended deeper into the valley, the air changed.
Heavier.
Damp.
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And then—
they saw it.
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The ground was raised.
Not natural.
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Borz stepped closer.
Knelt.
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The soil was different.
Recently turned.
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The dog gave a low growl.
Not a warning.
Recognition.
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Borz dug with his hand.
Slow.
Quiet.
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A few inches down—
something surfaced.
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Cloth.
Dirty.
Wet.
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Borz stopped.
His eyes darkened.
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He didn't dig further.
He didn't need to.
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It was a grave.
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Not the only one.
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He looked around.
Another mound.
Then another.
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Same shape.
Uneven.
But deliberate.
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The dog stepped back this time.
Silent.
Uneasy.
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Borz rose to his feet.
Swallowed.
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"They're using this place…" he said.
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His voice was low.
But heavy.
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The construction site wasn't just building.
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It was hiding.
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Borz lifted his gaze.
The darkness of the valley wasn't just darkness anymore.
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It was holding something.
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And then—
an engine sound echoed from afar.
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Not just one.
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Lights began to move again in the distance.
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Borz looked at the dog.
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"We have to go."
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But not to run.
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To change direction.
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Because he wasn't just prey anymore.
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He had seen something.
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And that—
made him a target.
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Borz knelt in the darkness. He spread the thick, stiff cement bags on the ground. His movements were slow and calculated. First, he placed the Kindjal (dagger) on the paper. This dagger was his most private weapon; he wrapped it in layers of paper and tied it tightly with twine. He turned it into a hard bundle that gave no clue of its contents from the outside. The hatchet, however, he only wrapped; he kept it loose enough so he could pull it out and tear through the paper in a single motion.
He stowed the tightly tied Kindjal in his pack. The hatchet remained within reach.
At that moment, two men emerged from the brush. They were the hired muscle of the construction site's corrupt system. They didn't see Borz at first; they saw the dog. As the dog's growl shattered the forest's silence, one of the men raised a heavy club.
"Look at this! What kind of beast is that? Let's crush its skull and draw the owner out!" the man shouted with a foul grin.
Borz's eyes narrowed. That club swinging toward his dog had crossed the final red line in his world. He moved fast; he tossed the tightly wrapped **Kindjal** and his pack behind a tree, into a hollow where no one would see it. Now, he only had the hatchet.
He gripped the wrapped hatchet. The moment the man swung the club at the dog, Borz lunged like a shadow. With a single jerk, he tore away the paper; the bare steel of the hatchet found its mark before the moonlight could even touch it.
**VUUUUUM!**
Borz didn't let out a war cry; he didn't scream. The first strike of the axe sliced the airborne club clean in half. As the man stared in shock at the wood fragment in his hand, Borz didn't stop the momentum. Using the force of the swing, he pivoted his body and buried the sharp edge of the hatchet into the man's shoulder.
The sound of bone and flesh parting echoed in the cold air. As the man collapsed in agony, the other tried to raise his club with trembling hands. But Borz had already locked his sights.
"You shouldn't have touched my dog," Borz hissed. His voice was no different from the ominous sound of winter wind hitting the rocks.
Borz twirled the hatchet in his hand. While the first man bled out on the snow, Borz collapsed onto the second like an avalanche. The axe flashed; this wasn't a fight, it was an execution with rules written by Borz.
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When Borz felt the raw heat of the blood spraying from the first man's shoulder onto his face, the last fragment of civilization in his mind froze and shattered in the valley's frost. In that moment, what flowed through his veins was not blood restrained by the rules of the modern world, but the roar of an ancient river steeped in millennia of rage, overflowing its banks. The lid of that dark volcano within him had been torn off, replaced by a pure, primal, and relentless awakening.
As the second man watched his companion collapse like a sack of grain, a predatory cry of terror tore from his throat. Fear didn't drive him to flee; it pushed him into the blind aggression of a cornered animal. He gripped the heavy oak club with both hands as if clinging to his very life and unleashed it in a whistling arc toward Borz.
**THWACK!**
The sound of the hard wood striking Borz's left shoulder was reminiscent of a rock splintering. A ragged, deep groan escaped Borz's chest, but his body did not yield a single millimeter. The muscles beneath his struck shoulder knotted and his bones creaked under the violence of the impact; yet, the hellfire in his eyes, far from being extinguished, flared even brighter. To the attacker, it seemed as if he were fighting not a mortal of flesh and bone, but a cold statue that consumed pain as fuel. Panic seized his mind, and he swung the club again, this time aiming directly for Borz's temple.
Borz exhaled a toxic breath from his lungs. His left arm had turned into a numb, sensationless mass; but the handle of the hatchet in his right hand was now an extension of his fingers, the steeled manifestation of his will. He blocked the second blow in mid-air with his numb left arm, suppressing the jarring ache of wood meeting bone with the absolute stubbornness rising from the deepest core of his consciousness.
In that instant, Borz's very essence shifted. He was no longer just a fleeing refugee; he was a savage pagan figure presiding over a bloody ritual forgotten in the dark womb of the forest. The way he held his axe, the sag of his shoulders, and the void in his gaze—it was as if he wanted to sever every injustice history had committed against him with a single stroke.
**"In my land,"** Borz whispered. His voice was no different from the ominous howl of winter wind at the mouth of a deep cavern. **"Blood is washed only with blood!"**
Borz coiled like a spring and lunged forward. Pain was no longer an obstacle for him; it was a guide. His feet moved over the dry, hard ground as agile as the vanguard winds of a storm, yet as destructive as an avalanche. The man desperately tried to raise his club again, but Borz had already shattered that invisible line of defense. He swung the hatchet in a wide, flawless arc, as if to finish a sacred sacrifice to a dark god in one go.
**VUUUUUM!**
The sharp edge of the axe first sheared through the man's fingers holding the club like scraps of paper, then, without losing its momentum, it plunged into the man's ribcage. A dark, deep trench swallowed the man's dreams and his breath in seconds. The oak club fell to the dry soil with a dull thud; immediately after, the man's knees gave way, and his body slumped to the valley floor.
Borz spat blood onto the ground and buried the edge of his hatchet into the dry earth. His left shoulder hung with the weight of the dead, and his breath came in jagged gasps that strained his chest. Taking down these two men had pushed him to his absolute limit, to the very edge of the abyss. He knew that if the darkness spat out any more, it would be his end. The steel had cooled, the soil had silently swallowed the spilled blood. The silence that fell over the valley was now much heavier and more of an accomplice than before.
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Borz emerged victorious from this savage conflict that pushed his limits, but the cost was high. While a Nakh warrior's will is made of steel, his body is mortal. How will Borz survive in the depths of the valley with these injuries? Don't forget to drop your **POWER STONES** and join Borz on this dark journey!